Conversations with beautiful women

I could write about the death of Jacques Fresco at 101 years of age. He was a visionary who had ideas about an entirely different society. He was the founder of the Venus project. He’s featured in Peter Joseph‘s second Zeitgeist movie. He passed away recently. He never realized one of his ambitious city projects. I suspect, because the size of his ego was as big as his creative drive. He never found the right collaborators, probably because he was an Einzelgänger and not much a of team player. And I suspect he broke ties with Peter Joseph, because Jacques’ ego simply got in the way, he complained he was not featured enough in the movie. A pity, because the Zeitgeist movement gets more attention than the Venus project.

I could write about that, and I’ve just done so, but not in the depth that the topic deserves.

I could write about the almost farcical connection between the US and Saudi-Arabia and Israel. I could write about how many billions in arms deals those two horrific countries have recently been granted by the US. I could write about the mind-boggling hypocrisy of the US, a state that claims to only bomb the shit out of countries to protect human rights, but in reality they only use human rights as an excuse when it fits the economic agenda of the US elite. If they gave a damn about human rights they would boycot Saudi-Arabia immediately. They would stop all support for the brutal Saudi war in Yemen. They would not turn a blind eye when the Saudi petrocracy bloodily oppresses any democratic movement in Saudi-Arabia. They would end the illegal occupation of Palestine today and they would certainly not supply Israel with more arms. Every day some Palestinians get shot, entirely wantonly, almost for sport, by Israelis. Just recently a 14-year old girl was shot six times in Hebron. She was denied medical care. She had done nothing wrong. The only reason she was left to bleed to death on the streets of the contested city with its ‘holy’ places was that she was born Palestinian. It’s not entirely clear if she survived or not, because journalist activities are not encouraged, let’s say, under the watchful eye of the Israel Offensive Forces, erroneously known as the IDF. I could write about that, more so because I’ve been to Hebron, I’ve passed the check-points, I have passed the uniformed babykillers. I could write about it.

But I don’t.

I choose to write about conversations with gorgeous women.

Maybe because I’m a shallow nitwit. Maybe because intimacy with beautiful and intelligent women makes me come alive.

Maybe because the horrific events mentioned above make my entire body turn to acid. Maybe because the anger in me becomes so intense that I can’t devote more time to writing about these things without throwing my laptop against the wall. Maybe because no matter how many articles I would write about the occupation of Palestine, hypocrite arms deals with Saudi-Arabia (the biggest sponsor of terrorism by the way) or the ridiculous and pathetic western selfishness of mouring children that were killed at a concert, but totally ignoring the hundreds of children that day EVERY DAY of malnutrition and poor sanitation in countries such as Malaysia. Or the children that die in airstrikes in Syria, or the Iraqi children that are still dying of cancer because the US totally unnecessarily used ammunition containing uranium during their invasions of Iraq to depose a so called dictator that turned out not to have any weapons of mass destruction and who was an ally of the US and the UK as long as he butchered Iranians.

I could write about all that, and I would sink into depression, frustration and anger. Along with some in my tiny readership.

So I choose to write about conversations with beautiful women.

How I sit with them on couches in book stores and slip gifts for them between the pillows. How we sit on a bench along Danube river at night and I hear them talk about their dreams and hopes and job interviews that await them. For a moment there’s no sickening war in Yemen that the media hardly reports on, because it’s in the interests of the US and it’s they who decide what the mainstream media writes about. For a while there are no Israeli snipers who are being trained to aim to maim, to aim for the part of the body of young teenagers that will either make them bleed to death or paralyze them. For a while there is no moronic praise of Obama who was hardly any better than Donald Trump. At least with Trump the good people on this earth are not fooled into thinking that the US president actually gives a damn about people. Obama does not give a fuck about people. He’s the most succesful marketing product ever unleashed in politics, a fraud with blood on his charismatically waving hands. The guy and the praise (for what? For turning Libya into pandemonium, for bombing the shit out of several countries, for killing women and children at weddings??) he gets are the loudest screaming symbol that most people do not see behind the facade of politics, and that tears my guts out if I would think about it a while longer.

So I stare in the big grey-blueish eyes of an adult woman who embodies all that is beautiful about the feminine form, and none of those abominations exist. She honestly and openly tells me what’s on her mind. No drone strikes, no arms deals, no land theft in Palestine, no systematic terrifying of an entire people. There’s just this sweet young lady. Women, the most beautiful, most captivating existence on this planet. In her words resonates only concern for other people, concern for me, tenderness and reasonable, positive ambitions, honest wishes. I look at her pink shoes, and silvery pink nail polish, red lipstick. Her otherwise make-up free face. Her scent balances me. For a while, I’m in the moment, there’s nowhere else I want to be or need to be. I do not wish to rush after something, I don’t feel like I need to produce anything. I just drink in her and the moment. Her blue dress, firm, slender thighs, deep pink overcoat, quiet, sort of melodic voice, the carefullness with which she picks her words and her obvious respect for my being, that perhaps I do not even deserve.

My sitting on a bench with this lady does not end any injustice in this world, but if I have to rate the moment on a personal scale, then it’s one of the peak experiences of my life. If it didn’t solve anything, it didn’t hurt anyone either. And perhaps my joy of being with her, will flow over into other aspects of my life and the people around me. Perhaps the attention I devote to this lady, the nice things I do for her will let her joy flow over into the people around her. The icing on the cake is that I can go home to an other beautiful woman who does not crucify me for intimacy with others.

Perhaps there’s no better way to help this world along than to do the things that make us come alive.

PS The featured image is a picture of my wife. The other two pictures I got here: https://uk.pinterest.com/nextdaycoffee/hot-coffee-girls/?lp=true I was recently told not to use pictures of women I meet without asking their permission, a request I want to fulfill.

PPS About the arms deal with Saudi-Arabia: https://www.rt.com/news/389061-trump-saudi-arms-deal/

PPPS About the Palestinian girl that was shot http://www.palestinechronicle.com/israeli-soldiers-shoot-critically-injure-14-year-old-girl-graphic-video/

And: http://www.trtworld.com/mea/five-palestinian-children-killed-by-israeli-soldiers-47884

PPPPS I’m not saying that the life of a little girl attending a concert is worth less than a girl’s life in Africa, but based on the way the media reports the death of children you would have to assume that we care more about 1 girl close to home than 800 girls somewhere else. Some 300,000 children under 5 years old die per year – over 800 every day – from diarrhoeal diseases linked to inadequate water, sanitation and hygiene. Is that not a form of terrorism? To me it is, because if we really care about children’s lives everywhere, we could change this.  https://www.unicef.org/media/media_86283.html