You have to adapt yourself to circumstances. It is true that I had no penny left and that I was spending my last remaining pieces of imported dolars in a café internet in order to try structuring my somewhat shattered patterns of understanding, which though allowed extremely ‘deep’ observations on word documents that would have made Kant become green of jealousy. As my financial situation started to improve when I managed to get a job, neither was there time left, nor concentration enough allowing the continuation of such an activity. Thus, the two last articles that should appear in http://ideabstracta.wordpress.com will not be finished and I had to open a new http adapted to the new situation: simpler, easier, immediate.
On the other hand, the very fact that I could get the exact impression, were it false, of the obvious impact of my creations, made me decide to leave the narcissistic anonimity of ‘ideabstracta’ in favour of my real name. On top of this, my schizoid self, my shadow that does never leave me, even when I’m dreaming, did alert me of the fact that if he was right, Sask would certainly have driven confusion so far as not to allow a proper differentiation even of genders.
Nobody knows that even if nobody is reading your stuff, the very presentation of the engine that does allow such a projection, as being the result of the needs and expectations of even millions of people, as in this case, does allow very quickly having an idea of how all these people may react to your inspirations. Myself (short for: the schizoid other) did soon conclude that at least 2% of all those trying to stay in touch with the outer world, would be very positive about my inventions, and that was already quite a lot. It is true that I was thus very proud of myself, even if Myself does often tell lies. As I do believe always what he says, the result is most gratifying for both.
The bad side effect, if it can be considered as such, is that the very engine was telling me that my way of proceeding was extremely confusing. At a certain moment, Myself said, it did even confuse the poet Catalina Sojos with myself, and although he didn’t think it really offensing for himself, he wasn’t very sure of the poet’s reaction about the mistake.
It is true that we (Myself and I) had driven the game with ambiguity extremely far. Quite angry with some pretentious who wanted to ban ambiguity even from language (efforts linked to people like Popper and related), we made of our life a game of words, or with words, in any case playing with pretensions and shadows and ghosts mostly guided by the principle that you should never deceive someone’s expectations.
The funniest result of this gambling was a real misunderstanding happened in Israel, Jerusalem, at the Hotel King David, where is was sipping my coffee, as usual, while trying to get a clue of what was happening, and Leya asked me, what I did. It is a fact that I always adapted the answer to the one who was asking the question, and as Leya seemed to me of quite modest origins I just told her that I had sheep. (Which was true, on the other hand, but as a hobby and matter of investigation, linked to extremely complex questions.) My attempt to level the coordinates of communication crashed against a Japanese accent: She understood ’ships’, and of course ‘23′ of them made of me a multimillioner moving in the spheres of Onassis and Niarxos. I laughed, but she wouldn’t want to get out of her mistake. Finally I decided that it wasn’t such a bad idea to feel like Onassis and didn’t insist. I have always hoped that I played my role well enough so as not to deceive Leya in her expectations concerning ship owners.
That hotel was something like a mirror labyrinth, anyhow. I still remember another woman, called Ruth, who told me she was living in London, had a school and made some kind of stone traffic based on the fact that one possible translation of the stone from Hebrew into English did not allow the categorizing as semi precious stone, reasons why she wouldn’t pay taxes. She was quite anxious though and smoking one cigarette after the other, so that I was overwhelmed by the sudden desire of telling her something very reassuring: something like, don’t worry, there are many very serious people taking care, and the only thing that came to my mind at that moment was to tell her that I was a Russian spy, which on the other hand had the most surprising effect that she told me the name of a nephew of hers working for the Intelligence Services in the US. Of course I thought this intervention quite regrettable after, and decided not to say such things anymore ever, as I couldn’t be sure whether, by our times, my personal affective overreaction would not be confused with an empirical fact.
And other very surprising events.
To say that things started to get somewhat up side down when my mirror effects started to influence so heavily the environment that I didn’t know anymore who I was. It is an evidence that it could certainly not be my fault if someone gave one interpretation to something said that was not at all intended. As if people were incapable of evaluating things properly in a given context. On the other hand it opened an incredible amount of possibilities of misusing people’s innocent belief in words with double meaning.
In fact, WordPress did nothing but reveal clearly an underlying fact: I had got lost so much in my labyrinths that the poor engine was stressed by the incapability of getting a clear picture of myself. (This points out, that the device has not considered the possibility of an I writing together with a schizoid Myself)
Don’t think Myself gets angry because I tell him schizoid. He tends to think that those are the most intelligent of people. Characteristic of the schizoid, Sask remarks.
If this were not enough I sent a picture I adored taken by a very old greek man called Xafis a couple of years ago, where it could become impossible to know whether I was a man or a woman, in the twenties or fourties, Russian, English or a Pomak. To my understanding it was obvious that it could not be a man. Men do never look intelligent on pictures, Myself says, either they look artificially handsome or they try to look serious. And I looked very intelligent on the picture, Myself says. Were it a homosexual (Sask suspected deeply) he would never have this quiet innocent air, only asexual people maintain insistingly. (Receipt if someone wants to follow the same path of confusion.)
It is true that I didn’t believe very much in categories anymore. Categories are dangerous because if it is true that they may attract friends, they may make you many ennemies, too. On the other hand, you always have to deal with irreal representations people have of something, giving value to things that are indifferent to you and taking it from others you cherish. If I were talking to Sask, I would certainly never say that my father was German, if it were the case. It’s a fact that she hates Russian (in the depth of her heart, though she would never say, because it’s not politically correct: the fact was known because one day she drank one Amaretto more than she should have, and thus revealed secret aspects of herself that arrived to my attentive ears), so that I would certainly say that I’m Russian, because I know, too, that she likes blundering demonstrations and would certainly finally give in to the evidence that Russian are not that bad.
I do not believe in common evidences, that’s a fact. Although I would like Sask to be impressed by the fact that my mother was a master of thought, she would certainly be more impressed by the fact that I went to Sorbonne to study philosophy, thing I do not really give importance to. But I always esteemed that mothers neglect themselves too much: they want so much their children to arrive to utopic castles of glory they use to forget they were certainly the way the child took in order to arrive there. How may I tell to someone that you may spend four years bathing in abstract concepts in order to find the appropriate and acknowledged way to put your mother’s thought and logic in adequate patterns, without this one straining the fact of it being Sorbonne, and Sorbonne having finally rejected my mother’s bright intelligence, as much for obvious hatred to the Spanish as for rejection of women’s reason?
This is why I rarely talk about myself, concretely. Let anyone think what he wants, and may this be his last pleasure. If he wants to think I’m a man playing the woman, let it be his choice. And if someone wants to believe I’m Russian, perhaps it is because he knows souls are not always attached to DNA.
But … in order to satisfy Sask, I will have to hint out at least my date and place of birth and registered gender: Born November 19th, 1965 in Madrid, I was a material woman then and didn’t stop being it, whatever Sask may say.