Archive for the ‘feeling’ Category

I dedicate my respect of water  to my German „Oma“ (technically my great aunt, but I didn’t know the difference for well over a decade). I have a particularly keen sense of the value of water. Particularly HOT water. As a thrifty Swabian, my Oma made it very clear that those long, languorous, hot and steamy bubble baths were not an option in her tightly run household. A daily hot shower was not an option. And washing your hair every day was positively out of the question.

Luckily for me, the (cold) room she allowed us to stay in had a small sink. This sort of thing was a typical architectural oddity in Germany – and much of Europe – at the time. You see it in movies where the bed is lice-infested, wallpaper peeling off the walls and a filthy community toilet where the last guy on not only smokes but burps and farts his was down the hall. Swabians being particularly tidy, there were no lice, the wallpaper was doing okay and the cleanliness of the family toilet (downstairs and through a door that was sometimes locked) was okay. The water that came out of the faucet on the little sink was – never to be forgotten – ice ice cold.

Forget bungee jumping, snowboarding on wild slopes off the beaten path: wash your hair (upside down) in ice water http://pharmacieviagra.com/boutique/commander-cialis/. There’s nothing like it for a truly tingly head rush. This indescribable experience may, on the flip side, bring you numerous compliments on shiny hair. This was the case for me that summer.

Every bath I have taken since, every shower, every time I brush my teeth … I say prayers of thanks for this glorious stuff coming out of the faucet. For the physical property of it being hot – a heat I love making so high and tangy that I can get the full rush of the other extreme. My (only) heirloom from Oma.

What has compounded my respect of water as an adult is the bitter lack of it elsewhere. The breathtakingly respectless, wasteful use of water in my homeland. The three showers a day, gallon-filled toilet bowls, golf courses in Arizona, Las Vegas in its entireity and dozens of other things, the looming devastation of fracking not to be forgotten …

There it is: simple, humble adoration of something so beautiful, fragile, powerful, precious. That begins simply and humbly, like today, with tiny droplets forming on leaves and windowpanes.

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Every time I get in front of a class of design students – which is often – at some point, I draw a grid. At the upper right, I draw an apple, more specifically, I draw the apple logo. At the lower left, I draw something confusing, ugly, annoying. The upper right quadrant represents joy, exstacy, orgasm, pleasure, pure giddy fun. The lower left (and obviously, all the quadrants in-between) are lesser. Much less. Over the course of a semester, I tirelessly explain why. The references to Apple are too numerous to count.

I tell them that Steve Jobs has single-handedly, by having a passion for beauty, love of form, design, and – dare I say – meaning, pulled this entire matrix – of visual communication, user interfaces, technological products, marketing schemes, even corporate attitudes toward their customers – to the right. Worldwide. We strive to touch the pole he vaulted over with ease and grace. We strive to do something, anything, that exudes the beauty and serenity of his legacy with the products under our fingers that he has given us. Every day.

When I turned 40, I threw a big party with one gift wish: the brand-new, first-version iPod on the market. All my friends pooled money (they were expensive!) and after a wonderful evening, I unpacked my new toy. I will never forget the mix of joy and frustration. Joy because it was so breathtakingly beautiful, frustration because for those thankfully few, painful moments I couldn’t figure out how to make it louder or quieter. I was forced to use, no, to re-define the use of my sense of touch. Steve continued these lessons in (use of) sensuality with the iPhone and the results are fact. And legend. If technology can bring us to heighten the use and the experience of our senses (as opposed to the never-ending frustration with the use and understanding of so many products, inane installations of stuff to protect us from evil and danger … not to mention having to deal with outright ugliness), well, what a world THAT would be? And could become?

That’s exactly what he did. We hunger for more, more, more and though there’s a flaw in the sustainability of that, the hunger is, in my eyes, for a world that has more trust in our intuition, intelligence, ingenuity, curiousity and, of course, sensuality. I hope he has inspired someone to follow in his footsteps, carry the torch, continue the legacy (even if they are not doing it at his company). I’m doing all I can to continue to ignite in others the inspiration he will always be for me.

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Looking forward to the end of a very trying day, I weave my way through the maze of empty ugly blue office chairs alternating with filled ugly blue office chairs with students slumped over keyboards, now happily pulling up Facebook since I’ve finished with them. Only one left to go. The student that has pissed me off all semester. The student that I like quite a lot. I love how he speaks perfect German and then seamlessly segways into something British-y or Colonial British. Maybe New Zealand. He mentions New Zealand a lot.

Clipboard and threatening-looking piece of red-marked paper in hand, I sit next to him and ask what I have asked all the others. “So … what’s your project going to be about?” This is the project they will receive a grade for. Without missing a beat he says, “My tattoo.” “Your tattoo?” I say, praying that what is now flashing through my mind is not apparent on my face. But then, it always is. There is nothing I have ever been able to do about that. I am now envisioning an image seen somewhere – time, place and context on the Internet completely, dutifully erased from memory – of a man’s completely tattooed penis. It had literally become a very colorful, quite beautiful, snake. From tip to base and front to back, the testicles, the surrounding thighs and, if I remember correctly, there was even a great amount of detail around the anus. I still shudder in horror at how sedated this man must have been (and for how many days) to have that worked performed. And a performance it was. Tattoo Art at its finest. Looking at my student, I see him fishing with his eyes for me to somehow go on. As if he really knows about the pictures flickering through my brain and how he wants to link them permanently to his own body’s artwork. “Right, well, I’m not sure if I want to know about your tattoo,” was my lame response, knowing full well that if there is going to be any editorial design being done, I’ll have to be knowing about, and looking at his tattoo at some point. This was the boy that had, in passing one day, asked me if I thought the product designers from Apple knew people would have clitoral associations when using the little ball on their “Mighty Mouse”. I tried to respond as dryly as I could, “I certainly hope they considered it. It’s evidently worked on you. I find it to be a positive thing, men thinking about clitorises…” stopping in my tracks right there. Slippery slope with this one. Luckily, I could escape from “what subject” to “which publication” and was able to escape further pain.

I could have left it alone, but he’s my Nr. 1 rebel, so I asked him why he boycotted the last assignment. A shrug not being an answer, I proceed to tell him that he has pissed me off. That he was rude and had no respect. From the get-go. And that I agree with Apple on yet another count, that the rebels are actually more often than not the good guys, the creative souls, the geniuses that motor innovation and create beauty. But doing nothing and just rebelling gave you just as much potential to be regarded as an asshole as it does a genius. Until there is something done. Or performed. Or discussed. So until he did something, his behavior dictated that I must regard him as an asshole. I really like this student. He brings out the best in me. Bullseye.

Today I run away from the school as if the sky were falling. The last day with a group of older students that some uninspired teacher before me had turned totally sour on design. For all practical purposes, i.e. making them realize the true and marketable added-value of beauty, they were lost. Three students out of 14 gave it a good, honest, genuine go, but for the rest I was a petulant and hysterical babysitter howling something indiscernible about aesthetics. The speed and acridness of their retorts took my breath away. The balls of social media-izing while I offered all my deepest design secrets and passions was humbling to say the least, to put it in the mildest words without flagellating myself. As I pull away from the building, all I can think is, “don’t they realize that it isn’t about speed? That, more and more, it can only be about the ability to go s-l-o-w?” I am envisioning the technique that I do, where my breath guides small movements, tai-chi-like but much more fluid and beautiful storecialis.net. I move space and space moves with me – the slower you can pull it off, the more beautiful the dance. Or the fact that advancing adulthood has actually brought an upexpected prize, one I don’t expect them to understand or even try: finding the control and will and the partner with which to take lovemaking to the slowest possible pace. Will they ever be able to recognize the exquisite bliss in that? “Sticks and stones can break my bones but chains and whips excite me…” This particular boy was just repeating a popular song during that last class, but he was repeating it rather breathlessly while taking in the beautiful blonde girl next to him, avidly atching for her reaction. Chains and whips. Is that what it’s coming to? Sitting there, passing time, I bit on my tongue. Don’t say one word about S&M. Don’t say one thing about the state of “sexual education” (for the most part bad porn) in the world. And stop thinking about what Chris Hedges wrote! But I truly cannot stop thinking about what Chris Hedges wrote and never will be able to, ever again, for that matter, when I think of porn. And S&M making it into mainstream music is simply nauseating. Sure, Madonna played with a bit of spanky, but no one really took her seriously. Or, more aptly, no one wanted to really do the things Madonna did. They were always so obviously not her, so obviously staged and calculated that we just enjoyed the show and went home. The chicks singing these things now are different. Certainly hungrier, more desperate, much closer to a slimy truth than Madonna most likely ever saw. My stomach is fully turned imagining this clean-cut soccer-player-physiqued boy actually finding arousal when the blonde girl comes in with her cheap domina apparel, clumsily cracking a whip. And to make matters worse, imagining that these kids may truly be tomorrow’s public relations managers on the side of business that gives me work – that pulls me down deep. Work that is becoming increasingly difficult to do because they choke the elemental conditions a designer needs to do successful work. They choke creativity because they know nothing about beauty. Because they are working so bound and magnetized by tightroped sets of rules, never doing more than they must, and doing it all very, very fast.

They know nothing about beauty because they don’t want to listen, learn … or … go slowly. At anything.

Whips. And chains. Excite them.

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Crossing the border, or series of borders, into wakefulness, I am full-body awe this morning. I can feel it get lighter outside because the my body feels ever so gently lifted my the light, the feathers of intensity becoming more intense, one filament at a time, moment by moment. While preoccupied with the light on the outside from inside my closed eyelids, I become acutely aware that my toes are moving, playfully caressing the sheet and the bed underneath it. It’s an innocent movement and a moment of wonder: that is the end of my landscape, right there at the skin of my littlest toe, and it is having so much fun exploring where it is at the moment, I dare not move the rest of me for fear of interrupting. Then one of those inevitable early morning itches appears on my scalp as if to emphatically establish the fact that other regions are actively participating in these manifold changes and rustlings. My fingers find the spot, caress it with a nail-less scratch and surf softly through various layers of helter-skelter hair, establishing the dimension on the other side of the landscape. It appears so unfathomably huge at the moment, the distance between the two points, most of the mountainous terrain between those points still not quite present. I am, after all, not yet awake, so I am not quite there yet go on. Pieces are still being transferred, atom by atom, into this bed, onto familiar places and at familiar distances. At some point, the skeleton will arrive and I’ll be good to go from horizontal to vertical. I am completely transfixed by the beauty of this in-between state and how the I that is building me again this morning can be anywhere. Is anywhere, as I move my exertion to determining if I am alone in bed and, discovering this is not the case, how advanced the state of the other body-building-awakening-process is going. I have often been touched and blessed by a morning-only synchronicity I truly adore, turning over to open blinking eyes into also-blinking eyes. I know this won’t be the case today, but my rapture of the varied states coasts on. I don’t need to “do” anything but be and indeed there is so much to watch and wonder that being here, right now, is sublime joy.

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I paid a visit to a man that will soon be 99 years old. He was – at one point in my pre-divorce nuttiness – a lover of sorts (he was well over 90 at the time). He is now a man who I have grown to love dearly, even if his bottom set of dentures fall out during dinner. He’s just that great of a guy.

Then I biked home to my daughter who was curious if I had somehow experienced his death since I had been gone so long (at his age, she reasoned, you really never know)… A very clever teen who is absolutely on the emotional money nearly 100% of the time.

There was a message on my machine from a man who had enchanted me only two nights before and he had me utterly tickled again to hear his soft voice telling me sweet things that (this time!) were of a more personal nature. A man who spoke to my soul because he had said, basically: BEAUTY WILL HEAL YOUR BRAIN. Well, sort of. But it was as if the speech he was giving was the one I had been formulating in my head for years, where you sit there in the audience going “yes! yes! duh! yes! God, I know! yes!!” and your energy is shooting off in all directions as you forget to breathe.

I guess I have a knack for falling in love immediately (and irretrievably!) with brains. That was the case with my 90 year old, that was the case with the ethics and beauty man on stage. Looking back, that was the case with just about every relationship I have ever been in, from the get go. I beg that 50% of the world’s population will forgive me, but normally, it happens to me with members of the opposite sex. It just works out that way, for the most part. With the exception of one or two dear friends and Rachel Maddow – as I certainly love them/her and am indebted and inspired to Rachel by what she contributes (literally daily!) to society.

But falling in love – while nice – isn’t enough to sustain this particular body. Being loved in return is what gets the glow going. Which, although the day had been going better than expected in regards to reciprocity … I was having an awful time with something else:

… the man on my machine made only one mistake during his lecture. He said that designers would have “plenty of work.” While I am sure some do – and what a wonderful thing for them – I seem to be in a process of becoming something else – from designer to ? … what exactly is not quite clear yet. It has evolved into fact that I simply cannot handle the eminently shallow, art and creative directing, better-and-wittier-than-thou and we-are-all-that types in agencies. To their credit, they are doing what they have to do. But are they REALLY giving us true cultural contributions? Ästhetic value? Deeper moral spaces? Now that they have perfect command of flash (after years of code study), are they REALLY going to let us in on something truly interesting, inspiring and culturally relevant? I suppose perhaps some are, but unlucky for me, I have never met them. Would they REALLY also be able to watch a 90+ lose his teeth after biting on roast duck and still not miss a beat in their devotion (or lose their appetite?) because they know what “it’s” REALLY about? Are they loving their own partners intensely against all physical odds (giving birth, aging, too little exercise, gravity)? Are they learning about sharing food with snails in their own gardens because killing all of them is just plain impossible? Are they acting constructively as often as possible on matters of absolute importance to the world? I certainly HOPE so. But I have my share of doubt, and it’s growing. Sadly. So much for the upholders of the truth, the good, the beautiful.

And even if agency life wasn’t so bad, then there are the clients. Clients I have lost only because they found me to be “educational” (the word, when spoken in German, smacks painfully of being a condescending wench that has no business talking to marketing directors like that). Indeed, I had been trying to teach the man about taste. Meaning. Clarity. Beauty. Truth. My career as a teacher at a design school was beginning, so he was a unwitting prophet, bless his naive heart.

Then there are other clients that essentially order you to do things you would never, ever, ever do. And you put up and shut up, or you lose a client. Which, considering that you are now working for less than a third of what you had been able to charge five years ago, you of course do. I’m not complaining about price, I have learned the value – quite literally – of less. But culturally, ethically, you know you are making a mistake. You know you should get up and walk out. You know you should start producing your own dandelion wine for sale at local farmer’s markets before you continue to put up with such degradation for even one more minute. The only problem: you have virtually no clue how to make dandelion wine. And getting the recipe online just doesn’t seem to be the right way to go about it…

And so it goes. Despite all the thunder and lightning, the heat isn’t going away.

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Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity, they say.

They USED to say. I think it’s time to re-think all four expressions. Fighting and fucking have been lumped into one strange space as have peace and virginity (failing that, at least a chaste style of living - those that claim to be celibate are only claiming to live outside of wedlock, which is a pretty big part of society these days, not only clergy and “holy” men and women…).

In my quest for the perfect peace logo - which I remain convinced must include a circle of some sort, in some manner - I have waded from one “fight” to the next. Looking back, I realize that I have fought many personal and professional “wars” in an effort to attain a semblance of peace in my life.

The Wiki-Warrior definition (I love using Wikipedia as a starting point, right or wrong, it fixes a spot in the fog):
The first literal use refers to “someone engaged or experienced in warfare.” The second figurative use refers to “a person who shows or has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness, as in politics or athletics.”

Or as in love, relationships, business, child-raising, gardening…

… or being human.

At another meeting of great men thinking great thoughts for the betterment of mankind (not a drop of cynicism here, I assure you it was so), I postulated that peace and the striving for such a luminous state could be more appropriately expressed with the capacity to explore, develop and “withstand” ecstasy. To “stand with ecstasy” is not an easy feat. It takes willpower, dedication, practice, committment prednisolone en ligne. All of which are attributes found in any classic “warrior”. The fact that life moves with twists and turns and is unpredictable makes it all the more important to exercise flexibility. Flexibility of thought but also of action that is fueled by the underlying birthright and intuitive striving for … ecstasy. Jefferson was cautious and called it “the pursuit of happiness”, but language has become more matter-of-fact, perhaps raw, uncovered, outright. And with perhaps just a touch of… impatience.

The report on the logo, for all involved up to this point:

The group of men are carving out the legalities and a name has been established: “Bell Amani”. Although the official deadline for logos has long passed, I welcome anyone who feels motivated to still contribute a logo to the process. At some point, there will be an exhibition involving all entries with the details (assuming permission has been granted) of all involved. The first 470+ kilo bell will be transported to Vienna soon, positioned around the unfolding of this event: http://www.afrika-tage.at/

Stay tuned for more, if sporadic, information.

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JUMP!!!!

… and?

How was the feeling? Gliding through the air in a sudden burst of compact body energy, hot with anticipation yet totally released into the unknown?! The millisecond of breaking the surface of the water a plethora of sensations, all appendages on alert, sucking in which one felt it first while it all melts into one simultaneous moment of explosive cannonball. Or jacknife. Or bellyflop.

And so it is, 2010. Watching the planet turn, every day brings some new piece of news to jump into, the surface of information just as unpredictable, as impossible to imagine or comprehend, the process of letting go on the flight into it just as intense.

Why Haiti? Why bitter poverty? Why obscene wealth? Why destructive, faulty food? Why polyester fibers? Why atomic power? Greenhouse gases? Supreme court rules so obviously without wisdom or even the vaguest bit of (intelligent, democratically just) supremacy? Why all this pain?! Surely a benevolent God would never let all these horrendous things happen…

JUMP!!!!

How do I feel? Am I upside down? What part of me is struggling? Where is the surface? How deep am I? Kick, kick, kick! All systems go to rise above the surface? There are two elements: me, and everything around me that is seemlessly surrounding my thrashing, giving me something to push against, kick into, hold in my hand without being able to grasp it at all really, to exercise my might and will upon.

Water. News. Life.

JUMP!!!!

(Dedicated to JM, in the hopes that he begins to understand – and please note: no one ever finishes understanding!! – that the precious beauty of our world lies precisely in its infinite complexity and perpetual newness in which we swim. I love you very much.)

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Yesterday I decided I had screwed around enough, read enough, twittered enough, cooked enough and worked enough. I decided to do a few minutes of introspective meditative practice. So here I am, doing my better-than-Tai-Chi stuff - which was indeed wonderful – and then move into the sitting position. Float, one could even say.

And there he was. Since my eyes were closed, I could only guess what he was. Or if it was indeed a she, which is pretty difficult to determine as a lay person that doesn’t specialize in insects. One thing was clear, whatever it was, it had wings. And was pretty pissed. Or frustrated. Or both. Meditative practice being what it is, I refused to “go there”, took it all as part of the immaculate picture of the moment, and finished up.

But the bounce upward once I had determined I was done was pretty springy indeed. I immediately saw what it was: a huge yellow-jacket wasp, perhaps even a queen. Aren’t they the bigger ones? Or is that just with bees? Either way, I knew it needed saving. Watching its predicament, I was reminded of a bee in the same state a while back where I wondered about the frustration such a creature may/must feel. They see the great outdoors right there in front of them. See the trees, the open sky, the clouds, perhaps even smell it all, and they crawl hither and thither and cannot fathom why they cannot get back to that state of openness. It’s just the simple, stupid pane of glass that separates them. Easy enough for us, maddening for them.

Sometimes my life feels just like that. I see it all, I feel it all “out there” - and yet, the pane between makes me do all sorts of things that get me nowhere. Of course, you may think, “just open the door/window”! Were it so easy for the bee or the wasp! The door is opened by something bigger than either of us, that much was clear that morning as I fumbled for a glass and a piece of heavy paper to transport my co-meditator outdoors.

Sit and wait? Hardly. I find myself in the unusual position of having not one but two elderly “patients” - people I visit on a regular basis. For whatever it’s worth, both seem to benefit from our sessions. The one, a 97-year old man, is alert, alive, vital - just old and frail. The other, a 94-year old woman, is blind, slightly dement, not very vital, but usually pretty healthy and perky. On my last visit to the woman, another elderly woman sat next to me and began to talk about how her life used to be (being outside), how she was in charge of her own household, etc., and how it is now (being on the pane) about her many fears, and how awful it is to be so frail…

Sitting on the other side of me was the blind woman. Essentially crawling on the same pane of glass, “my” 94-year old said that “She can’t complain. She’s healthy mostly and what more could you want? Sure, she’s old, but that’s just how it its.” (For the record, that is pretty much the same sentiment that comes from the 97-year old man, though he lived - and lives - a life of relative luxury…) And there you have it, I thought.

There’s the door. It’s as easy as that. And I took her hands in mine and looked in her blind, glowing, beautiful, toothless face and was full of admiration, love and contentment. Just being.

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It took only two of the thousands of applications offered for the iPhone to convince my partner: it became a “must-have” product based on the weather and the compass apps. Naturally, he now is spouting off about a variety of other functions. But those two functions (on my phone, before he ordered his) knocked him over the edge. He is, if I may say so, a changed man due to this product.

Mind you, he is no designer. Truth be told, we are diametrically opposed regarding our level of education and the ensuing social stratum. Normally, that would give you a few clues as to the car he drives, the clothes he wears and the newspapers he reads. Or does not read. So goes the cliché. The richness of discovering how wrong clichés can be is part of the lesson here. An important lesson, I believe, for the future of design, specifically product design in the most varied of sectors.

I would postulate that there is some connection between the aesthetic value of any given design and the development of consciousness in the broadest sense. This is a big statement that I intend to expound upon some other time. But very briefly, it is my belief that the things we touch, hold, use, need, value also touch, form, affect and develop who we are. Not just in the banal sense of - as any old American knows - giving us our position in the socially conspicuous consumption caste system. The fact of my mobility being assisted by a Ford, an Audi or a Bentley defines me more quickly than anything else to anyone else. And getting out of the car with Jimmy Choos and a Louis Vitton bag cinch the picture. But it’s also reciprocal. My Audi teaches me about curves and textures and pictograms. Inside the car. Because that is where I live large chunks of my life.

A tiny part of what made my partner a “must have” for me was the fact that, no, he didn’t have any academic titles and yes, he began his factory career at the age of 15, but he had a Braun razor! His shoes were lovely. His undergarments were spectacular. An essential fact to understand why I say this, is that I am a designer by trade and passion. These things matter to me in a way no non-designer would ever understand. But I understood that the choice he made in choosing these products on an extremely limited budget stemmed from the way his inner world worked. He valued value. He turned things over again and again before finally making that choice. (And still does, btw.) Watching someone choose less is much more valuable than watching someone choose more. (If I would ever spend thousands of dollars on a purse – which I wouldn’t – I would never purchase a Louis Vitton bag. The “why” in that is an essential element in this theory that needs further study.)

Which brings me back to my postulate. Allow me to dream for a moment. Take the iPhone as our first example of a massive shift in consciousness caused by design meeting function (– it wasn’t, of course, but this is a dream…). Suddenly, people realized that having a sleek, intuitive, truly “sexy” product in their possession was not only a positive notch for their social status but truly, authentically, aesthetically fun. Easier. Joyful. That product raises the bar on all products (not just phones) from that point generic cialis cheapest price. At least for iPhone users. It may not make people run out and buy a different car, but I do think it changes them, in their aesthetic sensitivity if nothing else, from that point forward.

This is a change that is happening more rapidly than ever. In my humble opinion and experience, I would say that Braun was the “pre-Apple” type of company that recognized the usage-consciousness connection early on and followed their design principles without compromise. It would not surprise me in the slightest if many an IT and/or design professional in and around Apple had Braun calculators on their desks. Or is there a coincidence in the calculator app on the iPhone?

As a former native of Detroit, I’ll take the argument to automobiles. Driving in yet another motor city I call home, I noticed a compact Alfa Romeo that they have named (we still have progress to make in this department) “Mito.” Impressive from the front. From the back, I was reminded of the unfortunate mistake – my size 14 opinion – of the back of a Ford “Ka.” The back of the Mito coming from Italians, I hesitated and thought, “well, perhaps more men DO like fat bottom girls than Paris will lead us to believe?” (Most car designers still being men, from what I know.) Because that’s what the forms of both the Ka und the Mito bring intuitively to mind. Wide, squatty. That may be a tremendous comfort to millions of women worldwide, but –come ON – is it joyful design? (In all fairness, the Mito is fun from the front.)

But what happens to you when you see, as was my experience on the same road on a different day, a small, silver, completely perfect “compact” Bentley? It evokes the same feeling as when you meet someone who is completely and totally beautiful in a physical sense. Where bones are positioned in breathtaking places and you just cannot take your eyes off of their sheer perfection. You are truly transported to a place of visual bliss. (Forget the near-immediate “wanting to own” reflex for a minute. Just enjoy the bliss in the moment.)

We’re still dreaming. Now imagine this happening to you with, say, a toaster. Or a cup. Or shoes. Or a chair. It is already happening to you with your (i-)phone. Imagine this happening to you more and more – and it is an affordable, achieveable fact for each and every factory worker worldwide. It may not stop global warming. It may not solve world hunger. But when we come to expect bliss in the tiniest of consumer products, we may move on to expect more bliss. And then more-than-bliss. We may be happier with less for longer. Designers/companies can turn the clock of obsolescence around and make things last longer. If they are beautiful and bliss-inducing, we will want them to. With the world’s resources fast disappearing, we made need them to work on such solutions more quickly than we think. We (the people) may remember, as any good designer knows and intelligent companies never forget, that “consumers” are humans first. And humans have a right to bliss. Sooner or later, they’ll fight for it.

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“Beziehung ist eigentlich Energie, etwas, was zwischen zwei Menschen entsteht, wenn sie aufeinander treffen und zwar ganz von selbst.
Es lebt sich das, was leben will, wie immer das aussehen mag.
Aber wir rennen los mit Vorstellungen im Kopf davon, wie eine Beziehung sein soll.
Statt zu spüren, was uns in diesem Moment anrührt, suchen wir mir dem Kopf - wir zwängen unseren Geist in ein Korsett aus Werten, Normen und Regeln.
Und wir glauben, wenn wir finden, was dort reinpasst, wären wir glücklich.
Aber wir wären glücklich, wenn wir den Mut hätten, all das fallen zu lassen und einfach zu spüren, was jetzt ist, herauszutreten aus dem Gefängnis beengender Vorstellungen… das ist es, was ich für den Weg halte, für den einzigen Weg, Liebe zu erfahren.

Sex ist eigentlich Energie, etwas, was zwischen zwei Menschen fließt, wenn sie aufeinander treffen und zwar ganz von selbst.
Da lebt sich, was leben will, wie immer das aussehen mag.
Aber wir rennen los mit Vorstellungen im Kopf, wie Sex aussehen soll, zählen uns unsere sexuellen Vorlieben auf und meinen, sie müssen erfüllt sein, um Befriedigung zu finden.
“Was magst du?” Mir ist die Frage zuwider.
Ich mag alles! Und nichts! Denn ich mag nichts immer und nichts nie.
Es geht nicht um die Vorstellung im Kopf, es geht nicht um die Form, es geht um Energie und die produziert ihre ganz eigenen Bilder, wenn sich entladen darf, was sich entladen will.
Wenn dieses Loslassen gelingt, dann ist wirkliche Ekstase möglich… das ist es, was ich für den Weg halte, für den einzigen Weg, Befriedigung und Erfüllung zu erfahren…”

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