you asked me

To have faith is to trust yourself to the water. When you swim you don’t grab hold of the water, because if you do you will sink and drown. Instead you relax, and float.” – Alan Watts

desnudeme, desdudeme...

you asked me if you create doubts in me and I said you did, at times and that you sometimes still do. you asked me what I do with them and I said nothing, they're there and then they're not anymore. you asked me to tell you when I have them, not to keep them to myself and I said I will, but I probably won't. I asked you if I create doubts in you and you said no. I was drowsy, that cold medicine was sending me on my way, my eyelids falling heavy on my eyes and I was thankful to the dimness of my bedroom brothel light for not sending spears at my eyeballs. I was flickering in and out, in wonderfully hazy daze, you were embracing me, moving me, no, the feeling was more like maneuvering, smiles and whispers and the odd sharp d's and i's and z's floating around us and it felt like we were lying on the wavy surface of a river of words. I was enjoying it so much, enjoying you, enjoying you enjoying me.

our serious talks are play and we are children speaking the truth. Truth is such a serious word, so formal and imposing, so harsh and unforgiving, so ultimate. so misunderstood. it doesn't need, like most words, an article to qualify it; saying truth is the same as saying the truth. how arrogant we've allowed it to become. we can't even find a word we can all call it, no matter what language we use. how can we then pretend to find a meaning that is universally understood? we call as we see it, or rather, as we are taught to see it.  it doesn't belong here, where everything is fluid, where there are no things to take and change shape, where there are no boundaries, where whatever is created creates recreates. in our minds. so let's say that while playing, we're speaking what is, what was but not what will be.

you said I was ambiguous and I said yes, it can't be anything but. words are not our own, they're a legacy, a code arbitrarily constructed, which can't be traced, not in the ways that matter. you can trace it to the origin, but then it stops. how about the origin? what made the originals associate that particular sound with that particular thing they were seeing or showing,  that thing that existed outside or inside their minds? and what made the others accept the sound, creating understanding? words are borrowed. the only originals nowadays are children and that doesn't last very long. their originality is trumped by numbers and they forget their own words for the sake of conventions in order to relate and express, for the validation of being understood, though there's really no way to be sure that happened. sometimes though, you see the spark in the eye of another, they use the same word that's forming in your head, they head in the same direction without instruction, they look without being called. And you know then. That's when you don't need words or when you can find five, no! ten words to describe something that ordinarily you'd barely find one for. 

I didn't realise i wasn't using the right words, that neither were you, that you make me doubt and i don't make you doubt are both illusory and false and can become dangerous, that we were both saying the same thing in a different way, that we both trust ourselves to the water, and that it is the same water, though it may appear murkier to me and crystal clear to you at the same time. Water doesn't change, it fills and flows or stays, it covers rocks and weeds and holes, water isn't deep or shallow, blue or black, calm or rough. it is the structures that it flows in or through or which hold it, the forces that move it or the things in it that are different and that shape our experience of it.

someone asked me about you, what you were like. i said you're happy. they smirked discounting both my answer, my nativity, perhaps, in classing values and you. i smiled and felt no need to defend either, with no resentment towards the lack of understanding and it wasn't because i didn't care about that person, it wasn't disengagement, but something that liberates, a certainty that I understood myself and you. happiness, even as a word is so simple,  so genuine and so uplifting; when you say it your mouth opens wider, it stretches into an (un)intended smile, you can see the word, imagine what it looks like, it has a specific shape or color or colors in your mind, it's not just another word. it makes you feel better. why would you give deference to any bleak and somber abstraction over it when it comes to describing someone? is it because we find ourselves mostly using it when we are children, or when we talk to children, and so, we outgrow it or cast it aside?

i read a book and loved it. it was yet another dystopian novel where Unanimity was the ruling societal force and where there was an opposing but less powerful rebellion force, called Union. one element born in Unanimity ascends and becomes an agent of Union, striving to overthrow the forced natural order. she gets caught out and leaves a testimony for the archives and this is where i get disappointed. she is asked for her version of the truth and she says: there is only one truth; versions are mistruths. How utterly unanimous of her!



I love it when you ask me!

My story. In instalments.

It's been a while since I wrote and my justification is: it's much easier to write when you're sad than happy. And for a while, I've been happy. I was asked: "When are you writing a new blog? It's good!". So I started writing. Not because I need validation, but because encouragement, especially from certain people, is really very nice, a catalyst which somehow makes you responsible. The difference is that this kind of writing is made up of more pieces and takes longer, compared to the irresistible avalanche that is writing when you are hurting.

 

So here it is, my story on Jan 8, 2016: 

Chapter X of who knows?

 

New Year, new start, new me. Some take it seriously, others mock it, others don't even think about it anymore. Isn't it part of the same story, though? Shouldn't you keep track of the loops, clues and plot twists? It's daunting to tell a story and even more so when it's your own, although it's the one you know best. And it's never just your story. How do you begin? What's the hook? At this point I'm not even sure I remember everything, as there was a time in my life when I wasn't really paying attention to it and what escaped me is hard to know. There it is - my very own existential paradox. The generic one goes: "The liar says: this statement is true", only in my case it translates "I remember it happening like this". 

I remember sleepwalking through a beautifully uncomplicated relationship. He was a typical English boy, blond haired and blue eyed, milky white skin, cheeky and chatty, short, a bit chubby, with an awful haircut. He was the funniest guy I knew and from joke to bed to living together we hardly blinked. He invited me up for tea after one of our walks as friends. I asked to move in with him on a peaceful night when I realised I hadn't been home for a week. I took my phone and wrote a message "What do you think about me moving in?" and I pressed send. We were in bed together. He read it in disbelief and ...I made him happy and he made me happy, until I wasn't happy anymore and he stopped as well. I mourned the relationship and romaniticised the person, I became the heroine of my personal a Russian novel, littered with depths, abysses and peaks, immense pools and arid desserts, both equally disheartening and I started sighing more and more and more. At least I wasn't sleepwalking anymore. Worse. I was lucidly dreaming a pointless and false dream. I remember very little about the real story compared to the lyrical version I had weaved. But it was the start to my conscious journey.

I woke up to a grey, moody London morning and didn't enjoy it very much for a while. I suppose I hadn't quite opened my eyes yet. I started saying I want a quiet life and started slipping away. It was an error of perception on my part and and easy mistake to make but at least it chiseled my arrogance and I can laugh about it now.

Perspective is always there, like air and like air, you only see it when it's corrupted by particles, by colour and light and scent. I felt like I was constantly waiting, no, postponing and it was making me want a break from myself. I now know I wasn't waiting, I was learning. It took some time and it meant surrendering before conquering.

When is getting to know yourself getting too close for comfort? You can loose yourself in yourself. It's a maze and of all, the most important. There's no prize when you get to the core, no invisible hand that picks you up and places you outside or above it to enjoy the majestic construction. Likewise, there's no punishment if you don't try at all. Or at least none that you can perceive, so goes the mainstream wisdom. But I think not enough is known about the proverbial blissful ignorant and his inner workings to make that claim. What I have come to know, meaning believe, feel and rationalise, is that it is all a journey, and when you reach the centre, you have learned so much and see how many paths there still are to walk but at least you know you have made it once and that is enough to keep traveling.

We are all suffering from tunnel vision at times, some of us are better adjusted to the darkness, thread more carefully, along the edges and bump their heads considerably less times and end up with less severe contusions, if any. Some of us choose the reckless approach and boldly make our way right down the centre.  For being the centre, you'd expect it to mean balance and security. What a sham! It actually means no boundaries, no nooks to crawl in, no alcoves to take shelter in, just a mass of equally disoriented and hopelessly hopeful daredevils, some of which are friendly. It's not even a choice; the choice is an illusion. It's like an addiction and as all addictions, it's uncomfortable in that it propels you through this dizzying spiral, upwards or downwards and then slams you to the ground it showed you did not exist. You saw it didn't exist and still hit it with a thud and lay on it to recompose, to ground yourself again until you feel the exhilarating anticipation of your next expedition. Until you can't feel the ground anymore and that doesn't unease you. The bearable lightness of being.

I remember reading Slaughterhouse Five and somewhere in there there's a nation of aliens that pity us mortals because we can only conceive time in a sequential manner, whereas they understand that all moments exist, have existed and will exist always. This means that if they see a corpse that's to say that person is in a bad shape at that particular moment, but there are so many other moments when they are just fine. There are so many moments when I am fine and many others when I am not and everything in between, above and beyond fine. I now enjoy the good ones more and have more patience with the bad ones.

So i guess I resolve to savor my entropy, I am in no rush. Happy or otherwise, this new year is the story I am writing for myself now and I am excited. I am also very happy.

Michael's story ..and the first time I was called a broad

Anyone who's ever been to Shepherd's Bush can attest to the fact that there's nothing pastoral about the place. It's pretty resounding, it does the name justice, if you look at it like that. It's brash, harsh, in your face and has the unique ability to make you feel like you don't belong and at the same time, that you can live there because in all the crazy there's no pressure and you don't draw attention. For a displaced soul, it's quite accommodating. Observing while blended, but not immersed, you find yourself a privileged spectator of quite a show and it becomes clear that art does imitate life. 

It's Saturday evening and of course I am expecting a dose of crazy. What threw me was the timing. It's 7 pm and by all standards, even Shepherd's Bush ones, too early for crazy.

I stop outside of the tube station to finish my smoke. A tanned, surprisingly young looking middle aged man also smoking outside looks at me and says "Hello!"

I smile and say "Hi!"

He's wearing a checkered shirt with short sleeves, a wife beater, white baggy shorts and bright white trainers. Basketball aficionado meets barbecue dad. Definitely not a product of the Bush. He's head is shaved and he has a silver goatee, beady eyes and a convivial look. Tattoos of some sort or Madonna and other biblical imagery peer out of the shirt to reinforce my assumption.

This followed:

"I just moved here 4 days ago.I landed and my friends and family sorted out a flat for me. If you ask me I'll tell you my story."

I didn't and wasn't really planning on it, as I had exactly one cigarette's worth of time, but I did ask:

"Where did you come from?"

"Los Angeles!"

"Wow! Why did you trade LA for this?!"

arching my arm over the depressingly overcast sky of the Bush

"I was born here...Newcastle."

pointing towards White City, as if Newcastle was just a bus ride away, but I guess in American distances that's pretty much accurately scaled

"I left when I was 5 months, this big"

cupping his palms to form a cocoon of about 20 inches and his gestures are becoming increasingly exuberant 

At this point he's clearly beginning to get comfortable with the situation because he starts taking charge of the space around him, moving in leaps and bounds, resembling a white but tanned rapper. He keeps his distance though and it feels like he's  dancing around me, talking at me, faster and faster and his voice mimicking his movements, is growing fainterand louder. All this time, I was feeling like my ears where somehow muffled,it may have been due to the atmospheric pressure  of that evening, or the fact that I hadn't left the house all day and those where the first 10 min of fresh air I was breathing.

He carries on :

"I spent 18 years and 143 days in prison and when I got out I got deported."

 
"Oh Wow! What were you in prison for?"

now I realize that my physical unease was justified and that this was going to be interesting

"8 armed bank robberies and one attempt. 18 years and 143 days, man!  You're a very good looking broad! Very attractive. I'm flirting with you, this is what this is."

wow! I've never been called a broad before and nearly choked on the cigarette smoke I had just inhaled 

"Ohhh....Okay, thank you."

"You know, we should hang out. It doesn't have to be sexual, though you know it should. I'm energy, you're energy..this is what it all is - energy, man! This is what I've been doing since I landed - drinking and meeting people."

 
"Cool. So....what's the plan?"

here's me with the pragmatic question to an ex-con fresh out of prison and barely just recovered from jet lag after having been deported...

"I'll give myself a break for a month or so. I have a flat that's paid for. I'm looking for a woman, you know, man? I mean I have a couple of girlfriends, but ya know....I'm looking for a woman. You're a cool broad!  Let's have a drink! Talk like this - it's nice. And I've got some money we can burn. Not a lot, but some..." 

the definition of a cheeky grin appears on his face, one that assumes I'm somehow in on something or that signals I'm just being let in and he's almost running circles around me at this point

"Oh...no... Sorry, I'm meeting a friend for drinks."

He launched into a confusing and at times inaudible tirade of compliments directed at me but also himself, assuring me he also is a cool guy and that he's aware he's not the smartest but he's got a lot going for him. 

We finished off with the unsuccessful negotiation of phone numbers and my nagging sensation that this is not the last run in with Michael, Shepherd's Bush's newest American outlaw in search of a woman. 

Part of me desperately wanted to hang out, to hear all about the 8 and half bank robberies, about life in prison and even more about life after prison. He was so upbeat, so unphased, unjaded and unapologetic. The other part was yelling Are you insane?! 

When all is said and done, here's a guy who sells himself at face value, for whom the anxieties of modern man around human interaction, the insecurity of the future, acclimatization and the conundrums of self image projection are non-existent. He simply wants to drink and meet people and that is what he does. Whenever I'd state emphatically that I would never be able to do something or other, or stand a certain situation, my dad would always say to me Necessity is the best teacher. So when you've spend a third of life confined, limited in your experiences and contact, approaching people on the street  with your story and an invitation becomes second nature.

P.S. this is not the first time a middle aged American ex-con asked me out. 

This happened 10 years ago in the store room of a Salvation Army outlet in a suburb one hour outside Chicago. I was looking to buy a cheap bike and he was working there. While fixing my bike, he explained he had just been released from prison after 13 years. 

A very cool,calm and naive 20 year old version of me asked "What were you in for?"

"I shot one of my friends with a shotgun because I caught him touching my daughter one morning after a party."

I said I would've done the same and began looking for the exit signs.

When he finished, he invited me to dinner and a movie. I declined, explaining I had a boyfriend (which wasn't exactly true). 

Still, he wrote down his number and said I could have two. 

I wasn't convinced and after leaving the parking lot, threw away the piece of paper, but thanked him profusely for the two free bikes he had given me.

Excuse me! Where am I?

Katy's story..and mine, on a bank holiday, on my way to a tattoo parlor  in Hammersmith


When you do all the talking your mind is engaged in so many different processes that it can at most, manage the function of hearing, but not refine it into the art of listening. I wanted to say you might, but in fact you will at best, walk past the very thing you need, that bit of inspiration, that shift in perspective, that smidgen of hope, that burst of laughter, that meet-cute you cynically dismiss as hollywoodian but secretly desire, that bright idea or distraction that helps it germinate, that story, that humanity.Worst case scenario? you walk by someone in need, headphones in, mind busy scheduling, computing, assessing, shades on, hood on, target locked, efficient, focused, trained operative. Heart off because you need the RAM for navigation.

It was Friday and despite having a day off - bank holiday, I was on a mission. I'm not sure people realise the gift of bank holidays, in an era and a city where in order for you and I to meet, my people must to talk to your people for at least a week. This is a day when if not most, at least a lot of people are free. Hence the shops are hives, the retailers, the tailors, the furniture shops and car dealers, the money draining, distraction providers of all sorts are busy bees, And we keep them busy, putting off our life admin and our (not so)essential activities to bank holidays, to days off, to that precious time that should be valued, not spent.

I was going to pay off a debt, for which reason, I feel comfortable subtracting myself from the bank holiday missioners. Someone trusted that I would return the next day with the 20 quid I was short, asking for no guarantees (this in itself, for any Londoner, is a victory). In fact, when I eventually arrived, much later than what I had declared the previous day, the guy who ran the place told me he had forgotten about it. I smiled and said I hadn't. He said I trusted you and  said I appreciated it and meant it.

I was making my way to the place of trust - and it is a place of trust, where the people who work there make their mark on you with the equivalent of a knife and ink and where the person who goes in surrenders their skin to become a canvas for their own vision, mediated by foreign minds, eyes and hands. It's non-judgmental, advisory but not enforcing, intimate, intrusive but not offensive, a sharing of the burden of responsibility, from which so many shy away in the world of free arbiter.

I was walking along Hammersmith Rd and passing St Paul's Gardens and the sky was dark grey, but not heavy. Full, plump drops of rain started falling and I pulled my hood up, hands in my pockets, music in my ears, smile on my face. I turn my head and see a blind woman in the garden, on the path, so I slow my pace. I have this curiosity, fascination and deep admiration for blind people and have recently felt the need to try scratch beyond the surface.

At first, I thought I could see her lips moving and thought she's talking to the pigeons she could certainly hear around her. I thought she's out for a walk, for air, it may have been part of her ritual, as I assumed she was a local. I walk on. And stop. I walk back, take my headphones out and watch. I watched to check if she was alone and saw she was. I thought she might like to talk to someone but instantly pulled back and thought of myself as presumptuous. At last, I step into the park, no game plan, but busy coming up with one.

"Excuse me! Where am I?"

The relief on my face, in my demeanor- I'm happy she did not see it.
"Hi! We are in a park, it's called St Paul's Gardens."

"I don't know how I got here. I stepped off bus no 9 and then took a right. I thought I was in the vicarage garden. You see, I am going to the vicar's house, which is to the left of the church hall on Edith Rd."

"Oh! I don't live around here but I'm headed towards North End Rd and I know Edith Rd is on the way. I can take you. Let me look it up on my phone to make sure"

At this point, she wrapped her hand on my right arm and I felt grateful but also felt this pressure like a student in an examination, like I couldn't fuck up on reading the map because I had her trust around my arm. 

She turns around, away from Hammersmith Rd. She's trying to retrace her steps and explains " I came in through here. Edih Rd should be at the back."

I follow obediently, indulging, though I clearly see that the shortest route was in the other direction . I was following the blind, fully aware we were going the wrong way, from a desire to not make her uncomfortable because she had lost her way. It was a quick sequence in my head - we'll walk the way she feels is right and surely there will be a right or a left turn to take us to our destination. It will take longer, but I can get us there.  I realise how awkward I am, tip toeing around, being politically correct and corseted when this woman needed guidance.

Luckily I come to.

"In front there is a flight of stairs and I am not sure where it leads to. I have Edith Rd on my map. We'll turn around and walk along Hammersmith Rd. My name is Ioana. What's yours?"

Her name is Katy. She lives in Hammersmith and has done for over ten years. She lives on her own, though her house is blind proofed and her phone speaks but is not smart and does  not have navigation. At this point my mind is blown! I have eyes and navigation and get lost, confused, I see landmarks, I can describe whereabouts, I don't need to remember the left-right sequence, the number of streets, the sounds around, I have a whole host of alternatives at my satellite's recalculating fingertips and still, I get stressed out, worn out and treat each target hit like a shiny girl scout  badge that reinforces my independence.

Katy doesn't work because it really is very difficult to find a job as a blind person. It has to be local because she takes longer to get to where she is going. She sings in a choir at her church and volunteers at church events. The people who go there are all very lovely. In fact this afternoon they are getting together to plan Easter at the church for the children.

I want to ask her so many questions but my maps and my smart phone played me. Edith Rd. We take a right and there it is, second building on the road - the church hall, with the vicarage to the left and a nice, welcoming, smiling, understanding, tolerating, warm and accommodating vicar in the doorstep welcoming his flock into his red brick house. It's surrounded by a beautiful, vibrant garden where raw green, scarlet roses and pink azaleas intertwine playfully to remind you that there still is tradition, faith, community and that it doesn't mean a thing to you, but a world to someone else.

I hand Katy over. The vicar welcomes her, assuring her she's not late. Katy explains she lost her way and couldn't quite see how. She introduces me to vicar, says thank you, then disappears into the house and I say good bye.

Katy was what I needed that Friday; and I was what Katy needed. I wanted to figure out Katy and she wanted to figure out how she lost her way. I guess we'll both have to piece our missing pieces together, on our own. Katy will venture out again on the same route and I will keep looking to shed more light on life in darkness. I will share when I do. The irony? Can't figure how to turn my satellite off and it's  draining my battery very fast, leaving me with no access and no support when I actually need it.

Ben's Story - Are you afraid of me? I'm not gonna attack you!

I wrote part of this to someone, as an impulse, as a stream, as I was still shaking inside and out with the ripples of the encounter - the first part; the rest is a reflection and an exchange with a delightful array of souls of all sorts - lighter, deeper, more intellectual, more ethereal, pragmatics and dreamers, a combination of two or more and everything in between. The layers will most likely be obvious with almost a tactile quality..you will likely almost be able to touch the overlap; at this point I can't say for sure.

Ben's story ... and mine

Though I was late for work, last minute I decided to grab a coffee in Starbucks...I was waiting for the barista with headphones in...when a middle aged man, kinda scruffy nudges me and says "Sorry, is there a cue?" I look at him a bit confused ( I was the cue), smile and say "Well, it's just me".
He says "I'm disabled, I can't see." And I freeze for a sec... as he says "I was in bad accident, I spent 5 years in hospital." (This struck me even more as we were just talking about how I thought it would be a tragedy to suddenly lose your sight ...you remember the Isaac convo)

Isaac is a poster dog for a fundraising campaign for training of guide dogs and helped sway me donate; of course it wasn't just him - I'm not that naive but I liked having a story, a face and a name. Hook, line and sink'er.

Then he says "Are you afraid of me?" I say "No, not at all" ... And still at that point I don't fully realise what's going on. He hears my name and asks "Where are you from?" 
as so many ask upon hearing my name, ever so fickle for Anglo-Saxons; strange, since I normally give my Starbucks alias of Joanna. I didn't this morning.
I say "Romania" and we start talking about travelling for a bit....then he tells me he loves ballet and jumps to say "I'm not gay, I'm not!"
Then ...he says... "I was a stuntman ..I was nominated for an Oscar, my first film was Gladiator. Russell Crowe isn't very nice!" He then jumps again and says "Are you afraid of me? I'm not gonna attack you!"
I say "No, not at all!".... at this point I thought he kept saying this because he must have heard my voice grow fainter as I was walking along to get the coffee. He says..."I had an accident" and I ask what happened...he said "Parachute, I don't remember, I was in hospital for 5 years, my brains were smashed, they thought I was gonna die, they were lovely in hospital...I have no memory." I get the coffee and we say goodbye and I get back to the office...my head kinda spinning.
And I can't settle ...so I grab my coffee and go back ...I thought what if he didn't hear me say goodbye and felt left like that? So I find him, sit down at his table and say "I'm sorry Ben, I must have left in a hurry but I didn't want you to think I'm rude." He says "I'm sorry, I'm disabled , I had an accident"

And then I realise - he doesn't remember...

So we have the exact same conversation again and every now and then, he would say "Are you afraid of me? I'm not gonna attack you, I know you're a woman but I don't want to have sex with you." 

This happened every time he reached out and touched my hand, which was on the table, playing with the cup of coffee, while the other was shielding my eyes from the gorgeous morning sun. I probably was not as relaxed as you'd normally be over a cup of coffee, understandably, but I'm not sure if he picks up on such cues. The question would sometimes come out of the blue, without the touch, but certainly accompanied every contact. I realise it’s automatic, more or less, definitely compelling, so I keep ignoring this and ask him questions about himself and he gets over it and starts asking questions about me. He struggles a bit with finding questions to ask and I smile and take the pressure off ( he was probably trying not to lose the momentum in his head) by asking him questions. At this point I'm still a bit sceptical about his story and he says "I have a website do you want to know my full name so you can see?
I don't feel bad for this - I wasn't questioning his intentions but it is a pretty wild story!

He says "Ben Bellman" ...

We keep talking, he says his girlfriend at that time, is now married to someone else and has 2 kids and a lovely husband... "I'm not angry...I was in an accident, they thought I would die....but I'm not angry....she's my best friend...I want to be married to a female and have children"
And here he would pout, like children do, like lovers do when the play act being upset, only, his expression held the deepest sorrow I have ever seen but so fleeing, maybe a second not more and then the most genuine, child-like, whole-heartedly and endearing smile would shine on his face as he would move on to something else.

He lives in Victoria with his 86 year old mum, who is his caregiver and he loves to talk to people.

He loves ballet, especially Russian - he thinks it's beautiful. He taught sports - 10 different kinds but he especially loves triathlons and yoga. He thinks yoga is beautiful, ashtanga yoga in particular. He thinks sports are beautiful and he thinks he only survived his accident because he was so strong. He is aware that if I disappeared for 5 minutes, he wouldn't recognise me. His body is covered in scars, but he only showed me the one at the base of his throat, where the tube went in - it was a deep, cruel scar; he has more but he didn't want to be naked in front of me. He's a vegetarian and seeing as I'm an animal, I shouldn't worry - he wouldn't hurt me anyway.

He gets up every morning at 4 am and stretches for an hour in his room.

He's been to Spain and thinks Barcelona is beautiful; he's also been to Kenya last year and found it beautiful - the animals ( he loves animals, horses in particular, but monkeys are his favourite), he thinks the people there are beautiful, black people are beautiful - "I'm not a racist"

Anyway....as we had finished our coffees and I did have to go back to work....we said goodbye.

I looked him up online: Stuntman, worked on Gladiator, Die Another Day, Band of Brothers,etc, sports teacher,journalist for Time Out.
Busted perception - Russell Crowe is most likely not very nice!
He taught skydiving, parachuting and in 2001, after more than 1000 jumps, his parachute sis not open and he fell for almost 2 miles, smashing all the bones in his body and sustained severe brain damage, which affected his eye sight, though he retained his mobility ( I'm not sure of the time and effort this entailed)...and indeed spent 5 years in hospital in Barcelona...He can't remember anything about the experience - only the events.
I also found a blog post - a guy had written it in 2008 - he ran into him at the underground and gave an account of what they had talked about....it's pretty much the same....a loop....
http://rodcorp.typepad.com/rodcorp/2008/05/im-not-angry.html

But at some point he said "My life is almost over" ( he's 47) and I looked at him and said but it's new every 5-10 minutes and he smiled this HUGE smile and said "yes!"

And since the morning I can’t help but think… I was so wrapped up in myself over the past few years, without even realising it….

and I was overcome by an immense feeling of relief, joy and clarity that I have trouble expressing and verbalising that somehow stemmed from realising a deeper level of it's not all about me - it unlocked the door of my head so I can step out and breathe in the warmth and soak up the sun that today was particularly kind. This is not to take anything away from me - I think of my self lovingly and know I am kind, considerate and altruistic; this has more to do with the feeling of being central to your life experience, less with being self-centred and nothing to do with conceit or selfishness.

I believe this experience, while incredibly humbling, is not meant to cause flagellation. 

Ben said I was very kind and I said he was beautiful,as beautiful as yoga, animals, Africa, black people, sports and Barcelona.

And what remains once lucidity, functionality, social and genetic coding are smashed, once the thread is violently torn, while everything becomes BEAUTIFUL, is the need to assure everyone that you are not violent, not angry, not a sexual predator, not gay by mere association, nor racist. The question is WHY?? Did someone (re)teach him that he must repeat these assurances or is it a product of the powerful control that once was, that guided behaviour, that prescribed the subtle and commonly understood cues, suppressing the need to verbalise?

Out of all the people I shared this with, one reaction struck me in particular.Upon reading the story, my dear Spanish friend said " Que penita"  ( one would normally say Que pena! to mean - What a shame! or What a heartbreak!, more like it) But he used the diminutive, which in this case diminishes nothing but humanises the sentiment that much more.