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Musings on old farts clinging to power
2024 seems to be election year in most of the world. Sadly, it’s not going to be filled with excited anticipation of positive changes, but rather dread of more gloom. Wherever one turns, power-crazed old farts cling to their thrones with growing contempt, cruelty and audacity: Putin, Erdogan, Orban, possibly Trump and many others.
This article makes me wonder why are the aging politicians allowed to cling to power (almost) indefinitely? Take, for example, Turkey’s Erdogan - he uses the same promise of retiring from politics for the fourth election. “Vote for me,” he says for the fourth time, “this one last time.” It’s unclear what exactly he’s got left to accomplish for that “one last time,” other than gather even more influence, political credits and riches than he already has. It begs the question is he so masterfully deceptive that people can’t read his fallacy, or are the people believing this “retirement promise” just plain stupid? He’s lied to them first three times, how can anyone expect this time to be different? His hunger for power is only a small part of a wider problem: the world is full of Erdogans, Putins and the likes.
Even back in the ancient Roman Republic they understood that people are hopelessly addicted to power, so they limited the mandate of the ruling consuls to one year! Plus, they elected two consuls, each with veto power over the other, to keep each other in check. In practice it was way more complicated than this, but one can’t not like the idea! Why can’t modern democracies do the same? If not dual sharing of power, imagine if we could implement one mandate and game over! Surely there’s no shortage of smart, ambitious young(er) men and women to fill the parliament’s seats once and then be released to pursue their private lives’ goals and never again allowed back into politics? Or, try to imagine one-term presidents! How diminished their influence would be, as well as their power and the damage they can do. Take Trump - the world would have to endure him for 4 years and then we’d be allowed to forget him. We wouldn’t need to worry about “four more years” of anyone. Wouldn’t that be nice?
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Farewell to an old...hat
I don't know about you, but I get fairly attached to things, especially those I've been using for a long time. When the time comes to dispose of them it sometimes feel like parting with an old friend. In the book by Ruth Ozeki "A Tale for the Time Being" a Buddhist nun places her broken, used things on a shelf and says a little prayer of thanks for serving her faithfully, before taking them to trash. I think the time has come for me to thank my red running hat in the same manner and let it go. I bought it at a marathon expo in 2009, before my second marathon, and wore it to all my races ever since. It was, and still is, my favourite hat - light, sweat-wicking, and not too hot to wear even in the height of summer. It bore witness to my greatest running moments and almost as many of the low ones. It bobbed on my head through the streets of New York, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia and many other gorgeous places in North America and Europe. Now it's fraying on many, if not all of its seams. I'm fighting the urge to store it somewhere and occasionally take it out to hold and reminisce about everything that was achieved under it. But, what's the point? Memories will remain even when the hat is gone. So - farewell, old friend, thank you for serving me well!
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When not to take pictures
I came across an article today - it’s written by a photographer who went to a concert held in nearly complete darkness. Unable to take pictures, they focused on music and experienced it more fully than ever before. It was such a revelation, they wrote about leaving the camera behind to be more present in their life.
In times when we and everything around us are inundated with pictures, real and fake, it becomes ever more important to know when not to take pictures. Because, wonderful as it is to have a visual record of what we experience, sometimes the act of taking pictures robs us of experiencing something fully.
The most memorable sunrise in my life I experienced on the road. I was in my old Corolla, moving across Canada from Calgary to Toronto, a trip of some 3400 kms. My whole life was packed in that car, from a guitar, bits of furniture, TV, clothes, photo equipment to various numerous knickknacks, leaving barely enough space for driving. As a result I dared not stop in hotels overnight; there were simply too many things to unload and reload. Instead, I slept in the car on truck stops. The whole drive took two and a half days. The third morning I woke up in Ontario, at a truck stop on Trans-Canada highway. Eager to get to Toronto before sundown, I started early, about an hour before sunrise. When sun finally rose, I was passing by a small lake, one of the thousands lakes in Ontario. The mist lingered above the still water. Suddenly, the sun shone its orange light on the lake below the layer of mist, and on the forest above it. In the middle it looked as if the mist cut it into two orange halves. The colours were magical: the deep-dark green of the lake, the pink and orange glow of the sun, all reflecting in the milky layer of mist. I stopped the car by the road, stretched on the hood and watched the sun climb above the mist, become whole again, then slowly burn the mist as if for punishment. For a brief moment I thought about getting my cameras (they were always at arm’s reach), but decided to just enjoy the scene.
I have photographed hundreds of sunrises and sunsets before and since, but none of them seared itself in my memory like the one I didn’t shoot. There was no one to share that moment, that beauty with, and it was fine. It was my moment, and though I could not share it, it enriched my soul and its memory still lingers.
In some Middle Eastern countries, people believe, or used to, that a picture takes a part of their soul. They used to turn away from cameras pointed at them, sometimes even aggressively chase the photographer away. Maybe they were right for not wanting to have their pictures taken. Maybe we’ve all gone too far pointing our phone cameras into everything and everyone and in doing so forgot how to enjoy something wondrous. For, every time we use the wonder as a background for a selfie, we make it about ourselves. So, next time you see a beautiful sunset, leave the phone in your pocket. Just pause and soak it in. By doing so, you become a part of that magical, glowing orange landscape. And, better yet, it becomes a part of you. Forever. No picture needed.
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As a youth I was very impressed by the book “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach. When I saw this guy perched at Traghetto Gondole Molo near Piazza San Marco in Venice, it was a moment of instant recognition. Bein Italian, his name would be, I imagine, Giovanni Vitale Gabbiano, but he was just as unimpressed and bemused with people as the real Jonathan would be.
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A little Vivaldi played on glasses on the streets of Venice-Venezia, to gently usher you toward a wonderful weekend (sound up). Have a happy Friday everyone!
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Looking a doe in the eye!
Every morning, like clockwork, I go for a run. It’s long past a healthy habit and grown into an addiction — I feel restless and fidgety when I don’t run. So much so, that my wife chases me out when I get too twitchy around her.
Having settled at the outskirts of a village right next to a nature park, I point my toes that way — into the park, on a rocky trail which branches into web of smaller trails crisscrossing the peninsula from east seashore to the west seashore and back many times. It zigzags through shrubs and forest and over the rolling rocky hills with barely a bush on them. The park is called Kamenjak and lays on a peninsula about 9 kms long and up to 1 km wide. It’s got plenty of space for wildlife.
Unlike in Canada where, on my runs, I met racoons, skunks and on a few occasions a coyote, in Kamenjak I see more often than I care to, wild boars, jackals, pheasants, rabbits, snakes and deer. Deer were everywhere in the fall of 2022 when we moved in, but I haven’t seen any since one almost killed me last spring. I was returning from a long run on heavy legs, listening to a podcast. I remember being hot and looking forward to a shower and a long cold drink. The road went through thick growth squeezing it on both side when, suddenly from the right side the foliage split and a large brown mass leaped across the road, narrowly missing me. I didn’t have time to stop, let alone reach out, but if I did, I’d be able to run my hand over its back; it was that close! By the time my shocked brain registered it was a deer, it was already swallowed by the thicket on the other side. Had it misjudged and leaped across half a second later, it would hit me dead-on. But, yeah, that was some time in April, or possibly early May and I haven’t seen another deer since. Until today.
Not far from the spot of that near-accident with its relative, a doe emerged through the bush and stepped gracefully on the road. I was maybe 20-30 yards away, running towards it. She looked at me curiously, not quite sure whether to be afraid or amused by this funny, slow, two-legged animal. Our eyes met. I kept running, she stood still, expectant. In the hindsight, I should have stopped and taken a picture. But, I was so happy to see her that I did the stupidest thing: I waved (!) and shouted “Oh, hi beautiful!”. At which her ears twitched and she vanished in a puff of dust into the forest. I must have imagined her rolling her eyes and shaking her head in that single jump to safety. Well, I guess she’s used to hunters, human or animal, chasing after her, but she never had someone waving at her and calling her beautiful. In English, nonetheless!
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