Psychophant's Rants
30.7.04
Rereading the book
There are books that are done to be read several times, and those you read and quickly forget. And those that become a part of you, so that reading them again not only brings back the text, but your own past with it.
The Lord of the Rings always brings me back to my teens, and I have finally admitted that it is that, and not a fault of the book, what has made me shunned rereading it since the last time, just after seeing the Fellowship of the Rimg movie. I have gone a long way since that 14 year old. So much that getting back to the past is not so pleasant.
But the books that brought me to this article are ones I still enjoy a lot, the Alexandria quartet, by Lawrence Durrell. The books were a gift, Faber paperbacks from 1961, still marked 5s. I also have a copy of the Avignon quintet, bought, of course, secondhand in the English library at Avignon. But they are too cold and too gnostic for me. I prefer the warm, smelly closeness of Alexandria.
It is also weird how they made it into my to read pile. I had just finished Life of Pi, that in some respects reminded me of the dry wit and love for animals of Gerald Durrell. Gerald made me think of his brother Lawrence, and that reminded me that I had started Justine briefly in June, thinking of two Melissas. I was looking for a quote, but ended up reading several pages. The quartet is one of my summer favourite readings, as you can interrupt it almost anywhere, and retake it easily. It is easier to see the city and the passions under a sweltering sun and sweating yourself. As well, it is a book both about the relative value of truth, and that requires the reader to add something to the mix, as one more participant in that melting pot that is Alexandria.
This was the first book where I realized that narrators lie. It is a useful fact, but that can take away the pleasure of many books, so it is better used sparingly. Here it does not really matter. Well, it does matter, but the lies make him more human, more real. Closer to us, as he is in fact lying to himself, and knowing he does.
Just like in real life, it is a book that does not give you easy choices. There are several women to fall in love with, and several men too. Failed, tragic, nevertheless I feel my heart go to them. And choosing also becomes a terrible stress. Just when you decide that you hate Justine, she redeems herself and catches your affect once again.
I will submerge myself on that great static universe of Alexandria again. And soon I will also feel the need to isolate myself from that surge of life. But that is what other books are for. This is a book that puts you back in your life, either by the parallels or the lack of them. Other books will help you evade from your current life, but not this one. Which is why either you read it fast and sudden, a rush to the head, or you have to take small breaks, to breath, to live, to dilute it.
A good book to give to those who you love, or have loved, or who love you.
¶ 3:07 PM 0 comments
There are books that are done to be read several times, and those you read and quickly forget. And those that become a part of you, so that reading them again not only brings back the text, but your own past with it.
The Lord of the Rings always brings me back to my teens, and I have finally admitted that it is that, and not a fault of the book, what has made me shunned rereading it since the last time, just after seeing the Fellowship of the Rimg movie. I have gone a long way since that 14 year old. So much that getting back to the past is not so pleasant.
But the books that brought me to this article are ones I still enjoy a lot, the Alexandria quartet, by Lawrence Durrell. The books were a gift, Faber paperbacks from 1961, still marked 5s. I also have a copy of the Avignon quintet, bought, of course, secondhand in the English library at Avignon. But they are too cold and too gnostic for me. I prefer the warm, smelly closeness of Alexandria.
It is also weird how they made it into my to read pile. I had just finished Life of Pi, that in some respects reminded me of the dry wit and love for animals of Gerald Durrell. Gerald made me think of his brother Lawrence, and that reminded me that I had started Justine briefly in June, thinking of two Melissas. I was looking for a quote, but ended up reading several pages. The quartet is one of my summer favourite readings, as you can interrupt it almost anywhere, and retake it easily. It is easier to see the city and the passions under a sweltering sun and sweating yourself. As well, it is a book both about the relative value of truth, and that requires the reader to add something to the mix, as one more participant in that melting pot that is Alexandria.
This was the first book where I realized that narrators lie. It is a useful fact, but that can take away the pleasure of many books, so it is better used sparingly. Here it does not really matter. Well, it does matter, but the lies make him more human, more real. Closer to us, as he is in fact lying to himself, and knowing he does.
Just like in real life, it is a book that does not give you easy choices. There are several women to fall in love with, and several men too. Failed, tragic, nevertheless I feel my heart go to them. And choosing also becomes a terrible stress. Just when you decide that you hate Justine, she redeems herself and catches your affect once again.
I will submerge myself on that great static universe of Alexandria again. And soon I will also feel the need to isolate myself from that surge of life. But that is what other books are for. This is a book that puts you back in your life, either by the parallels or the lack of them. Other books will help you evade from your current life, but not this one. Which is why either you read it fast and sudden, a rush to the head, or you have to take small breaks, to breath, to live, to dilute it.
A good book to give to those who you love, or have loved, or who love you.
¶ 3:07 PM 0 comments
27.7.04
Laphroaig
The Lord of the Islands (recalling the old title of the MacDonalds in Islay) of the single malts whiskys.
All the malts from islay are very smoky and sea tangy, but Laphroaig brings this to the limit. Both people who like and dislike it have called it "liquid smoke". And although the taste is much more complex than that, it is really a peat bonfire what first comes to the memory when smelling or tasting it.
In general, I have found whisky lovers can be divided in three main fields (with many subclasses). A good portion likes Laphroaig as one of the extremes in whisky, appreciating also mellower whiskys. Another sizable fraction does not consider it as a real malt, being too "uncut" and mellowed by age. This people prefer, as rough and tumble Islay the 16 year old Lagavulin, that indeed has the unruly peaty and marine taste softened by the oak and time (the Laphroaig 15 y.o. reminds me a lot of Lagavulin). And then there are those who find even this too rough for normal consumption.
Generally the first group dirnks the whisky alone, or with a few drops of water, the second may add a sizable amount of water, and the third may add lots of water, or ice, or even prefer mellower, blended whiskys.
That does not mean you could drink Laphroaig all the time. Every whisky has its time and opportunity, and that is even truer of extremes such as Laphroaig. For me it is a late evening drink, with a full stomach, and in small glass. I have found that with a wide glass, I aspire the vapors instead of drinking, and that is not what I like with this one.
Currently my single malt reserve, still recovering from winter (when I drink some more) is: One unknown maker called Glen Moray, a gift. Another. more thoughtful gift was a bottle of Glenfiddich, although I would not have bought it myself. Then, still in Speyside, a Glenlivet, as I enjoy this in the late afternoon, and my wife likes it in the evenings. Lagavulin distiller's reserve, another gift (an expensive one), and one whisky I enjoy in company. As I said before, something like a civilized version of Laphroaig, the reserve even more so. And I need to stock up on Laphroaig, because I have a dwindling bottle of cask strength and a 15 y. o. unopened one (last souvenir from our visit to Islay three years ago). There are also blended, bourbon and Irish whiskeys, but those are different, and I use them more for cocktails, except for the Jameson's that I also like on its own.
The charm of Laphroaig goes beyond the drink itself. Besides the famous square foot that you can get just by buying one bottle, once you join that with that certificate (hanging in my studio), birthday cards, greeting cards, special offers, mails, and a great welcome when you visit the distillery (only slightly better than when you just pass by, however, as I found everyone very welcoming in Islay). Not to mention the rent. And that great marketing idea, the landholders cupboard, intended to help you find your own small piece of peat, while protecting you at the same time from the weather, low flying geese, and boredom.
Before someone jumps to conclusions, we consume between two and three bottles of whisky, per year. Probably we go through more vodka than that. Which reminds me I have to put the Absolut bottle in the refrigerator. My parents brought me a small tin of beluga caviar from Russia.
These things are enjoyed more if done only rarely.
¶ 1:55 PM 0 comments
The Lord of the Islands (recalling the old title of the MacDonalds in Islay) of the single malts whiskys.
All the malts from islay are very smoky and sea tangy, but Laphroaig brings this to the limit. Both people who like and dislike it have called it "liquid smoke". And although the taste is much more complex than that, it is really a peat bonfire what first comes to the memory when smelling or tasting it.
In general, I have found whisky lovers can be divided in three main fields (with many subclasses). A good portion likes Laphroaig as one of the extremes in whisky, appreciating also mellower whiskys. Another sizable fraction does not consider it as a real malt, being too "uncut" and mellowed by age. This people prefer, as rough and tumble Islay the 16 year old Lagavulin, that indeed has the unruly peaty and marine taste softened by the oak and time (the Laphroaig 15 y.o. reminds me a lot of Lagavulin). And then there are those who find even this too rough for normal consumption.
Generally the first group dirnks the whisky alone, or with a few drops of water, the second may add a sizable amount of water, and the third may add lots of water, or ice, or even prefer mellower, blended whiskys.
That does not mean you could drink Laphroaig all the time. Every whisky has its time and opportunity, and that is even truer of extremes such as Laphroaig. For me it is a late evening drink, with a full stomach, and in small glass. I have found that with a wide glass, I aspire the vapors instead of drinking, and that is not what I like with this one.
Currently my single malt reserve, still recovering from winter (when I drink some more) is: One unknown maker called Glen Moray, a gift. Another. more thoughtful gift was a bottle of Glenfiddich, although I would not have bought it myself. Then, still in Speyside, a Glenlivet, as I enjoy this in the late afternoon, and my wife likes it in the evenings. Lagavulin distiller's reserve, another gift (an expensive one), and one whisky I enjoy in company. As I said before, something like a civilized version of Laphroaig, the reserve even more so. And I need to stock up on Laphroaig, because I have a dwindling bottle of cask strength and a 15 y. o. unopened one (last souvenir from our visit to Islay three years ago). There are also blended, bourbon and Irish whiskeys, but those are different, and I use them more for cocktails, except for the Jameson's that I also like on its own.
The charm of Laphroaig goes beyond the drink itself. Besides the famous square foot that you can get just by buying one bottle, once you join that with that certificate (hanging in my studio), birthday cards, greeting cards, special offers, mails, and a great welcome when you visit the distillery (only slightly better than when you just pass by, however, as I found everyone very welcoming in Islay). Not to mention the rent. And that great marketing idea, the landholders cupboard, intended to help you find your own small piece of peat, while protecting you at the same time from the weather, low flying geese, and boredom.
Before someone jumps to conclusions, we consume between two and three bottles of whisky, per year. Probably we go through more vodka than that. Which reminds me I have to put the Absolut bottle in the refrigerator. My parents brought me a small tin of beluga caviar from Russia.
These things are enjoyed more if done only rarely.
¶ 1:55 PM 0 comments
26.7.04
Holidays
Today do start effectively my summer holidays. Four weeks that, if previous experience can be trusted, will be shorter than they seem and that will not allow me to do all I wished to do.
Knowing it, this year I have lowered my expectations. No weight loss (although I hope at least to keep steady). No mountain of books, including some of the classics. I will read what I can, if possible while sun tanning or after/while cooking. No compulsory rereads this year, although I will probably try to finish Gravity's rainbow. No exhausting hiking excursions, although I have a couple of places prepared in case we can make a one day escape. No furniture to assemble. No furniture to buy.
What I do have are several friends I want to meet inexcusably, as we are growing apart. And a wife I have not given all the attention I should (a shared fault). Some work, that it is not serious if I just ignore the four weeks.
This year, however, I want to try cooking. To test new dishes, or to improve old favorites. Great time both to buy and (with air conditioning) to cook. I have several recipes involving fresh basilic for the next few days. Lots of it. Then we will see.
And of course, Prague. I m really looking forward to it, including no computer for one week. I wonder if I will resist the urge to plug in in a cybercafé.
And that will be all. I have reserved one week to get back into normal thought processes before getting back to work. To renew my link with my computer and cooking for two.
But besides Prague, my only concern this holidays is making a perfect fabada (a Spanish dish similar to a "pot a feu", with white beans, blood sausage, chorizo, cured ham, salted lard, garlic and some olive oil). So that when the actual season for this arrives, in winter, I will be ready.
¶ 9:54 PM 0 comments
Today do start effectively my summer holidays. Four weeks that, if previous experience can be trusted, will be shorter than they seem and that will not allow me to do all I wished to do.
Knowing it, this year I have lowered my expectations. No weight loss (although I hope at least to keep steady). No mountain of books, including some of the classics. I will read what I can, if possible while sun tanning or after/while cooking. No compulsory rereads this year, although I will probably try to finish Gravity's rainbow. No exhausting hiking excursions, although I have a couple of places prepared in case we can make a one day escape. No furniture to assemble. No furniture to buy.
What I do have are several friends I want to meet inexcusably, as we are growing apart. And a wife I have not given all the attention I should (a shared fault). Some work, that it is not serious if I just ignore the four weeks.
This year, however, I want to try cooking. To test new dishes, or to improve old favorites. Great time both to buy and (with air conditioning) to cook. I have several recipes involving fresh basilic for the next few days. Lots of it. Then we will see.
And of course, Prague. I m really looking forward to it, including no computer for one week. I wonder if I will resist the urge to plug in in a cybercafé.
And that will be all. I have reserved one week to get back into normal thought processes before getting back to work. To renew my link with my computer and cooking for two.
But besides Prague, my only concern this holidays is making a perfect fabada (a Spanish dish similar to a "pot a feu", with white beans, blood sausage, chorizo, cured ham, salted lard, garlic and some olive oil). So that when the actual season for this arrives, in winter, I will be ready.
¶ 9:54 PM 0 comments
25.7.04
Curt
I have always been long-winded. I am usually more long winded in Spanish, so you do not really know how bad it can be. My blog used to be long winded too. But lately they are getting shorter.
I thought of editing them up, to get them up to size. But when rereading them, I found I liked them a lot as they are, and, even if I am not the best judge for that, that quality is improving. So I will let them stand as they are, and wonder at this sudden ability to understand my own ideas better.
This blog has always been intended as a research tool on myself. I do not know yet if that means I understand myself better, or I cheat myself better, adopting smoothly a "blogger persona" to analyze. It does not really matter.
It is good to write, and even better to have a reason for that writing. I suspect it is my unseen public the force behind my improvements. So thanks for reading.
¶ 11:37 PM 0 comments
I have always been long-winded. I am usually more long winded in Spanish, so you do not really know how bad it can be. My blog used to be long winded too. But lately they are getting shorter.
I thought of editing them up, to get them up to size. But when rereading them, I found I liked them a lot as they are, and, even if I am not the best judge for that, that quality is improving. So I will let them stand as they are, and wonder at this sudden ability to understand my own ideas better.
This blog has always been intended as a research tool on myself. I do not know yet if that means I understand myself better, or I cheat myself better, adopting smoothly a "blogger persona" to analyze. It does not really matter.
It is good to write, and even better to have a reason for that writing. I suspect it is my unseen public the force behind my improvements. So thanks for reading.
¶ 11:37 PM 0 comments
24.7.04
Babies
I have held a three month old baby for most of an hour tonight, and I still have not recovered.
We were already acquaintanced, so I knew what positions he preferred, what would make him complain for sure, and just how to hold him to avoid having the parents squirm.
And yet, there is a significant effect in holding such an infant, totally helpless, and the kind of care (grab the head, watch the neck, careful with the arms...) that is required. Not to mention the sudden emotion rush when you have it lying on your legs and it clearly enjoys your tickling the elbow, and suddenly gets calmed and relaxed when he was grumpy and sleepy.
And of course that brings to mind all that hardwiring we have in the brain concerning babies. The best way to turn adults back into kids, with some higher incidence with females, but most males over thirty will be vulnerable to this too.
Bigger children can quickly become annoying, as they are mobile, and usually independent minded, and can be small engines of destruction. But to hold something as helpless as a baby, to know that somehow, even if only for a few minutes, you are wholly responsible for a full life...
So much responsibility almost kills me, and it was just a friend's baby, with the parents close by, ready to relieve me if the burden became too big (or I failed on my part of baby-holding duty). So if this happens after one hour, I fear I will never have my own. Too hard living at the same time.
¶ 12:29 AM 0 comments
I have held a three month old baby for most of an hour tonight, and I still have not recovered.
We were already acquaintanced, so I knew what positions he preferred, what would make him complain for sure, and just how to hold him to avoid having the parents squirm.
And yet, there is a significant effect in holding such an infant, totally helpless, and the kind of care (grab the head, watch the neck, careful with the arms...) that is required. Not to mention the sudden emotion rush when you have it lying on your legs and it clearly enjoys your tickling the elbow, and suddenly gets calmed and relaxed when he was grumpy and sleepy.
And of course that brings to mind all that hardwiring we have in the brain concerning babies. The best way to turn adults back into kids, with some higher incidence with females, but most males over thirty will be vulnerable to this too.
Bigger children can quickly become annoying, as they are mobile, and usually independent minded, and can be small engines of destruction. But to hold something as helpless as a baby, to know that somehow, even if only for a few minutes, you are wholly responsible for a full life...
So much responsibility almost kills me, and it was just a friend's baby, with the parents close by, ready to relieve me if the burden became too big (or I failed on my part of baby-holding duty). So if this happens after one hour, I fear I will never have my own. Too hard living at the same time.
¶ 12:29 AM 0 comments
22.7.04
Death
It is always surprising, no matter how often it happens, how shocked I am when someone I knows who is younger than me dies.
And as time goes by, it is bound to become more frequent. In a way, I hope to become inured to it, while another part of me is shocked I can be so heartless about another person's death.
It is strange how emotion gets so utterly divorced from reason. It is like Love's dark twin, turning us also irrational, so we cannot just explain things, or make a calculation of how one life compensates another. All life is infinite in value, specially if you do not believe in any afterlife. A wonder of complexity and beauty, that can never apprehended fully by an outsider. And thousands of them end prematurely every day while I do not bat an eye.
But just take someone who is close to me. Who has passed the grey boundary between the unknown masses and real human beings (defined as those I care some about) in my eye. Usually I appreciate them both rationally and irrationally. Or dislike them one way, and like in the other...
And then there is always that feeling I am losing information, that there are aspects of that someone life or mind I do not know, and many that are definitely unknowable. And Death makes that unknowable portion huge. An infinite entity turned into a finite amount of information. Information that slowly erodes into tatters as memory fades and changes.
So it is also possible to feel a rational loss. And I usually do. But the irrational loss, that lack of breath when pondering certain subjects or listening to certain music. That welling of tears reading a literary fragment I never liked. The feeling of the world becoming a smaller place when listening to a voice I will never hear in the flesh.
I toast to you with Irish uisge beatha, water of life, and because I feel it is proper for a wake. And I let some spill to the ground, as a libation for your spirit, ready to cross the Lethe and forget all of us.
At moments like this, I would like to believe. I would desire to have any hope that I could meet him again, and laugh about all this. But I cannot.
So I finish the bottle.
¶ 8:15 AM 0 comments
It is always surprising, no matter how often it happens, how shocked I am when someone I knows who is younger than me dies.
And as time goes by, it is bound to become more frequent. In a way, I hope to become inured to it, while another part of me is shocked I can be so heartless about another person's death.
It is strange how emotion gets so utterly divorced from reason. It is like Love's dark twin, turning us also irrational, so we cannot just explain things, or make a calculation of how one life compensates another. All life is infinite in value, specially if you do not believe in any afterlife. A wonder of complexity and beauty, that can never apprehended fully by an outsider. And thousands of them end prematurely every day while I do not bat an eye.
But just take someone who is close to me. Who has passed the grey boundary between the unknown masses and real human beings (defined as those I care some about) in my eye. Usually I appreciate them both rationally and irrationally. Or dislike them one way, and like in the other...
And then there is always that feeling I am losing information, that there are aspects of that someone life or mind I do not know, and many that are definitely unknowable. And Death makes that unknowable portion huge. An infinite entity turned into a finite amount of information. Information that slowly erodes into tatters as memory fades and changes.
So it is also possible to feel a rational loss. And I usually do. But the irrational loss, that lack of breath when pondering certain subjects or listening to certain music. That welling of tears reading a literary fragment I never liked. The feeling of the world becoming a smaller place when listening to a voice I will never hear in the flesh.
I toast to you with Irish uisge beatha, water of life, and because I feel it is proper for a wake. And I let some spill to the ground, as a libation for your spirit, ready to cross the Lethe and forget all of us.
At moments like this, I would like to believe. I would desire to have any hope that I could meet him again, and laugh about all this. But I cannot.
So I finish the bottle.
¶ 8:15 AM 0 comments
20.7.04
The Coen Brothers
I do not want to continue with more emotional content. Maybe tomorrow. So I will change tack and just write about who were my favourite filmmakers.
I have seen all of their work in the big screen, a few of them several times, and most of them also in a small screen. And I said were because their last works are not up to what I would expect. Good filmmaking, but not the definite masterpieces I was spoiled to expect.
Blood simple. The first film, already we can see many of their constants. Botched crimes, Carter Burwell's obsessive/repetitive music score, great secondary characters, and unusual endings. Less than 1m. $, it grossed more than 2m. in US only, with more all around the world.
Raising Arizona. The film that hooked me. Great main characters (a big advantage over BS), a more optimistic outlook, even in the terrible circumstances that the characters find themselves. Great phrases in great dialogues, mixing humour with pathos. And a really bad bad guy. So unbelievable it crosses the treshold to seem realistic. And the movement photography is impressive. 6 M$ budget, more than 22 M$ gross in USA. Big success.
Miller's crossing. The best. A script heavy as a battleship and as tight. All characters are so well cast that they seem to live their roles. And a perfectly suited soundtrack with a few choice period pieces. Criminals for once are not bumbling fools, but frightening professionals. And what is for me one of the best filmed violence scenes in modern cinema (Danny Boy's submachinegun suite). 14 M$ budget, 5 M$ gross in the USA (why?). Close to 3 M$ in Spain only...
Barton Fink. Again a great casting, with a different turn, much more caustrophobic and opressive, and a superb John Goodman going way beyond the stereotype "happy fatty". A critical view of Hollywood golden years, and indirectly the whole creative process. And another memorable violence scene, the flaming hall. 9 M$ budget, 6 M$ in the US.
The Hudsucker's Proxy. A bit of a lowdown. The story is outlandish and dark, but the execution and casting is not so great. Too surreal to really believe in it, it is also curiously the more previsible of their films. Still a good movie. Economic failure. 40 M$ budget, less than 3 M$ in the US.
Fargo. Would take second place. We get back to the dark and cruel reality, and the bumbling fools and great music. Another great casting, and they seem to work better with smaller budgets. 7 M$ budget, more than 25 M$ US gross.
The Big Lebowski. A much better entry into the surreal, with a not so great main character, but the usual impressive supporting roles (really impressive Turturro's cameo), and enough gritty reality to keep it grounded. Great music choice, as always. 15 M$ budget, more than 17 M$ in the US.
O Brother, where art thou? An attempt, quite succesful, to film magic realism in action. It always can be natural or supernatural, and again the supporting roles keep the main character afloat (although Clooney sure is charismatic). Prodigious musical score, an even bigger success than the film. 26 M$ budget, 45 M$ US gross.
The Man who wasn't there. Too slow. Well, cast, well acted, well written, impressive B&W photography. It still is too slow. And no matter how well does Billy Bob smoke, it gets boring after five minutes. 20 M$ budget, 7.5 M$ US gross.
Intolerable Cruelty. For once, the main roles control the movie. There are still great phrases and witty dialogues, but it is to the major glory of the leading couple. Disappointing but very pretty. Unremarkable music, unusual for the Coens. 60 M$ budget, 36 M$ US gross.
The Ladykillers. It seems like they are losing control. Some ridiculous casting choices, an excess of gospel and religious music, and a mix of bumbling and professional that does not fit. Hanks fills too much the screen, and does not compare favourably with Guinness. And it shows that the idea is not fully theirs. 35 M$ budget, 40 M$ gross, and still counting.
¶ 10:19 AM 0 comments
I do not want to continue with more emotional content. Maybe tomorrow. So I will change tack and just write about who were my favourite filmmakers.
I have seen all of their work in the big screen, a few of them several times, and most of them also in a small screen. And I said were because their last works are not up to what I would expect. Good filmmaking, but not the definite masterpieces I was spoiled to expect.
Blood simple. The first film, already we can see many of their constants. Botched crimes, Carter Burwell's obsessive/repetitive music score, great secondary characters, and unusual endings. Less than 1m. $, it grossed more than 2m. in US only, with more all around the world.
Raising Arizona. The film that hooked me. Great main characters (a big advantage over BS), a more optimistic outlook, even in the terrible circumstances that the characters find themselves. Great phrases in great dialogues, mixing humour with pathos. And a really bad bad guy. So unbelievable it crosses the treshold to seem realistic. And the movement photography is impressive. 6 M$ budget, more than 22 M$ gross in USA. Big success.
Miller's crossing. The best. A script heavy as a battleship and as tight. All characters are so well cast that they seem to live their roles. And a perfectly suited soundtrack with a few choice period pieces. Criminals for once are not bumbling fools, but frightening professionals. And what is for me one of the best filmed violence scenes in modern cinema (Danny Boy's submachinegun suite). 14 M$ budget, 5 M$ gross in the USA (why?). Close to 3 M$ in Spain only...
Barton Fink. Again a great casting, with a different turn, much more caustrophobic and opressive, and a superb John Goodman going way beyond the stereotype "happy fatty". A critical view of Hollywood golden years, and indirectly the whole creative process. And another memorable violence scene, the flaming hall. 9 M$ budget, 6 M$ in the US.
The Hudsucker's Proxy. A bit of a lowdown. The story is outlandish and dark, but the execution and casting is not so great. Too surreal to really believe in it, it is also curiously the more previsible of their films. Still a good movie. Economic failure. 40 M$ budget, less than 3 M$ in the US.
Fargo. Would take second place. We get back to the dark and cruel reality, and the bumbling fools and great music. Another great casting, and they seem to work better with smaller budgets. 7 M$ budget, more than 25 M$ US gross.
The Big Lebowski. A much better entry into the surreal, with a not so great main character, but the usual impressive supporting roles (really impressive Turturro's cameo), and enough gritty reality to keep it grounded. Great music choice, as always. 15 M$ budget, more than 17 M$ in the US.
O Brother, where art thou? An attempt, quite succesful, to film magic realism in action. It always can be natural or supernatural, and again the supporting roles keep the main character afloat (although Clooney sure is charismatic). Prodigious musical score, an even bigger success than the film. 26 M$ budget, 45 M$ US gross.
The Man who wasn't there. Too slow. Well, cast, well acted, well written, impressive B&W photography. It still is too slow. And no matter how well does Billy Bob smoke, it gets boring after five minutes. 20 M$ budget, 7.5 M$ US gross.
Intolerable Cruelty. For once, the main roles control the movie. There are still great phrases and witty dialogues, but it is to the major glory of the leading couple. Disappointing but very pretty. Unremarkable music, unusual for the Coens. 60 M$ budget, 36 M$ US gross.
The Ladykillers. It seems like they are losing control. Some ridiculous casting choices, an excess of gospel and religious music, and a mix of bumbling and professional that does not fit. Hanks fills too much the screen, and does not compare favourably with Guinness. And it shows that the idea is not fully theirs. 35 M$ budget, 40 M$ gross, and still counting.
¶ 10:19 AM 0 comments
18.7.04
Gifts, revisited
I forgot to mention the other half of gifts, receiving.
I did receive a surprise gift yesterday on the mail. Not only it was a good time to receive a gift (I needed some moral support) but the gift was so well chosen and appropiate to make me feel well that it was uncanny.
Ethan Coen's collection of short stories "Gates of Eden".
So here we get both opportunity, and the right gift. As my friend said:
"I could NOT have sent it. Nothing is better than knowing without doubt that you have the perfect gift."
And yes, I can confirm it is the perfect gift for my current low interest in reading. There are already two books I want to read after I finish this one.
My brother also made me a gift yesterday, which also helps to explain why I am in such a good mood. He just managed to get in touch, and arrange an evening with a friend we had not met in half a year. Nothing deliberate, just the way life gets in the way and keeps you from your friends. And as they are real friends, you do not feel the urge to keep in touch, as you know the link is strong and does not need periodical maintenance.
We stayed up chatting till 4 am, catching up. And we also had gifts to exchange (a travel kit in tarpaulin, an inside RPG joke, for him, and coffee aromatised with coriander from him. Gifts that someone else would have found bizarre, but that we knew where the right ones for that person.
Receiving an appropiate gift is a bit frustrating, however. You cannot send a quick gift back, because a great gift can only be balanced by another great gift, and that cannot be improvised. And you do not want to enter a gift competition. Gifts are a consequence of affect, not the reason for it. But until the situation can be unbalanced, you will feel in debt to the giver, an awkward situation. So, at the right time, I have to get a good gift to my friend. Which is not easy, both to get a right gift and a right opportunity. But I do not worry much. Just as long as I get it close enough, he will know the how and the why and appreciate it. Which is why friends are friends, because you do not need to explain these things.
¶ 5:57 PM 0 comments
I forgot to mention the other half of gifts, receiving.
I did receive a surprise gift yesterday on the mail. Not only it was a good time to receive a gift (I needed some moral support) but the gift was so well chosen and appropiate to make me feel well that it was uncanny.
Ethan Coen's collection of short stories "Gates of Eden".
So here we get both opportunity, and the right gift. As my friend said:
"I could NOT have sent it. Nothing is better than knowing without doubt that you have the perfect gift."
And yes, I can confirm it is the perfect gift for my current low interest in reading. There are already two books I want to read after I finish this one.
My brother also made me a gift yesterday, which also helps to explain why I am in such a good mood. He just managed to get in touch, and arrange an evening with a friend we had not met in half a year. Nothing deliberate, just the way life gets in the way and keeps you from your friends. And as they are real friends, you do not feel the urge to keep in touch, as you know the link is strong and does not need periodical maintenance.
We stayed up chatting till 4 am, catching up. And we also had gifts to exchange (a travel kit in tarpaulin, an inside RPG joke, for him, and coffee aromatised with coriander from him. Gifts that someone else would have found bizarre, but that we knew where the right ones for that person.
Receiving an appropiate gift is a bit frustrating, however. You cannot send a quick gift back, because a great gift can only be balanced by another great gift, and that cannot be improvised. And you do not want to enter a gift competition. Gifts are a consequence of affect, not the reason for it. But until the situation can be unbalanced, you will feel in debt to the giver, an awkward situation. So, at the right time, I have to get a good gift to my friend. Which is not easy, both to get a right gift and a right opportunity. But I do not worry much. Just as long as I get it close enough, he will know the how and the why and appreciate it. Which is why friends are friends, because you do not need to explain these things.
¶ 5:57 PM 0 comments
17.7.04
Fights
I seldom get into physical fights (words is another matter). That has been a constant my whole life. Initially, being big for my age helped a lot, as most violence was done with my school companions. As I had a level mood, I never started fights, and few were willing to do so. Add a high pain threshold (that meant I never surrendered) and a willingness to use any method available (from strangleholds to bites, hairpulling, footstomps) to hurt my opponents, and from 6 to 16 I just drifted on with a peaceful berserker reputation.
Even in stone fights, in summer, I quickly made myself noticeable, as being a bad shot, I tended to get closer than most, and again, that disregard to my own safety quickly built me a reputation. As well, it is easy who are throwing to hit and who just throw at random, and it is not so hard to dodge the dangerous ones.
Most fights at that period (up till 18, when he started going to University on a different town) were with my brother. Unlike me, he gets angry very quickly, and often lashes out without thinking. That without thinking was usually his downfall, as he usually ended up pinned or headlocked. Then it was just a question of waiting till he quieted down. Of course, that meant that in the late years we could cause quite a devastation at home, so we usually emptied of furniture a room before wrestling. We did not really stop till he admitted his homosexuality, probably because we suddenly became too self-conscious.
When I started my own university studies, I suddenly found a new venue for brawls, as crowded bars late at night can quickly become a battlefield. Again, bulk and attitude help a lot, but accidents happen, specially when mixed with alcohol and hormones. Having a wisemouth friend with a tendency to behave foolishly when drunk made things much worse.
In those cases, I found intimidation was the best exit. And hitting my friend before the other guy started fighting in earnest. That usually confused them enough to get away.
So, besides some elbowing and bodyslamming (learned more dancing than fighting), my combat abilities before being 25 were practically inexistent. And glad of it.
However, being both bored by most physical exercises, and being some History buff, not to mention a Dumas lover, as soon as it was possible I started fencing.
Fencing, and I suppose most martial arts, teach you many things beyond the "how do I hit the guy in front of me, or behind, or..." to, how do I walk, what do I do when menaced, or what do I do when startled. I have not practised very heavily, so besides the basic fencing step back, ingrained when menaced, and instinctively taking a sideways pose when thinking of physical violence, I do not change much. But I do have a friend, Aikido black belt and instructor, who has been training for 25 years, and who is impressive to see in a crowd, how he is stressed out, and how he moves, weaves, sidesteps... And avoids practically everyone, which is good, as his first instinct when bumped into is to grab and twist...
However practice gives also, at least in some people, a quietness, an inner peace that can be perceived, and that also helps to avoid violence. Just a lack of fear, a calm. Which is not good against random violence. But I would not call that a fight.
I hope I can stay many years more without doing worse than returning a bodyslam while dancing.
¶ 1:13 AM 0 comments
I seldom get into physical fights (words is another matter). That has been a constant my whole life. Initially, being big for my age helped a lot, as most violence was done with my school companions. As I had a level mood, I never started fights, and few were willing to do so. Add a high pain threshold (that meant I never surrendered) and a willingness to use any method available (from strangleholds to bites, hairpulling, footstomps) to hurt my opponents, and from 6 to 16 I just drifted on with a peaceful berserker reputation.
Even in stone fights, in summer, I quickly made myself noticeable, as being a bad shot, I tended to get closer than most, and again, that disregard to my own safety quickly built me a reputation. As well, it is easy who are throwing to hit and who just throw at random, and it is not so hard to dodge the dangerous ones.
Most fights at that period (up till 18, when he started going to University on a different town) were with my brother. Unlike me, he gets angry very quickly, and often lashes out without thinking. That without thinking was usually his downfall, as he usually ended up pinned or headlocked. Then it was just a question of waiting till he quieted down. Of course, that meant that in the late years we could cause quite a devastation at home, so we usually emptied of furniture a room before wrestling. We did not really stop till he admitted his homosexuality, probably because we suddenly became too self-conscious.
When I started my own university studies, I suddenly found a new venue for brawls, as crowded bars late at night can quickly become a battlefield. Again, bulk and attitude help a lot, but accidents happen, specially when mixed with alcohol and hormones. Having a wisemouth friend with a tendency to behave foolishly when drunk made things much worse.
In those cases, I found intimidation was the best exit. And hitting my friend before the other guy started fighting in earnest. That usually confused them enough to get away.
So, besides some elbowing and bodyslamming (learned more dancing than fighting), my combat abilities before being 25 were practically inexistent. And glad of it.
However, being both bored by most physical exercises, and being some History buff, not to mention a Dumas lover, as soon as it was possible I started fencing.
Fencing, and I suppose most martial arts, teach you many things beyond the "how do I hit the guy in front of me, or behind, or..." to, how do I walk, what do I do when menaced, or what do I do when startled. I have not practised very heavily, so besides the basic fencing step back, ingrained when menaced, and instinctively taking a sideways pose when thinking of physical violence, I do not change much. But I do have a friend, Aikido black belt and instructor, who has been training for 25 years, and who is impressive to see in a crowd, how he is stressed out, and how he moves, weaves, sidesteps... And avoids practically everyone, which is good, as his first instinct when bumped into is to grab and twist...
However practice gives also, at least in some people, a quietness, an inner peace that can be perceived, and that also helps to avoid violence. Just a lack of fear, a calm. Which is not good against random violence. But I would not call that a fight.
I hope I can stay many years more without doing worse than returning a bodyslam while dancing.
¶ 1:13 AM 0 comments
16.7.04
Political views/Utopia
For a long time I defined myself when asked as a Rightist Anarchist, while some friends toyed with extreme left and moderate left political groups, and a few with regionalist activists (to call them nationalist when they want more privileges to a region only is a clear mislabel).
A conservative anarchist is closest to the typical US libertarian, on the Ayn Rand mould (private property and plenty of individual righta, no government). I gave a few less rights to the individual and more to the community, but there were some similitudes. However, that was how I would like things to be, but I did not think they would ever work.
As I got older and more cynical, I decided that that system would work only with a limited population and plenty of resources, something that could happen only in Science Fiction, so I started wondering what system could work in the real world (besides considering the benefits of randomly killing 90% of the population of the world).
As such, I find myself believing more and more in an interventionist state, quite far from my initial anarchist leanings. Of course, states are inevitably corrupt, but that is just entropy in a social system. A toll you have to pay and that can be minimized with the proper set up.
I would use a variant of the Swiss participative democracy. Voting would not be compulsory, but each missed vote would inhabilitate you for a week. As I intended to present two or three matters and elections to vote every week, that can be troublesome. Many matters would have to be proposed to the citizens, so that, in my dreams, all Sundays people would have to spend some time deciding and voting.
I would like power to devolve in part to the local governments, instead of the powerful intermediate levels (regions) that are currently favoured by the Eurocrats. Too much duplication of effort and waste at having some services at the local, regional and national level. Not to mention the new, Paneuropean level.
That also would make local politics more attractive, as there would be real possibilities of making a difference. Hopefully that would weaken the political machines, and help the rise of independent candidates.
Ideally, I would like to have structures at the top and the bottom, and almost nothing in between. So foreign policy, basic legislation and defence would be an European matter, while most of the rest would rest on the city/town conglomerate level, from education to medicine. And tax raising.
One of the problems with this system is that many burocrats would become obsolete (duplicate patent offices in all countries? Why?). I just hope the new empowerment of towns would generate also many new positions, and all the saved money can be used to invest on local resuction of costs. But yes, many people would find themselves without a job. I think that having to work and compete instead of just passing one test in your life is good for you.
So, this is more social than political. Well, I believe the only political difference now in the Western countries is how you handle the social matters, as the rest are mostly interchangeable.
You would choose the city council, then they would have to present many subjects (any where there is not a 3/4 majority and the social and economic impact exceeds a given limit depending on size) to a citizen vote. The opponents of the motion have to work too, as that will be the options given to the constituents.
Alas, with the new European constitution this will not work. So I have to hope that it is repealed on the different member countries. Not likely.
For the US readers, my views probably are too radical, as I propose a dismantling of the state system, and a strong local and federal government. It could not work earlier, but technology know will make feasible both tight control both in a small community and the big super-governments.
These super-governments will be the only ones who can check each other and the big corporations that already control so much our lives. So in a way, it is choosing the lesser of two evils, the one where I can have some input in.
¶ 7:55 PM 0 comments
For a long time I defined myself when asked as a Rightist Anarchist, while some friends toyed with extreme left and moderate left political groups, and a few with regionalist activists (to call them nationalist when they want more privileges to a region only is a clear mislabel).
A conservative anarchist is closest to the typical US libertarian, on the Ayn Rand mould (private property and plenty of individual righta, no government). I gave a few less rights to the individual and more to the community, but there were some similitudes. However, that was how I would like things to be, but I did not think they would ever work.
As I got older and more cynical, I decided that that system would work only with a limited population and plenty of resources, something that could happen only in Science Fiction, so I started wondering what system could work in the real world (besides considering the benefits of randomly killing 90% of the population of the world).
As such, I find myself believing more and more in an interventionist state, quite far from my initial anarchist leanings. Of course, states are inevitably corrupt, but that is just entropy in a social system. A toll you have to pay and that can be minimized with the proper set up.
I would use a variant of the Swiss participative democracy. Voting would not be compulsory, but each missed vote would inhabilitate you for a week. As I intended to present two or three matters and elections to vote every week, that can be troublesome. Many matters would have to be proposed to the citizens, so that, in my dreams, all Sundays people would have to spend some time deciding and voting.
I would like power to devolve in part to the local governments, instead of the powerful intermediate levels (regions) that are currently favoured by the Eurocrats. Too much duplication of effort and waste at having some services at the local, regional and national level. Not to mention the new, Paneuropean level.
That also would make local politics more attractive, as there would be real possibilities of making a difference. Hopefully that would weaken the political machines, and help the rise of independent candidates.
Ideally, I would like to have structures at the top and the bottom, and almost nothing in between. So foreign policy, basic legislation and defence would be an European matter, while most of the rest would rest on the city/town conglomerate level, from education to medicine. And tax raising.
One of the problems with this system is that many burocrats would become obsolete (duplicate patent offices in all countries? Why?). I just hope the new empowerment of towns would generate also many new positions, and all the saved money can be used to invest on local resuction of costs. But yes, many people would find themselves without a job. I think that having to work and compete instead of just passing one test in your life is good for you.
So, this is more social than political. Well, I believe the only political difference now in the Western countries is how you handle the social matters, as the rest are mostly interchangeable.
You would choose the city council, then they would have to present many subjects (any where there is not a 3/4 majority and the social and economic impact exceeds a given limit depending on size) to a citizen vote. The opponents of the motion have to work too, as that will be the options given to the constituents.
Alas, with the new European constitution this will not work. So I have to hope that it is repealed on the different member countries. Not likely.
For the US readers, my views probably are too radical, as I propose a dismantling of the state system, and a strong local and federal government. It could not work earlier, but technology know will make feasible both tight control both in a small community and the big super-governments.
These super-governments will be the only ones who can check each other and the big corporations that already control so much our lives. So in a way, it is choosing the lesser of two evils, the one where I can have some input in.
¶ 7:55 PM 0 comments
15.7.04
Memory lane revisited
I wonder the wisdom that makes past times generally seem better than they were. An evolutive adaption, so that you can look back without despair? A way to keep societies more stable, making people more conservative as they age? Some, strive forward force, as things now will never be perfect, restricting perfection to some past event?
Whatever the reason, memories are untrustworthy, and memories of emotional states even more so. Why all this protracted introduction?
Because I want to relive a happy moment, and I am suspicious of that happiness.
Summer of 1991. My brother was doing an Erasmus stay (a student exchange sponsored by the EU) in Heidelberg, Germany. So I decided to get an Eurorail card (unlimited train travel in Western Europe for a month), go visit him, and then do a German tour (we had planned to get to Copenhagen, but ferries were not covered then) for a couple of weeks. Just the trip to Heidelberg covered the expense of the pass. We decided to reserve a couple of youth hostels, just in case, at Berlin and Hamburg, and leave the rest to the vagaries of train timetables and available places.
As can be expected, we had a great time, or so I think know. I already mentioned the thunderstorm as we passed the Lorelei, on a boat from Cologne to Coblenz. But the biggest (even bigger than Berlin one year after the Wall's fall) surprise was the little town of Schwerin, in the former DDR, close to the Baltic Coast. It was the only youth hostel in the route we wished to follow, from Berlin to Hamburg. A holiday resort for party members, it was full of disenfranchised Russian soldiers, living on charity from the German people and some help from the German government. That was odd, and Gibsonian, specially the marketplace they organized, where they sold from Red Army vodka to medals, uniforms, weapons...
The memory however, concerned the feeling we had of discovery. We were the only foreigners (besides the Russians, many of whom had been there for years), after the crowds and jostling of Berlin. Here the rythm was totally different. Most guests at the youth hostel were middle aged Germans with their children, and we were almost as interesting to them as they were to us. Service also was out of the ordinary. We were made to feel as honoured guests, just due to the surprise. And people stopped us to ask questions (with many problems, as few people spoke English, and my brother's German was not yet good enough), to tell us stories, to offer food, drink, good wishes. Just like we were back fifty years, or visiting some long lost family.
Only in one other place have I felt something similar to this being a "honoured guest" from all the people (some good lodgings make you feel so, but it is limited to the place, and it is more a matter of payment than a honest feeling), in Islay island (with impromptu ceilidh included), Scotland. But in Islay people are used to tourists, they just seemed glad to see those few of us who make the effort to go there.
And yet, even though it was a memorable moment in a memorable trip, and we discussed it later in the train to Hamburg, it was also more than a little unsettling. All that interest, people following us, whispered talks... After we talked some more, and we were back in the bustling Youth Hostel in Hamburg, only the nice feeling remained. And now, only the memory of wonder remains. ¶ 4:30 PM 0 comments
I wonder the wisdom that makes past times generally seem better than they were. An evolutive adaption, so that you can look back without despair? A way to keep societies more stable, making people more conservative as they age? Some, strive forward force, as things now will never be perfect, restricting perfection to some past event?
Whatever the reason, memories are untrustworthy, and memories of emotional states even more so. Why all this protracted introduction?
Because I want to relive a happy moment, and I am suspicious of that happiness.
Summer of 1991. My brother was doing an Erasmus stay (a student exchange sponsored by the EU) in Heidelberg, Germany. So I decided to get an Eurorail card (unlimited train travel in Western Europe for a month), go visit him, and then do a German tour (we had planned to get to Copenhagen, but ferries were not covered then) for a couple of weeks. Just the trip to Heidelberg covered the expense of the pass. We decided to reserve a couple of youth hostels, just in case, at Berlin and Hamburg, and leave the rest to the vagaries of train timetables and available places.
As can be expected, we had a great time, or so I think know. I already mentioned the thunderstorm as we passed the Lorelei, on a boat from Cologne to Coblenz. But the biggest (even bigger than Berlin one year after the Wall's fall) surprise was the little town of Schwerin, in the former DDR, close to the Baltic Coast. It was the only youth hostel in the route we wished to follow, from Berlin to Hamburg. A holiday resort for party members, it was full of disenfranchised Russian soldiers, living on charity from the German people and some help from the German government. That was odd, and Gibsonian, specially the marketplace they organized, where they sold from Red Army vodka to medals, uniforms, weapons...
The memory however, concerned the feeling we had of discovery. We were the only foreigners (besides the Russians, many of whom had been there for years), after the crowds and jostling of Berlin. Here the rythm was totally different. Most guests at the youth hostel were middle aged Germans with their children, and we were almost as interesting to them as they were to us. Service also was out of the ordinary. We were made to feel as honoured guests, just due to the surprise. And people stopped us to ask questions (with many problems, as few people spoke English, and my brother's German was not yet good enough), to tell us stories, to offer food, drink, good wishes. Just like we were back fifty years, or visiting some long lost family.
Only in one other place have I felt something similar to this being a "honoured guest" from all the people (some good lodgings make you feel so, but it is limited to the place, and it is more a matter of payment than a honest feeling), in Islay island (with impromptu ceilidh included), Scotland. But in Islay people are used to tourists, they just seemed glad to see those few of us who make the effort to go there.
And yet, even though it was a memorable moment in a memorable trip, and we discussed it later in the train to Hamburg, it was also more than a little unsettling. All that interest, people following us, whispered talks... After we talked some more, and we were back in the bustling Youth Hostel in Hamburg, only the nice feeling remained. And now, only the memory of wonder remains. ¶ 4:30 PM 0 comments
14.7.04
Shopping
There are only four things I enjoy shopping for. And I am afraid that says a lot of things about my limitations as a human being.
- Food. I love shopping for food. Just strolling around can make me start bubbling with possibilities. And I usually make a list and the buy twice as much as intended. My wife does not enjoy it at such a high intensity, so she often prefers to browse other things, after giving some precise items that have to be bought, no matter what...
- Books. I can spend hours in a bookshop, specially a secondhand bookshop or a specialized bookshop with plenty of old books. I never read too much in a bookshop, however, as that means less time to find the definite book, that will be hidden behind those shelves over there. Most years I manage to spend more money on books than in clothes.
- Games. This overlaps partially with books, at least where roleplaying games are involved, although it also includes boardgames, wargames and computer games. here I spend less, as the search for the out of print games I specially favor goes more through old shops and the internet, and once found they are usually cheap.
- Shoes. That is the only apparel part that I like to go shopping. And even worse, I seldom buy. But I love checking shoes, boots, materials, flexibility... I usually only try them when I really want to buy, but I usually try several before choosing, just the opposite of my normal clothes shopping procedure.
There are other things I usually enjoy shopping (work tools, lab equipment), but that is work, not personal. And that is it.
¶ 5:53 PM 0 comments
There are only four things I enjoy shopping for. And I am afraid that says a lot of things about my limitations as a human being.
- Food. I love shopping for food. Just strolling around can make me start bubbling with possibilities. And I usually make a list and the buy twice as much as intended. My wife does not enjoy it at such a high intensity, so she often prefers to browse other things, after giving some precise items that have to be bought, no matter what...
- Books. I can spend hours in a bookshop, specially a secondhand bookshop or a specialized bookshop with plenty of old books. I never read too much in a bookshop, however, as that means less time to find the definite book, that will be hidden behind those shelves over there. Most years I manage to spend more money on books than in clothes.
- Games. This overlaps partially with books, at least where roleplaying games are involved, although it also includes boardgames, wargames and computer games. here I spend less, as the search for the out of print games I specially favor goes more through old shops and the internet, and once found they are usually cheap.
- Shoes. That is the only apparel part that I like to go shopping. And even worse, I seldom buy. But I love checking shoes, boots, materials, flexibility... I usually only try them when I really want to buy, but I usually try several before choosing, just the opposite of my normal clothes shopping procedure.
There are other things I usually enjoy shopping (work tools, lab equipment), but that is work, not personal. And that is it.
¶ 5:53 PM 0 comments
13.7.04
Gifts
Something I neglect too often.
Generally I am quite good with fixed date gifts. Not from any particular knack for it, just good memory and buying things for people months in advance, to give when necessary.
However I have many problems with the improvised gifts. Except during the heady days of infatuation, where you are always on the lookout for anything that could draw the attention of the loved one. Even then I always preferred to lend books or music, as that gave an excuse to renew the contact. Of course, a big factor is if the person can openly receive the gifts or not. Yes, I am not always a nice person...
Family is also a good target for surprise gifts, as normally you can count on them returning the favour somehow, making it usually a good investment. Just as long as you get it like "surprise" and "infrequent". I am currently in a gift exchange with my mother, as she is always trying to give me gifts (and we meet 2-3 times a month), so I reciprocate on kind, and it is starting to become a nasty competition. I wonder what she will bring back from St. Petersburg, as that will influence what we bring her from Prague. My father tries to stay neutral, and he and me have a low intensity liquor exchange on the side.
But it is the close friends and loved ones (and those family that go beyond just family) where gifts are to be used. Specially because almost anything thoughtful is appreciated, no matter the cost. So you can show your affect without terrible hardship. Of course, you may suffer some other hardship besides the economic (singing "Only you" at the top of your lungs, in front of witnesses), joining them to see a Jackie Chan marathon, helping complete that beer glass collection (and getting thrown out of a bar you will never return to), or sending a SMS a minute before they break down.
I would like to say I do that, but most of the time I realise the opportunity when it is too late to do anything about it. But the real problem is those people I should gift more often, but I always forget. Those friends far away, but nobody is too far away for an internet carried gift. Or that old flame, who still wins you by the hand with those theatre tickets.
Because the best way to keep the practice is to have friends or a partner who is a gift giver (as long as you avoid competitions, as seen above). Keeps you in your toes. Sometimes the right candy at the right time is enough. Mmm, licorice...
And if everything else, use words. They are cheap, they are plentiful. And we do not say enough to the ones we should. Just get in touch. That may make their day, and what more can you ask for in a gift? ¶ 5:28 PM 0 comments
Something I neglect too often.
Generally I am quite good with fixed date gifts. Not from any particular knack for it, just good memory and buying things for people months in advance, to give when necessary.
However I have many problems with the improvised gifts. Except during the heady days of infatuation, where you are always on the lookout for anything that could draw the attention of the loved one. Even then I always preferred to lend books or music, as that gave an excuse to renew the contact. Of course, a big factor is if the person can openly receive the gifts or not. Yes, I am not always a nice person...
Family is also a good target for surprise gifts, as normally you can count on them returning the favour somehow, making it usually a good investment. Just as long as you get it like "surprise" and "infrequent". I am currently in a gift exchange with my mother, as she is always trying to give me gifts (and we meet 2-3 times a month), so I reciprocate on kind, and it is starting to become a nasty competition. I wonder what she will bring back from St. Petersburg, as that will influence what we bring her from Prague. My father tries to stay neutral, and he and me have a low intensity liquor exchange on the side.
But it is the close friends and loved ones (and those family that go beyond just family) where gifts are to be used. Specially because almost anything thoughtful is appreciated, no matter the cost. So you can show your affect without terrible hardship. Of course, you may suffer some other hardship besides the economic (singing "Only you" at the top of your lungs, in front of witnesses), joining them to see a Jackie Chan marathon, helping complete that beer glass collection (and getting thrown out of a bar you will never return to), or sending a SMS a minute before they break down.
I would like to say I do that, but most of the time I realise the opportunity when it is too late to do anything about it. But the real problem is those people I should gift more often, but I always forget. Those friends far away, but nobody is too far away for an internet carried gift. Or that old flame, who still wins you by the hand with those theatre tickets.
Because the best way to keep the practice is to have friends or a partner who is a gift giver (as long as you avoid competitions, as seen above). Keeps you in your toes. Sometimes the right candy at the right time is enough. Mmm, licorice...
And if everything else, use words. They are cheap, they are plentiful. And we do not say enough to the ones we should. Just get in touch. That may make their day, and what more can you ask for in a gift? ¶ 5:28 PM 0 comments
Sublimation
Although I find the strict freudian concept limiting, I believe I would not be where I am without a gift for sublimation. Not only I could not have tackled many of the things I have done, but I would be mad or dead without finding a diverting route for all those passions. Mostly because I seldom express them, so they stay without an outlet for long.
Unlike Freud, I have found most passions can be sublimated. Lust and fear in my student years, to get through tests and oral presentations. Lately, anger and fear (anxiety) for work related activities, but lust/sex usually gets its head in too.
The process is not hard, although I suppose it can be for others. When a crisis approaches, usually something that had to be done yesterday, or the kind of public situation where I feel totally uncomfortable, you just start to get in the mood. At first, anxiety could be enough, generating a lot of fear. Which is why I usually perform well under pressure. The trick is getting terribly agitated, but without external signs (as long as possible), and getting into a situation where it is impossible just to flee (or to give an outlet to the passion you are using as fuel). All that energy then can be directed into the object, such as staying sharp and focused for hours in a meeting, or browsing the internet for hours to track your quarry, or just assembling all that Ikea furniture in one long evening.
Unlike artists or mystics I have found I get the best results in boring and repetitive tasks, or when doing things I really dislike. Which is why my boss thinks I am a great salesman, when I hate sales work to death.
In the good old days, just going out an evening alone and seeing all the happy couples around me was enough to generate enough energy to review a whole term. Lately the only reliable passion available is anger, which is clearly a bad sign. Work related anger is usually chronic and low intensity, not a good fuel, and most external directed anger is really displaced self-directed anger, which is not too good either, but you use what you have.
Of course it has problems. If lust fueled, you find it is very easy to fall in love, or at least be fascinated/distracted by any attractive object of affection, so it usually requires isolation or clearly uneligible females.
If fear oriented, you can get relief before it is over (when you realise it may be over, and it was not so bad...), and get then only partial results.
And with anger you are quite intractable while you ride the peak wave, growling and lashing to anyone coming close, and you are also vulnerable to sudden mood changes. If someone shows you a little tenderness, you will feel all that pent-up energy, helping you finish that ten page review, draining away quickly.
I have noticed many people do sublimate unconsciously, so that they put themselves in tight situations, just to improve performance (an artist friend with complicated personal relationships comes to mind). It still arrives that I find myself following that wave, but usually I realise I am doing it when I lose it. Such as that sex oriented charisma I sometimes can turn on on commercial visits to customers, draining away and turning to stuttering confusion because a girl has kissed me goodbye.
The biggest drawback is that many people do not get to see the real you, but the mask you wear while sublimating, whether it is shy, focused and nervous (fear), or charming, glib and shallow (sex), or brusque, intolerant and distant (anger). And sometimes I find I just cannot get angry properly any longer, so used I am to displacement and sublimation, or it becomes really hard to feel a "normal" desire for another person.
Neither good or bad, just the way I work. ¶ 1:42 PM 0 comments
Although I find the strict freudian concept limiting, I believe I would not be where I am without a gift for sublimation. Not only I could not have tackled many of the things I have done, but I would be mad or dead without finding a diverting route for all those passions. Mostly because I seldom express them, so they stay without an outlet for long.
Unlike Freud, I have found most passions can be sublimated. Lust and fear in my student years, to get through tests and oral presentations. Lately, anger and fear (anxiety) for work related activities, but lust/sex usually gets its head in too.
The process is not hard, although I suppose it can be for others. When a crisis approaches, usually something that had to be done yesterday, or the kind of public situation where I feel totally uncomfortable, you just start to get in the mood. At first, anxiety could be enough, generating a lot of fear. Which is why I usually perform well under pressure. The trick is getting terribly agitated, but without external signs (as long as possible), and getting into a situation where it is impossible just to flee (or to give an outlet to the passion you are using as fuel). All that energy then can be directed into the object, such as staying sharp and focused for hours in a meeting, or browsing the internet for hours to track your quarry, or just assembling all that Ikea furniture in one long evening.
Unlike artists or mystics I have found I get the best results in boring and repetitive tasks, or when doing things I really dislike. Which is why my boss thinks I am a great salesman, when I hate sales work to death.
In the good old days, just going out an evening alone and seeing all the happy couples around me was enough to generate enough energy to review a whole term. Lately the only reliable passion available is anger, which is clearly a bad sign. Work related anger is usually chronic and low intensity, not a good fuel, and most external directed anger is really displaced self-directed anger, which is not too good either, but you use what you have.
Of course it has problems. If lust fueled, you find it is very easy to fall in love, or at least be fascinated/distracted by any attractive object of affection, so it usually requires isolation or clearly uneligible females.
If fear oriented, you can get relief before it is over (when you realise it may be over, and it was not so bad...), and get then only partial results.
And with anger you are quite intractable while you ride the peak wave, growling and lashing to anyone coming close, and you are also vulnerable to sudden mood changes. If someone shows you a little tenderness, you will feel all that pent-up energy, helping you finish that ten page review, draining away quickly.
I have noticed many people do sublimate unconsciously, so that they put themselves in tight situations, just to improve performance (an artist friend with complicated personal relationships comes to mind). It still arrives that I find myself following that wave, but usually I realise I am doing it when I lose it. Such as that sex oriented charisma I sometimes can turn on on commercial visits to customers, draining away and turning to stuttering confusion because a girl has kissed me goodbye.
The biggest drawback is that many people do not get to see the real you, but the mask you wear while sublimating, whether it is shy, focused and nervous (fear), or charming, glib and shallow (sex), or brusque, intolerant and distant (anger). And sometimes I find I just cannot get angry properly any longer, so used I am to displacement and sublimation, or it becomes really hard to feel a "normal" desire for another person.
Neither good or bad, just the way I work. ¶ 1:42 PM 0 comments
12.7.04
More memories: a recent one.
I have been neglecting here that big passion of mine, food. And although I have been all my life a great lover of food, of all kinds and origins, my love of cooking is much more recent.
When I started living alone I was a lazy cook, always working the bare minimum necessary, and often just going to a restaurant to avoid the hassle.
That was considered a crime by most of my coworkers, when I was at Bordeaux. French people generally take their food seriously. The few times I invited someone, they were, to put it mildly, underwhelmed.
After being together as a research team for a few months, we started being comfortable with each other, and to start spending a lot of time together outside work. There is a peculiar nature to the research people, that crosses national boundaries and language barriers. And being in a strange town, or even a strange country, also helps to have company.
So we decided to make Thursdays the gastronomy day, to try "different" food. Soon, it was proposed that every day one of us would just cook for the rest. Something easy, but at the same time considered typical, or appropiate.
Ah, what to do for my first evening?
The Belgian had cooked "moules frites", in what she said were standard portions (1 kg mussels, half a kilo potatoes per person). And it was so easy and good, we all tried the recipe the following weeks.
The Moroccan had done Tajine and Taboulet, very good too, although too much work to repeat on your own. And heavy...
The Briton (from Brittany) made galettes (main dish stuffed, made from "black wheat") and crepes (sweet). Easy, if you have the pulse and the tools.
We also tried a duck special (salad with foie and sweetbreads and magret), roasted lamb (in the garden), and a series of vegetarian salads (summer approaching).
People were asking me for a Paella, but at that time I was not up to the task. So I made a Spanish rice dish called Cuban rice. It had many of the typical Spanish cooking peculiarities. Eggs fried in a lot of extremely hot oil, home made tomato sauce (I made too much, and enjoyed pasta for weeks), fried bacon (everything goes well with bacon) and deep-fried bananas. The white rice is there almost as a bystander in that colourful mix.
Overcoming the cries of horror after seeing me pour half a liter of olive oil in a pan, I discovered then the pleasure of seeing people enjoying what you cooked. And how cooking for ten is more rewarding and even easier than cooking for one.
Being summer, my second (and last) turn was gazpacho and sea bass on salt. (clean the fishes, cover with salt, oven at 200ºC for 20 minutes). I had tried on my own first, of course.
Cooking for six when you only have one guest, and eating the leftovers the next day, made me quickly leave those 80-85 Kg I had kept since my last sentimental disappointment (up from 75-80), and start the slow climb through the 90's. But I did not mind. I could cook, after all, and all sorrows can be drowned with enough food (and some drink). The only thing better than trying a new recipe and liking the result, is repeating it for someone else, and that they like it too!
Now that I think about it, it does not apply only for food... ¶ 6:53 PM 0 comments
I have been neglecting here that big passion of mine, food. And although I have been all my life a great lover of food, of all kinds and origins, my love of cooking is much more recent.
When I started living alone I was a lazy cook, always working the bare minimum necessary, and often just going to a restaurant to avoid the hassle.
That was considered a crime by most of my coworkers, when I was at Bordeaux. French people generally take their food seriously. The few times I invited someone, they were, to put it mildly, underwhelmed.
After being together as a research team for a few months, we started being comfortable with each other, and to start spending a lot of time together outside work. There is a peculiar nature to the research people, that crosses national boundaries and language barriers. And being in a strange town, or even a strange country, also helps to have company.
So we decided to make Thursdays the gastronomy day, to try "different" food. Soon, it was proposed that every day one of us would just cook for the rest. Something easy, but at the same time considered typical, or appropiate.
Ah, what to do for my first evening?
The Belgian had cooked "moules frites", in what she said were standard portions (1 kg mussels, half a kilo potatoes per person). And it was so easy and good, we all tried the recipe the following weeks.
The Moroccan had done Tajine and Taboulet, very good too, although too much work to repeat on your own. And heavy...
The Briton (from Brittany) made galettes (main dish stuffed, made from "black wheat") and crepes (sweet). Easy, if you have the pulse and the tools.
We also tried a duck special (salad with foie and sweetbreads and magret), roasted lamb (in the garden), and a series of vegetarian salads (summer approaching).
People were asking me for a Paella, but at that time I was not up to the task. So I made a Spanish rice dish called Cuban rice. It had many of the typical Spanish cooking peculiarities. Eggs fried in a lot of extremely hot oil, home made tomato sauce (I made too much, and enjoyed pasta for weeks), fried bacon (everything goes well with bacon) and deep-fried bananas. The white rice is there almost as a bystander in that colourful mix.
Overcoming the cries of horror after seeing me pour half a liter of olive oil in a pan, I discovered then the pleasure of seeing people enjoying what you cooked. And how cooking for ten is more rewarding and even easier than cooking for one.
Being summer, my second (and last) turn was gazpacho and sea bass on salt. (clean the fishes, cover with salt, oven at 200ºC for 20 minutes). I had tried on my own first, of course.
Cooking for six when you only have one guest, and eating the leftovers the next day, made me quickly leave those 80-85 Kg I had kept since my last sentimental disappointment (up from 75-80), and start the slow climb through the 90's. But I did not mind. I could cook, after all, and all sorrows can be drowned with enough food (and some drink). The only thing better than trying a new recipe and liking the result, is repeating it for someone else, and that they like it too!
Now that I think about it, it does not apply only for food... ¶ 6:53 PM 0 comments
Restaurants
A friend has made a party in a restaurant I recommended. It looks like a normal event. However it was in Denmark, a country I have only been once, and where I know only two restaurants, and only one of them I would recommend.
And yet, the recommendation worked, as everything went well, and all people came away satisfied.
If you can satisfy people, even if they are from different countries, have a nice place, and at the same time remain affordable, why there are so many bad places open? I suspect it is because most people do not care enough for their food.
The biggest advantage of business trips is the great food and the good places you get to visit. Places you would hesitate to enter in a normal situation, or where you would go only in a very special occasion, become available when you are on an expense account. And some people will positively try to take you to the best places they know, which often are very good places.
However, although the super expensive places are nice, they have their own limitations, they can be uncomfortable or stuffy, and if not forewarned, you can even find yourself at the wrong end of the dress code.
So I prefer those places which are almost normal, maybe a little more expensive that the appeareance would make you think, where you can feel comfortable with a tailored suit or general brand jeans, and where the food they do, they do well.
There exists such a thing as too much foie gras, even if I could not have believed it ten years ago. And it gets to the point that when you meet the next deconstructed dish, served as a minuscule portion in an extremely cool plate, you just feel the need to shout.
What you wish then is a good beer, and tasty food in a reasonable amount, so that you can afterwards enjoy also a nice dessert, and talk and company. Food is a pleasure that goes better with someone else, and if taken moderately, goes well with conversation.
Of course, when you are with business acquaintances you do not care much about, or you just positively dislike, then food at least helps pass the time, and will give you good memories for later. In those circumstances, the most expensive and elaborate the better. That way conversation will stay on the safe areas of food, drink and service, and there will be no need to turn personal, as you would in more friendly circumstances.
I normally classify them as nice places for lunch (formal) and for dinner (relaxed), although outside Spain the tendency is usually the inverse. But the classifications are still there. And the trick is in alternating them, so you enjoy each in their turn.
And just remember that it is a pleasure, so cost takes second place to enjoyment. Except when you do not pay. Then it goes tenth place...
A good place to start are breweries. If they brew their own beer, they probably do a good job with food. So far, it has worked. Winemakers are often good restaurateurs, but not always. And wine meals are always more formal than beer ones.
My two restaurant rules are: Always leave place for the dessert. If possible, always try something new. Whether it is drink, main dish or entree, try to be surprised.
¶ 4:45 PM 0 comments
A friend has made a party in a restaurant I recommended. It looks like a normal event. However it was in Denmark, a country I have only been once, and where I know only two restaurants, and only one of them I would recommend.
And yet, the recommendation worked, as everything went well, and all people came away satisfied.
If you can satisfy people, even if they are from different countries, have a nice place, and at the same time remain affordable, why there are so many bad places open? I suspect it is because most people do not care enough for their food.
The biggest advantage of business trips is the great food and the good places you get to visit. Places you would hesitate to enter in a normal situation, or where you would go only in a very special occasion, become available when you are on an expense account. And some people will positively try to take you to the best places they know, which often are very good places.
However, although the super expensive places are nice, they have their own limitations, they can be uncomfortable or stuffy, and if not forewarned, you can even find yourself at the wrong end of the dress code.
So I prefer those places which are almost normal, maybe a little more expensive that the appeareance would make you think, where you can feel comfortable with a tailored suit or general brand jeans, and where the food they do, they do well.
There exists such a thing as too much foie gras, even if I could not have believed it ten years ago. And it gets to the point that when you meet the next deconstructed dish, served as a minuscule portion in an extremely cool plate, you just feel the need to shout.
What you wish then is a good beer, and tasty food in a reasonable amount, so that you can afterwards enjoy also a nice dessert, and talk and company. Food is a pleasure that goes better with someone else, and if taken moderately, goes well with conversation.
Of course, when you are with business acquaintances you do not care much about, or you just positively dislike, then food at least helps pass the time, and will give you good memories for later. In those circumstances, the most expensive and elaborate the better. That way conversation will stay on the safe areas of food, drink and service, and there will be no need to turn personal, as you would in more friendly circumstances.
I normally classify them as nice places for lunch (formal) and for dinner (relaxed), although outside Spain the tendency is usually the inverse. But the classifications are still there. And the trick is in alternating them, so you enjoy each in their turn.
And just remember that it is a pleasure, so cost takes second place to enjoyment. Except when you do not pay. Then it goes tenth place...
A good place to start are breweries. If they brew their own beer, they probably do a good job with food. So far, it has worked. Winemakers are often good restaurateurs, but not always. And wine meals are always more formal than beer ones.
My two restaurant rules are: Always leave place for the dessert. If possible, always try something new. Whether it is drink, main dish or entree, try to be surprised.
¶ 4:45 PM 0 comments
11.7.04
Why?
The only feedback, besides a couple of commentaries to concrete subjects, that I have received is "Why are you doing this?
It is not difficult to explain why I started. This was the equivalent of crying from the top of a building. It is cathartic, and you can say things without fear of offending anyone.
Of course, I did not know at start what I really wanted to say, and most of it probably remains unsaid, But it has helped me to unload a bit the burdens of my heart. When you name something, you get the illusion that it can be controlled. It is seldom true, but it is comforting nevertheless. And thinking for publishing, you worry also after form, you reread and revise. In a way, if it was not true before, it may well become true afterwards. So I am programming myself.
It is more difficult to explain why I have turned public, or semi-public. If I intend to use this as a tool for self discovery, and to change myself, inviting others to see me do so seems too revealing. Too much of a compromise.
Besides the probable host of subconscious reasons, from exhibitionism to craving for attention, there are three conscious ones.
The quality of the writing improves when I know there will be readers. It also makes me explain some facts or ideas that are obvious for me. Although I doubt I explain enough.
The quality of the reasoning also has to improve, or they remain in the Purgatory of the draft.
Finally, having readers adds a new dimension to the series, from self-discovery, to exhibition to others. Besides affecting the subjects to be discussed, it also lets you be influenced more by outside, and in a way answer to outside stimuli. And the possibility of feedback adds the need of change and improvement. Considering that I started this to foster change, it seems only right.
¶ 4:43 PM 0 comments
The only feedback, besides a couple of commentaries to concrete subjects, that I have received is "Why are you doing this?
It is not difficult to explain why I started. This was the equivalent of crying from the top of a building. It is cathartic, and you can say things without fear of offending anyone.
Of course, I did not know at start what I really wanted to say, and most of it probably remains unsaid, But it has helped me to unload a bit the burdens of my heart. When you name something, you get the illusion that it can be controlled. It is seldom true, but it is comforting nevertheless. And thinking for publishing, you worry also after form, you reread and revise. In a way, if it was not true before, it may well become true afterwards. So I am programming myself.
It is more difficult to explain why I have turned public, or semi-public. If I intend to use this as a tool for self discovery, and to change myself, inviting others to see me do so seems too revealing. Too much of a compromise.
Besides the probable host of subconscious reasons, from exhibitionism to craving for attention, there are three conscious ones.
The quality of the writing improves when I know there will be readers. It also makes me explain some facts or ideas that are obvious for me. Although I doubt I explain enough.
The quality of the reasoning also has to improve, or they remain in the Purgatory of the draft.
Finally, having readers adds a new dimension to the series, from self-discovery, to exhibition to others. Besides affecting the subjects to be discussed, it also lets you be influenced more by outside, and in a way answer to outside stimuli. And the possibility of feedback adds the need of change and improvement. Considering that I started this to foster change, it seems only right.
¶ 4:43 PM 0 comments
Ethics
Ethics is supposed to be the study of human conduct, and the rules that should govern it. As such, all of us have one, as we all follow some rules for behavior. And yet, most people do not have a consistent system. That would not justify a rant, as that would offend only my aesthetic principles, as there is no obligation to be consistent, and my belief in moral absolutes died with my faith.
No what angers me is how we easily revert into basic "pack ethics" and only respect coercion, after four millennia of proposed ethical systems. And most religions have an underlying ethical system, usually with coercive elements, if only a delayed punishment or reward system. To no avail.
The basics of pack Ethics are: I do well and respect my pack, and the rest are prey. What varies from one individual to another is the definition of pack.
I do have my own system, of course. As it was to be expected, it is highly influenced by Catholicism, considering my upbringing, specially that great ethical principle "Do unto others as you want them to do to you". Much better that eye for an eye, and less idealistic than "turn the other cheek". Then there was a surprising influence by Martin Gardner and mathematical mutual benefit systems, based on all the "Prisoner's Dilemma" analysis. In the end it gets to the same place, but you get a clear atheist conscience.
Add to the mix a certain dose of basic Buddhism and Taoism, considering that the value of inaction both felt well with my innate sloth, and helped keep the conscience tamed, when seeing horrors somewhere else. As well, I feel more comfortable making others more responsible of their own behavior, both from an intellectual point of view and because that way I will not have to be responsible for them.
With that eclectic system, based partly in justifying why I do little to improve life for other people, I should not be ranting about other people actions. But the difference, for me, is that I do what I have decided is moral, and the few times I do something immoral (according to my system), I know I am doing it, and wear the burden of guilt (quite light usually, but knowing it was wrong). Most people, no matter how educated or good behaved, seem to be just looking for gray areas to exploit, or worry only about getting caught.
I could think of all the copyright fracas, or DVD copiers, or traffic rules. Not to mention all kind of fraud, from health services to taxes. Yes, apparently minor acts, with minimal hurt. But their supposed minor effect has no impact on its morality (considering morality as adhering to the correct ethical behavior). It is not the acts that anger me, it is the lack of concern for consequences and right or wrong. If they just did them, knowing it is wrong, but considering that it has to be done (such as an electricity in a favela, or even a guy mugging me to feed his family) I would understand it. Not that I would willingly fork over my wallet. Understanding is not sharing.
We have such an object oriented society that having is considered an Ethical act, instead of considering the way of the acquisition. And people, who are still mostly good, prefer to ignore things, to keep acquiring things without concern for consequences or morals. Whether it is how that sweater was made, or what your politicians are doing, ethical behavior is becoming more and more a matter of information in this global age. And most just prefer an easy life of ignorance.
In the end, deliberate ignorance is what angers me more than everything.
¶ 9:33 AM 0 comments
Ethics is supposed to be the study of human conduct, and the rules that should govern it. As such, all of us have one, as we all follow some rules for behavior. And yet, most people do not have a consistent system. That would not justify a rant, as that would offend only my aesthetic principles, as there is no obligation to be consistent, and my belief in moral absolutes died with my faith.
No what angers me is how we easily revert into basic "pack ethics" and only respect coercion, after four millennia of proposed ethical systems. And most religions have an underlying ethical system, usually with coercive elements, if only a delayed punishment or reward system. To no avail.
The basics of pack Ethics are: I do well and respect my pack, and the rest are prey. What varies from one individual to another is the definition of pack.
I do have my own system, of course. As it was to be expected, it is highly influenced by Catholicism, considering my upbringing, specially that great ethical principle "Do unto others as you want them to do to you". Much better that eye for an eye, and less idealistic than "turn the other cheek". Then there was a surprising influence by Martin Gardner and mathematical mutual benefit systems, based on all the "Prisoner's Dilemma" analysis. In the end it gets to the same place, but you get a clear atheist conscience.
Add to the mix a certain dose of basic Buddhism and Taoism, considering that the value of inaction both felt well with my innate sloth, and helped keep the conscience tamed, when seeing horrors somewhere else. As well, I feel more comfortable making others more responsible of their own behavior, both from an intellectual point of view and because that way I will not have to be responsible for them.
With that eclectic system, based partly in justifying why I do little to improve life for other people, I should not be ranting about other people actions. But the difference, for me, is that I do what I have decided is moral, and the few times I do something immoral (according to my system), I know I am doing it, and wear the burden of guilt (quite light usually, but knowing it was wrong). Most people, no matter how educated or good behaved, seem to be just looking for gray areas to exploit, or worry only about getting caught.
I could think of all the copyright fracas, or DVD copiers, or traffic rules. Not to mention all kind of fraud, from health services to taxes. Yes, apparently minor acts, with minimal hurt. But their supposed minor effect has no impact on its morality (considering morality as adhering to the correct ethical behavior). It is not the acts that anger me, it is the lack of concern for consequences and right or wrong. If they just did them, knowing it is wrong, but considering that it has to be done (such as an electricity in a favela, or even a guy mugging me to feed his family) I would understand it. Not that I would willingly fork over my wallet. Understanding is not sharing.
We have such an object oriented society that having is considered an Ethical act, instead of considering the way of the acquisition. And people, who are still mostly good, prefer to ignore things, to keep acquiring things without concern for consequences or morals. Whether it is how that sweater was made, or what your politicians are doing, ethical behavior is becoming more and more a matter of information in this global age. And most just prefer an easy life of ignorance.
In the end, deliberate ignorance is what angers me more than everything.
¶ 9:33 AM 0 comments
10.7.04
Future
I fear this may become just a series of snapshots, while I wrestle with my demons. But at least something good is coming out of it. I suppose it is obvious, seen from outside, but I tend to be thick about these things.
How can a crisis not be long, if instead of facing it I escape into the past? If you spend the time pondering what you did wrong three years ago, or why that old liaison did not work, how can you function in the present, even less work to change the Future?
Not that I plan to stop the memories posts. I like them, and they help me see where I come from. It is all those memories I do not post about. Those that I step gingerly around. The ones that I blame, instead of cherish.
If I want to change the Future, I should be looking at the present, to see where I stand, and where I want to go. And if the problem is that I do not know where do I want to go, well, the past will help me little.
It is time to stop dreaming, and start planning. What can be done, and what cannot. And what consequences my acts will have. Those consequences are what I have to face, and what will really make the Future.
It is useless to try to make some minor changes if, for instance, one of the key areas is children. Nothing minor will resolve that question. And, as it happens, I have managed to avoid making up my mind (even less make up our collective mind), there will remain an open issue. And in a way, anything that helps postpone that decision moment, the facing off, will be supported, even if it is just keeping a twisted situation going on.
But facing the present is not easy. It is too big. So up till now I was facing and working on the outskirts of the picture, hoping that if enough details were made right, this whole pressure would lift. But the big issues refuse to conform like this. And there are too many of them, interlinked so that you have to tackle several at the same time. I mentioned children, but that also depends on the couple, and indirectly on money, that touches off the delicate possibility of changing jobs.
To compound the problems, others are involved. Which means that just making a decision is not enough, there is the need to agree (or accept a disagreement) on it, and then act on it. Sometimes it just makes me wish I could throw everything away, and start alone somewhere else.
But running away does not solve anything. And there is more good than bad in my current life. I have become convinced, with some outside help, that there is one single problem, that I have been refusing to face for ten years, that might be the root of most of this. There are other causes of discomfort, such as changes at work, but they just are compounding the basic problem.
But how do you face a problem that you have failed at for ten years? I do not know. But I am thinking that sometimes drastic solutions are the only ones that work. Making up my mind to turn drastic, now that takes time too.
But late at night I wonder if all of this is not just a way to prepare myself, to convince myself to do what I have to do.
¶ 12:26 PM 0 comments
I fear this may become just a series of snapshots, while I wrestle with my demons. But at least something good is coming out of it. I suppose it is obvious, seen from outside, but I tend to be thick about these things.
How can a crisis not be long, if instead of facing it I escape into the past? If you spend the time pondering what you did wrong three years ago, or why that old liaison did not work, how can you function in the present, even less work to change the Future?
Not that I plan to stop the memories posts. I like them, and they help me see where I come from. It is all those memories I do not post about. Those that I step gingerly around. The ones that I blame, instead of cherish.
If I want to change the Future, I should be looking at the present, to see where I stand, and where I want to go. And if the problem is that I do not know where do I want to go, well, the past will help me little.
It is time to stop dreaming, and start planning. What can be done, and what cannot. And what consequences my acts will have. Those consequences are what I have to face, and what will really make the Future.
It is useless to try to make some minor changes if, for instance, one of the key areas is children. Nothing minor will resolve that question. And, as it happens, I have managed to avoid making up my mind (even less make up our collective mind), there will remain an open issue. And in a way, anything that helps postpone that decision moment, the facing off, will be supported, even if it is just keeping a twisted situation going on.
But facing the present is not easy. It is too big. So up till now I was facing and working on the outskirts of the picture, hoping that if enough details were made right, this whole pressure would lift. But the big issues refuse to conform like this. And there are too many of them, interlinked so that you have to tackle several at the same time. I mentioned children, but that also depends on the couple, and indirectly on money, that touches off the delicate possibility of changing jobs.
To compound the problems, others are involved. Which means that just making a decision is not enough, there is the need to agree (or accept a disagreement) on it, and then act on it. Sometimes it just makes me wish I could throw everything away, and start alone somewhere else.
But running away does not solve anything. And there is more good than bad in my current life. I have become convinced, with some outside help, that there is one single problem, that I have been refusing to face for ten years, that might be the root of most of this. There are other causes of discomfort, such as changes at work, but they just are compounding the basic problem.
But how do you face a problem that you have failed at for ten years? I do not know. But I am thinking that sometimes drastic solutions are the only ones that work. Making up my mind to turn drastic, now that takes time too.
But late at night I wonder if all of this is not just a way to prepare myself, to convince myself to do what I have to do.
¶ 12:26 PM 0 comments
Memories Continued
I woke up alone in a foreign house, little more than a two stages wooden cabin in the middle of a forest. I remembered some commentary about bears when I asked about the .303.
That first day, I had to start finding ways to communicate with Frank. That was easier than it seemed, because we were so different. So everything was new, required an explanation, and it was something to feel proud of. It was not his idea I came, and I suspect he had expected someone more world wise than I was. Someone full of European sophistication and savoir faire. Instead he got a bookish shy guy with glasses that stuttered when talking to girls.
Well, at least I did not stutter when the month was over. That summer of 1981 changed many things in me, even if I was not aware of it. From discovering roleplaying games to spending a whole night watching horror films. Raiders of the lost Ark were everywhere. Dawn over the desert in New Mexico, accompanying Frank's stepfather to a delivery in Farnsworth. The Grand Canyon, a mix of red and blue and gold. Things that you value more later.
And those things that boys value more at the time: trike racing through a forest. A full two years subscription to Playboy (he started at 12!). Bathing with girls in a reservoir in the late evening. Firing a gun. Cake on every dinner.
I wanted to be an archaeologist. And I grew five centimeters in one month. Terrible for the clothes, and even for my appeareance. People thought I was starving, while I just did not stop. And I felt out of place, and cried myself to sleep several times.
Looking back, I think that summer I stopped being a child.
¶ 9:49 AM 0 comments
I woke up alone in a foreign house, little more than a two stages wooden cabin in the middle of a forest. I remembered some commentary about bears when I asked about the .303.
That first day, I had to start finding ways to communicate with Frank. That was easier than it seemed, because we were so different. So everything was new, required an explanation, and it was something to feel proud of. It was not his idea I came, and I suspect he had expected someone more world wise than I was. Someone full of European sophistication and savoir faire. Instead he got a bookish shy guy with glasses that stuttered when talking to girls.
Well, at least I did not stutter when the month was over. That summer of 1981 changed many things in me, even if I was not aware of it. From discovering roleplaying games to spending a whole night watching horror films. Raiders of the lost Ark were everywhere. Dawn over the desert in New Mexico, accompanying Frank's stepfather to a delivery in Farnsworth. The Grand Canyon, a mix of red and blue and gold. Things that you value more later.
And those things that boys value more at the time: trike racing through a forest. A full two years subscription to Playboy (he started at 12!). Bathing with girls in a reservoir in the late evening. Firing a gun. Cake on every dinner.
I wanted to be an archaeologist. And I grew five centimeters in one month. Terrible for the clothes, and even for my appeareance. People thought I was starving, while I just did not stop. And I felt out of place, and cried myself to sleep several times.
Looking back, I think that summer I stopped being a child.
¶ 9:49 AM 0 comments
Politics
Something at least I still feel strong enough to rant.
I will not talk about geopolitics. Although there is plenty to rant about there, it is so hard to find good things at that level that it just gets depressing.
Bismarck said the Politics is the art of the possible. I like the iron chancellor's style, even if he hurt a lot of people along the way. Modern politicians could learn a few things from him.
It seems today Politics is just the art of misdirection. It is more a series of prestidigitation acts, designed to draw the voter's attention to some no-subject, while the real subjects lie untouched, and often unchallenged. Hoping that a new sleight of hand will distract the public the next time, many politicians now do not hesitate to offer impossible things.
And in that way you get to a situation where you have the professionals, good prestidigitators all,and the independents and demagogues, who may believe what they say, but whose beliefs are unreal.
What can you choose, the one who knows the situation, and lies to us, or the one who does not, and lies to herself? I know things are not easy, and there are sacrifices to be made. I just want a politician that will say so, and promise what can be done.
And what is worse, when you get one of those, usually at the local level, people generally answer positively to a results oriented policy. That makes that person to rise in the organization, and disappears both at the local and the national level. Cannibalism of the worthy. Unfortunately it seldom is contagious.
The problem also is that while it is not hard to get an idea of what is possible and is not at a local, limited level, as you go higher in the structure, the limits of possibility start to blur. So that you need a professional to know what is possible or impossible. We the general public get glimpses, or partial views, but it is harder to see the whole picture, and to differentiate what is possible from what is impossible but is used as a decoy to get that other possibility. Not that I mind misdirection when there is a worthwhile benefit. But getting reelected is not a worthwhile benefitin itself, for me.
There is other word that is losing its meaning, unfortunately. Public servant. Service standards are just getting lower. And I do not generally feel served.
What frightens me, and that is really a very personal fear, is the new brand of politicians, who have principles, and want to do good. I want my politicians to be ruthless bastards, working on our benefit. Principles are a danger in politics, and it is better to base everything on the bad parts of people instead of the good ones. They are more reliable. Someone who wants to save my soul will think killing my body a reasonable swap.
And so we get a policy of what should be, that fails due to practical constraints, while the policy of what should be done is considered dated and impopular. Maybe that is why I also feel dated and impopular. ¶ 1:15 AM 0 comments
Something at least I still feel strong enough to rant.
I will not talk about geopolitics. Although there is plenty to rant about there, it is so hard to find good things at that level that it just gets depressing.
Bismarck said the Politics is the art of the possible. I like the iron chancellor's style, even if he hurt a lot of people along the way. Modern politicians could learn a few things from him.
It seems today Politics is just the art of misdirection. It is more a series of prestidigitation acts, designed to draw the voter's attention to some no-subject, while the real subjects lie untouched, and often unchallenged. Hoping that a new sleight of hand will distract the public the next time, many politicians now do not hesitate to offer impossible things.
And in that way you get to a situation where you have the professionals, good prestidigitators all,and the independents and demagogues, who may believe what they say, but whose beliefs are unreal.
What can you choose, the one who knows the situation, and lies to us, or the one who does not, and lies to herself? I know things are not easy, and there are sacrifices to be made. I just want a politician that will say so, and promise what can be done.
And what is worse, when you get one of those, usually at the local level, people generally answer positively to a results oriented policy. That makes that person to rise in the organization, and disappears both at the local and the national level. Cannibalism of the worthy. Unfortunately it seldom is contagious.
The problem also is that while it is not hard to get an idea of what is possible and is not at a local, limited level, as you go higher in the structure, the limits of possibility start to blur. So that you need a professional to know what is possible or impossible. We the general public get glimpses, or partial views, but it is harder to see the whole picture, and to differentiate what is possible from what is impossible but is used as a decoy to get that other possibility. Not that I mind misdirection when there is a worthwhile benefit. But getting reelected is not a worthwhile benefitin itself, for me.
There is other word that is losing its meaning, unfortunately. Public servant. Service standards are just getting lower. And I do not generally feel served.
What frightens me, and that is really a very personal fear, is the new brand of politicians, who have principles, and want to do good. I want my politicians to be ruthless bastards, working on our benefit. Principles are a danger in politics, and it is better to base everything on the bad parts of people instead of the good ones. They are more reliable. Someone who wants to save my soul will think killing my body a reasonable swap.
And so we get a policy of what should be, that fails due to practical constraints, while the policy of what should be done is considered dated and impopular. Maybe that is why I also feel dated and impopular. ¶ 1:15 AM 0 comments
9.7.04
More Memories
Maybe because I do not know what the future may bring, I find myself thinking back more and more lately. I feel the winds of change blowing around me, and I do not know if I want to spread my arms and take off, wherever they take me, or to get a nice shelter and ignore them till they blow away.
In the past, change has often been for the best, except when it was not, which usually involved other people. Love has never brought me long term happiness, but many bittersweet ones, and also a reason to keep going at times. But the memory I am concerned with is before I really worried about love.
I have been thinking of my first trip to the States, a mix of panic, thrills, unforgettable moments, instant growth and change. And learning English.
I went at 14, to spend the month of August with an American family. It was one of those exchange organizations. The family that was to host me was in Durango, Colorado, or, more accurately, some 25 miles (40 Km) from it, in the foothills of the southern Colorado Rockies. My stay partner was a boy my same age, Frank. He lived with his mother and stepfather, who had a courier service between Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. His father was an oil engineer, out in the Gulf, which meant that Frank had more available income that his parents did.
The travel itself was impressive. First seven hours in a chartered Jumbo, with more than 200 Spanish teens travelling to NY, to be spread all around the country. We quickly sorted out according to destinations, and I quickly found out there would be nobody closer than Denver. Well, the idea was to learn English, so that would certainly help.
After a long wait at TWA's JFK terminal (with no concern for my surroundings), our plane take off a bit late for Denver. That flight over most of the USA still lies, golden, among my memories. I see how the Mississipi could be followed for hours, and when we flew over Missouri. The rivers made easy to know where we were. Most passengers were kind with that awkward teenager, speaking broken English, stuck to the window. And the bloody red of the hammerhead of a Plains summer storm, that the plane tried to avoid.
That detour added more emotion to the trip, as we arrived late at Denver, where I had to take an aerotaxi to Durango. Fortunately I was the only passenger. However, by now it was full night, and I had been up (after a troubled sleep) for what seemed 24 hours. So I remember Denver's lights, and then I was in a small dark building in Durango's airport. I remember vaguely the long ride to the house, and that the guest room where I was had a couple of loaded rifles over the bed. I was in a real adventure!
(To be continued) ¶ 6:20 PM 0 comments
Maybe because I do not know what the future may bring, I find myself thinking back more and more lately. I feel the winds of change blowing around me, and I do not know if I want to spread my arms and take off, wherever they take me, or to get a nice shelter and ignore them till they blow away.
In the past, change has often been for the best, except when it was not, which usually involved other people. Love has never brought me long term happiness, but many bittersweet ones, and also a reason to keep going at times. But the memory I am concerned with is before I really worried about love.
I have been thinking of my first trip to the States, a mix of panic, thrills, unforgettable moments, instant growth and change. And learning English.
I went at 14, to spend the month of August with an American family. It was one of those exchange organizations. The family that was to host me was in Durango, Colorado, or, more accurately, some 25 miles (40 Km) from it, in the foothills of the southern Colorado Rockies. My stay partner was a boy my same age, Frank. He lived with his mother and stepfather, who had a courier service between Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. His father was an oil engineer, out in the Gulf, which meant that Frank had more available income that his parents did.
The travel itself was impressive. First seven hours in a chartered Jumbo, with more than 200 Spanish teens travelling to NY, to be spread all around the country. We quickly sorted out according to destinations, and I quickly found out there would be nobody closer than Denver. Well, the idea was to learn English, so that would certainly help.
After a long wait at TWA's JFK terminal (with no concern for my surroundings), our plane take off a bit late for Denver. That flight over most of the USA still lies, golden, among my memories. I see how the Mississipi could be followed for hours, and when we flew over Missouri. The rivers made easy to know where we were. Most passengers were kind with that awkward teenager, speaking broken English, stuck to the window. And the bloody red of the hammerhead of a Plains summer storm, that the plane tried to avoid.
That detour added more emotion to the trip, as we arrived late at Denver, where I had to take an aerotaxi to Durango. Fortunately I was the only passenger. However, by now it was full night, and I had been up (after a troubled sleep) for what seemed 24 hours. So I remember Denver's lights, and then I was in a small dark building in Durango's airport. I remember vaguely the long ride to the house, and that the guest room where I was had a couple of loaded rifles over the bed. I was in a real adventure!
(To be continued) ¶ 6:20 PM 0 comments
8.7.04
Memories of Summer
Some events today brought me back to that wonderful part of a teenager's life: holidays. And now nostalgia overcomes me.
In Spain students are quite spoiled, as the summer holiday season spread from middle of June to middle of September. A good reason to love the summer, when it is the time of real freedom.
Between my thirteenth and seventeenth birthdays my parents owned an apartment by the Mediterranean coast, in an area that was not overdeveloped, ten minutes away walking from the beach, and with five kilometers of cliffs in one direction, and fifteen kilometers of beach in the other to the next town. The beach was nice, golden sand and clear water, and good for the mornings, but the real interest was in the cliffs, that also included a small patch of mediterranean (pine) brush forest, the ruins of a Roman villa, an old quarry (supposedly since the Romans too) and lots of dirt roads, stinging and needling plants, including delicious blackberry brambles.
We rode those dirt roads in our bikes, a mixed gang of boys with no real concern for girls (till that last year). Hunting for fossils in the limestone cliffs. Diving with iron tridents hunting for octopi. Many days we left early in the morning, returned when hungry, slept the hot hours, and left again with our lanterns till midnight, when we should be close by the house, although often we stayed up playing hide and seek (both boys and girls gangs) till one or two, in the dark...
And all the other pleasures too. Reading under the shadow of an olive tree, for hours. Turning roleplaying games into im-promptu storytelling, when a storm kept us indoors. Long grudge matches of every conceivable team sport. The exhilarating feeling of biking downhill with no brakes, feeling indestructible. Jumping the wall to admire the garden of one of the few villas among the cliffs, and fleeing the guard dogs. Or getting lemonade and talking with the lonely caretaker.
I think that is why the months I spent in the USA, at fourteen and sixteen, were not so impressive. Those were months I had stolen from the real bliss that was the summer, and even the foreign experience, the travel, the people... they just could not compare with what I had then.
Not everything was great, but that only helped to highlight the good parts. Even the bruises, the wounds, the stings, the enemies, the thrown stone battles, the friends of only one summer... All of it just was part of what made it great.
Seventeen was the last year. I did not return later. Both the town and myself were no longer so innocent to accept fun so freely. The gangs mixed, and broke into shifting couples. The touristic exploitation of the seaside started to move into the cliffs and the town. And I was not satisfied any longer biking among the pines with a book.
At eighteen I went with some friends camping in the Pyrennees, and then youth hosteling in Scotland. Other, different brands of fun. But I have never had it so pure as then. ¶ 2:22 PM 0 comments
Some events today brought me back to that wonderful part of a teenager's life: holidays. And now nostalgia overcomes me.
In Spain students are quite spoiled, as the summer holiday season spread from middle of June to middle of September. A good reason to love the summer, when it is the time of real freedom.
Between my thirteenth and seventeenth birthdays my parents owned an apartment by the Mediterranean coast, in an area that was not overdeveloped, ten minutes away walking from the beach, and with five kilometers of cliffs in one direction, and fifteen kilometers of beach in the other to the next town. The beach was nice, golden sand and clear water, and good for the mornings, but the real interest was in the cliffs, that also included a small patch of mediterranean (pine) brush forest, the ruins of a Roman villa, an old quarry (supposedly since the Romans too) and lots of dirt roads, stinging and needling plants, including delicious blackberry brambles.
We rode those dirt roads in our bikes, a mixed gang of boys with no real concern for girls (till that last year). Hunting for fossils in the limestone cliffs. Diving with iron tridents hunting for octopi. Many days we left early in the morning, returned when hungry, slept the hot hours, and left again with our lanterns till midnight, when we should be close by the house, although often we stayed up playing hide and seek (both boys and girls gangs) till one or two, in the dark...
And all the other pleasures too. Reading under the shadow of an olive tree, for hours. Turning roleplaying games into im-promptu storytelling, when a storm kept us indoors. Long grudge matches of every conceivable team sport. The exhilarating feeling of biking downhill with no brakes, feeling indestructible. Jumping the wall to admire the garden of one of the few villas among the cliffs, and fleeing the guard dogs. Or getting lemonade and talking with the lonely caretaker.
I think that is why the months I spent in the USA, at fourteen and sixteen, were not so impressive. Those were months I had stolen from the real bliss that was the summer, and even the foreign experience, the travel, the people... they just could not compare with what I had then.
Not everything was great, but that only helped to highlight the good parts. Even the bruises, the wounds, the stings, the enemies, the thrown stone battles, the friends of only one summer... All of it just was part of what made it great.
Seventeen was the last year. I did not return later. Both the town and myself were no longer so innocent to accept fun so freely. The gangs mixed, and broke into shifting couples. The touristic exploitation of the seaside started to move into the cliffs and the town. And I was not satisfied any longer biking among the pines with a book.
At eighteen I went with some friends camping in the Pyrennees, and then youth hosteling in Scotland. Other, different brands of fun. But I have never had it so pure as then. ¶ 2:22 PM 0 comments
7.7.04
Suicide
Being too jaded to rant, I turn to embarrassing past history.
Yes, in three separate times did I plan to kill myself. Once I was half out a 6th floor window. None of them in the last thirteen years, however.
The first one was the one that brought me the most grief. I was fourteen, going to a religious school (St. Augustine's). However due to some books and several discussions both on philosophy and religious studies courses I suddenly lost my faith (or concluded God did not exist, your choice). That was a terrible loss, and I really considered what was the point in life then. So if there was no point, with that self centered selfishness of youth I decided the best was to get out of the world. As I mentioned above I decided defenestration was the method more suitable for my character. Fortunately I had second thoughts when I was almost there. If it did not really matter, why could not I continue and see what life brought? There was always time to jump out later. I am ashamed to say that at no moment of all of this did I ever worry about what effect my death would have in others.
The grief came when, as I was confused, I tried to share this confusion with my confessor (confession every week, Thursday evening). Well, confession secret notwithstanding (maybe because I had said also I had lost my faith?) he reported it to my parents, who, although they were very understanding of my ideas and took things quite well, had me go to a psichiatrist for a couple of months, till it was clear there were no real suicidal tendencies in me.
The second time was five years later, when I was nineteen. That was more of a mild depression, I think now in retrospect. No life, no girl, almost no friends, and even the studies did not go well that year. So, still convinced that defenestration was the best way to go (must be something related with living on a sixth floor), a couple of times I got up in the middle of the night, having decided to jump. But this time I did not even get to open the window. I was not so heartless at that age, so thinking of the effect my act would have on family and the few friends I still had were enough to stop me. Add a good summer, a bit of love (even if it ended very badly, all my fault, but that is another story) and there I was, good as new.
The last time was almost three years later. Just finished the University, I had just found out my girlfriend of two years was cheating on me with a common acquaintance. The day I found out by chance (going to surprise her by picking her up) I was too numb to think or do much. But two days later, when she explained herself and broke up (both herself, which disarmed me, and the relationship), I almost managed to get myself overrun by a bus, and spent the fifteen minutes walk back home planning how to kill myself. Windows had lost their attractive then, and it was clear I lacked the nerve or the deathwish to jump in front of a moving car (and wreck another life besides mine). So I decided to poison myself. Working on a Chemistry lab, there were plenty of choices. I took one day research to confirm a poison not very painful and very fast, which of course was the always popular potassium cyanide. Once I had the tool, however, I had cooled down enough that I decided to keep on living. I kept some 10 grams of cyanide in my room for several months, however, before deactivating it.
Not much more to say. I fear I care much less for the world, and at the same time it wounds me less too.
¶ 8:51 PM 0 comments
Being too jaded to rant, I turn to embarrassing past history.
Yes, in three separate times did I plan to kill myself. Once I was half out a 6th floor window. None of them in the last thirteen years, however.
The first one was the one that brought me the most grief. I was fourteen, going to a religious school (St. Augustine's). However due to some books and several discussions both on philosophy and religious studies courses I suddenly lost my faith (or concluded God did not exist, your choice). That was a terrible loss, and I really considered what was the point in life then. So if there was no point, with that self centered selfishness of youth I decided the best was to get out of the world. As I mentioned above I decided defenestration was the method more suitable for my character. Fortunately I had second thoughts when I was almost there. If it did not really matter, why could not I continue and see what life brought? There was always time to jump out later. I am ashamed to say that at no moment of all of this did I ever worry about what effect my death would have in others.
The grief came when, as I was confused, I tried to share this confusion with my confessor (confession every week, Thursday evening). Well, confession secret notwithstanding (maybe because I had said also I had lost my faith?) he reported it to my parents, who, although they were very understanding of my ideas and took things quite well, had me go to a psichiatrist for a couple of months, till it was clear there were no real suicidal tendencies in me.
The second time was five years later, when I was nineteen. That was more of a mild depression, I think now in retrospect. No life, no girl, almost no friends, and even the studies did not go well that year. So, still convinced that defenestration was the best way to go (must be something related with living on a sixth floor), a couple of times I got up in the middle of the night, having decided to jump. But this time I did not even get to open the window. I was not so heartless at that age, so thinking of the effect my act would have on family and the few friends I still had were enough to stop me. Add a good summer, a bit of love (even if it ended very badly, all my fault, but that is another story) and there I was, good as new.
The last time was almost three years later. Just finished the University, I had just found out my girlfriend of two years was cheating on me with a common acquaintance. The day I found out by chance (going to surprise her by picking her up) I was too numb to think or do much. But two days later, when she explained herself and broke up (both herself, which disarmed me, and the relationship), I almost managed to get myself overrun by a bus, and spent the fifteen minutes walk back home planning how to kill myself. Windows had lost their attractive then, and it was clear I lacked the nerve or the deathwish to jump in front of a moving car (and wreck another life besides mine). So I decided to poison myself. Working on a Chemistry lab, there were plenty of choices. I took one day research to confirm a poison not very painful and very fast, which of course was the always popular potassium cyanide. Once I had the tool, however, I had cooled down enough that I decided to keep on living. I kept some 10 grams of cyanide in my room for several months, however, before deactivating it.
Not much more to say. I fear I care much less for the world, and at the same time it wounds me less too.
¶ 8:51 PM 0 comments
5.7.04
Jadedness
This is a word I like, not by itself (I doubt I could pronounce it right), but what it means. This will not be a rant because I do not intend to write about the few things that matter a lot. At least, not yet. So I have not enough feelings to rant.
So I will expound, something I do too easily. The pleasures of a man that likes to read his own words, and with an Edit function to hide the mistakes.
I feel jaded. Mostly with my current life. There are many things I would like to do, but few with enough passion to actually consider going out and doing them.
The question however is, am I feeling something with such an overwhelming passion that I am left empty of emotion for other things?
I would like to say yes, but I would be lying. There is emotion on my life, and even consuming obsessions, but I would not call them overwhelming. Do I think then, referring to the previous rant about Love, that I do not love? Well, there is a difference between overwhelming and overriding. So, yes, I love, and I behave irrationally out of it, but it does not spill too much in the rest of my life. Maybe I appreciate it more, as it is probably the best I have going right now. The part that keeps me feeling alive. But keeping with the rest of my feelings, it is quite subdued as irrationality, and not a bonfire of passion. More like a Zippo lighter, alight among strong winds that extinguish other emotions.
In moments like this, I wonder if the Buddhist detachment is so difficult after all. I feel quite detached of the world myself. ¶ 5:06 PM 0 comments
This is a word I like, not by itself (I doubt I could pronounce it right), but what it means. This will not be a rant because I do not intend to write about the few things that matter a lot. At least, not yet. So I have not enough feelings to rant.
So I will expound, something I do too easily. The pleasures of a man that likes to read his own words, and with an Edit function to hide the mistakes.
I feel jaded. Mostly with my current life. There are many things I would like to do, but few with enough passion to actually consider going out and doing them.
The question however is, am I feeling something with such an overwhelming passion that I am left empty of emotion for other things?
I would like to say yes, but I would be lying. There is emotion on my life, and even consuming obsessions, but I would not call them overwhelming. Do I think then, referring to the previous rant about Love, that I do not love? Well, there is a difference between overwhelming and overriding. So, yes, I love, and I behave irrationally out of it, but it does not spill too much in the rest of my life. Maybe I appreciate it more, as it is probably the best I have going right now. The part that keeps me feeling alive. But keeping with the rest of my feelings, it is quite subdued as irrationality, and not a bonfire of passion. More like a Zippo lighter, alight among strong winds that extinguish other emotions.
In moments like this, I wonder if the Buddhist detachment is so difficult after all. I feel quite detached of the world myself. ¶ 5:06 PM 0 comments
3.7.04
Family
You cannot choose your family, but you can choose how you deal with them, to a certain extent.Family is one of those old instinctive behaviour patterns, now ingrained also in social mores, slowly eroding, as so many "animalistic" heritages under the pressure of advanced society.
The fact that people will be nice to you, and you have to be nice to them just because there is a common ancestor, is a great lubricant in certain social interactions, specially in small towns, but starts to breakdown once family becomes a bunch of unknowns with some vaguely remembered names.
Even us, who were quite close with many of our cousins, as we spent summers together and all, now, twenty five years later, I have trouble finding things to relate with them when we phone for the compulsory birthday congratulations. We only meet for weddings, as we are all scattered all around the country. Some inheritance troubles have also soured the relationships with some relatives, specially on my father's side.
However, there is also some atavic clan structure still lying in the brain, because it is still very easy to trust in one of them, and to be sure they will stick with you through any bad spot. And that makes you reciprocate. Including going get one of them at a police station, or advancing insane amounts of money (that is returned with surprising prontitude and thoroughness).
Now friends have taken most of the place that earlier was occuppied by family. But good friends are scarce, and require a certain upkeep. Family however is always around, and you can count on them on certain matters more than a friend.
It also helps you not to feel alone. ¶ 10:19 AM 0 comments
You cannot choose your family, but you can choose how you deal with them, to a certain extent.Family is one of those old instinctive behaviour patterns, now ingrained also in social mores, slowly eroding, as so many "animalistic" heritages under the pressure of advanced society.
The fact that people will be nice to you, and you have to be nice to them just because there is a common ancestor, is a great lubricant in certain social interactions, specially in small towns, but starts to breakdown once family becomes a bunch of unknowns with some vaguely remembered names.
Even us, who were quite close with many of our cousins, as we spent summers together and all, now, twenty five years later, I have trouble finding things to relate with them when we phone for the compulsory birthday congratulations. We only meet for weddings, as we are all scattered all around the country. Some inheritance troubles have also soured the relationships with some relatives, specially on my father's side.
However, there is also some atavic clan structure still lying in the brain, because it is still very easy to trust in one of them, and to be sure they will stick with you through any bad spot. And that makes you reciprocate. Including going get one of them at a police station, or advancing insane amounts of money (that is returned with surprising prontitude and thoroughness).
Now friends have taken most of the place that earlier was occuppied by family. But good friends are scarce, and require a certain upkeep. Family however is always around, and you can count on them on certain matters more than a friend.
It also helps you not to feel alone. ¶ 10:19 AM 0 comments
2.7.04
Love
Yes, I know I said I would not divulge secrets. But the ones I will tell here are old ones, and mostly deal with myself. This is a self-centered blog, so the loved one will be assumed to exist on the edge, an actress in the shadow.
Love is worse than a pain in the ass. Here you are, minding your own life, trying to get a few sensible pleasures, most of them of the kind that you can enjoy on your own or with company, just in case, when your body just betrays you. Yes, I know that there is supposed to be intellectual love, but in my opinion that is just a white lie, either to mask the lust you feel for what is mostly a friend, or when you do not want to hurt someone you appreciate.
And here we find us in the middle of a minefield. So, here we have "love", and I just differentiated it from "friend", and even from "appreciate". Well, yes, I did. For me, love is an overriding passion that affects both your thoughts and your actions, driven for an extreme attraction to a person (or an idea, or a cause, but we will leave those out for today). It does not necessarily mean you want to spend all the time with the object of your affection, but only that most of your time, and some or all of your energies are devoted to the cause of the loved one. From knowing what she looked like in kindergarden to tracking what she has bid for in ebay. Visiting her home town, even if she is no longer there, or just talk by phone for six hours, from 1 am to 7 am, and then going to work without sleeping.
Depending on the person and the character, and of course the response of the loved one, some behave in a mostly mental way (speacially if the loved one is unaware of the love), some in an active way. But what cannot be denied is that the loved one takes a big amount of the attention of the lover. Indeed, most of the conscious is spent reflection on the loved one.
Affection, appreciation and other passions which are not overriding are nice too. But we cannot cheat ourselves. I could die for someone I like, but as soon as a loved one gets close by, I forget my friends until the brain disengages the "love" function.
Fortunately, as in so many chemical receptors affairs (if you dislike the idea of a mechanistic love, just think that this describes how the body behaves in response to the loved one, there is still no mechanistic explanation of why you chose that person, so there is still some magic in love), the brain develops a tolerance, and the effect of love diminishes, or the "rosy glasses" episodes become shorter. However, as in so many other drugs, an experienced user can control the ups and downs to keep in love for a long time, although that is easier with the help of the loved one, piquing interest and adding the right mix of desire and fulfillment to keep things hot. Of course, most couples find the love snuffed out due to lack of care, but affection and appreciation serve even better for a life in common, unless one of the couple feels that overriding passion again. Then we have crisis, and romance, and personal catastrophes.
I suppose there could be an analogue to the serotonine inhibitors that could block the complex "love" signal. Or even provoke it at will. But are we ready to take a pill every day to avoid falling in love again? Right now, I feel I may well do, as soon as I resolve some problems only irrational love can make me able to do. ¶ 4:46 PM 0 comments
Yes, I know I said I would not divulge secrets. But the ones I will tell here are old ones, and mostly deal with myself. This is a self-centered blog, so the loved one will be assumed to exist on the edge, an actress in the shadow.
Love is worse than a pain in the ass. Here you are, minding your own life, trying to get a few sensible pleasures, most of them of the kind that you can enjoy on your own or with company, just in case, when your body just betrays you. Yes, I know that there is supposed to be intellectual love, but in my opinion that is just a white lie, either to mask the lust you feel for what is mostly a friend, or when you do not want to hurt someone you appreciate.
And here we find us in the middle of a minefield. So, here we have "love", and I just differentiated it from "friend", and even from "appreciate". Well, yes, I did. For me, love is an overriding passion that affects both your thoughts and your actions, driven for an extreme attraction to a person (or an idea, or a cause, but we will leave those out for today). It does not necessarily mean you want to spend all the time with the object of your affection, but only that most of your time, and some or all of your energies are devoted to the cause of the loved one. From knowing what she looked like in kindergarden to tracking what she has bid for in ebay. Visiting her home town, even if she is no longer there, or just talk by phone for six hours, from 1 am to 7 am, and then going to work without sleeping.
Depending on the person and the character, and of course the response of the loved one, some behave in a mostly mental way (speacially if the loved one is unaware of the love), some in an active way. But what cannot be denied is that the loved one takes a big amount of the attention of the lover. Indeed, most of the conscious is spent reflection on the loved one.
Affection, appreciation and other passions which are not overriding are nice too. But we cannot cheat ourselves. I could die for someone I like, but as soon as a loved one gets close by, I forget my friends until the brain disengages the "love" function.
Fortunately, as in so many chemical receptors affairs (if you dislike the idea of a mechanistic love, just think that this describes how the body behaves in response to the loved one, there is still no mechanistic explanation of why you chose that person, so there is still some magic in love), the brain develops a tolerance, and the effect of love diminishes, or the "rosy glasses" episodes become shorter. However, as in so many other drugs, an experienced user can control the ups and downs to keep in love for a long time, although that is easier with the help of the loved one, piquing interest and adding the right mix of desire and fulfillment to keep things hot. Of course, most couples find the love snuffed out due to lack of care, but affection and appreciation serve even better for a life in common, unless one of the couple feels that overriding passion again. Then we have crisis, and romance, and personal catastrophes.
I suppose there could be an analogue to the serotonine inhibitors that could block the complex "love" signal. Or even provoke it at will. But are we ready to take a pill every day to avoid falling in love again? Right now, I feel I may well do, as soon as I resolve some problems only irrational love can make me able to do. ¶ 4:46 PM 0 comments
"Great books"
What makes a book great? I am a compulsive reader, but many supposed classics bore me to tears. And it is not just a matter of time reference, as I love some of its contemporaries. Even that varies within one author's work, like Tolstoi. I love War and Peace, and could not end Anna Karenina.
In all literary works, there is an internal date, and that may affect how it is appreciated by later generations. Some have a strong internal date, and very quickly become dated. Many of them, however, are very succesful in their own timeframe. That is one of the dangers of using current events on a novel, as that usually strengthens the date.
I reread recently "The Iliad", (one of the few good results of the film "Troy", but it does not even merit a rant), and I still enjoyed it so much as I did as a teenager. Even if we consider it an Illustrated book (the translation I read was based on an XVIIIth century one) instead of an Ancient Greek, it is still impressive to catch the interest in such a way. And I got very different things from it, much more subtext and nuances, that I did at fourteen. But I still enjoyed it.
As a contrast, another epic book I read at fourteen was The Lord of the Rings. A good book, but in a way, simpler, and the pleasure reading it has decreased as I age, so a book that I valued much more than the Iliad, now I value less.
So in a way we have two kind of books, or maybe, two kind of reactions to "great books". Those that in a way reach something inside you, something that is there even beyond the gulfs of time, culture and distance. And those that somehow miss you. To be a great book, you just need to score a certain number of hits, specially among the people that matter culturally, through a certain time, and presto, you have a classic. If you do not reach enough, you will survive on the fringes of literature. If at a certain time you do not reach anyone, and you were not already established as a classic, it is over.
Which is just an elaborate way of saying that a classic is a book that was liked by intellectuals through a certain time (a century seemed a minimum, but everything happens faster now, when you have classics which are thirty years old). Although it is not a guarantee, it means it has reach. And if it is really liked by its own merits in your own time, the chances that it will reach you too increase.
And a few reach almost everyone, no matter how old, wise, cynical or desperate. That is the power, for instance, of some of Shakespeare's works or The thousand and one nights, that they reach something in the species subconscious, or rather, express it so we can look at it, and be horrified, or awed, or moved.
Makes me wonder if that means professor Tolkien succeeded or failed in reproducing the archetypical sagas. Or maybe his archetypes are losing strength in my own world.
Or maybe we would like to be Richard. I know I would, at times.
¶ 7:17 AM 0 comments
What makes a book great? I am a compulsive reader, but many supposed classics bore me to tears. And it is not just a matter of time reference, as I love some of its contemporaries. Even that varies within one author's work, like Tolstoi. I love War and Peace, and could not end Anna Karenina.
In all literary works, there is an internal date, and that may affect how it is appreciated by later generations. Some have a strong internal date, and very quickly become dated. Many of them, however, are very succesful in their own timeframe. That is one of the dangers of using current events on a novel, as that usually strengthens the date.
I reread recently "The Iliad", (one of the few good results of the film "Troy", but it does not even merit a rant), and I still enjoyed it so much as I did as a teenager. Even if we consider it an Illustrated book (the translation I read was based on an XVIIIth century one) instead of an Ancient Greek, it is still impressive to catch the interest in such a way. And I got very different things from it, much more subtext and nuances, that I did at fourteen. But I still enjoyed it.
As a contrast, another epic book I read at fourteen was The Lord of the Rings. A good book, but in a way, simpler, and the pleasure reading it has decreased as I age, so a book that I valued much more than the Iliad, now I value less.
So in a way we have two kind of books, or maybe, two kind of reactions to "great books". Those that in a way reach something inside you, something that is there even beyond the gulfs of time, culture and distance. And those that somehow miss you. To be a great book, you just need to score a certain number of hits, specially among the people that matter culturally, through a certain time, and presto, you have a classic. If you do not reach enough, you will survive on the fringes of literature. If at a certain time you do not reach anyone, and you were not already established as a classic, it is over.
Which is just an elaborate way of saying that a classic is a book that was liked by intellectuals through a certain time (a century seemed a minimum, but everything happens faster now, when you have classics which are thirty years old). Although it is not a guarantee, it means it has reach. And if it is really liked by its own merits in your own time, the chances that it will reach you too increase.
And a few reach almost everyone, no matter how old, wise, cynical or desperate. That is the power, for instance, of some of Shakespeare's works or The thousand and one nights, that they reach something in the species subconscious, or rather, express it so we can look at it, and be horrified, or awed, or moved.
Makes me wonder if that means professor Tolkien succeeded or failed in reproducing the archetypical sagas. Or maybe his archetypes are losing strength in my own world.
Or maybe we would like to be Richard. I know I would, at times.
¶ 7:17 AM 0 comments
1.7.04
Travelling
Back after some travelling around, I am starting to miss the joy of travelling. I do not know if I am also missing the joy of youth, as that would explain some more things, but I still remember pleasanty my first transoceanic flight, some 23 years ago, and what it felt to be a part of a privileged elite. Now, feeling a member of an elite requires either an awful amount of money, or a really bizarre hobby that you can only find other practitioners through the internet.
There is also a matter of resistance. Some ten years ago I did not think twice about driving ten hours without music. Now I still can do it, but I am bored like hell after the first thirty minutes. It is not a matter of physical resistance, although I suppose that will arrive too, it is a matter of jadedness. Now everything is old hat. The Eiffel tower in the distance: Wow! not. Hey that car is... not even a blink. Look at the driver of that cabrio... no interest.
Boring. Now I am more worried about what I am going to eat that what marvels can I see in this town. And I try, and go be awed like a good boy. But there is so little that awe nowadays my poor cynical head that I am running out of reasons to travel.
It was not always like this. Besides the destination, I used to love the travel in itself, the displacement. How, during the travelling, your life is in a kind of suspended state, not here nor there, and outside the normal bonds. And travels are always times when the wonder can enter again your life. Where you can see the unexpected and feel the unknown, outside the bounds of life and home. But things start getting wrong when you start wishing the travel time to shorten. When you long for a teleporting device, just to be there instantly.
Soon, you lose those small rituals that used to be filled with magic, packing the luggage, choosing the suitcase and the load, choosing clothes depending on location and what you have to traverse to be there, the small anticipative pleasures when packing a raincoat or the snow gloves, or tracing on a map the expected route, memorizing names and recalling landmarks. Some you still do, but they are chores instead of pleasures.
A few travels have however some magic left, either from the destination, or for something you expect to happen there. And then you have all the anticipation, or a shadow of it, of those great travels that are burnt forever in your memory. The night train from Barcelone to Geneve, talking with a Mexican the whole night in his first trip in Europe. The bus to Mallaig from Glasgow, looking for the small town of Arisaig, and the beach. Flying over the United States and tracing the trip easily in a map, while red thunderclouds loom in the horizon (NY-Denver). A violent storm in a ship in the Rhine, as we pass the Lorelei. Those twenty hour bus trips to London, with the relaxing time of the ferry at the end. Falling in love in the way to Paris, being kissed in the way to Amsterdam, and talking the whole trip back of the future. Few recent trips have a fraction of the magic. Japan, and Paris, probably, for different reasons.
Sometimes getting old and wise just sucks.
¶ 4:33 PM 0 comments
Back after some travelling around, I am starting to miss the joy of travelling. I do not know if I am also missing the joy of youth, as that would explain some more things, but I still remember pleasanty my first transoceanic flight, some 23 years ago, and what it felt to be a part of a privileged elite. Now, feeling a member of an elite requires either an awful amount of money, or a really bizarre hobby that you can only find other practitioners through the internet.
There is also a matter of resistance. Some ten years ago I did not think twice about driving ten hours without music. Now I still can do it, but I am bored like hell after the first thirty minutes. It is not a matter of physical resistance, although I suppose that will arrive too, it is a matter of jadedness. Now everything is old hat. The Eiffel tower in the distance: Wow! not. Hey that car is... not even a blink. Look at the driver of that cabrio... no interest.
Boring. Now I am more worried about what I am going to eat that what marvels can I see in this town. And I try, and go be awed like a good boy. But there is so little that awe nowadays my poor cynical head that I am running out of reasons to travel.
It was not always like this. Besides the destination, I used to love the travel in itself, the displacement. How, during the travelling, your life is in a kind of suspended state, not here nor there, and outside the normal bonds. And travels are always times when the wonder can enter again your life. Where you can see the unexpected and feel the unknown, outside the bounds of life and home. But things start getting wrong when you start wishing the travel time to shorten. When you long for a teleporting device, just to be there instantly.
Soon, you lose those small rituals that used to be filled with magic, packing the luggage, choosing the suitcase and the load, choosing clothes depending on location and what you have to traverse to be there, the small anticipative pleasures when packing a raincoat or the snow gloves, or tracing on a map the expected route, memorizing names and recalling landmarks. Some you still do, but they are chores instead of pleasures.
A few travels have however some magic left, either from the destination, or for something you expect to happen there. And then you have all the anticipation, or a shadow of it, of those great travels that are burnt forever in your memory. The night train from Barcelone to Geneve, talking with a Mexican the whole night in his first trip in Europe. The bus to Mallaig from Glasgow, looking for the small town of Arisaig, and the beach. Flying over the United States and tracing the trip easily in a map, while red thunderclouds loom in the horizon (NY-Denver). A violent storm in a ship in the Rhine, as we pass the Lorelei. Those twenty hour bus trips to London, with the relaxing time of the ferry at the end. Falling in love in the way to Paris, being kissed in the way to Amsterdam, and talking the whole trip back of the future. Few recent trips have a fraction of the magic. Japan, and Paris, probably, for different reasons.
Sometimes getting old and wise just sucks.
¶ 4:33 PM 0 comments
