nume photos on Flickr

Imagine you learn a foreign language so you can visit another country and communicate with the people there. In this case german, since that is one of the languages the internet tells you they speak. And then finally you visit that country and, true enough, all the signs when you land at the airport are in german. So you venture out and listen to the native speak to see how good your language skills are. And you can't understand a single word? Huh? Some words sound familiar, true, but.. it sounds more like dutch in a way? What is going on?

Welcome to my country where german is one of the official languages (next to french and italian) but we only use german for writing. The language we use is a very different dialect, so different that not even german understands us. So it is not you, it is us. And to make matters worse, every region and state uses a slightly different version of that language. I have no clue how our language sounds to foreigners, but we surely love it. And there is a very lively music scene here too. Our songs are full of themes like love, homesickness, tragedy and most songs are always a bit depressed, yet with a hint of irony and acceptance. One of my favorite songs is this one, the title translates to crimson red. It's a love song,just with our own flavor

Scharlachrot - Patent Ochsner

Die isch ja filmryf

Die szene i dere frytignacht

Dr mond isch es wysses runds loch

& Luegt glych zur wösch uus win I

Hie bin I lang

Viu z lang allei gsi

& Ha fläsche ghöut

Schtunge zeut i däm viu z grosse bett

& Ha gseh

Wie sech d wäut wacker dräit

...nume nid um mi...

& Jitz bisch du cho

Grad jitz

Won I's nümm hätti dänkt

& Luegsch dry

Wie wenn's öppis schön z gwinne gäb

Für di & für mi

Im schlimmschte fall nume e nacht

I boue mir myni tröim uuf rund um di

& Male se scharlachrot a

I brönne mir di name z mitts i mys härz

Chönnt schwöre dass I ewig blybe we üs nüt

Drzwüsche chunnt

& Jitz bisch du cho

Grad jitz

Won I's nümm hätti dänkt

& Luegsch dry

Wie wenn's öppis schön z gwinne gäb

Für di & für mi

Im schlimmschte fall nume e nacht

I boue mir myni tröim uuf rund um di

& Male se scharlachrot a

I brönne mir di name z mitts i mys härz

Chönnt schwöre dass I ewig blybe we üs nüt

Drzwüsche chunnt

I boue mir myni tröim uuf rund um di

& Male se scharlachrot a

I brönne mir di name z mitts i mys härz

Chönnt schwöre dass I ewig blybe we üs nüt

Drzwüsche chunnt

Letzti Rechnig by The Base of Bad Ideas

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I was green. Unaware, untested, still carrying the remnants of the relative gullibility that accompanies fortunate children into adulthood, before life strips it away. And with that came that particular brand of arrogance young men are often guilty of— the flaw in the inexperienced exercise of agency, exacerbated by delusions of invincibility, of power, of control. I couldn’t be conquered – or so the delusion went.

I took things in stride, with the kind of calm that can only be born out of complete ignorance. The lattice of carefully selected words, deployed so deliberately and so precisely, was flawlessly constructed. A noose, expertly applied, on a subject lacking in insight to see it for what it is.

Life would later usher the understanding that none of it had been accidental, the understanding of the weight of intent. The deliberateness of an older, more capable adult, deploying a honed skill. With patience born of certainty, and with certainty born of experience. With absolute mastery in creating the illusion of choice.

It began mildly enough, testing the malleable boundaries of the untested. In time, the nature of the fabric revealed itself, something woven out of denial and shame, consumed then regurgitated drenched in bile. Not violently, but quietly, with the skill of someone who truly understood the momentum of words. Verbal constructs that grew tighter and tighter, fueled by a visceral resentment if not outright hatred, forging a mental noose.

The thing about the young and inexperienced is how slowly something cerebral registers. My body was safe in stature, and my heart was safe in detachment, but I hadn’t accounted for my mind – a grave error. I hadn’t considered the pieces of myself that were methodically carved out, replaced by pieces of him. For his voice, embedded into deep recesses, clashing with everything I was and everything I stood for. For the inevitable conflict – the way the seams pulled along the lines of our vast differences, and the way they tore when my confrontational streak surfaced. I hadn’t accounted for how these rips would be branded as failures of control, of character, indicators of fundamental defects, and for the corrosive nature of such pronouncements.

It gave him proverbial standing – he had become Goliath. And Goliath was no longer tightening the noose; he was waging an outright war. Goliath, at my final frontier, singularly determined to reduce the core of personhood to rubble. A war fought with careful words and weaponized silences.

The gravity of such an approach is why I still occasionally think about this.

I am not rebellious by nature. People mistake those who follow the beat of their own drum for rebels, but rebellion is externally rooted. The beat of one’s own drum is wholly internal, and following it is instinctive – the guide to the only viable route in a world of choices. It is neither directed at, nor is it for the benefit of others. And in an outright war, the internal drums became war drums.

It took a long time to understand what triggered that change – like everything else, clarity came with age and a better understanding of myself. But I had understood the threat for the shape that it took, the death sentence to agency – no longer an adjustment or a compromise, but an absolute, nullifying dismantling. Now I know it to also be the grave miscalculation made in betting on the sentimentality of a pragmatist.

The thing about pragmatists is they deal in naked truths and tallies that can seem transactional in nature, but are grounded and inevitable. A cold calculation of net losses and gains - what is given and what is taken, in sharp relief. Including the manufactured reliance – a psychological construct that, when examined closely, had no substance. A voice he’d embedded in spaces he’d created – spaces, it turned out, that can be easily reclaimed.

For something that had become remarkably excruciating, the other truly remarkable aspect of it is how rapidly it came apart from there. Not in days and weeks, but in hours. Years of construction, collapsing like a house of cards. It dissolved not into rage, not into resentment, but into indifference.

Goliath, stripped of the magnitude psychological violence had granted him, was nobody.

He revealed his hand to someone who had finally learned to read the tells and call the bluff. When strategic silences didn’t work, he appeared to pretenses of magnanimity. When he was dismissed, he threatened. When the threats were dismissed, he groveled. And when everything failed, he left – on a lengthy stream of insults against the character he’d ultimately failed to completely break. Words that once held power, but rang hollow overnight.

Nearly two decades have passed. I’ve navigated adult relationships, and done the unthinkable in his book, in building a life with another man without shame. I’ve learned the appropriate terminology for what had been done to me. But more importantly, I’ve come fully unto myself; the good, the bad, and the undoubtedly ugly – knowing, deliberate, and unflinching. A pragmatic, tallying streak that runs deeper than sentimentality. A low tolerance. A readiness to excise. An unwillingness to compromise, for better or for worse, on specific sets of preferences, principles, or simple truths. An assortment of parts, of varying merit, equally owned and retained.

In those decades, his news always found their way to me — because offenders of all persuasions often emerge from one’s own circle. News of someone I cannot comment on, because his truth is not mine to disclose, in disclosing a shared past. He carried the lie so far, I believe the infamous closet swallowed him whole and chewed thoroughly. When he finally emerged, it wasn’t into the open world — the closet spat him into an early grave.

I remember him now through the lens of a man at the tail end of 30s. And through that lens, I remember the most unsettling element – the pattern. The deliberate preference for the defenselessness of inexperience against the words crafted by someone both remarkably underhanded and experienced. Never had the weight of his intent felt heavier than it did, when I approached age he was when he approached me, coming face to face with the colossal chasm between the person I once was, and the person I had become, and with it the gravity of actions.

And I remember him through the lens of my younger self. I remember the anger and resentment, palpable entities that drove him to destroy self-acceptance wherever he found it in others, like a misguided act of revenge against those the arbitrary injustice inflicted upon him didn’t reach. And beneath them the guilt and shame that he wasn’t – nor could he ever be – who he believed he should have been.

As I sit and reflect over the news of his premature passing, I find myself unmoved. The standard gamut of acceptable sentiments – sympathy, empathy, and other…athies, the sentiments provoked by those who take their own lives, are simply absent. But neither is there a trace of relief or reveling. I find the indifference he’d eventually engendered all those years ago to hold true, even in death.

It’s fitting that this final recollection is scattered into the oblivion of this unending stream.

Üsi Rechnig isch begliche. Zwüsche üs git’s weder Richter no Gschwornig, weder Groll no Gfüehl. Nume d’Zyt – und jetzt nume no Äsche un Staub.

Ade.

The Mighty Eiger reflected in a puddle . Trift, Grindelwald. Canton of Bern. Switzerland. Izakigur No. 3041. 27.08.18, 09:59:15 by Izakigur

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The Mighty Eiger reflected in a puddle . Trift, Grindelwald. Canton of Bern. Switzerland. Izakigur No. 3041. 27.08.18, 09:59:15

With admiration to Ueli Steck .

"Ueli Steck (German: [ˈyːli ʃtɛk]; 4 October 1976 – 30 April 2017) was a Swiss rock climber and mountaineer.

He won two Piolet d'Or awards, in 2009 and 2014. He was also famous for his speed records on the North Face trilogy in the Alps.

Steck died on 30 April 2017 after falling during an acclimatizing climb for an attempt on the Hornbein route on the West Ridge of Everest without supplemental oxygen.

Steck had previously summited Mount Everest on May 18, 2012, and he also summited Ama Dablam that year.

"Ueli Steck (* 4. Oktober 1976 in Langnau im Emmental; † 30. April 2017 am Nuptse, Nepal; Übername: Swiss Machine) war ein Schweizer Extrembergsteiger.[1] Er galt als einer der weltbesten Solokletterer und war vor allem durch sehr schnelle Begehungen hochalpiner Routen bekannt. Der gelernte Zimmermann lebte mit seiner Frau zuletzt in Ringgenberg bei Interlaken. Am 30. April 2017 kam er bei einem Bergunfall am Nuptse unweit des Mount Everest ums Leben.

Ueli Steck est un alpiniste suisse, né le 4 octobre 1976 à Langnau im Emmental (Suisse) et mort le 30 avril 2017 au Népal sur les pentes du Nuptse.

Il a travaillé comme charpentier avant de devenir alpiniste professionnel. Il est notamment connu pour ses ascensions en solitaire et ses records de vitesse. Il est aussi un des ambassadeurs des « speed climbers » qui depuis environ 30 ans dynamitent les mythes de l'alpinisme en réalisant des ascensions à un rythme extraordinaire."

Wikipédia.

youtu.be/_fv66qXwBqw

"Casta Diva, che inargenti

Queste sacre antiche piante

A noi volgi il bel sembiante

Senza nube e senza vel

Tempra, o Diva

Tempra tu de cori ardenti

Tempra ancora lo zelo audace

Spargi in terra quella pace

Che regnar tu fai nel ciel

Fine al rito, e il sacro bosco

Sia disgombro dai profani

Quando il Nume irato e fosco

Chiegga il sangue dei Romani

Dal Druidico delubro

La mia voce tuoner

Cadr punirlo io posso

Ma, punirlo, il cor non sa

Ah! bello a me ritorna

Del fido amor primiero

E contro il mondo intiero

Difesa a te sar

Ah! bello a me ritorna

Del raggio tuo sereno

E vita nel tuo seno

E patria e cielo avr

Ah, riedi ancora qual eri allora

Quando il cor ti diedi allora

Ah, riedi a me"

Casta Diva English Translation

Pure Goddess, whose silver covers

These sacred ancient plants,

we turn to your lovely face

unclouded and without veil...

Temper, oh Goddess,

the hardening of you ardent spirits

temper your bold zeal,

Scatter peace across the earth

Thou make reign in the sky...

"Chaste déesse,

chaste déesse qui argentes

ces antiques ...

Ces antique feuillages sacrés,

tourne vers nous ton beau visage,

sans nuage et sans voile.

Chaste déesse qui argentes

ces antique feuillages sacrés,

tourne vers nous ton beau visage,

sans nuage et sans voile.

Modère, ô déesse,

modère des cœurs ardents,

modère le zèle...

Modère le zèle audacieux,

répand sur la terre cette paix

que tu fais régner au ciel. "

紅梅-2 Red Ume-plum blossoms (Prunus nume) by Chika Oka

67 16

お散歩−８１３葛西臨海公園の紅梅。 Kasai Rinkai Park in Edogawa-ku, Tokyo, Japan.

RIZE - Atatürk's Statue by Andra Moclinda-Bucuţa

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Rize lies about 75 km east of Trabzon, in the midle of Turkey’s tea plantations area. The city has been built around a small bay on the Black Sea shore. The scenic tea plantations are closely lined up on the terraces in the surroundings. Rize is Turkey’s tea processing and shipping centre and home for the Çaykur factory, the largest in Turkey and famous for the best Turkish tea, which is prepared by natural means only. Rize is the capital of the province with the same name, the greenest area in Turkey, enjoying the beautiful landscape of the forrested Kaçkar Mountains and the picturesque Black Sea shore.

Rize se află la 75 km est de Trabzon, în mijlocul singurei zone din Turcia în care se cultivă ceai. Oraşul a fost construit în jurul unui mic golf la Marea Neagră şi este înconjurat de minunatul peisaj al plantaţiilor de ceai, situate pe terasele din imediata vecinătate. Rize este centrul de producere şi distribuţie a ceaiului turcesc. Aici se află fabrica de ceai Çaykur, cea mai mare din Turcia, care produce cu mijloace exclusiv naturale cel mai bun ceai turcesc. Rize este şi capitala provinciei cu acelaşi nume, cea mai verde regiune din Turcia, care se bucură de peisajele munţilor Kaçlar, acoperiţi de păduri, dar şi de ţărmul pitoresc al Mării Negre.

I invite you to follow Emin Kanbur’s photostream to see the amazing beauty of Rize province and of the Kaçkar Mountains / Dacă doriţi să vedeţi frumuseţea excepţională a provinciei Rize şi a munţilor Kaçlar, vă invit să priviţi fotografiile lui Emin Kanbur:

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