Stories for Telling: Nargist

A tale about dragons, winter and a hint of Christmas...
-->

NARGIST

Taking the old Roman road northbound out of Boscodale and following it to the river, then tracking the river as it runs to its source, through forests, marshes and tundras, crossing the polar circle and up the ice mountains, you eventually arrive in a land known as Nargist.

Nargist is steeped in eternal winter. Temperatures are constantly below zero. Ice- and snow storms sweep the land. To survive, you must smear yourself with animal lard and cover yourself with the furry pelts of moose or snow foxes. Without these precautions, you will suffer frostbite in an instance. But, amazingly enough, in the midst of this winterscape, hot geysers and springs well up from inside the earth.

Now, some people – mostly scientists and the likes – will tell you that these warm water surges are caused by rifts in the earth’s crust, which allow lava to rise up and heat the water. Of course, those in the know – such as myself – can tell you that this is utter nonsense and that the geysers are produced by nothing other than the fiery breath of a creature that is locked in beneath the surface; a dragon. (And those who say that dragons don’t exist must be sent to bed at once without supper, to teach them a good lesson.)

The people of Nargist had boils growing on their greased-up faces and hunchbacks from forever walking stooped over against the eternally beating wind. Their life was harder than we can possibly imagine from our centrally heated homes. They feared the dragon, but couldn’t live without it either, since it was the only source of heat in that forsaken land. They would often ease themselves into the hot sulphurous springs to alleviate the pain from their stiff joints, sometimes soaking for hours.

But they always had to remain vigilant, because the dragon might wake up and bite you in the behind, which would leave you scarred for life and never to be able to sit down again.

Yes, dear reader, the dragon was sleeping; producing little gurgles as it contentedly snored away. Once or twice it had woken up and had spat fire out of the mountain and many Nargistonians didn’t live to tell the tale. Ever since, the people often met up and discussed at great length the State of the Dragon and what should be done about it.

‘We could pour a sleeping potion down the mountain, to make sure the dragon doesn’t wake up,’ someone suggested. ‘You can’t get to the top of the mountain, it’s too hot,’ a woman countered. ‘Why don’t we dig deep holes in the ground and shovel in tonnes of snow, surely the dragon would freeze?’ somebody else offered. ‘First of all, that wouldn’t work, because the dragon would simply melt all the snow and secondly, if it did work we would be without a dragon and then we would surely freeze!’ the woman exclaimed.

‘No, we must catch the dragon and train it like you would train a wolfhound,’ suggested a little boy named Bongolom, ‘and then the dragon would become our friend.’

A long and deep silence fell as the Nargistonians considered this. Finally, their leader, a muscular man of nearly two meters tall (that’s about six feet) with a beard almost as long said: “So be it. Whoever will train the dragon will receive riches beyond compare.”

The promise of wealth and favours never fails to excite humans, except perhaps those few enlightened hermits one might find in the mountains of Tibet, and this time it was no different. In no time at all, everyone was screaming on the top of their voices, declaring their worth. When that didn’t work, a big fight broke out, resulting in many fractured limbs and noses, before the leader finally managed to put a stop to it. ‘Whoever deems him- or herself suitable for the job must make a formal application; my office will be open tomorrow morning from daybreak.’ The Nargistonians shuffled and stumbled back to their huts. At least the fight had warmed them up for the moment.

Men and women tossed and turned in their beds that night as sleep wouldn’t come. They were all trying to devise ways of taming the dragon, but nobody managed to come up with a feasible plan. Besides, not a single one of them was brave enough to even contemplate going near the dragon. The situation was hopeless. They would remain at the beast’s mercy forever.

Meanwhile, the dragon, which had been sleeping soundly, was woken up by the feverish thoughts that were flying around in Nargist. He felt that he had a disturbing influence on these people and, being a nice and sensitive creature, he decided to leave. All he really wanted was to be loved and understood like everybody else. Maybe he would be more appreciated elsewhere.

He was so sad to leave that he forgot to breathe fire when he emerged from his mountainous cave, which was a lucky thing for the locals. As the dragon made his way through the night, snow briefly turned to rain. But by the time the people of Nargist crawled out of their beds, the place was colder than ever.

With the daybreak it dawned on the Nargistonians what had happened and a feeling of utter darkness came over them. Quietly, they packed up whatever belongings they could carry and left, in the knowledge that staying in Nargist would mean certain death. That day, a long trail of people with large packs on their hunchbacks could be seen struggling down the mountain, on their way to greener pastures. They all made their way south. All, but one.

Little Bongolom had packed a sledge and went eastwards across the ice plains, two huskies pulling him along. When his parents and five brothers and sisters had left the house, he had hung back. They hadn’t even noticed he and the dogs were missing. He was going to look for a brave ally to accompany him on his quest and he had heard that the bravest men in all the world were those violent and ferocious Vikings.

He wasn’t even sure what his quest was. To find the dragon again? And who said that the Vikings would help him? They might kill him at first sight. What hope did he, a mere ten-year-old, have to solve this tragedy?

But what is often the case in fairytales - as well as in real life - is that the hero doesn’t know what drove him to do a certain thing. That’s the mark of a hero; to follow your destiny, no matter what.

Don’t think, however, that Bongolom was aware of this as he sped along the ice. He was scared and cold. All he really wanted to do was go to sleep, but if he gave in to that, he would wake no more. He travelled for many days and nights. He did not know how many, because the sun never rose at all during that time of the year. Finally, when the first traces of sunshine lit the noon sky, he saw a small settlement in the distance.

A circle of primitive huts stood around a large bonfire. Viking men with rough helmets and women with long blond braids were dancing, eating, drinking and laughing. Bongolom knew why: they were celebrating the first day of spring, when the sun at long last rose again. The festive scene warmed his heart. He was cold and hungry and longed to join in the feasting, but he was afraid.

Furtively he approached, trying not to be noticed, but it wasn’t long before a particularly large Viking spotted him, seized him by the collar and dragged him to the centre of the circle. “Isn’t this the ugliest child you have ever seen in your life?” he roared. Everybody laughed and pointed at poor little Bongolom, whose spots indeed were no pretty sight. Bongolom felt like crying or running away, but gathered all his courage and looked the wild Viking straight in the eyes. “Don’t you know your place, boy”, he growled and punched him to the ground.

Again Bongolom felt tears pressing behind his eyes, but he swallowed hard and got up, trying to outstare his opponent. “Ha ha, this kid’s got guts! Join the party, lad!” He clapped Bongolom on the shoulder and shoved an earthenware cup with a rather dubious tasting but strong local beverage into his hands. “Skoll!” Bongolom said, trying to imitate his tough host, provoking another roar of laughter from the crowd. Eyeing him curiously – after all, it wasn’t every day that a strange boy came to their village – they invited him to sit by the fire, where he told them his tale.

“You have proven yourself very courageous,” the leader said. “Courage is everything to a Viking. That’s why I will appoint my best tracker to accompany you on your quest to find this dragon.” He signalled a boy not much older than Bongolom to come over. “This is Fredrik Plot. He will travel with you tomorrow. But first, let’s make merry” and he called out for more drinks.

The next day, fresh supplies loaded onto the sledge, the two boys waved the villagers goodbye. “Where shall we go?” asked Bongolom. “South,” Fredrik answered. “Do you think we will find the dragon there?” said Bongolom. “I have absolutely no idea, but I’ve always wanted to go south,” the tracker replied, smiled a blistering smile and started whistling a happy tune. The little boy from Nargist was too taken aback to say anything. So south they went.

Meanwhile, the dragon was wandering about, causing forest fires here and earthquakes there. And that wasn’t everything. His very presence seemed to heat up the earth. Again, dear reader, I feel I must set something straight here. Many people claim that global warming is caused by so-called greenhouse gases and pollution. How ridiculous! It is obviously caused by a dragon at large. When will people ever learn!

Anyway, our dragon was wreaking havoc like there was no tomorrow. Sensing it wasn’t wanted, the poor creature kept on the move. It didn’t mean to harm anyone. It simply couldn’t help having a fiery temperament, that’s just the way dragons are. Tired and sad, the dragon finally took shelter in a cave on the island of Sicily.

Five years had passed and the two boys had grown into young men. They had journeyed all across the continent and become close friends. They had overcome many trials and tribulations, but they had also had a lot of fun as they went from country to country. Bongolom’s complexion had greatly improved in milder climates and he now walked as straight as his companion. Both of them had become fluent in at least five languages and learned many skills to survive and earn their keep. Often they completely forgot why they were on the road in the first place. But occasionally they would hear news about an earthquake or other ‘natural’ disaster and they would be on their way again.

After hearing reports about eruptions on Sicily, Bongolom and Fredrik knew where to go. A few weeks later they set foot on the island and set up camp near the biggest hill. That night they heard rumblings from within the mountain. People started running about frantically, clutching their most precious possessions, their eyes wild. But Bongolom and Fredrik kept their cool.

It was Bongolom who first recognised the sounds for what they were: sobs. He realised the dragon must be in considerable pain and felt for the creature. He was suddenly overcome by a great sadness and started to sing a slow and heart-rending song, while Fredrik whistled along.

Surprised, the dragon stopped weeping. It had gotten used to people screaming and crying, not singing and whistling. Carefully, it stuck its head out of the mountain to see who was singing. “Who are you?” it whispered, trying not to cause a fire. “I am Bongolom of Nargist. Dear dragon, we have missed you, won’t you come home with us?” the brave boy asked. “You mean…, you like me, you really really like me?” replied the dragon. “Of course we do, we can’t live without you!” screamed Bongolom. The dragon was so happy to hear this that it did a little dance, which of course made the whole island shudder.

Well, dear reader, that just about concludes our story. By the end of December, Bongolom had taken Fredrik and the dragon home, where the latter learned to control its fire to the required amount, as if it had a thermostat. Most of the people returned to the country and Bongolom and Fredrik were heftily rewarded for their deeds. Bongolom, who was appointed Keeper of the Dragon, married a relatively sweet young lady and had twelve children. Later in life he set up the Bongolom Institute of Languages, causing the Nargistonians to become the greatest linguists in Europe. Even today, northern Europeans are known for their linguistic skills and they have Bongolom to thank for it.

Fredrik stayed on in Nargist for a short while, but felt the travel urge stirring inside him once again. So he made his farewell and travelled down the ice-mountains, crossed the polar circle, tracked the river south through tundra’s, marshes and forests and found himself on the old Roman road to Boscodale.

But towards the end of each year, he goes back to Nargist, to celebrate how they brought back light and warmth to that country, to drink, dance and be merry.  And Bongolom hands out presents to all the children of the town, laughing loudly “Ho, ho, ho!”.

© Pep Mac Ruairi

To be or not to be? Just be!

A friend of mine, Lina Graner, created a 'blog advent calendar'. This was my contribution about (parts of) my journey as an actress.

 

I ran away with the ‘circus’.  
I couldn’t help it. The lure was too great; the limelight, the colourful costumes, the magical world of illusion. What I didn’t realise at the time was that, in fact, I was embarking on a quest for truth, a journey of discovery of how to act and how to be. 

Jerzy Grotowski

It wasn’t a circus, of course, but an obscure little theatre company. Director Giorgio Gorini (a pseudonym, I later discovered) took me to Poland to do a workshop with a couple of lanky, bearded, theatre makers, who supposedly were former students of Jerzy Grotowski. The first thing they had us do was the ‘spider exercise’: hands and feet on the ground as if to prepare for push-ups, then flip over, so you’re facing upwards, then flip over again, and again, turning and turning, your bum never touching the ground. A good warm-up exercise, you might think. Except it lasted for three hours! In the afternoon they had us endlessly spinning like whirling dervishes. By the end of the day I burst into tears with exhaustion and misery. The workshop leaders were delighted. The whole point had been to break down our barriers, our egos, to make room for something deeper, something more truthful, which would ultimately help us with our acting. The fact that I ‘broke’ so soon was extraordinary! Later I realised similar methods are used in torture.

Rufus Collins

I was fortunate to work with Rufus Collins, once a member of the legendary experimental Living Theatre. Rufus was into The Method, which draws on the actor’s own memories and emotions. An object, smell or movement can be used to recall a certain event or feeling, which the actor then applies to his performance. Rufus demonstrated this himself. The movement of sliding open a window somehow connected to a tragic event in his life and he got very emotional. But while most of the actors were nearly fainting with admiration, all I could think of was how one would mime the window slamming down on one’s fingers. I’m a big fan of many Method actors, but I did find it a bit worrying that Marlon Brando had to see a shrink every day while shooting ‘On the Waterfront”.

Saidi Lassaad

A ‘Neutral Mask’ workshop with Saidi Lassaad was a real eye-opener that made me aware of how each movement, each gesture tells a story. “Presque juste’ (almost right), Saidi kept saying kindly, really meaning ‘total rubbish’. To our credit, neutral mask is exceptionally difficult. Very few people are completely aware of their every move and the message it might be carrying. One evening we gave a short performance. Three of us were sitting on bar stools. We were not wearing masks, but our only assignment was to be as neutral as we could possibly be. A fourth actor then introduced us to the audience, giving details about our (invented) lives. We did absolutely nothing, but afterwards the audience said they could really see us living those lives. They even said that one of us was more ‘into the story’ than the others. That was an amazing lesson.

I once saw an interview with Sir John Gielgud, in which he confessed that he didn’t get all that ‘psychological’ stuff. “I move to my position and say my lines,” he more-or-less said. I’m sure there was much more to it, but I found his comment very refreshing.

After all, theatre is illusion - and all the world’s a stage. So, how do we bring truth and illusion together? I’m still on that quest. However, I’m beginning to see why Lina is so interested in the Meisner technique. Because it’s about being real in the moment, reacting in a genuine way to the situation at hand. It sounds simple, but it requires concentration, relaxation, openness and confidence all at the same time. This is as hard on stage as it is in real life.

The better I get at ‘just being’, the better I become as an actor. And ‘old’ age and experience, of course, nothing can beat those!

- - - - -

P.S. Just as I finished writing this, I discovered that some of my ancestors were, in fact, circus artists. I guess one can’t escape one’s destiny! 

My circus relatives, living in a gypsy caravan in the 1940s

Greed is cheap

Greed leads to the devaluation of everything, including human life itself.  
Greed: a selfish and excessive desire for more of something than is needed.
Cheap: purchasable below the real value or of inferior quality or worth.

Right here, right now: my life in Dutch education
There are so many things I could say about this topic, I'm not sure where to start, so I'll start right here, right now. I live in the Netherlands, a country traditionally so well-known for its stinginess, it became idiomatic. I work in an International School, subject to Dutch law. Our last government left us with an interesting legacy: we had to give up one week of our summer holidays. The reasoning behind this was: teachers are overworked and therefore need more time to do all that work. It did not address the Dutch system of individual non-teaching tasks (so-called 'taakbeleid' i.e. 'task policy') that teachers have to perform (an unknown phenomenon in the rest of the world), nor did it lower the workload in any way. To compare: in France a full-time teacher teaches 18 hours a week, in the Netherlands 27. Nor was this extra week compensated by a pay rise. A nice, cheap solution. What it really does is devalue the worth of teachers and education in general.

Another reason for the shorter holiday was that students must be exposed to 1040 hours of education per school year. This number is pretty random and there is no evidence that more hours of education will lead to a higher level of knowledge and performance. There is in fact evidence to the contrary, as some countries with fewer teaching hours score much higher, such as South Korea and famous Finland, where a school year consists of a mere 750 hours and children don't enter formal education till the age of seven. So, why the 1040 hours? That's just greed - you get more for the same price. But in reality, students get demotivated by having to sit in class hour after hour, day after day, year after year, for 14 years. No wonder the Dutch have what is known as 'zesjescultuur', which means you put in just enough effort to get a passing grade, but no more. Again, an example of cheap thinking leading to devaluation.

Corporate greed
This term is thankfully becoming a bit of a fad, meaning it has trickled down to the general public. There are many factions out there who (used to) believe that if corporations did well, so would the people around them. Not so. These companies and banks, and their shareholders, are only interested in profit, and more profit. They felt labour was too expensive and started outsourcing to cheaper countries. Subsequently, they turned this cheaper rate into the going rate, which is why many Americans are now faced with having to take on two, or even three jobs, just to make ends meet. The same is starting to happen in Europe. Except, of course, there are no jobs.

These corporations made lots of money by putting ultimately useless (financial) products on the market and by speculating on the stock exchange. Knowing when to shift your money about is certainly a talent, but does not contribute anything of value to the world. Most of this money is safely tucked away in tax-havens like the Cayman islands, not contributing an iota to the people it came from. Those people are called 'losers', by the way, and to devalue them even more, we say that it's their own fault that they are losers.

The Greed of War
As I write this, bombs are falling on Gaza as Israel is 'defending' itself against the Palestinian 'terrorists'. Of course, Israel is the product of the former epitome of greed, The British Empire. The British crown decided that Jews could settle in Palestine. Maybe that was fair. Maybe it really was their God-given land. But then they got greedy. Looking at a historic map of the region, it is clear how the Palestinians have been pushed into progressively smaller areas, while Jewish territory likewise expanded. To justify this, the Israelis cast the Palestinians in the role of aggressor, or terrorist. Jewish lives became worth more than Palestinian lives. And Western media gladly helped. One Israeli killed? Front-page news! Five hundred Palestinians killed? Page 12! The same goes, of course, for Afghan and Iraqi civilians. 

To satisfy one's greed, one must devalue the people that stand in one's way. Make no mistake, war is always based on greed: for power, land, resources. 

The Psychology of Greed
It's interesting to note that stock markets have a greed/fear index. (see http://money.cnn.com/data/fear-and-greed/). We are cautious when we are afraid and greedy when we feel safe. But being brave when there is nothing to fear, isn't real bravery, is it? In fact, I would say, greed is ultimately driven by fear. To create a buffer in case things go downhill, whether that be status, power, money or land. We're so scared that we are willing to devalue, desecrate, drain, pillage, pollute and plunder the whole world around us, just to make us feel 'better'.

Having been around some 50,000 years, one would have hoped humankind had evolved beyond that.

Memories from past lives

The monastery

I love walking through the cloisters, my arms folded into my sleeves. I still do that now. I walk slowly, rolling my feet in such a way that I'm not so much walking, but gliding. I don't wish to disturb anything, though I can feel the air shift as I move through it. I have walked here countless times, seeing the colours of the trees in the courtyard, the light, the shadows change a little every day. It still delights me. Beauty is never boring.

I know there is another world out there. Sometimes I have to go out into that world. And sometimes I manage to float in my usual peace. But mostly I find that the noise grates on my ears, and I am overwhelmed by a myriad of pungent smells. That's why I rarely volunteer.

Of course, I have wondered whether my life shouldn't be out there, whether I made the right decision by retreating from the world. But whenever I walk these cloisters, or sing in the chapel, or dig with my fingers in the garden soil, those doubts disappear. The other brothers say I should mingle more, but I find there are so many opportunities for conversation in a day that there is no harm passing up one or two.  It's easier to hear God in the silence.

My way, the highway

We're running, stumbling through the field, laughing, exhilarated. It's late, but there is still a streak of light on the horizon. My friend is just a few paces behind me, I can hear him breathing hard, laughing too. So, we didn't get away with it this time. It's almost as if they knew we were coming. They hadn't reckoned I'd manage to get the ladies' jewellery, though. I can feel the necklaces and rings jangling in my pocket.

I realise we are being followed and that the men have guns. Never fear. I know this countryside better than anyone, we'll shake them soon enough, like we did before. I can't explain why I am so unconcerned.

Then I hear a gunshot. It's close by. I turn around and see my friend. His face looks distorted, like he's been hit. His pistol is aimed at me. I sink to the ground, feeling nothing but wonder and surprise. The surprise spreads through my whole body.


-----
Are these real past-life memories or merely figments of my imagination? Pure imagination? Then perhaps I really should become a writer! Part imagination for sure, because this is not the jumble of impressions and feelings I experienced, but the kind of logical narrative that we humans like to make of our lives. And perhaps, for honesty's sake, I should explain that both times these memories occurred, I was seriously ill with a high fever, which may have caused a degree of delirium. So, all nonsense, then?

Whatever they were, on both occasions these memories had a cathartic effect. I suddenly understood something about myself and my situation at the time, and I was able to move forward where things had been at a standstill.

I personally believe these are real memories. Dreams feel different somehow. And I've had other memories, though not as vivid and coherent as these ones. I have a feeling that I've been here many times and, moreover, that I am not done yet and will return again.

I guess that means I believe in reincarnation. I am fully aware that logically this makes no sense. Then again, you can't really disprove it either, so it's a moot point. I am also aware that because life is short, and we humans are sentimental beings, I may simply be grasping at straws in the face of death. Except, I have no fear of death. Suffering, hardships, yes, but not death.

Finally, I believe that reincarnation is not necessarily chronological. Is time linear? I don't think so. Which means I believe we can be reborn at any point of human existence, past, present or future. Call me crazy? Fine. But you might change your mind when we meet the next time around!

Should I (not) have done that?

Moral dilemmas on a trip to IKEA.

Actions speak louder than words, they say. Or is it true that the mere thought of sinning is a sin in itself, as some maintain?

All day long we make decisions, most of them tiny, some a bit bigger. It's a bit like that curtain rail that I bought at IKEA today: from the railing you hang rings and to those rings you attach little pegs that are supposed to hold up your curtain. Whatever you decide to hang from each little peg becomes part of a bigger whole, the fabric of your life.

It started as soon as I came in. I hadn't had breakfast, as I was anticipating having one of those cheap hotdogs at IKEA. Was that wrong? Should I have had breakfast at home? It soon got worse. "100 % chicken", it said. What does that mean? I don't really like chicken and the word 'free-range' was nowhere in sight, so it's most plausibly the offal of some broiler chicken. But my growling stomach got the better of me. I added some pickles from the self-service counter, decided it was too much, so swiped some back onto the heap. Wrong again?

After gobbling down the tasteless sausage, I made my way to the food section. It was my purpose to buy some 'caviar' for a Russian party. Of course, I would empty the little jars in a nice Russian bowl and stick a beautiful spoon in it. Nobody needs to know it's not real Russian caviar, right? When pressed, I will admit where it came from, but I'm not going to volunteer the information. Deception? But it all adds to the illusion of a Russian party. Illusion, since we're not actually in Russia and few Russians will attend. So, no harm done. Right?

But my biggest challenge was yet to come. I had selected a few items and made my way to the self-service check-out. It said that there were cameras to keep an eye on the proceedings and that there might be 'random' checks to see if you'd paid for everything. A little pillow didn't have a label, so I couldn't scan it. I dropped it back into my trolley and paid for the rest. I had also clicked on 'paper bag', but the lady next to the gate said they were all out and offered me one of those big blue plastic ones instead. Part of me thought: "Ai, plastic, not good." Another part thought: "Bingo! The plastic ones are more expensive, so profit for me!" I took the bag. 

Meanwhile, I realised that my conversation with the woman had taken her attention away from what was in my trolley, including the unpaid pillow. She even helped me open the gate. I felt a certainty that nobody was going to check me now and that I had got away with it. Theft! Haha! And then the most horrible thing happened... Somebody stopped me. It was that stupid voice in my head that said it was wrong. "But IKEA is an evil multinational that won't even notice the disappearance of one little pillow," I argued with my better self. 

It's not that I've never stolen anything. Maybe I've become a bit of a chicken myself (though I hope I won't come back as an IKEA hotdog in my next life). I handed the pillow to one of the cashiers and left, feeling both good and bad.

On my way to the metro, I had one of the 'Wild' snacks (made from Moose and Elk) I had also just bought. It consisted mainly of pork. Serves me right, I guess.

The day history was erased

What do you do when your email account has been hacked? 

When some Nigerians try to get money out of your friends, acquaintances, near-strangers-who-gave-you-their-email-on-a-blue-Monday, your boss? 

When they subsequently delete all your emails from the beginning of the Internet, aka the beginning of time? 

When they also delete all the contacts you've built up over all that time? 

Think about it. What would you do? Cry? Smash your computer? Make voodoo dolls to torture those torturous hackers? Shake your fist at God? Start a blog?

No, first you do all the practical things, like changing your password and getting in touch with your provider to see what can be salvaged. And then you wait, hoping things will be restored to the pre-hacking days of yore. You stare at that inbox that says '10' instead of '3924' emails in disbelief and horror. You feel a great emptiness, a void never encountered before ... and then ... SPACE, the final frontier - oh, darn, I've escaped into Star Trek again - I mean, simply s p a c e.

I guess there is such a thing as a fresh start. Once you've squeezed through the funnel and come out the other end you realise it's not the end. Not the end of the world anyway. Not the end at all. 

We seek reassurance, comfort, recognition. We think we've found it, in social media, in marriage, in religion; we think we're safe. But we never are. And maybe that's not a bad thing. I don't even need to tell you why. You've heard all the clichés about 'getting out of your comfort zone' and into the world, finding 'yourself' again and all that. But even that is irrelevant. Because, truth be told, all we want is to experience, sometimes a little peace, sometimes a huge melodrama. 

So, I had a bit of melodrama. Now I can have some peace again.

Mmm, not much of a blog, this first one, but I'm sure I'll get into the swing of things sooner or later. Well, not sure exactly..., I just hope ..., except I don't believe much in hope, so ... Ah, darn again! I so wanted to be interesting!

Meanwhile, I would say: don't try to 'think positive' - sometimes life just stinks. In fact, I'd like to quote that great inspirer who said: "Try not. Do or do not; there is no try."

Having said that, I'll keep trying to write a better blog, so don't give up on me yet!