How much is an hour of Mom worth?

Seth Godin once said: “The system we grew up with is a mess. It’s falling apart at the seams and a lot of people I care about are in pain because the things we thought would work don’t. Everyday I meet people whom have so much to give but have been bullied enough or frightened enough to hold it back.”

Seth’s statement has been one great inspiration. It’s applicable to many people, however, not to Mom, any Mom. Your Mom is probably the only person who would say: “Fuck the mess, fuck the system, let me be bullied, let anyone scare the hell out of me, I have a lot to give to my kid and I will do that, even if he’s a criminal.”

I truly have no motivation to become the richest person on earth or the most powerful, nevertheless I would never choose to be a loser, a coward, an idiot or a truly unhappy person; even though life at times could be so much easier if I had given up. How so?

Because… My Mom (or your Mom) chose to live her entire life with imperfect systems and (I believe) was many times being threatened some ways or another to raise the kids. I’m not allowed to make her work for free.

– Skye

Got crazy in Tbilisi, Georgia

We strolled around Eastern Europe few years ago; things were quite bizarre. Spent a weekend looking around a Soviet flea market in Tbilisi, Georgia.

I tell stories for God’s sake

I’m obviously not someone who write for a living. I write intensely almost every night no matter how busy I am, because writing makes me feel so happy and relieved. Part of the reason is that I always have a lot of questions – small ones, big ones, random ones. Throughout the days I sort of play around with the questions and the answers in my head. Once I came to a concrete answer, I’d write it down so that I’d gradually build up my own book of “Wait but Why”.

There was a time when I was writing and posting up my conversations with God (because I was then having lots of broad questions), someone read them, then made a Facebook page named “God” and started sending me messages. Obviously “God” was not my Facebook friend therefore his messages went to Other (Spam) folder. I didn’t get to read them ’til about 9 months later. The messages looked like this:

Screen Shot 2015-06-26 at 8.12.56 pm

Basically “God” said: Not many people talk to me, I’m glad you do. My child, don’t be like most of human-being: thinking that the destination is something uncertain; that illusion creates fear, your worst enemy. If you doubt that your life’s gonna end badly, you’re doubting me (God). And if you doubt me, you’ll forever live in fear. Furthermore, I’m telling you, life is not a pre-determined journey, it’s a series of creation. You create yourself everyday, every minute. You make Who you want to be. So spend time thinking about Who you want to be, not Where the hell is God (please, don’t try to look for me, I’m all over the place). And I make you a promise, everyday of your life you live in my house (That’s fking great right?)

Whoever created that Facebook account and sent me those words, THANK YOU is inadequate, because the letters themselves didn’t shout “I’m interested in you”, they shouted “You speak to God everyday, you long for God, you believe in God, you live up to God by believing in yourself, keep doing great stuff and being a good person. God could hear it all, he could see it all and he’s not telling you that his name is Jesus or Buddha, he’s telling you that he’s real, he’s there for you. God sent his message through a human whom created a Facebook page, that’s how high-tech and powerful and compassionate and real he is. If you dare to talk to God, he’ll answer you.”

Now you can tell me that I should not believe in fairytales, anyone out there can tell me they don’t believe in me or they can even give me sentences, well then – “F**K you. I stand firmly on my feet and I can see magic! I’m gonna create my magical body, soul, stories and future today, tomorrow and the day after and the day after and the day after; and you can do nothing about that!”

I owe God to tell you this story today.

– Skye

Asked Daddy: Why did people ruin your perfect metro designs and building up such hideous ones?

Answer: “I did build a tiny railway in the park near our home. The thing was launched on your birthday; it works perfectly ’til now. And you had lots of good times. I’m happy!”

– Skye

Daddy & I agree Mommy’s the boss

20 years of me telling parents: “Mommy looooook, I did this!” using voice, note, mail, text. Answers (for 20 years):

-Dad: Eat more.
-Mom: Your dreams can not be that small.

– Skye

Vertigo

In spite of their love, they had made each other’s life a hell.

The fact that they loved each other was merely the proof that the faults lay not in themselves, in their behaviour or inconstancy of feeling, but rather in their incompatibility: he was strong and she was weak. She was like their President, whom made a 30s pause in the middle of a sentence; she was like her country, which stuttered, gasped for breath, could not speak.

But when the strong were too weak to break the weak, the weak had to be strong enough to leave.

And having told herself all this, she pressed her face against her dog’s furry face and said, “Sorry. It looks as though you’re going to have to move again.”

Sitting crushed into a corner of the train compartment with her heavy suitcase above her head and her dog squeezed against her legs, she kept thinking about one disgusting man whom represented everything she loathed. And all she could think of was looking him up and telling him, “You used to say you wanted me. Well, here I am.” In fact, that man could be anyone.

She longed to do something that would prevent her from turning back to him. She longed to destroy brutally the past few years of her life. It was vertigo, a heady, insuperable longing to fall.

We might also call vertigo the intoxication of the weak. Aware of his weakness, a man decides to give in rather than stand up to it. He is drunk with weakness, wishes to fall down in the middle of the main square in front of everybody, wishes to be down, lower than down.

She tried to talk herself into settling outside of Prague and giving up her profession as a photojournalist. She would go back to the small town from which his voice had once lured her.

But once in Prague, she founded she had to spend some time taking care of various practical matters, and began putting off her departure.

On the 5th day, he suddenly turned up. Her dog jumped all over him, so it was a while before they had to make any overtures to each other.

They felt they were standing on a snow-covered plain, shivering with cold.

Then they moved together like lovers whom had never kissed before.

“Has everything been alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Have you been to the magazine?”

“I’ve given them a call.”

“Well?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve been waiting.”

“For what?”

She made no response. She could not tell him that she had been waiting for him.

– Milan Kundera  

unbearable-3

An untold story

This is an untold story of my life. I’ve never told anyone because people’d either feel sorry for me or see too much of my weakness. I have kind of forgotten about it lately, however was reminded today while reading an article. Maybe writing it down is the only way to let it go forever.

As a kid, I witnessed the deaths of my grandparents. Two of them died because of cancer. One day when I was ~16, while we were having dinner, my mother suddenly discovered a visible tumor on my neck. Her face turned white. I laughed at myself to cheer her up, said I’d go check things up the day after. The true feeling was – There was a countdown clock literally appeared in front of my eyes.

I’d never believed that I was going to die miserably like the grannies. The health-check turned out to be fine, just one harmless tumor. I laughed again to my mom, said: “See, I told you so”. Nevertheless, I’ve always asked myself this question for the last 10 years: What if things had turned out to be bad?

The doctor then asked do I want to live with the tumor. I said “No” without flinching. My mom was (still) too terrified so I put her to work the day they operated myself – “You can come and see me by dinner time, I’d be up by then.”

The operations itself to me, was a very pleasant time travel (or death) experience. As soon as the anesthetic was injected, you literally had one second to see the universe, then you opened your eyes, it was over. How cool is that, hours were being compressed into one second. Death is not that scary I guess. However, (my) human instinct that longs to live was so strong that despite of anesthetic, once I woke up, I wasn’t able to sleep for the next 2 days. I was always half sleep, was just alerted enough to recognize the movements around with my eyes closed.

I remember everything happened in that room during those 2 days. Visitors thought I was asleep. They came in. Some left after a few minutes. Some stayed for a while and talked (to themselves). Those were strange conversations about simple meaning of life, the fear of death and finite separations that you don’t get to hear so often. My parents, however, didn’t say a single word.

I was soon out of the hospital. People were much nicer to me as if they were afraid that I might die if they did anything harmful. I didn’t care at all. I had since become both too strong and too vulnerable. I have never had time again to be classified; I have never had time again to care about what people think about me; I have never had time again for promises; I have never had time again to try to cope with nonsense; I have never had time again to be with someone I no longer love…. All because death’s no longer a myth, it’s really not something scary or painful at all… Been there, done that! Living crazily, courageously, graciously is so much harder.

I have since desired only sincerity.

– Skye