Volcanic hills ride

I took a bicycle ride. Sunny day, road and myself. As I realized later, I
was puzzled to the core, and I needed a hard work-out.

However, this realization came later, well into the ride. It begun as an
innocent Sunday bike ride, something usual for me last months. In the tropic island, winter time is the only time good for bicycle. During warmer parts of the year, with all these hills, it would be very risky thing to do, for an European, used to rather cooler conditions. One does not want to
over-work his heart on 30-some celsius and over 90% humidity.

I went through the sur-realistic scenery of Science Park in the Taiwan Silicon Walley, with all its hiper-giga-mega corporations, enjoying empty sunday streets in what is usually a hectic industrial place. When I turned to a bit off road towards the Baoshan reservoir, which I knew offers a nice sight to the lake with the bridge accross, uphill the first slope, I knew this is one of the days. I felt the seat hot below me, as it had imprint od someone
else's presence. Someone was with me on that ride.

Sight of the lake was just a scenery and a chance to start emptying my water bottle, sun was high, and it was not cool at all. My back was wet, already. What I really wanted, was more hills. So I decided to go to the hardest I know around, today.

Road was unfolding in front of me, with magnificent, albeit foggy views, because of the dust from Gobi desert in mainland China, reaching Taiwan these days. Tops on the opposite of the walley I was encircling were not too real, seen accross the walley, and I was there only few minutes ago! I took the downhill fastest possible, cutting the sharp curves through the forest,
setting my adrenaline well higher.

I knew that in front of me, after that shadowy forest downhill, will be the steepest of the hills...waiting for me in the full sun. At its foot, in a small farm, I encountered a serene scene of young bamboo cutting - four village men worked on it, lively discussing. Omnipresent black dogs observing attentively. Drinking my water, I took my camera out and made a picture, trying to capture the moment. Knowing it is rather in vain, it was too far and all I will get will be four
distant silhouettes. But I could not resist the temptation to try to freeze the time.

Then I went up, in the lowest gears, to conquer the slope in the sun. I found it not at all as hard as I remembered...probably I became more in shape after few weekends of bike rides. Anyway, at the top, I needed few circles around, before the new, smaller hill behind, to catch proper breath and heart rate.

Already during the uphill drive, I had, again, that queer feeling of "what I am REALLY doing?", which I know from my other wanderings of a kind. Wanderings which can be -or rather, have been- along the kilometers of wild, Africa-like beaches of my adriatic island, back in Croatia, or through the forests of Zagorje in Northern Croatia, or in some of Slovenian Alps, or Carpats on the Polish-Slovakian border. Or through my ultimate hills and pastures of my grand-grand parents in the island, with the view accross the Adiatic sea all to Italy. Bicycle rides not to count, which took place at many more sites, Athens in Greece probably the most echoing. When one tops the slopes of Ymittos, above Athens, and spots the Acropolis with the Saronic Gulf and
Pirreus Harbour and its ships, it is the picture which does not leave the mind easily.

Catching the tops again, in the light breeze from the bamboo forest, I realized I am, again, playing my game of "asking the Road". One sets for the road, and along forms the question of the eternal type, rather from some book by Herman Hesse or Richard Bach, and not a Sunday ride along the Tropic of Cancer: "What I am doing? Why I am doing it? Where the Road goes?"

Downhill the next slope was through the mounain village, and I had to pay attention to eventual dogs or people on the road. But I did not slow a bit, my mind already in changed state, with the breeze from the much higher hills, much denser forests, more open seas...

Road was beating under me, its black line waving through the walleys and uphill minor slopes. My body was catching its rhytm, just enjoying it. I felt sweat going down my back, but enjoyed it, as I knew the reward of cooling off will come with the next downhill part.

Peasant was working the field, pausing to speak with someone on the bicycle. I catched the right turn in the village, but on the next bridge accros the stream emerging between the hills, I stopped and opened my bottle again, sweat is taking much water from the body in these conditions. Man on the bicycle passed near me, now I saw it is 50-some man and, with a good-willed smile around the face, yelled, passing by me, something like 'jiaaa', what was encouragement and cheering up, I understood. It did cheer me up, kind of pinning me to this serene rural picture.

Road was flat for me now, for few kilometers. Black thin line. With a white line for a thread - Ariadne, where are you, cursing me, still?

Such flat parts after uphills are the sites of non-flat thoughts, I knew, and I listened attentively to the Road. As if it would like to tell me: "after steep slopes comes green walley, comes rest and peace". Serene mountain village... but I had it, I had it to pain, I have been
professor emeritus already, in my remote village, in seclusion of my own thoughts...

I am not seeking for it, oh Road, you are not telling me this, yes? What are you trying to tell me? What are you showing me? Where are you leading me? Or am I just obusing you?

The answer came with the next uphill portion, which splitted at the top into four roads: The Road is here to go through the hills. But it is not leading. There are many roads. You are using the Road. That is, if you take the road at the first instance. But, again downhill, in fastest and most narrow part of today, where I could just get loose, forgetting about brakes, they would not stop me anyway if there would be need to stop, I knew this was MY road today, I could not "choose" another. Who is using whom?

Along the next, greener than green walley, with purple flowers all accross the fields, I knew: beauties of the scenery, serene fields, orange plantations and tall palm-like betel-nut trees, all along the road, are alread described in Scripts. In eternal Scripts. They have power to divert a
man from himself, from his inner Road, to atach him to their place and time... but if he follows the white line only, the white line of his inner Road, this remains just a gallery, a beautiful collection, but...only a collection. Zoo of thoughts, feelings and passions. The real passions are
somewhere else.

Where?

Where is that passion, oh Road, could you tell me? What is its taste?
"You know it. It is the taste of tears, the taste of sweat, the taste of
sea... the sea you know so well and love so much."

The Road was looking deep into my eyes now. I was still blind, driwing, working my way through the walleys... "But, why... where..."
Silence. I stopped above the farm bathed in sun, to drink from my bottle. Water is finishing, time to turn towards home. Sweat pouring down my neck, I felt tired, but satisfied... I worked through the nice part of the countryside,
now some ...oh, if I go back usual way, there will be many cars, no, I do not want...

I decided to take the hardest hill around, longer and harder than the one from the beginning. Just to avoid crowdy street. I wanted to speak with the Road in silence for a bit more.

When I started to work uphill, smile came to my face. I understood now. The Road is not telling me nothing. Nothing at all. I am speaking to myself, analyzing, trying to rationalize unlogical, nonhuman ways.

The Road is using more basic language. It is here, under me, timeless. Before this asphalt, before the white line, there has been a path ...

It is, yes. It is. It is not outside me. It is not in me. The Road simply IS.

Steep hill, in few long steps, was now just a work-out, I was meeting more cars, more sweat pouring down my body.

The Road answered all my questions and could now just be, follow its white line.

*************

Salt Rain

Inspired by music by Susheela Raman, "Salt rain". Men write poetry also, don't they?

***
You cried... I licked your tears.
-How they tasted? Sweet?
-No, tears are salty, always,
they are part of the sea of sorrow,
always the same sea.
***

Left- ver. right-handed, results of the experiment

In my post of September 25, 2007 I wrote about an experiment I am to perform. Change from right to the left hand for using the mouse.

It is almost half year now. Ghosh, I am a heavy user! The result: some stramge tickling in my LEFT hand. I feel like Marvin from Adams' "Hitchhiker's Guide to Galaxy", pain in the diodes of the hand :-D

Btw., strangeness of the writing ceased after a month-NOW i feel a bit strange typing, just changed the mouse back to righ hand... it is amazing what we are doing to our bodies.
Mind...adopts. I did not become more clever, though, stupid "tovar" (=donkey) as usual :-{

I am definitely to try to buy the kneeling ("prayer", hehe) chair for sitting in front of the machine, because positions I am making sometimes when staring into the screen for 12 hours are... in delicate words, dangerous. Here in Taiwan I do not see them around, but heard there is IKEA, so maybe there I could find it. Will do my best.

Conclusion of the experiment: change the hand for your mouse when you notice any troubles. It seems half year is a good timing, when intensively sitting in front of the machine.

Alchemy

P.Coelho, "Alchemist"
I took this book in my hand after avoiding to do so for quite a time, because of the fame of the author. Ill fame.

It is a curse for a writer to write such a book.

It has something of Hesse's spirit (especially from "Siddartha"), with its naiveness, or I should say virginity? A bit of Richard Bach (from "Seagull Jonathan Livingston" or "Illusions") is also present. But it is original in its way of simple story-telling. Overloaded with short slogans of common wisdom, it merges them, however, into eatable food for brain. Although, forget about "high literature" encountering it. It might be in a book-shelf of philosophologist's children, not his own. {Philosophology...see R.M. Pirsig's definition in "Lila"-it is what people usually call "Philosophy", but it can not, should not be perverted this as it is in schools, teaching, learning it, is "-logy", living it is "-sophy"}.

Brain, I said, not ignorant sponge. These "wisdoms" are terribly politically correct when compared with other beliefs and cultures, but maintain realistic outlook in the book. Exactly how shepherd should see the world. And I know, my family were shepherds for generations, I still have it in my blood and head.

I am not to read some other book by P. Coelho soon, anyway. Too high a pitch for my ears.
Only... 'Pilgrimage', his 1st book, might be interesting for me, as I plan to go to Santiago de Compostella as an atheistic pilgrim. Sometimes our ways as readers are almost as uncertain as the book heros'.

Chinese discoveries

In his book "1421 - The Year China Discovered America" Gavin Menzies gives his view on the chinese discoveries. He is not historician, and his book could go more to the 'not-so-serious-history' part of the shelves in the library, but this does not discard his work.
As a submarine captain he travelled the seas which he describes, and as he was born in China and, obviously, conected to it throughout his life, he seems to be well equipped to reveal some of the dark spots in Chinese history, which emerged as China closed to outer work in 15th century.
As everyhing else, Chinese did this closeing thoroughly, and little of knowledge about outer world was saved of destruction then. But, as there was so wast a wealth of it, G.M could find some evidence for his claims.
Sure, it puts our critical mind to work, but it is always worth exercising it.
The book is written in a highly readable manner, and its layout of proofs tends to be documented, so anyone can check. Some assumptions of G.M. are obviously too stretched ot limited ones, but, then, this is why the book is given to public, that it would process it and give counter-proofs or corroborations.
I enjoy reading it as I was enjoying reading Cook's diaries 25 years ago :-)

And it is growing: on http://www.1421.tv/ online Alexandrian library is building the book further, describing ther discovery of the world by Chinese.
I find it very interesting concept, "research program" in an Imre Lakatos' way, we could say. "Proofs and refutations" of Popper could also be written about it, one day. Means, I like the attitude, Menzies is somewhat old-fashioned in his scientific method, as a sailor of the old school should be. "Novel", New Age approach would be to submit "revalation", but he rather submits his findings and proofs, ideas, and with it submits it to criticism and attempts of refutation. I think this method is good for historical research today. Let's see if he'll succeed to move the public opinion beyond current belief, in fact, beyond curent boistering of Europeans as these who "discovered" the world.

Gao Xingjian: "One Man's Bible"

Gao is the first Chinese author to receive Nobel price in literature (in 2000). Being a writer in exile, his works were immediately forbidden and criticised in Red Star country even more than before. As he is writing what should be written about Mao. Full stop.

He is still rather unknown in the west. A pity. As he has much to say universally, no only about the Chinese world.

I read before his book "The Soul Mountain" and was delighted. This one delighted me also, it is a masterpiece, contemporary masterpiece.

Why 'contemporary'? As it is different than other similar books. If someone is writing a book about China in 20th century, how to escape pathetics and shallow wallowing in the sorrow for the dead? As there is so many of these dead people, just for a pun on ethics of human race by Mao.

Which is the aspect of Gao's writing I consider so different?
Independence of thinking. He is not standing on he shoulders of giants, at all. No megalomany of Artist, just an ordinary, so ordinary, human being. This is what I would consider his largest achievement, his humanity. Despite all evil, all suffering.

Gao is sending us a message. Being a human being today is not a simple thing. It demands more than watching TV and doing our job, or performing a good family reality show.
Much more.

Literature without borders-Milan Jovanovic

Croatians DO read serbian writers, and vice versa (I hope). One of my dearest authors for last 5 years is Milan Jovanovic, young lawyer from Serbia who (as so many others) left this country troubled by unfortunate choices Democracy enabled to its citizens. If Yugoslavia was mini-model of CCCP, then Serbia is (overblown) Russia, and Croatia...probably Georgia.

From his home in Munich this young writer produces-and publishes back in Serbia- in microscopic number of 300 issues, pure magic. After Milorad Pavic, who almost took a patent for magic in Serbia, with his merging of U. Ecco and JRR Tolkien, we hardly could expect master of equal talent there. Yet, it is here, in M. Jovanovic.

After "Monah", "Ratnik", "Zimovanje na primorju" and "Teodora", I was lucky to obtain the newest jewel: "Gospodar". I will share my thoughts on this book with you, Croatian version of this text
is at astrosailor.blog.hr .

Milan Jovanovic: "Gospodar"
-----------------------------
Fairy tale, almost in the sense of M. Pavic. But told the way only Jovanovic can, in simple language and without blown-up ikonography and hagiography of Serbia, the Land of Miracles and Magic. Jovanovic even "when he lies, does it beautifully", indeed.

What seems to be ordinary family history, so common to Slavic people from Moscow to Trieste, reminds us that life is way more miraculous than any novel. Supernatural dimension of this story, interwowen in its earthly moments, become more unbelievable than any witchcraft. Evil and Good cry at us from the depths of a dark lake in the moonlight, stained in virgin blood of village youth under mighty landlords.

Lynch would enjoy making movie by this book, and Hitchcock would not be bored, either.