Tuesday, June 18, 2024

My latest published book:

Harry Godwin - A Verbal Symphonic Suite

ISBN: 9789198663822 






Harry Godwin, namesake of the legendary Anglo-Saxon king Harold Godwinson, is a biographical, metafictional novel with music at its core. Harry is a talented itinerant musician about to fly from Europe to America for a gig. However, it turns out that there is more than just one obstacle thrown in his way. His journey — as physical as it is psychological and spiritual — during the lurid reign of King Covid, leads the reader through several earthly regions, eventually entering the confines of mythical Atlantis. Here he awakens to the idea of gnosis, and his passionate love for ravishing Laure is stretched to the limit in a challenging ordeal.





Friday, August 24, 2018

One of the benefits of being an unknown persona non grata, lost in the miasma of political wilderness, is that you can get away with stating practically any kind of so-called conspiracy theory without being severely punished for it. As long as you stay clear of 'hate-speech', and/or incitement to violence and, above all, refrain from publicly subscribing to the view that the gas chambers used to murder Jews during the Nazi era never existed, you can still lead a pretty decent life. Basically, if nobody in the high places knows you, and you're a peace loving creature, you have little to fear. Problems only begin to appear if and when you get followers and thereby acquire some power in society. But if you're an intelligent enough person, you will have made sure not to have followers, since there is nothing in an erratic, albeit intelligent, person's life to be imitated, let alone followed. If on top of all this you don't have to fear the immediate prospect of being reduced to rubble by disease or financial disaster, circumstances in fact pile up in favour of your unabashedly outspoken mind.

To be continued...

Friday, June 15, 2018

Epigram of Today

A genius discovered and estimated during his lifetime according to merit, must either reach an unusually old age, or have secondary character traits that seem to betray some kind of mediocrity alongside his unusual gift, such as vanity and an ardent desire for attention, since otherwise he would be neither palatable, nor digestible, to the general public.

Friday, June 8, 2018

Epigram of Today

The best way to prevent yourself from further reading of a single writer is to buy his collected works. Few things have a more discouraging aspect than volume after volume of the same appearance and name. And although too much of a good thing can be wonderful, as Mae West said, this truth does not apply to authors.  

Monday, June 4, 2018

Epigram of Today

A lock to which there is no key can still serve the purpose of keeping a door closed. But a key to which one can not find a lock is an utterly useless thing. 

Saturday, June 2, 2018

Epigram of Today

A non-poignant epigram is like a blunt sword. But even a sharp point is useless if it doesn’t hit its target. To cultivate a poignant style, one must first aim accurately. 

Monday, February 12, 2018

A slice of the world seen from above

1. Take off 

The departure from Nice Airport was indeed ahead of schedule, but since we were well into the afternoon, and headed eastward, the alpine mountain range to the far north soon began to recede into a crimson haze, while the sun sank deeper into the mass of clouds hovering over the Apennines. In the last embers of daylight I could discern the vast expanses of snow capped mountains, and the sparsely inhabited valleys of the Balkan peninsula.

Guided by the night lights from human settlements I could still see the Bay of Adana, at the north-eastern extremity of the Mediterranean, disappear abaft the beam on starboard side, indicating that the aircraft wisely avoided to enter Syrian airspace. What I didn’t know then, was that Qatar Airlines — because of some squabble in the petro-dollar-trillionaire club to which the country’s government belongs — has been banned from Iraqi airspace as well, and had to fly across all of Turkey, and then into Iran, before it could set course, southbound, for Doha in the Persian Gulf. We arrived there in the middle of the night, after having passed over surprisingly large Iranian cities, alongside the intensely illuminated mega structures of Bahrain, and the ominous looking flames crowning its oil fields.

Doha Airport
Doha is the capital of Qatar, a country and peninsula smaller than Northern Ireland. To make up for its lack of land mass it has quite literally taken to the skies. The airport is enormous, completely at odds with what one would expect to be the needs for air travel among the country’s inhabitants. But that’s the whole point. There is only a fraction of the passengers on the Qatar Airlines’ extensive route network who are actually Qatar. Crews, in the air and on land, come from all over the world, and so do the passengers to whom they cater. 
I believe the transit bus spent at least twenty minutes constantly driving along airport corridors that were wide as six lane highways, except there was no traffic on them, in order to arrive at the point of disembarkation. The terminal, the size of a town rather than that of a super-sized shopping mall, had all conveniences including an abundance of restaurants, shops, and attractive duty free stores. With a layover of only two and a half hours, I opted for a quick visit to Burger King and then to the Duty Free to buy some whisky. I also seized the occasion to draw some American dollars from the ATM-Machine, knowing they would come in more than handy at the Phnom Penh Airport, where the payment to obtain a visa would be exacted in dollars, and nothing else. 
Saigon from the air
Up and into the skies. The plane wasn’t quite full this time either, so I managed once again to tuck myself in at the far back corner of the cabin, with two seats and an array of pillows to myself. At this point I was quite exhausted, and only vaguely remember waking up somewhere above Karachi, where we experienced some turbulence, and then, again, way past the northern part of the entire Indian sub-continent, as we flew above the pristine archipelago of Myanmar, glistening in the morning sun. I saw nothing of Thailand and was called back to reality by the British Captain announcing our descent over Cambodian territory into the Saigon Airport.
The area around the Saigon airport, as seen from above, has a couple of unmistakeable characteristics. One is that its highly irregular buildings, streets and alleys are tightly intertwined in a suburban system that defies conventional definition. The second is that all roofs here are green. I’m sure there must be other salient characteristics as well, but with only an hour to spare in Vietnam, during a so-called technical landing, which in reality was tantamount to the evacuation of all passengers, save for the twenty or so brave souls remaining in the cabin, patiently waiting for the aircraft to eventually hit ground in Cambodia. 
Approaching Phnom Penh —a skip and a jump from Saigon in the aeronautic context — I could see that it too had a couple of unmistakeable characteristics. One is the number of colourful Buddhist pagodas dotting the cityscape with golden spires. The other that nearly all its roofs are made from red brick. 
Cambodian tuc-tuc
There we were. The transition from a Provence, still not able to make up its mind about going into spring or abide by winter, to the eternal summer of the tropics, was complete. I got my visa and found myself on the pavement in front of a terminal building that seemed a doll’s house compared to the one I had just left in Doha. Taxi rides to somewhere in the city centre were offered at five-teen dollars. Knowing this simply must be over-priced, I managed to talk a tuc-tuc driver into taking me to my hotel for five. 
In principle that sounded ideal. Good price combined with a sight-seeing of Phnom Penh from a half-open carriage. The only small problem was, that the driver turned out to have no clue whatsoever as to the location of the Independence Monument — truly a landmark edifice on Sihanouk Boulevard, not the most inconspicuous street in the city — in the vicinity of the hotel. I of course also had the exact address of the hotel; as if that would help: I don’t think I exaggerate if I claim we spent the next one and a half hours looking for it, a time during which I got to see more of Phnom Penh than I had bargained for. One of the reasons for this is a peculiarity of the friendly and accommodating Cambodian character. You see, a typical Cambodian will point you in the wrong direction rather than owe you an answer. And even if he does indeed point you in the general direction of where you want to go, it will be accompanied by an arm movement covering about 90 degrees of a circle, substantially increasing the risk of getting lost in direct proportion to the distance travelled. 
My driver, whom I repeatedly urged to get in renewed contact with his compatriots, in the vain hope of bringing us nearer to my goal, didn’t seem to be able to make heads or tails out of the instructions he got from apparently reliable sources. We kept swirling about in the dense traffic, like the debris in Edgar Poe’s story on the Malstroem, off the Norwegian coast, or like the Flying Dutchman, for ever condemned to vagabond the high seas, unable to reach a port. 
At one point the driver turned to me and signalled with his fingers that he now felt eight dollars, instead of the agreed five, would be a more appropriate sum of money in exchange for taking me to the hotel, which he couldn’t find in the first place. I had to explain to him, that I was gladly paying for his services, but that this didn’t mean I would also pay for his mistakes and the delay he caused me. 
Hotel Monsoon
Anyways, as if out of nowhere, and after I had asked him numerous times to stop the vehicle so I could pay him off and get another transport — a favour he promptly refused to grant me — we stopped for a last desperate interrogation of some gentlemen calmly occupying a street corner. Lo and behold! It was right there, on the opposite side of the street: The Hotel Monsoon

I was relieved and honestly quite happy to give the driver the eight dollars he didn’t deserve, because I had indeed reached my first port of call. Our ways then parted as I entered the hotel lobby and was warmly greeted by the local staff: courteous, helpful and ready to get out of their way in order to get me whatever I fancied, in a self-evident and unpretentious manner that immediately struck me as both typically and pleasantly non-Western. I had, some almost five-teen years since my latest trip to South-East Asia, finally alighted — in Cambodia. 
To be continued...

Friday, December 9, 2016

An easy explanation as to why American medical doctors, drug and insurance companies don't like Obamacare

Ten years ago I got an ear infection while swimming in water contaminated by human waste in Puerto Rico. I finally had to visit a hospital to get a prescription drug. Even though I managed to unobserved slip through a back door ajar -- thus avoiding to pay the US $150 the hospital wanted for having a medical trainee peek into my ear -- I still had to come up with US $120 at the local Pharmacy to get the drugs in order to treat my infection. Eventually it went away. Puerto Rico, though also a Caribbean nation in its own right, guarantees all its legal citizens American Citizenship. Their medical system, consequently, is ruled by US standards.
Cut. Ten years later. I arrive in Nicaragua with a similar ailment. I go straight to the Pharmacy and ask for some antibiotics. They give me a small bottle with drops to pour into the ear twice a day. The swelling subsides. Cost? 46 Cordobas, the equivalent of $ 1 dollar and 57 cents. 
Conclusion. If you can get away with charging 270 dollars for something that doesn't need to cost more than 2 -- and mind you, the Pharmacy and the manufacturer of the drug are still making money from it -- what does that tell you? 
What it tells me is that someone makes profits so huge that they're almost unimaginable. No wonder law firms can also get away with suing medical companies for millions and millions of dollars, on behalf of clients who happened to perhaps suffer a side effect from taking a prescription drug. 
I believe the American medical system, unfortunately, to be corrupt beyond redemption, and this state of affairs is not something the president elect is going to significantly change. In addition to the hospitals, insurance and drug companies being in cahoots, there are also loads of senators and congress men on their payrolls. And then I haven't even mentioned the arms industry and its subsidiaries in the US (in a public speech delivered just one day before the ominous 11th of September 2001, Secretary of Defense, Mr. Donald Rumsfeld, announced that there were 2,3 trillion -- 2 300 000 000 000! -- dollars missing in the Pentagon budget, that is: money that simply was unaccounted for and of course remained unaccounted for after the alleged attack on the Pentagon compound...) 
Unless medical companies and hospitals are thus forced to only seek reasonable dividends from their activities, and stop bribing politicians to carry out their devious designs, this swindle will continue until the whole system one day hopefully collapses.
On September 10th 2001, Sec. Defence Donald Rumseld announced that 2.3 Trillion Dollars in…
YOUTUBE.COM

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Astronomical sensation in the microcosm: How a black whole is created!

 

And as Niels Bohr said: "If you're not entirely bewildered by the quantum leap, you haven't properly studied it." 



One of the interesting things about living in France is that one, even involuntarily but nonetheless inevitably, has to become a do-it-yourself handy and maintenance man. It is in the very essence of things produced in France that they will often break, but just as often not completely, e.g. things are indeed fixable, but you have to fix them. Even so, your solutions and repair results will remain in the spirit of the original product, that is: liable to fail. 

Today it wasn't a lock that wouldn't turn, a screw in the refrigerator door hinge that needed to be replaced, or the fixture for the tube inside the vacuum cleaner to be glued back on to the rim. It wasn't even a French product, strictly speaking, but something manufactured by a Dutch owned company.

I'm talking about my trash bin: Brabantia. Not that I would ever have considered buying it new, considering its whopping almost 300 Euro price tag. A friend of mine found one abandoned in a neighbour's garden and managed to buy it for 10 Euros from the owner. He then cleaned and polished it up for me. It now looks and works fine - in principal.

But there is a slight downside to it. As the bin graciously entered my house, during my absence, there was one tiny part missing in the locking mechanism. Consequently, the lid would not stay down but pop back up again every time I tried to close it. Now, this turned out to be no big problem since Brabantia is engaged to provide such spare part for free to its customers. So the parts were sent for and duly arrived. And they worked. For a while...

The problem was that the little plastic clamp that has been introduced in a tiny slot under the lid for the locking device to work, is likely to get loose and even fall off if one is not very attentive and cautious when closing and opening the lid. Consequently, the first plastic clamp just disappeared somewhere in connection with, precisely, my opening or closing of the lid, and I didn't even bother to try to find it, since I knew I had two more of those devices. Today, however, when the same thing happened, I decided not to be so lazy...

It goes without saying that the plastic 30 litre bag inside the dustbin was full to the brim with everything from coffee ground, potato peel to a chicken carcass. It also goes without saying that the 5 mm plastic knob, like a neutron star relentlessly moving in towards the centre of our sun by inexorable gravitational force, had worked itself down to the very bottom of the bag. It wasn't until I spilled the last remains of coffee and potato into the drain, to make sure the neutron star wouldn't escape beyond the event horizon, that it finally turned up. It was intact and the locking mechanism now works again.

But here's my question: why is that when one can make an object that doesn't work in a given context where it's supposed to work, why can't one just as well make something that actually does work in the first place? Well, you'd say. Why don't you just glue the piece inside the small frame holding it?

I Suppose I could, and even I thought about it, considering it a brilliant idea. But then, on second thought, I realised that if the locking device breaks inside the slot, it would be near impossible to get the scraps out of there without destroying the frame itself, and the bin would never, ever lock again.

Considering Murphy's Law, this is one day bound to happen, and it certainly doesn't need another reason to do so than that I have glued the piece back on to make sure it doesn't come off any longer. Thus, the best solution so far is to continue to be careful and not allow the locking mechanism to get loose again. Only this is not always so easy, but then again life never promised such a thing as to make things easy for us. 

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

The Owls of Afrasiab. Excerpt from the book.



 

    

Mehmet II.  Painting by Paolo Veronese

                                         



The battle between Islam and Christianity precipitating the fall of Constantinople was an event that for ever changed the course of history. Breathtakingly rendering the internal struggle of the Byzantine capital under deadly constriction, and the occult high-stake political game surrounding it, The Owls of Afrasiab also tells the story of the dangerous passion uniting the Genoese commander leading the city's defence with Hadije, one of the wives of the late Sultan Murad, determined to avenge herself for the murder of her baby boy ordered by the young and lethally ambitious Sultan Mehmet II.


 

"One man who had made it his special duty to regularly attend the
funeral masses was the learned monk Gennadi, a man renowned for
the purity and zeal of his conviction. A sworn enemy to the union
of the churches, he nonetheless rendered the Emperor, and thereby
the city, a service of sorts by constantly setting the example of a Godloving
man possessed by unwavering faith. To Gennadi miracles were
not only possible but positively attainable, but only under the condition
that all precepts of orthodoxy were strictly observed. He was
practically indefatigable in carrying out prostrations. Somewhat more
alarmingly, Gennadi had also let himself be convinced that the greatest
of all possible miracles to visit mankind would be God’s imminent
decision to bring about its demise. In short, he did not hesitate to propound
the message that the Sultan’s siege was a tell-tale sign that the
Apocalypse of John was about to become reality, and that the reason
for this to happen was that God, precisely in the year 1453 AD, had
grown tired of the wicked race he had once sired.

Constantine had been alerted to the potentially devastating effects
of this fatalistic message – one dangerous implication of which was the
idea that Mehmet had been chosen by providence to carry out God’s
last will –months before Mehmet had actually turned up outside
the walls. In truth, Gennadi’s declaration that the defection of the
Orthodox Christians from the one and only true faith, as well as their
willingness to allow Catholic ritual to desecrate the holiest of churches,
Hagia Sophia, had unleashed riots in the streets threatening Italians
in general, and their spiritual leaders, such as the Pope’s special envoy
Isidore of Kiev and his right hand, Bishop Leonard of Chios, in particular.
Understandably, the Emperor, fearing far reaching complications,
was hesitant to impose penalties on the ring leaders, although
his Roman guests, who had in fact brought indispensable bowmen
and supplies to the city, demanded that they be forcefully suppressed.
Attendance in unionist church services was consequently symbolic at
best.

As the siege wore on, however, Gennadi, considered by the faithful
as the rightful successor to Patriarch Gregory – who had left
Constantinople for Rome two years earlier exasperated at the suicidal
stubbornness of its population – had broken his voluntary isolation.
He could now be seen actively participating both in the city’s defence
and in the services held under oil lamps as numerous and glimmering
as the stars of heaven. Whether he had changed his mind about the
inevitability of the city’s fall was not to be deduced from his public
appearances, but it did give Leonard and Isidore an opportunity to try
to converse with him. Consequently, and much to the astonishment
of pious Greeks from all walks of life, Leonard and Isidore were on
several occasions seen participating in the Orthodox masses for the
fallen, humbly adhering to ceremonial minutiae.

It was well into the night when the two of them discreetly caught up
with Gennadi making for his monastery in the presence of two monks.
The Greek sage at first refused to have anything to do with them, making
no secret of that he held them personally responsible for the corruption
of his people. It seemed as though that would conclude the
matter, since he refused to salute them, turned away and was about to
disappear into a dark alley when Isidore, a Greek by birth, suddenly
had a bright idea. He ran after him while exclaiming,

– Brother Gennadi! We’re aware that you loathe our presence and
thus shun our company, but let me tell you this: the church of Rome
does not wish to see its brothers in faith fall prey to the caprices of
Allah over a matter of preposition. Please, don’t let the matter of Jesus’
substances obscure the reality of the fact, that to the infidels Jesus is not
even the Son of God, but a prophet subordinated to the authority of
Mohammed, a common camel driver who eight centuries ago claimed
to have received visions from the archangel Gabriel instructing him to
disregard the Bible as the ultimate dispenser of truth. In view of the
resistance which the laetantur coeli has met with among your flock,
the Pope has declared himself willing to reconsider his stance on the
question of independence and will issue an invitation suggesting a
new council of the churches in view of obtaining, once and for all, a
convivial solution to problems raised by local variations in theological
interpretation.

It was diplomatic nonsense and the promise little more than a pious
lie as the Pope’s conviction in this regard was known to be more solid
than the rock of Gibraltar; but it was also, considering the precariousness
of the situation, a license taken with regard to the fact that if
Constantinople ever fell to the Turks, the Pope’s position on the matter
of union between the churches would matter very little anyway.
Surprisingly, Gennadi seemed willing to accept this pretext for a chat,
but it wasn’t until they had reached the monastery, and the three of
them were installed in the refectory for a bowl of soup – the monk’s
only meal for the day – that he told them his real reasons for allowing
this unprecedented meeting to take place."



Buy the book:

https://www.amazon.com/Owls-Afrasiab-Secret-Story-Constantinople-ebook/dp/B007YSZ1CS/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1467197723&sr=8-4&keywords=Lars+Holger+Holm#navbar


In the midst of the siege Hadije manages to get inside the city walls. The subsequent encounter with Commander Longo results in love at first sight and a conjuration of spirits dedicated to kill Mehmet before he takes the city. The plan, of course, turns out to be impracticable. The enemy is now not only outside the gates, but also actively conspiring from within. It seems an honest man and warrior can do nothing but stand by his word and sword until he falls. Meanwhile, a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do... A dazzling drama enacted at a pivotal point in European history, when the luminous ideas of the Renaissance begin to gain ascendancy over medieval darkness. Churchmen still squabble over the use of prepositions in dogma, humanists look for answers to new questions in arcane sciences, while eager merchants of Italian republics seek ways to hold on to their dominions, rapidly dwindling under the mounting threat of an enemy growing more menacing by the minute: the Ottoman, Islamic Turk.