Pattern Recognition


It’s almost like a nervous tick. Check facebook – check your emails. Things are moving. If not, get them moving.

Moments devoted to oneself are considered unproductive, selfish isolation.

You are a hive being. Everyone is just one click away. You need to remain in constant contact with everyone or they will forget about you, eradicate you, take all value from you.

Do they like this? Do they like that? In the morning you stumble, bleary eyed and tired, to your computer. Coffee is a rush for your body, but online is a rush for your mind. You are no longer alone, no longer forced to watch your dreams, desires and failures play out in your head.

They are right in front of you, subsumed and mixed with the desires of everyone else. You can watch your dreams rise and fall in real time. How many people like this? How many people will come to my event? What is trending?
It’s always on your mind. Makes you itchy and restless whenever you enter one of those strange patches where your drug cannot be supplied and you’re forced to be offline. You are so meaningless in those moments.

You realize that your public persona – now it has a name again, thoughts rise, your own, not the hive thoughts…but everything will be forgotten again under the rush of incoming information – your public persona has forgotten your private persona. Severed itself from it. Cut the virtual umbilical cord. Your public persona is all that exists, apart from this…this madness. All those thoughts that you cannot write down, nor present in a clear light. Your unlikable side.

This darkness that needs a name. This is inside. Private. Private. It takes you on a dizzying spin…for a second.

Then wifi pops back up. You can connect. Rush. Facebook like a deluge of senseless information. Not nonsensical, but senseless, since none of your senses apart from the visual will ever process it. It numbs you once more. Makes you deaf to the voice of your private self. Feeling is reduced once more to little flickers of knowledge on the retina of your consciousness…your consciousness is now one big eye, of course…networks and synapses that mirror the networks you aim to build are inside of it.

Red likes and message numbers are momentarily mistaken for blood – but of course there is no blood here. A rush runs through you as they flicker up and up…you must have hit a virtual nerve. You ask a friend “Are you online” and need a moment to realize that he is sitting right next to you. Distances become meaningless, after all, even very short ones.

Your nervous tick now manifests itself in random likes and terrible spelling. I have no time, comes over you like a disease and you would never guess that it is simply your body momentarily remembering its mortality. Instead you rush even more, take on more tasks all of which you will leave half finished.

Your body is beyond tiredness already and claws the spirit back from the virtual world to envelop it with sleep. It tries to get it used to being corporeal in the several hours that the two spend together sleeping. You would never guess that your mind and your body are sharing a bed like two lovers fallen out with each other.

In the morning you wake up and it’s the spirit that drags the body to the virtual hole, jumping inside gleefully…

Wolf and Balloon

Another old short story of mine…it was inspired by an illustration of the same artist as in the last story…unfortunately this illustration seems to have disappeared from the web entirely…instead you’re getting my own sketch of the main character (not a fair trade, really, but hey…)




“I want to go to the moon,” said the balloon. Later, he said, “I will go to the moon.”

Wolf scratched his head, thinking about lice and how he hated them and ignored the balloon`s whiny and insistent tone. He was not exactly sure when the balloon had begun to talk to him, but it was an arrangement he found entirely to his discomfort. Wolf was very quiet by nature and he appreciated silence in others. He especially appreciated silence in things that were not supposed to speak at all. He had bought the balloon because it had seemed like a good idea, provided nobody rubbed it and made that squeaky, rubbery noise that made Wolf´s teeth tingle and his fur stand up like battalions of warlike soldiers. He had liked watching the balloon float across his cramped room and he had liked it very much to wake up in the middle of the night or too early in the morning and to see the balloon looming and turning like some indoor planet over his bed. Wolf remembered, he had been very sorry that one could not put a candle inside the balloon without melting it or having the flame eat up all the air inside. A floating light – such a thing he would have loved. A quiet floating light.

But then the balloon had begun to talk. The words had snaked halfway into his dream and upon waking Wolf had found his head swarming with words like so many ants, his skin crawling with them like so many lice. It was nonsensical babbling, so offensive to Wolf whose dreams were always filled with a clear and somwhat blueish silence.

“Take me for a walk,” the balloon said.

“No,” answered Wolf through gritted teeth. But eventually he did, hoping that outside, in the uncomfortable silence of the grey streets, the balloon would feel how misplaced it was, with its bright colour and its insistent voice lost in the fog and mortar, and be shamed into everlasting silence. When Wolf closed the door behind him, he felt himself swimming in silence, the streets were filled with the trickling moments when we consider a remark we never make and those moments lapped at Wolf´s fur like tiny waves. To Wolf, the silence seemed more substantial than the bricks and, indeed, if he could build a house from silence instead of bricks, he`d have done it in an instant. In this country, people called the wolf a melancholy beast, for its lonely howl it is assumed, but Wolf howled silence. He could open his mouth and scream silence across the world and for as long as his breath lasted him, all noise was lost. He screamed now and thought that even the snake-like slithering of the fog over the wet cobblestones fell silent. He was pleased with himself.

“Is it far to the moon? Do you think I could go there?”

The balloon floated above his head like a bright and merry offense. For a moment Wolf toyed with the idea of simply opening his paw, watching the nylon string slip through his claws and wishing the balloon a speedy end to his lunar voyage – at the beaks of curious birds, if he had his wish. But no, that was too simple a solution. Wolf was no coward. He shut his paw tight around the string and began to walk. He walked long, seething and boiling inside, the balloon happily bobbing in his wake, chitter-chattering from time to time. He walked long enough to reach that part of the city in which humans settled. Wolf disliked humans almost as much as balloons, but he thought that if somebody were to be interested in a mindlessly chattering toy, why, it certainly must be a human.

Wolf looked around. The houses here seemed more refined, the windows more glaring, the doors somewhat more shut that elsewhere. Everything seemed to be wearing a suit, even the mist that sauntered by, apparently ignoring Wolf who blew it away angrily. Wolf didn´t know it was possible to dislike mist, but he found he did. He disliked the very night around him.

“I have heard that you must cross a river if you want to go to the moon. Is that true?”

No human was on the streets, a fact that Wolf would have relished at any other time. Now he bit his lower lip. If he simply left the balloon here, he was certain it would return to him in mysterious ways. Caught by the drift of a passing plane and blown into a train carriage, caught by a little boy who gave it to a secret admirer of Wolf who then tied it to his doorknob, or something like that. Disgust is like a magnet.

There was one house that seemed less unsympathetic than the others, in fact the longer Wolf looked at it, the more he liked it. It was wedged between two big and haughty houses, small, a roof like a straw hat and tiles in wildly mismatched colours on the walls. It looked like it should not be allowed to dress itself alone. He looked up to where the balloon floated and noticed that the balloon seemed to look at that house as well. No further thoughts! Wolf loped towards the little house and hammered his paw against the door.

There came a clockwork sound from within, rattling machines, a metal cough, the crackle of electricity. Then the door swung inward and a tiny figure with an immensely heavy and immensely black frame of glasses and a goldfish bowl for a hat appeared. “You`re pretty hairy for a postman,” the figure croaked and blinked, eyes and lids magnified to fascinating proportions behind the glasses. “And pretty late.”

“This might coincide with the fact that I am not a postman,” said Wolf who was eloquent and soft-spoken whenever dealing with humans. He thought to see a huge and possibly wild beast speak in the mildest of manners might scare them more than bared teeth. “Would you, perhaps, like to have this balloon as an apology for my disturbing you so late at night?”

The man looked at the balloon, the goldfish in his hat pressed its side against the glass and stared at it one-eyed. “Is it filled with helium?”

Wolf was a bad salesman and seeing that his politeness failed to scare it failed him altogether. He stared at the man with disgust and grunted, “What do you care?”

“Well,” began the man, leaning back as though he had to inhale a particularly large amount of air. There was a pause. The pause went on longer and Wolf realized abjectly that it was meant for dramatic effect. He hated dramatic effect.

“Yes?” Wolf asked with badly faked interest.

“It so happens,” said the man, obviously happy that he was asked. “That I am building a rocket in my backyard. It is a good rocket, as you may well believe, but for a reason I have not yet discovered, it won´t fly. A helium-filled balloon, however, might help it rise a bit, just a bit, you see, until it has enough confidence in the thrust of its rockets.” He leaned forward, grubby fingers outstretched towards the balloon and whispered furtively, “It is a question of confidence, you see. It is a very sensitive rocket.”

Wolf snatched away the balloon just in time before the man`s fingers closed around the string. A second later he wondered why he had done it. “And where, dear man, do you mean to fly this sensitive rocket of yours?”

“Why, to the moon, of course!” The man sounded insulted.

Wolf was horrified. He looked up at the balloon which seemed to swell in size and grow deeper in colour. “The moon,” it said in a dumb, lowing voice. It sounded like a cow. “The moon.” The word was stretched out so long Wolf thought the balloon was emptied of all its air by the effort, but it kept on growing.

“Why, this is perfect!” cried the man, full of delight. “Come, quickly, before it has any second thoughts!” He snatched Wolf by the wrist, dragged him through a few cluttered and claustrophobic rooms into an equally claustrophobic yard, where the rocket stood. It seemed to be made from various kitchen appliances, scrap metal and assorted garbage. “I wonder if he doesn´t misjudge the situation,” muttered Wolf, “It must take an awful lot of confidence to hold something that frail together.”

“No time to waste. Hurry.” The man took the balloon, climbed up a shaky structure next to his rocket and knotted it fast on the rocket´s nose, which was the handle of an umbrella. As quickly as he had climbed up, he slid down again, grabbed Wolf and ushered him, through a creaking hatch, inside the rocket. “We must encourage it to grow more. You must help me.”

If that means I get rid of it, thought Wolf, I`ll play along with the lunatic. He was doubled over, surrounded by blinking lights and frayed wires. It smelled of burnt toast. The man took a piece of a garden hose and spoke inside it. “The moon. To the moon. To the moon. To the moon.” He took a break from his litany to explain. “I installed the speaker, in case I need to communicate with other rockets. If we speak through here, the balloon can hear us. We have to make it grow larger.”

Wolf took a deep breath. The man was excited, the damned goldfish on his head was excited, even the sensitive rocket seemed to hum with excitement – and of course the balloon who swelled and swelled. Its excitement could hardly be any greater. So Wolf bit down on his sarcasm and began to mutter, “The moon. To the moon,” along with the man. In his mind he already saw himself on a beautiful and very solitary walk home. The lunatic would be so smitten with the balloon that he would pay any price in order to keep it and Wolf would, after some deliberately exaggerated consideration, graciously give in to him and the two would sit next to their pile of rubble called a spaceship and low at the moon like dumb and stricken beasts. It was a pleasing image.

But then the cramped room began to sway, lightly at first but soon stronger. The floor felt very light and some feathery weight pressed on Wolf´s head. The lunatic gave a wild scream and hugged Wolf who simply coughed and looked away. His gaze fell on a bulkhead not larger than his head which, it seemed, had been the door of a washing machine not long since. Wolf was puzzled about this for a moment, but he was even more puzzled about the dwindling rooftops he saw through that window. He bit his lip, listened to the low chant, “the moon, the moon, the moon,” that came through the cardboard-thin walls. The thoughts that they had actually lifted from the ground and were rising, on an uncertain route, pulled by a monomaniac balloon, together with a man who built a rocket in his backyard, refused to enter his brain. He opened his mouth to say something and was unsure whether to be surprised when it turned out to be, “Say, when do we cross the river to the moon?”

The journey was, if such a journey can be said to be, uneventful. They reached the moon. The lunatic was blissfully prostrating himself on the pockmarked ground. The moon circled its way along the craters, driven by a slow and dumb joy that nevertheless was quite pleasing to look at and even Wolf found what he had always wished for – absolute silence, in the pit of a crater where the burnt and consumed piece of a meteor still smouldered as a source of light and warmth in what was to be his new home. Taking the rocket back to earth, proved to be impossible for, it´s confidence all used up, it fell apart while it landed, scattering kitchen appliances and household wares across the white dust. Wolf patiently picked them up and decorated his home with them. Sometimes, when he goes for a walk, he sees the balloon and the lunatic whose joy seems to be unending and then, when he is certain that they are not looking his way, he allows himself a little private smile and saunters on, often until earthrise or later.

Travel books for people who miss the road

Travel companions for people who miss the road – nutcases, artists, poets, soldiers…the voice at your side shapes the world around you, whether it’s in a book or in real life. This is a selection of books to be read when the travel bug bites hard and you can’t follow the itch but only, feebly, scratch it.

Colin Thubron – pretty much anything from the somber and poetic Englishman, offspring of a Poet Laureate. Thubron travels to the timeworn city of Damascus, through the forbidding snow-wastes of Siberia or follows the Silk Route from China into Russia. His voice is the voice of the solitary traveler, the person who becomes his surroundings and transforms them with clear melancholy. The people he meets speak clearly of loss and joy, frozen in time, ephemeral…beautiful. The closest he came to India was a journey to Mount Kailash, and it is hard to imagine his perception in the maelstrom of quotidian India, but one can imagine him crossing the Himalayas and the Hindukush or walking through the jungle valleys and hillsides of tea of Sikkim.

Tahir Shah – son of Idries Shah, the late Sufi grandmaster who lived in Britain, Tahir has inherited the flavor of language from his father. His writings mix observations and fantasies, deliberately blurring the line. I like the idea of not knowing at what point the writer decides to walk into his own head, although purists of “realistic” or observational travel writing might disapprove (although of what is not so clear to me, unless it is their own inability to separate fact from fiction). The descriptions of India and how it appears to a bemused outsider (one can find them in Sorcerer’s Apprentice) are recognizable and hilarious. His books mystify those who have no sense of the mystical and lie to those who cannot separate truth from fiction, a perfectly regular Sufi behavior, I’d say. He goes to India to become a sorcerer or rather his apprentice, so that should give you a hint to the level of humour, detachment and fantasy you should expect…as well as the level of self-importance of the author (fair warning if you’re sensitive that way).

Helena Drysdale – she moves us away from India (although she has written a book on her solitary travels in Nepal and Tibet, which I haven’t yet read), but her book Mother Tongues is a excellent account of her search for tribal communities in Europe. In a time where the Euro and maybe the European Union itself are about to scatter, this is a timely reminder of cultural uniqueness, personal identity, diversity in a continent that finds it just cannot pretend equality for too long. Drysdale travels with her husband and her two young daughters, so this becomes a family account as much as a travel book or an anthropological study. It’s fascinating and personal and leads the mind far away from the trappings of globalization and corporate identity.

Simon Allix – after the death of his brother during an accident on a road in Kashmir, Simon Allix, a graphic designer by trade, decided to create a memorial to his sibling. Mandala Mountain or Rivers of the Mandala, a beautiful picture book (for grown-ups, if you need that disclaimer) about the two brothers’ multiple journeys to and around Mount Kailash is the result. It is filled with snapshots, memorabilia, sketches and drawings taken from their travel notebooks and put together in a wonderful zany way that evokes both a bande-dessiné and a travelogue.

Olivier Föllmi – a Swiss photographer (one of my favourite photographers) who founded a vast project called Sagesse de l’humanité. He travels the world photographing people, cities, places. Having lived for several years in Tibet and the Middle East, he understands the worlds he moves through better than an outsider would and his photographs are vast and personal, calm and assured. You can pick them up in beautiful oversized hardcover books and travel through them for a few hours…or days…or months…