Digital Rhapsody

I am in touch with several friends whom I have not seen in person in many years. For a very long time, I stayed in touch through letters and postcards. That worked, but required a very steady and relentless dedication and the willingness to spend the time. Through the marvel of the latest computer technology, I can communicate with my friends instantaneously. It is completely wonderful to send a message clear across the planet and get an answer back within seconds. Some people claim this kind of instant messaging is deceptive, or illusory, but I disagree. I have a couple of friends I have missed very much over the years, and often wished I would be able to communicate with more ease and less time in between communications. Now I can. There is a certain poetry to the whole process as far as I perceive and experience it. Digital refers to the use of the digits, the fingers, a very tactical, physically real part of our bodies. We are using the touch of fingers, to communicate to another person who uses their fingers, sometimes many thousands of miles away, to return an answer. So, technology uses very real tactile gestures to send and receive messages between families and friends. Touch, an integral part of human closeness, is very much a part of the computer age. I find that very reassuring, the longing for closeness, for connection, expressed by the fingers on our hands, touching a keyboard, making the experience very real in that sense. Hands touching hands, all across the globe, creating a new sense of warmth and belonging, of community out of the box, literally, one digital message at a time. My friends still live very far away, extremely far in some cases, but it no longer feels that way, with each message I receive via the marvels of technology. The world is one big village now, the opinion goes, and that is a good thing. In that global village we get a chance, more than ever, to understand we all long for peace, dignity, health, happiness and belonging, regardless of convictions or circumstances. I find it tears down walls, opens windows, and doors. The exchange of music across the globe is an equally hopeful and enjoyable occurrence. A friend of mine in Morocco sent me a music video this morning, and it was delightful to know he had watched the same video just minutes before sending it across two continents to me. On a cloudy, grey day, I received a beautiful piece of music, hand delivered so to speak, by a dear friend far, far away, but emotionally closer than I ever imagined possible just a few years back. There is a lot of dystopia theory out there when it comes to the future of mankind. This morning I was reminded that not all of it needs to be worrisome.

The Place To Be

Recently I saw a couple of nostalgic episodes of  " Green Acres ", the hilarious sitcom that starred Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor and ran from 1965 to 1971. This outrageously funny show telling the mishaps and challenges of a wealthy Manhattan lawyer and his glamorous wife who move to a shabby farm in a place called Hooterville , is very good about making one feel positive  about one's own circumstances and limitations. Watching Mr. Douglas ( Eddie Albert ) put one of his wife's infamously disastrous pancakes under a wobbly table as a stabilizer, or Mrs. Douglas ( Eva Gabor ) cut her thick, sticky coffee with a knife as were it paste, or listen to Pat Buttram, who plays Mr. Haney, try to weasel Mr. Douglas out of another couple of dollars for shoddy farm equipment, is like a vacation for the mind. The whole incongruous notion of a wealthy Manhattan couple moving their expensive furniture and lifestyle, gowns and diamonds included, to a run down, cramped farm in the middle of nowhere is medicine for the blues any time. Eva Gabor is incredibly charming and effective as the clueless penthouse socialite, as she strolls around Hooterville in minks and white gloves and gorgeous designer outfits, in impeccable hair and makeup. Equally funny is the sight of Mr. Douglas riding his tractor in an expensive three piece suit, or trying to carry on a conversation with Mr. Kimball or the Monroe brothers, or the Ziffel family and their "son", Arnold, the pig,very refreshing treatment for the funny bone. Most of our lives have limitations, either due to circumstances or character, or both. To be able to put those limitations into perspective with the help of a very effective, screwy sitcom like " Green Acres " makes sure we don't take ourselves too seriously and it makes up for those days that we sprinkle with bitterness, because we do. I was raised in socially privileged circumstances and my adventures into making the US my country brought me to a more humble standing, not any less interesting or rewarding, but definitely not up to snuff in my mother's book. I had to struggle to overcome the insecurity and lack of self confidence I had because of my mother's rejection of my circumstances in addition to my person and identity, so a show like " Green Acres ", reminds me to be kind to my own struggles and hang on to my dignity and sense of humour. I laughed so hard watching that show again. I am so glad Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor were so good in these roles.What a great legacy and gift to the world of comedy. I am sure a hundred years from now, someone somewhere will be able to get their positive attitude and good humour back because of watching some, or all, of the  " Green Acres " episodes. I did. Green Acres is definitely the place to be some days, just like the theme song sung by Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor promises so convincingly.   

La Saison des Pluies

Les couleurs ce matin me paraissent moities endormis, et un peu paresseux, de lumiere faible et timide. Des jeaunes et verts pales, des gris fumes, des rouges eteints sur les arbres.

Un soupire leger m'echappe et se perd dans le vent capricieux.
Le temps coule comme une riviere trouble sur les chagrins de mon coeur.

La saison des pluies est autour de moi,
un parfum muet dans ses cheveux blancs.

T'es qui, toi? Tu appartiens nulle part,
avec ton accent flamand et tes reves d'un aujourd'hui imagine.

Une ombre sous un ciel ou a disparu l'espoir
tu chantes seule, sans regret ou pretension.

La saison des pluies est autour de toi,
une larme chaude dans ses yeux aveugles.

Je mets mon manteau de silence, et sans parapluie,
je marche sur ce chemin de mon futur imaginaire.

Trudi Ralston.
November 7th, 2013. 

Michelle Knight

It never ceases to amaze me how strong and resilient some people turn out to be when faced with the most horrific circumstances. The plight of Michelle Knight, one of the three women held captive in Cleveland, Ohio, for over a decade by a monster named Ariel Castro, bears amazing witness to that fact. To listen to the horrors this young, tiny woman endured is spellbinding, beyond shocking. It left my mind dizzy and numb with incredulity. How did she survive these long years of endless abuse, beatings, whippings, rapes, chained like a tortured animal, deprived of proper clothes, warmth, food and medical attention? Terrorized endlessly, humiliated, starved, isolated? But Michelle Knight did survive, and speaks with great strength and conviction of her determination to survive, to not give up. She is beyond inspiring, and makes me want to try even harder to be a better, stronger person. We all have moments and times in our life where we feel  like giving up, where we feel what we do does not seem to amount to  much, or that we do not seem make headway in our goals and dreams. To hear and see Michelle Knight speak of what she endured and how she manged somehow to hang on to hope and the will to survive, sure puts a different perspective on what I believe to be insurmountable in my own life at times. I draw strength from Michelle Knight's incredible courage and amazingly strong spirit. She reminds me we are all in this mystery that life is together, and that we are never better as when we are connected and share our trials and triumphs. Michelle Knight's suffering was not in vain, because she survived her decade long imprisonment and torture, and she inspires everyone who hears her story. The fire that all her suffering was unable to extinguish was not only strong enough to carry her through, it is powerful enough to spark determination in each one of us, determination to be strong too, to be grateful, to refuse to give in to regret, self-pity, sadness and despair. I hope Michelle Knight heals well from the terrible physical and mental abuse she suffered, and finds good friends and someone special to love who realizes what a remarkable woman she is. I wish her all the best, and I hope she realizes how grateful and glad we are because she will inspire us for many years to come. Thank you, Michelle. It is my fondest wish for you that you will find a family who will love you and treasure you, and that you will be able to call your own.

Exsilium

The word "exile" has been on my mind all morning. I have kept my Latin-Dutch and Dutch-Latin dictionaries from my high school days in Belgium. It is somewhat unsettling each time to see my maiden name and also my first name in Flemish : "Trui Desender, rhetorica 1975." I looked up the word for exile, both ways: exsilium is the Latin word for banishment. Banishment certainly describes well what exile is. The verb silere , of which the noun ex-silium is derived is defined as "to be quiet, to be silent, to keep quiet, to be without work, to cease, to not let hear a sound ". The Latin verb for imposing banishment in Dutch, "verbannen" is " expellere", from which we get " expel " in English. So, someone who is banished, or exiled, is someone who has been kicked out from whatever or wherever home or sense of belonging they had. The word exile is often associated with political banishment, and it often draws worldwide attention, because it involves highly skilled intellectuals and scientists and artists who defy their repressive governments. A giant among political exiles and always a person I was in awe of is the Russian dissident Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn who took on the entire Soviet political system. I read his "The Oak and the Calf " manuscript, the large volume in which he describes the excruciating ways he had to come up with to have his forbidden writings survive and smuggle them out of the Soviet bloc. Mind boggling. I have a great preference for his "One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich", in which he describes one day in the life of a prisoner in the Gulag system. This beautiful book manages to have its main character rise above the absurdity and hopelessness of his life to find purpose and even dignity. It is really one large prose poem dedicated to one man's determination to survive without bitterness and self-pity, the brutality of an inhuman system. As someone who was banished out of my family and subsequently out of my language, culture and country, the book has great personal meaning. It is certainly true I am but an ant in courage in comparison to the courage that was required of Ivan Denisovich, but I know the pain of banishment, and its dire consequences emotionally and socially. I do not wear a prisoner's thin and inadequate uniform, I do not go hungry or thirsty physically, I can speak freely and am not in constant fear of abuse and hopelessness, but I do know those pains and fears emotionally, as I struggle for a voice, a place to be heard, for visibility and context and understanding and significance. If I want to hear Flemish, I speak to myself, the only other option is to call my aunt long distance a couple of times a year. The thing about banishment is that it is hard to reverse. Even if you do find your way back, either through sheer will or opportune circumstances, the damage done takes time to heal. I am not sure that I will have that opportunity in time to say goodbye to some already elderly family members back in Belgium. Meanwhile, I put one foot in front of the other, and walk on, and really no one around me is aware of how I feel and why, or how hard it can be. As is expected of the banished one, I keep quiet, and bear my exile with as much optimism and faith as I can muster, hoping the wall I chip at will come down eventually. And like Ivan Denisovich, I choose to view my daily achievements and their repetitions as worthwhile, even beautiful.

Volonte

Dans le pays des reves,
ou j'ai mon village,
je t'ai retrouvee un soir
froid en novembre.

J'etais toute contente,
allons-nous a une classe d'art,
je te disais toute enthusiaste.

Ah,non, tu insistais.
Je n'ai plus envie.
Je suis fatigue,
il fait trop tard,
je ne vuex plus savoir
ce que tu veux ou penses.

Meme dans ces rues
ou vivent nos reves,
il arrive un moment
ou le desir et l'envie
n'en peuvent plus.

Comme mon amitie
avec toi, qui a mon coeur
encore plein de feu,
se trouve face a face
avec ton indifference
que j'ai tue jouant
roulette avec ta patience.

Tu n'existes plus, ni le jour,
ni la nuit, ni sous les etoiles,
ni dans la maison ou tu vivais
au village ou je te cherchais
quand le sommeil me menait
au magie du pays de nos reves.

La volonte s'est en allee avec tout.
La couleur de tes yeux, ton sourire,
ton gout, tes soupires, ta chaleur,
ta voix.

Trudi Ralston
November 4th, 2013.
pour mon ami aux yeux couleurs de tigre
de qui me reste seulement le parfum des tournesol.    

Directions to the City

Over the years it has fascinated me how we can have dreams that are recurrent in theme and circumstance. I had one of those dreams two nights ago. I was walking, as I have before, towards a  metropolis in view. Large skyscrapers loom up in the shadow of the evening falling. In the dream the metropolis is Austin, but the skyline looks more like Chicago, which was the first large American city I visited when I was 16. I am walking alone in the dream, lost, looking for directions, as people mill about me,and ignore me, and I am looking for a friendly person who can help me get home. I am not very successful, until I find an elderly woman who takes the time to steer me in the direction I want to go. The place I call home in the dream is the place I grew up in , in Roeselare, Belgium. I finally get to my house, and oddly enough, it is right next to the edge of the big city. I never became comfortable driving on freeways, and it is interesting how having to deal with city traffic is a recurring theme, as I get lost time and again, and cannot find any help, adding to the general anxiety of the dream. In another part of the dream, before I meet up with the kind elderly woman, a huge white dragon flies over the city, and seemingly no one notices it but me. The dragon is scary looking, breathing fire, and looks me straight in the eye, but I am not afraid, and s(h)e hovers there, her huge wings swooshing over the skyline. When I woke up, I was amazed that I had revisited a dream I have had over a number of years, and that this time a dragon appeared who seemed to have sympathy for my plight of city alienation. I smiled at my predicament, a fish out of water, so to speak. The alienation seems a theme, that I deal with as best as I can, but never as dramatically as in my dreams. The stressful part of the dream is that I am always walking everywhere, and I seem to be going around in circles, over and over again, trying to get home, where my husband and son are, except home is simultaneously in Belgium and Washington State. I try very hard to get where I need to go, to find my way, never seeming discouraged at failing, time and again, as whatever directions I am following or trying to understand frustrate me, and get me nowhere. I am certainly not easily discouraged, in daily life, or my dream life. Directions to the city. Directions to life. Ones for a dream state, the others for waking life,the search for them blending together in a tireless effort to make sense of my journey in this world.