Seven Years (Almost) Perfect

While reading a news article today I got all flushed and tingled. My girlfriend was staring at me with that look – “Ach je, was jetzt!” (Oh no, what now). After I finished reading the article I turned to my girlfriend, looked her straight in the eye(s) with the utmost sincerity I could muster, showed her the picture of the person that the article was about and said: This is the only woman in the world that could be a threat to you.

Of course I was only kiddin’. Except for the motorcycle. The motorcycle could be a threat. Maybe.

Every once-a-once I link one of my (worst)writer posts/articles to Wikipedia or some other source, but mostly everything published here is from yours-truly and it’s about the trials and tribulations of being (worst)writer. Other times I write articles about the books I read, like here. And then there was the beginning phase(s) of this blog where I just bitched about everything (purposefully no link added here). But today something happened that made me say, wow, I have to let my fellow (worst)writers know about this and it has (almost) nothing to do with me being (worst)writer.

I want to tip my hat off to a woman that has tickled my fancy like no other woman before. And that’s not because of the pic above. For more journalistic detail you can check out this English language article on the subject. For less detail, let me just tell you the name of a very, VERY, V E R Y special German chick that has motivated my thoughts this day:

Gabriele Pauli

Here is her website. Sorry but it’s in German only. It’s where I stole the great pic of a chick on a Ducati in leather. The pic requires no language – I think.

Yeah! Steal my heart, why don’t ya! In fact, I would cut my heart out with a dull knife for this chick. If it weren’t for the cumbersome fact that’s she’s a German politician. In fact, she’s one of them Euro parliamentarian MPs. Aghast. Whatever that is. My experience over here in good’ole Germany has penned well for me. As long as z’German chicks are highly successful at things like… managing sales divisions, running the creative offices of an ad-agency, or perhaps just being a plain old well-paid German MBA chick!

Among all of the problems I have with living in Germany one of them ain’t the emancipated chick who thinks, and actually proves every day, that she’s equal and just as capable as any German guy. My understanding of this is probably why I get along so well with German women. Certainly it has nothing to do with the fact that my mother is German born. Although I hold zero citizenship in my ex-pat host country, somehow, German-ness is under my skin. Oh well.

One of the things that really bugs me about Germany (among so many other things) is that there is not one major German corporation that is headed by a woman. Good’ole Germany is one of the most sexist places I’ve ever experienced among western industrial nations. And to add to the flames of German mediocrity most of German society (yes, even the female part of it) is oblivious to this problem. I’m telling you, as (worst)writer, trying to find out the difference between emancipation and feminism (see here and here) has been a fun ride for me in Germany. So, suddenly, as Gabriele Pauli appears on the German landscape, there just might be hope for this godforsaken place of Mittelmäßigkeit gone awry.

Unfortunately I’ve never had the pleasure of a German politician chick. (Not sure they earn enough.) I probably couldn’t get along with one anyway – on account of my point-of-view that politics and politicians are basically worthless to all of humanity. Then there’s the idea that I don’t really, REALLY, R E A L L Y even like living in Germany – except the easy access to Tuscan wine, the relatively short flights to Indian ocean islands, the clean and well-kept roads that help me drive away from Germans, etc., etc. (If you dare to read what I think about Germany then you can go here.)

In short, Gabriele Pauli, a Bavarian politician (with a Phd!) from the silly CSU party (Christian Social Union; a pretty conservative group made mostly of closet-living German nationalist numskulls), has made one of the coolest political proposals I have ever heard since being born in the early 60s. And I’m gonna probably be the first English language blog to report on it. Is everybody out there in happy-ville ready for this? Here it goes. The German politician Gabriele Pauli has proposed a law that will require…

Marriage last only seven years.

Keep in mind that news in Germany only becomes real news, I guess, when it hits the English language. That’s because nothing really interesting happens in German. Seriously. It’s a language problem they have. Anything said or done in German, in Germany – especially by German politicians or businessmen – is simply uninteresting. That’s the price they so gladly pay for so much spectacular mediocrity, mendacity, Nichtstuerei. I suppose, being something like the third largest economy this side of Neptune means something but it really didn’t make much news that a woman was recently elected as the German Chancellor of that economy. Oh well.

Z’poor but very comfortable Jurmans.

I bet that Gabriele Pauli – here an English language Wiki report on her – would be surprised to know that she’s made it this far. I mean, you know, into the English language news. Even though she’s not born in Bavaria, she has managed to work her way up the ladder in the stuck-up, male dominated CSU party. She’s even provided enough ammunition for political enemies to shoot her down. And I (almost) love her for it! I wonder if she speaks English with that really cool old fashion Jurman accent.

z’German chicks send me into extasa when they talk the deep, guttural English talk. It’s especially good when even they forget the verbs, as well.

Who would have ever thought that a woman would come up with such a great idear as limiting marriage to seven years. Sure, many big-shot European politicians, with their multiple extra-marital affairs (just think French presidents, German parliamentarians, etc.) or maybe even that shit-head Donald Trump would/could come up with such a great idear. But if they did the idear would have immediately been annihilated – on account the idear came from a boy.

I mean, come on. Think about it. Anyone out there ever been divorced? No? How ’bout anyone that’s just gone through a break-up? No?

The west is so full of irreconcilable differences that we really don’t know which way to look anymore. So it’s time to start lookin’ anew! Gabriele Pauli proposes that marriage be renewed every seven years. Wow! What a great idea(r)! As I stated here, and NOT so well here, (as a male) I believe that it’s time to give the reign of governmental administration over to women. And this political proposal (albeit in the middle of bum fuck nowhere) proves I’m right. I mean, come on, it has to be time. This is a sign! The mess the world is currently in, lead by as much male ignorance as the Bush administration can muster… Can chicks really make things any worse?

Was I the only tickled male the other day when Sally Fields hailed mothers and then ended her speech at the 2007 Emmy’s with “If mothers ran things there would be no god-damned war!” (Here’s a youtube search link to Field’s speech.)

Ok, before I get too off subject…

I’m not here to blog about war or politics – at least not politics of the nation-state kind. Among other things – as one can easily surmise from the title and some other posts/articles in this blog – I am a failed husband. And that’s quite OK. I failed at the husbandry game due to something I thought was worth believing in. It was nothing more than NOT to give up on a dream – no matter what. Of course, I should have never married – I should have never put that nice girl through that – especially during the wedding ceremony as all my thoughts were about how silly the ritual really is in a world that is ruled by silliness. It didn’t take marriage and the institutionalized commitment that it’s become to figure out my wrong. But I thought it was the right thing to do to stick it out. Then came the years (of misery). Yes, my ex and I could have easily freed ourselves from the burden of falsely institutionalized marriage – especially since the passion and love seemed so far away from the evolving equation that once brought us together. But there’s something about falling out of love isn’t there? Something that makes us all hang on. I guess, to add to the silliness, there is something about love that logically makes it part of state sanctioning and government regulation.

Here’s a hard pill to swallow: I’m really not a cynic.

Marriage, like so many other things in our world, is outdated. There needs to be new thoughts and ideas about how to deal with so-called modern life. History, status quo, tradition, all need to be re-examined. And why not? Why is it so easy to get married and then so difficult to get divorced? What does such a silly and painstaking process serve? Does it really serve the rich and famous and their tabloids? Or is it about the feelings of the lesser classes, perhaps? What the hell is the matter with breaking up with someone? Can’t those feelings continue – even after the legal fact? If relationships were made easier maybe then things wouldn’t be so ugly. Or am I too naive to address this issue without addressing ownership, possession, who gets what? Although I didn’t have much to give when my marriage failed, I gladly gave it all. In fact, so many years after the breakup, I would still, if I had more, give it to my ex. I could never do enough to thank that woman for loving me at all. And what about the children? Maybe children wouldn’t suffer so much if this was all, somehow, simplified. We live now in an era where the majority of children inevitably will never be able to attain that which their parents or grandparents attained – at least not in the US and most of western Europe. Why then should there be so much difficulty in getting on with life – once part of it has broken? I don’t need the law to fall in love or commit to a person I love or to make a child I love with all my heart. But I guess it’s only natural that we need the law to maintain what’s broke…

Ludicrous.

I suppose those who will be hardest hit by this new and great idea(r) are those who identify themselves more with a ritual or a tradition. I guess there’s nothing wrong with that – except when it so obviously plays negatively on all of society.

Go Gabriele!

Rant on.

-tgs-

Rosy Crucifide

Thinking of favorite novels.

And the authors that shine – in my (worst)writer mind, anyway.

Currently thinking of Gogol, Vidal, Ecco, Bukowski (more on him here), Miller, and others listed here.

Criteria to be one of my favorite writers?

Substance.

The man of the hour is Henry Miller. I’ve read both Tropic novels (and really really really luv them), most of his published essays and just finished Sexus. I love to hear those who have only heard of Miller talk about him because they only know one thing about his work. To me, there is no better example of a 20th century iconic American writer – a writer of so much literary substance. Because of the groundbreaking lawsuit regarding Tropic of Cancer (1964), not only was Miller’s work categorized as “literature” (instead of pornography) but there are many who consider him one of the door openers of the sexual revolution. But I digress. It’s time to blog about The Rosy Crucifixion, Part 1.

Was recently traveling through my home country and while reading Sexus in public places some people asked me about it. Immediately I wondered if it was just the title of the book that motivated them. Or could it have been the intense way I read? With pencil between fingers, grasping the open book tightly with all other fingers, marking the beautiful words that flow through me in the small margins of the pages, underlining, making more notes in my notebooks, breaking the paperback, studying.

I mean, come on. I grew up in a country that, instead of learning, grasping, understanding what the sex revolution was about, all it’s done is to equate the freedom thereafter with the God-Mis-Given right to attend wet T-Shirt contests as the prequel to procreation. Hence, IMHO, women today are as far away from sexual freedom as they were pre-revolution. At the least, the sexual revolution wasn’t about “sex” – nor do I think it was just about women! How easily people (Das Volk) are so gloriously fooled. Thank goodness there is still Miller, mind you, to provide the substance for understanding. Yet, even today, if a man of 60 or so, sitting comfortably next to me (I’m 45) with a paper-cup full of coffee, both of us enjoying the sun in Embarcadero, San Francisco, and he mentions that he remembers Miller but never actually read him, well, go figure…

Tommi: The book is great, thanks for asking. It’s almost as good as Tropic of Capricorn.
60: Oh really. I remember the lawsuit that called Miller a pornographer. Boy, those were the days. I met my second wife in the late sixties. Have you read any Dan Brown?
Tommi: As a matter of fact I have.
60: And? Did you like…(insert name of really bad but very popular novel here)?
Tommi: No. Couldn’t get through the first twenty pages. But I did read Umberto Ecco’s Foucault’s Pendulum. It’s a much better tale regarding the antics of pseudo-historians. I prefer substance in the novels I read.
60: Oh, you’re one of them stuck-up-artsy readers, aren’t you. Bet you don’t even have a good job.
Tommi: Dude, how right you are.

Insert small-talk among strangers.

Hopefully one of the things I have unlearned since moving abroad is the assumption that a person has the right to share their life story or, even, start a conversation with you just because you have something in your hand (or anywhere else on your person) that may (or may not) interest them. The small talk drives me up the wall and, as an ex-pat, I do not miss it in the least. Of course, I am not addressing the issue of nice-ness here. Of course Americans are nice. But there are things called etiquette or mannerisms or character and they are all part of civilization. When one (or a nation) is lost and confused then, IMHO, that nation should learn to stop talking first in order that it can finally listen – and hence, learn. Combine the American confusion of today with the chaos of literally dinning on your own success, eating yourself while still alive, it’s no wonder that my beloved United Mistakes of America is currently such a mess. Ironically, when I was thinking about the 60 year old that felt it was his right to (just) talk to me and interrupt my reading/learning, I read the following passage in Sexus. It blew me away.

He was so completely carried away by this idea that everybody should participate in their joy that he went on talking for twenty minutes or more, roaming from one thing to another like a man sitting at the piano and improvising. He hadn’t a doubt in the world that we were all his friends, that we would listen to him in peace until he had had his say. Nothing he said sounded ridiculous, however sentimental his words may have been. He was utterly sincere, utterly genuine, the greatest boon on earth. It wasn’t courage which had made him get up and address us, for obviously the thought of getting to his feet and delivering a long extemporaneous speech was as much of a surprise to him as it was to us. He was for the moment, and without knowing it, of course, on the way to becoming an evangelist, that curious phenomenon of American life which has never been adequately explained. The men who have been touched by a vision, by an unknown voice, by an irresistible inner prompting – and there have been thousands upon thousands of them in our country – what must have been the sense of isolation in which they dwelled, and for how long, to suddenly rise up, as if out of a deep trance, and create for themselves a new identity, a new image of the world, a new God, a new heaven? We are accustomed to think of ourselves as a great democratic body, linked by common ties of blood and language, united indissolubly by all the modes of communication which the ingenuity of man can possibly devise; we wear the same clothes, eat the same diet, read the same newspapers, alike in everything but name, weight and numbers; we are the most collectivized people in the world, barring certain primitive peoples whom we consider backward in their development. And yet – yet despite all the outward evidences of being close-knit, interrelated, neighborly, good-humored, helpful, sympathetic, almost brotherly, we are a lonely people, a morbid, crazed herd thrashing about in zealous frenzy, trying to forget that we are not what we think we are, not really united, not really devoted to one another, not really listening, not really anything, just digits shuffled about by some unseen hand in a calculation which doesn’t concern us. Suddenly now and then someone comes awake, comes undone, as it were, from the meaningless glue in which we are stuck – the rigmarole which we call the everyday life and which is not life but a trancelike suspension above the great stream of life – and this person who, because he no longer subscribes to the general patterns, seems to us quite mad finds himself invested with strange and almost terrifying powers, finds that he can wean countless thousands from the fold, cut them loose from their moorings, stand them on their heads, fill them with joy, or madness, make them forsake their own kith and kin, renounce their calling, change their character, their physiognomy, their very soul. And what is the nature of this overpowering seduction, this madness, this “temporary derangement,” as we love to call it? What else if not the hope of finding joy and peace? Every evangelist uses a different language but they are all talking about the same thing. (To stop seeking, to stop struggling, to stop climbing on top of one another, to stop thrashing about in the pursuit of vain and vacillating goals.) In a twinkle of an eye it comes, the great spirit, which equilibrates, which brings serenity and poise, and illumines the visage with a steady, quiet flame that never dies. In their efforts to communicate the secret they become a nuisance to us, true. We shun them because we feel that they look upon us condescendingly; we can’t bear to think that we are not the equal of anyone, however superior he may seem to be. But we are not equals; we are mostly inferior, vastly inferior, inferior particularly to those who are quiet and contained, who are simple in their ways, and unshakable in their beliefs. We resent what is steady and anchored, what is impervious to our blandishments, our logic, our collectivized cud of principles, our antiquated forms of allegiance.

-The above text is from Henry Miller, Sexus, The Rosy Crucifixion, 1, about half-way through chapter 6.

Rant on about being a loser in a world of so many winners who have jobs and can afford those over-priced paper cups of coffee.

-tgs-

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