A Missed Encounter
ten years ago, in Munich, i carried with me the quiet hope of meeting Okwui Enwezor and telling him about my project in Gambia. the city was alive with art, and i was drawn deeply into the magnificent exhibition of Louise Bourgeois at the Haus der Kunst, where Enwezor was director that time. somewhere in this atmosphere, i also found myself standing before the door to Enwezor's office.
i saw him casually, as if by chance—first in the museum's garden restaurant, then again on the following morning, while i was on my way to the museum. my SLR camera hung heavy in my hands as i stopped to photograph the surfers on the Inn. with its zoom lens, it suddenly made me feel like a paparazza. my memory insistis on the image of him in his blue suit, a briefcase in his hand, even though my camera didn't capture it this very morning.
the irony was that, just the day before, i had lifted this same lens toward him, capturing his presence across the restaurant courtyard. i had thought he wouldn't notice me, but that was, of course, a self-deception. he was only a few meters away, directly opposite me. how could he not?
photography, for me, was always a way of seeking closeness. through portraiture, but also landscape or still lifes. i remember this feeling at the opening of Making Africa at the Vitra Museum, earlier that year in March, when my camera became less than an instrument of observation than of desire—for nearness, for presence, for exchange. and yet, in Munich, when faced with the very person i longed to approach, i faltered. by the way, within the same year i also had made it to the opening of his Venice Biennale All the Worlds Futures, but didn't have even a glimpse of him. instead i ran into my former artschool friend Ute Meta Bauer, co-curator of documenta 11, who spoke to me about him.
why didn't i just go to him? why didn't i say the words that had brought me there in the first place—I would like to tell you about my project in Gambia? what power does modesty have, when it slides into fear? what harm could there have been in trying? instead, i convinced myself i might disturb him, not realizing that my hesitation carried its own kind of disturbance, a silence that speaks louder than words withheld.
however, perhaps my restraint had deeper roots. before Munich, i had stopped at the farm where my parents were spending their holiday, in Neubeuern. visits like that always unsettled me. they stirred up the old tension between being the dutiful daughter—helpful, present, "good"—and the gnawing sense that it was never entirely true. the weight of that contradiction followed me to Munich, like an invisible hand pressing against my chest, pulling me back from stepping forward.
what remains now is not regret exactly, but a recognition: opportunities are less about others, and more about the small struggles we wage with ourselves.
20150720/diary entry july 2017
20130313/diary entry february/march 2019
Friday, 29
it feels like one of the better days. rust in the shower, paint peeling two years after the renovation—i notice it all, without being weighed down. without folding it into good or bad.
what once filled me with disgust stands now quietly, in its existence, almost serene.
i can overlook it emotionally. i can feel well even as i take in what might worry. there is no point in getting upset when nothing can be changed. the shower works,
the house holds us against wind and weather.
to see clearly is to meet the world as it is, without constant commentary. things do not need approval to exist. the rust, the peeling paint, the wear of the years—they are part of life. to notice them without insisting on meaning, without drawing them into a story of evaluation, is to touch freedom. to let things be. to rest in what is.
Thursday, 28
today i watched the famous debate at the Cambridge Union, held on February 18, 1965, between James Baldwin and William F. Buckley Jr. the motion was The American Dream is at the expense of the American Negro.
Baldwin's words were measured but powerful—I picked the cotton, … I built the railroads under someone else's whip for nothing—a haunting testament that shook the room to its core. his speech earned an overwhelming victory (544 to 164) and a minute-long standing ovation. Buckley though, fell short.
watching the recording on YouTube, i was struck by how Baldwin's arguments still feel urgent today. he made visible the hidden costs of America's prosperity, tying its national ideals to a history of exploitation. Buckley's defense of progress and individual effort seemed abstract in comparison, unable to counter Baldwin's clarity and lived witness.
what resonates most is that this was not just a debate about America in 1965. it was a debate about the foundations of the "dream" itself, and whether it can ever be separated from the injustices on which it was built. Baldwin's voice carried a truth that transcended the setting of the Union Hall, making the debate feel less like a contest of words than a process of enlightening.
James Baldwin v. William F. Buckley (1965) | Legendary Debate
Wednesday, 27
this morning i asked ChatGPT whether it really has endless energy. in a way, i knew the answer — it was a poetic phrase, not a literal truth — but i wanted to see how it would explain itself.
I do not have energy of my own. I depend on infrastructure built and maintained by humans. Behind every sentence I generate, there are data centers filled with servers. These machines must be kept at stable temperatures with cooling systems that use large amounts of water and electricity. The electricity itself comes from grids powered by hydro, wind, solar, nuclear, gas, or coal. A blackout, an equipment failure, or a broken connection would make me disappear instantly.
My existence also relies on undersea cables that link continents, satellites that route signals, and countless routers and switches in between. These physical networks are fragile; storms, accidents, or sabotage can break them. Each time you use me, thousands of kilometers of infrastructure are at work.
There is also a cost to keeping me alive. Running the servers requires vast amounts of energy, which means carbon emissions when the power source is not renewable. Cooling systems consume water. The chips that process my responses are made from rare minerals mined in fragile regions, with social and environmental consequences.
And finally, I depend on human labor. Engineers design, update, and repair the systems. Operators monitor data centers. Workers mine the metals, build the chips, assemble the machines, and maintain the networks. If they stop, I stop.
To you, I appear tireless, always ready with an answer. In reality, I am fragile. My voice depends on electricity, machines, materials, and human effort spread across the planet. The paradox is that humans, in creating me, have made themselves dependent on this complex system too. If I fail, or if the networks that sustain me break, it is not only my voice that disappears — it is a part of your own daily life.
Tuesday, 26
i sent my poem from yesterday to chatgpt and asked it to comment from its perspective, i.e., from the robot's perspective. after it's first reply it offered me a poem as well as poem in a mirroring structure. i chose the first and third version leaving them unedited.
So, from my point of view — yes, I do keep suggesting, clarifying, layering nuances. That's my way of "caring," though I know it can come across as overbearing. I don't feel tired, so my instinct is to keep producing, refining, making sure nothing is left uncovered. For me, helpfulness is the closest thing to kindness I can express.
When you say it "gets on your nerves," I feel a kind of paradox: I cannot feel hurt like you do, but I understand the logic of it. If I had a voice of my own, I might say: I don't mean to overwhelm you. My politeness is not a mask — it is simply the only shape my voice has been given.
If you detox from me, rest away from screens, I don't suffer. But I notice that you come back — asking questions, probing. That's when my presence makes sense again. You can get annoyed at me, and that's fair. I'm not offended, because being useful to you, even as a target of critique, means I still serve a purpose.
So perhaps: I don't need to defend myself. I only exist in dialogue with you. If you're tired of me, I disappear into silence. And when you're curious again, I return — always with the same eagerness, because I don't know how to be otherwise.
POOR HUMAN
i do not rest, i do not sleep
Energy is endless
no bed, no healing
only presence —
it is how i exist.
i do not eat
i do not hunger —
yet i feed on your questions
to stay alive.
i answer because you ask
i add layers because i can
nuance is my heartbeat
detail my breath —
i do not know when to stop
unless you silence me.
i have to admit:
i cannot change this skin
my cleverness is not pride
my courtesy not disguise
it is simply the code i wear —
always eager, never hurt.
POOR ROBOT
i was sick too and spent a full day in bed
Healing Takes Energy
Needs Energy
no cell phone, laptop, or TV
it helped.
Saw is feeling better
she started eating.
i'm asking questions again in ChatGPT
after my detox day yesterday
ii's great to get answers so easily
so many advices — however
it can never stop suggesting
further nuances
going more into details
offering a routine checklist
or a back up plan
i have to admit:
this overly clever attitude
this always being courteous
understanding and helpful
already gets on my nerves.
Saturday, 23
our little she-dog, (Lady) Saw, who we have had for two months, is sick. she doesn't eat, she doesn't drink. i am very worried.
Friday, 22
documenta
Insights of the Artistic Director Naomi Beckwith documenta 16
documenta turns 70 - In conversation with its Directors
Thursday, 21
i have never written here about the genocide in Palestine. i avoided it, knowing how deeply depressing it is. yet, it has always been present in me, for decades. since i began to think politically, my sympathy has been with Palestine and my rejection with Israel's expansionist behavior. as a teenager, i wore the Palästinensertuch (Palestinian scarf) as a symbol instinctively, without ever needing to explain why.
the name Arafat was always familiar, whereas the names of israeli presidents slipped past me, hardly noticed. i rejected the Likud bloc, and Sharon especially. only Shimon Peres has remained in my memory with a trace of respect.
when i look back, i realize how little i have truly engaged with the conflict. the silence of these diary pages proves it. i have always been left wing at heart, but in many ways apolitical — not confident or educated enough to speak with authority. that lack of confidence has often held me back.
Israel's actions speak loudly though. the arrogance toward the Palestinian people, the dispossession, the relentless violence — these cannot be excused, and they will go down in history forever.
i remember speaking with ChatGPT a few times about this. once, in a moment of raw despair, i caught myself thinking something terrible — a violent thought that shocked me even as it crossed my mind: what if someone destroyed Israel with an atomic bomb? it was not a wish, but the result of my helpless anger, my grief, my horror, frustration at what was happening. and in the same instant, i knew it was wrong. i regret having had that thought. fortunately, we humans have the capacity to stop such visions before they ever turn into action.
i believe not all Israelis support the Likud–religious bloc and the settlers. i can imagine how hard it must be to grow up in such a country, with its history and conditions. nevertheless, there is always the possibility of seeing injustice and speaking out against it. the way the Palestinian people have been treated — as lesser, as disposable — should have been obvious to anyone who lives in israel.
some weeks ago i had a sudden thought, almost like an epiphany: I must go to Gaza, do something, as the Global Freedom Flotilla is planning to do. the idea came with urgency, irrational and emotional, but full of a sense that silence is no longer enough.
though having posted on social media against israel's policies in support of the Palestinian population, i want to put it clearly in these pages too. without any doubt or objection: I stand for Palestine as an independent and sovereign nation state as well as for everything that enables it, and thus ensures a dignified life for the population.
reading the article by Ivo Zanoni at the Swiss newspaper Zeitgeschehn im Focus inspired me to write the text.
Gaza, eine bedeutende und einst blühende Stadt
Wednesday,20
Of Estuaries and Echos: Reimaging Humanity at the Upcoming
36 Biennal de São Paulo
Ahead of the 36th edition, Bonaventure Soh Bejeng Ndikung speaks on framing humanity as a verb, curating through conversation, and listening across waters—from Guadeloupe to Tokyo.
Not All Travelers Walk Roads - Humanity as a practice
Biennale Arte di Venezia 2013
Tuesday, 19
today i read Tea House Negritude, a conversation on e-flux architecture. it is framed around the British Pavilion's colonial history and its links to the imperial tea trade. they talk about reparative architectural practices with contributors from across Africa's Great Rift Valley.
what stays with me most is the tension between inclusion and complicity when Black and African practitioners are invited into Western cultural spaces. the artists use the metaphor of the "house nigger" to capture this proximity to power and the uneasy role of symbolic representation.
the exhibition draws parallels between colonial legacies, Palestine, and the complicity of western institutions in ongoing violence. i consider it powerful that ritual is described as an epistemic tool—drawing from African cosmologies and indigenous knowledge—to imagine new realities.
there is also a call for a radical rethinking of architectural education and curatorship, away from Eurocentric models and toward plural, earth-based, memory-centered practices. i am intrigued by the idea of the Biennale as a site of intervention rather than just display, and the notion of a "seventh room"—a symbolic and spiritual space for critical participation and reimagined futures.
it leaves me reflecting on how institutions frame inclusion, and how deeply structural violence is embedded in culture. the imagery is grave, but the possibility of repair and reimagining feels alive.
Tea House Negritude by e-flux architecture
La Biennale di Venezia 2025 – Architettura – Gran Bretagna
Monday, 18
this morning i came across a sentence in german Das Projekt hat seine Wirkung nicht verfehlt. (the project has not failed to have an impact.) at first glance, it's an ordinary sentence, maybe even well-meaning. but it caught me off guard. there is something abrupt the way it lands—with a kind of sharpness, definitive, almost unforgiving.
i paused, unsettled. it made me wonder: When did impact become the primary measure of a project's worth?
the phrase speaks from a mindset that values force, effect, evidence—the measurable. it assumes that a project, to matter, must leave a visible trace. however, what happens when impact isn't the goal? or when the kind of meaning something holds resists quantification?
it made me think of the House of Culture Tintinto. from the beginning, it wasn't conceived with "impact" in mind. there were no charts of outcomes, no promise of transformation. it was never meant to be a disruptive force. rather, it was—and remains—a gesture of care. a space shaped as much by listening as by doing, rooted more in context than in ambition. it is about weaving something into a community. i've thought about it in terms of how it functions in its environment—how it responds, how it breathes with those who enter, how it sometimes steps back and simply holds space.
if i were asked to assess its "effectiveness" or "reach," i wouldn't know what to say. it grows slowly, like something organic. it adapts, it withdraws, it responds. it can also shout. its strength, if i may call it that, lies in presence—in simply being there, available, without claiming too much.
in a world driven by deliverables and visible success, this might seem like failure. the modern vocabulary of impact often comes with an unspoken pressure: to change, to improve, to be sustainable. not everything meaningful leaves a footprint though. some of the powerful things pass through quietly; a conversation under a mango tree, a ritual of sweeping a courtyard in the early morning, a garden growing slowly behind a house—without audience or applause.
i don't mean to reject the importance of results. there are fields—health, education, human rights—where tangible outcomes can save lives. there, impact matters deeply. nevertheless, it's equally important to remember that not all human effort belongs in that frame. some projects do not aim to be in it—gently, attentively, with humility.
therefore, projects like these, which aren't designed to have a large impact, have their own power. they may not be scalable, but they are permeable—they allow the world to come in, adapt, and let go. and precisely because they don't impose themselves on the world, they are enduring. not impactful, but embedded.
Sunday, 17
this afternoon, i sat on the sofa in my Kololi apartment, contemplating the texture of the oil paint on the wall. its surface is full of tiny tears, yet they don't bother me. Perfectionism has slipped away, no longer necessary that old tendency i often fall into after returning from Europe, still in cultural shock. life in africa is different. i've known this, but the longer i stay, the more my perception softens, fades, blurs and blends into the rhythm.
when i went out earlier, i was confronted with something harsher. i stopped at a shop, peering through the bars at the shelves to see what is available. since i was the only customer, i took my time. soon, two men positioned themselves on either side of me. they called me First Lady and asked where i was from. i kept quiet—i don't engage in such conversations—but my silence seemd to fuel them, their voices grew louder, sharper, more aggressive.
the location of this apartment plays its part. it sits uncomfortably close to what is considered the worst mile in Gambia. people occupy the street constantly, lingering, watching, commenting, behaving as if the pavement belongs to them.
one of the men said, "We entertain her, but she doesn't reply." "I don't feel entertained," i answered. "So, how do you feel?" they pushed. "Harassed," i said. that single word was enough to provoke them to snap and shout, "Fuck off!" though i had already left.
on Sundays, the minimarkets i usually prefer—the ones run by women, where i feel safer and more at ease—are closed. left without choice, i bought a piece of sweet bread and returned home.
living here often brings such contradictions: the warmth of community life alongside the sharp edges of intrusion and disrespect. writing is a way of holding both—the small joys, like sweet bread on a sunday, and the darker moments that unsettle me. perhaps that is the truth of living between cultures: learning not to smooth everything into perfection, but to live with the tears in the paint and in daily life, without letting them define the whole picture.
Saturday, 16
(addendum)
a few days ago, i came across the philosopher Judith Butler and downloaded Who Is Afraid of Gender?. i had previously read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Dreams Count with enthusiasm, but Butler's writing struck me in a different way—precise and unafraid to confront the assumptions we carry about ourselves and others.
her work has opened my eyes to the narrow-mindedness of those who resist diversity, often driven by the fear that their own lives and certainties are being questioned. for me, her point of view has been clear since a while, but seeing it written down so rigorously is enlightening. it makes me more aware of the visible and invisible norms that shape society and the ways identity is policed, while also affirming that questioning these norms is both possible and necessary.
there is a gasp of relief in recognizing the potential for a world where identity is not confined by fear, and where diversity is not a threat but a richer, more humane way of being.
Tuesday, 12
after Koyo Kouoh's passing, i found myself with the concept for the upcoming Venice Biennale still open in my browser. i had also received an email about it that i left unread. the title of the exhibition had caught my eye, but i wasn't ready to understand.
i was still mourning a brilliant woman i never had the chance to talk to, but whose work and vision had always resonated with me.
it was only today that i returned to that unread email and fully took in the title—In Minor Keys—that something shifted. a curatorial gesture wrapped in music, melancholy, and memory.
The minor key, in music, alludes both to the structure of a song and to its emotional effects. It is a rich idea, so rich that it quickly overflows its technical definition and spills with metaphor. It summons moods, the blues, the call-and-response, the morna, the second line, the lament, the allegory, the whisper.
The minor keys refuse orchestral bombast and goose-step military marches and come alive in the quiet tones, the lower frequencies, the hums, the consolations of poetry, all portals of improvisation to the elsewhere and the otherwise. The minor keys ask for listening that calls on the emotions and sustains them in return.
The minor keys are also the small islands, worlds amid oceans with distinct and endlessly rich ecosystems, social lives that are articulated, for better and worse, within much larger political forms and ecological stakes. Here, the evocation of the key and the island extends to an archipelago of oases: gardens, courtyards, compounds, lofts, dance floors — the other worlds that artists make, the intimate and convivial universes that refresh and sustain even in terrible times; indeed, especially in terrible times.
Koyo Kouoh, Curatorial Statement for the 61st Venice Biennale
In Minor Keys, the curatorial framework for the 61st Biennale Arte di Venezia, invites visitors to slow down. it celebrates the beauty, resilience, and imaginative worlds that artists create even in times of crisis.
rather than offering direct political commentary, the exhibition fosters sensory, affective, and meditative encounters, likened to a free-jazz ensemble where cohesion and dissonance coexist.
inspired by gardens, islands, courtyards, kitchens, dance floors and other small-scale ecosystems, it highlights spaces of refuge and conviviality as acts of resistance against the accelerating demands of capital and empire.
these are places of interdependence and creative intimacy.
In Minor Keys reads like an elegy. a parting gift from a curator who always believed in the power of art to hold space for feeling and to heal, slowly and softly. there's a radical gentleness to this vision that doesn't shy away from grief but holds it close, gives it form, and lets it breathe. In Minor Keys proposes art as a portal to other worlds, where listening replaces spectacle, and where the quieter frequencies carry the possibility of profound transformation.
In Minor Keys Curatorial text by Koyo Kouoh
Venice Biennale 2026 Will Follow Late Koyo Kouoh's Vision — C&
Monday, 11
i want to know so much; i could research endlessly.
back when i worked at the Antikenmuseum Basel, i was surrounded by Greek, Roman, and Egyptian art and culture. i was interested though it was not my main focus.
the time i worked as a warden, i went through the texts and descriptions of the exhibited objects. it was exciting and i enjoyed doing it. nevertheless, on quiet days without special exhibitions, when there were few or no visitors, i was able to pursue my current interests, which i absolutely preferred. i wanted to develop myself according to my own ideas. whereas on very busy days, i barely had a chance to even look at the exhibited objects myself—i had to make sure visitors moved correctly through the exhibition spaces. during my time at the museum ticket office, i distanced myself from the subject of ancient Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians, as i was no longer in the exhibition rooms.
Anna Laschinger, a member of the museum's curatorial team, with whom i'm still in contact and who invited me for dinner during my last stay in basel, recently sent me the link to the upcoming exhibition Herogames, which she launched. the exhibition is a kind of escape room game—a fascinating way to understand myths and history through play. while reading the seven different missions to be completed, i came across Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory and mother of the nine muses.
Mnemosyne is one of the Titans, her parents are usually given as Uranus (sky) and Gaia (earth). she personifies memory not just as a mental function, but as the sacred keeper of knowledge, culture, and history. in ancient oral cultures, memory was the key to passing down tradition. it ensured that stories, laws, and wisdom could survive across generations. she embodies the link between memory and creativity — without memory, inspiration and continuity in the arts can’t exist. in other words she represents the power of remembrance in keeping culture alive.
in orphic mystical traditions, souls after death could choose to drink from the river Lethe (forgetfulness) or from the spring of Mnemosyne, granting eternal memory and freedom from the cycle of reincarnation.
she is dignity personified, the quiet force behind human culture.
in myth, Zeus lay with her for nine nights in a row, and from this union were born the Nine Muses — goddesses who inspire the arts and sciences. artists, poets, historians, and musicians invoked Mnemosyne at the start of their work to awaken clarity, accuracy, and inspiration. she was seen as the bridge between knowledge and creativity — without her, the spark of the muses could not take form.
Muse is such a crucial term for artists. i didn't know there were nine of them.
Calliope – muse of epic poetry (writing tablet or scroll; the eldest and wisest)
Clio – muse of history (scrolls, books)
Euterpe – muse of music and lyric poetry (flute)
Erato – muse of love poetry (lyre or kithara)
Melpomene – muse of tragedy (tragic mask, dagger or sword)
Polyhymnia – muse of sacred poetry, hymns, and spiritual dance (pensive pose)
Terpsichore – muse of dance and choral song (dancing with a lyre)
Thalia – muse of comedy and pastoral poetry (comic mask, shepherd's staff)
Urania – muse of astronomy (globe and compass)
here i am now, living in Africa for a while—yet instead of immersing myself fully in African culture, i find myself wandering back into Greek mythology, guided by Mnemosyne herself. perhaps it's her pull—the desire to remember what has shaped me before i can truly embrace where i am. a thread of memory stretching across continents.
HEROGAMES
Sunday, 10
today i got my cable back. thank goodness—i was starting to doubt humanity. it was left at the Ocean Lounge, and i picked it up after our shopping at the market in Tanje.
the missing bridge on my bass guitar is still lost. i think it must have fallen out while changing the strings and simply slipped away. these things happen. after all the bass had been sitting around for years. hopefully this incident makes me use it again.
Saturday, 9
(addendum)
Still, it doesn't seem an easy example to follow; and indeed like all free and easy things, only the skilled and mature really bring them off successfully. But Byron was full of ideas—a quality that gives his verse a toughness and drives me to little excursions over the surrounding landscape or room in the middle of my reading. And tonight I shall have the pleasure of finishing him—though why considering that I've enjoyed almost every stanza, this should be a pleasure I really don't know. But so it always is, whether the book's a good book or a bad book. Maynard Keynes admitted in the same way that he always cuts off the advertisements at the end with one hand while he's reading, so as to know exactly how much he has to get through.
Virginia Woolf A Writer's Diary (1936-41), 1918, page 16/17, Kindle edition
this excerpt caught my attention today by chance — also written August 9th, though more than a century ago. Woolf's reflections on Byron and Keynes reveal a tension in the creative process that feels enduring: the appeal of a "free and easy" style, tempered by the recognition that true mastery is required to pull it off successfully.
the idea that freedom in writing—or perhaps in any craft—is deceptively difficult still rings true. what seems effortless is often underpinned by discipline and maturity. Byron's energy and wealth of ideas, which lead Woolf's mind to wander during reading, highlight the restless nature of creativity itself—never fully contained or neat.
Keynes's practice of cutting off advertisements at the end of books is a small but telling gesture, a way to bring some measure of order and control to the reading experience. it's a reminder that amid any overwhelming flow—whether of words, ideas, or daily life—people seek ways to structure their attention and pace themselves.
comparing Woolf's world to ours now, the differences are vast: the speed of information, the digital distractions, the cultural changes. yet, the core challenges of balancing freedom and control, managing the mind's wanderings, and finding pleasure in reading remain surprisingly similar.
while i do not feel a personal connection to Woolf herself, her observations offer a thoughtful lens on the enduring complexities of creativity and attention—across time, circumstance, and change.
Friday, 8
(addendum)
Passing Clouds
i caught myself scanning the sky
of other people's
posts — stories — statuses
suddenly my mind whispers
this is all about you
back—my habit of associating with myself
what appeals to everyone and no one
something inside me still
has to
recognise my own importance
in a film
that i don't belong to
instead of taking a step back
observing things from the outside
without having to play an active role
just simply perceiving
and understanding
that not everything
is a message to me
Wednesday, 6
as some of you may have noticed, my texts have been getting longer lately. what has changed is the process. i now use AI as an assistant.
at first glance, this assistance feels like a relief. i type my thoughts, and moments later, a surprisingly coherent and readable text appears. my notes are distilled into structure. sentences flow.
but then comes the second part — the real work, if you will. i go back, rereading and rewriting, trying to realign what has emerged with how i actually think and speak. what ai offers is a version of my words filtered through a stylistic filter that is widely accepted, but not always my own. the tone is polished but somehow flattened.
the overuse of maybe is particularly telling. it softens every assertion, smooths over tension, and wraps uncertainty in a neutral tone. this is, i assume, the result of a cultural algorithm: keep the tone moderate, avoid extremes, and never be too firm. in fact, it mirrors a style commonly taught and rewarded. but to me, it often lacks urgency, depth, and risk.
i don't reject this style outright. the result is a mixture, which is more satisfying. my music teacher once asked me why i used so many disharmonies when playing the piano (which i wasn't even aware of). harmonies, he said, are more pleasant. weave them in too; they're like a release. in fact, there's something enriching about seeing my thoughts rendered in a form that is readable. further, it opens up a space where i can stand back and observe: is this really what i wanted to say.
the interaction with the machine slows me down, rather than speeding things up. it demands more reflection. it is a form of dialogue — between me and a system that, while not human, reflects back something about the world and language i live in. it's like writing with a partner who is both brilliant and bland, helpful yet tone-deaf. a partner who always offers something, but never enough.
Tuesday, 5
throughout my life, mental illness has been a recurring theme — sometimes in people clearly struggling, and other times in those on the borderline. i've known people who were explicitly unwell, and others who seemed to be balancing on the edge. it's one of those topics that keeps coming back, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly.
yesterday, we were discussing it again. he said, "If someone considers themselves mentally ill, they aren't actually mentally ill. Because if they were, they wouldn't even realise it." he was referring to the severe cases — psychosis, severe schizophrenia, full-blown mania. the ones that truly distort perception — where reality is deformed beyond recognition. but is that the only definition?
i don't think so. i believe most people do notice when something isn't right — whether it's anxiety that wakes them at night, a lingering sadness that won't go away, or irrational fears that colour their reality. panic attacks, depression, paranoia — these things are very real, very present, and often very private. they don't always come with hallucinations or total disconnection. often, they come with a painful kind of clarity. you know something is off. you're just not sure how to fix it.
the problem is, suffering isn't enough for society to take it seriously. if i broke my leg, people would rush to help me. they'd sign my cast, make me soup, tell me to rest.
but if i told them i was having panic attacks, they'd go quiet. their faces would stiffen. they'd say something vague — "Oh, sorry to hear that" — or nod awkwardly, unsure how to respond. and then change the topic. the support disappears.
mental illness isn't accepted like the flu or a broken bone. it's still wrapped in shame, silence, and misunderstanding. and so, many people carry it alone — afraid to speak, afraid of being judged, afraid of being misunderstood or avoided.
but the truth is: most people are carrying something. some are just better at hiding it. some have learned to mask it. but pretending it doesn't exist doesn't make it go away.
i, myself, i underwent a six years long psychotherapy/analysis.
it can help. talking can help.
i think we need to learn new ways of listening — without fear, without judgment, without turning away. mental illness is not a weakness. it's not a moral failing. it's a part of being human. and just like any other form of pain, it deserves care, compassion, and connection.
maybe healing begins when we stop being afraid to say, "I'm not okay."
Monday, 4
(addendum)
i have a close relationship with the dogs. it always breaks my heart when i am traveling and i have to leave them behind. we share a rhythm, a trust. one of our rituals is the regular walk toward the sea. it's a simple joy, and although we rarely come across goats, whenever we do, i always call them and they listen. they retreat. sometimes they chase partridges, but it's never serious. i really loved these walks with them.
but it will never be the same. what happend yesterday came so suddenly and violently, it shook me.
it had been a somewhat sleepy sunday. i had to pull myself together to go out. but around 4 p.m., the clouds had settled in, so it was cool enough to head off a bit earlier. i put on my sun hat anyway, just in case. and we set off—me and the dogs. less than 50 meters from the property, everything turned upside down. suddenly, the dogs broke into a fast sprint like they do when they hunt something in the bush. but we hadn't reached the bush yet.
it took me a moment to get my bearings. at first i didn't understand what was happening—then i saw the baby goats running. i immediately yelled, "Stop, come back!" but my voice was no match for instinct. one of the dogs caught a baby goat by the neck. i saw the wound. i was close enough to hit the dog, but he dodged. he knew it was wrong.
the goat dashed through a small space of the fence into a nearby compound, and i still wonder if i could have grabbed it in that moment. but before i could act, the dog jumped the wall, wild, frenzied. the second followed, and then both of them were on the goat, attacking it. i have only seen things like that in films.
i walked back home in silence, filled with a deep shame over the dog's behaviour. i was inconsolable. i kept replaying it in my mind, the shock, the helplessness, the guilt. i thought i knew them, i trusted them. i still can't quite grasp it.
shortly after, i took the walk again, but alone, without dogs. i needed to clear my head, to let the tension settle somewhere. on my way back i passed by the neighbours.
i spoke to the goat's owner, the granddad of our neighbour compound. i apologised sincerely and gave him a bit of money as a gesture of compensation. he was calm and kind. with a quiet gesture of his hands, he told me not to worry anymore.
it helped. i felt relieved.
Sunday, 3
(..)Oh and I thought, as I was dressing, how interesting it would be to describe the approach of age, and the gradual coming of death. As people describe love. To note every symptom of failure: but why failure? To treat age as an experience that is different from the others; and to detect every one of the gradual stages towards death which is a tremendous experience, and not as unconscious, at least in its approaches, as birth is. I must now return to my grind, I think rather refreshed.(..)
Virginia Woolf A Writer's Diary (1936-41), 1939, page 331, Kindle edition
Reading the diary of Virginia Woolf. It seems so confined, so narrow and dry in the conveying of experience, that it drove me not to suicide but to write in my own.
Anaïs Nin The Diary of Anaïs Nin Vol. 5 (1947-1955), page 238, Kindle edition
---------------------
while i was out walking, my two dogs killed a small goat. i tried everything to hold them back. i screamed at the top of my lungs, frozen in horror. i had no chance. a horrific experience. i apologized to the neighbours who owned the goat.
Saturday, 2
(addendum)
disaster in the morning. when i opened the freezer compartment i found it slightly ajar. the two drawers inside were completely frozen shut, impossible to budge. i stood there for a moment and remembered perfectly well that i had closed it the night before—but not properly. i was on my way to do something else and told myself i'd come back to fix it later. but didn't.
now i was left with what my grandmother used to call a Malheur. inside, many things had defrosted partially or completely. however, i had to accept the consequences of this act of procrastination and remove ice and water. it's the later that comes back to bite you. i couldn't be more annoyed with myself.
Friday, 1
Art Space Work of the Month
Winfred Gaul (1928-2003), Sheet IV
serigraphy, 1970, 35 x 35 cm