This, I think, is the best sad song on the face of the earth (...or rather, the best I've heard), and very probably one of the best, or at least most expressive performances as well. Really excellent stuff. I think it'd be impossible not be affected. Evocative and beautiful, pure and poetic without the pretentious bullshit. Enjoy!
And, if you did enjoy, I might also recommend Amsterdam (a place he really doesn't seem too fond of) and Le Moribond, which, coupled with the last two, makes me rather convinced that the beloved Brel had some very serious women issues. But then again, don't we all...(granted, some more than others). May none of us live the painful lives that alone can produce the gut-fire and hell-deep anguished songs of Jacques Brel! That said, I'm glad he did, because he made some damn good songs out of it.
P.S. the link to Amsterdam has English subtitles but gets cut off a bit short. Here's a link to a version with Russian subtitles but a fuller recording with the end and a few shots of the crowd. The music is great by itself, but the words are great too. Now you can have both!
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Once in a Lifetime
This has been one of my favorite songs for the last couple of weeks or so. Actually, it became one ever since I saw David Byrn perform it at a show at the Michigan Theater (in Ann Arbor, MI), complete with an all white-clad dance crew, brilliantly lighted set, much hip shaking, and the whole crowd dancing on their feet about a month ago. I can't help but smile every time I here it. 'Hope you enjoy.
"I Hate World Music" - by David Byrn
David Byrne: "I Hate World Music"
“I Hate World Music”
by David Byrne
The New York Times,
October 3, 1999
I hate world music. That’s probably one of the perverse reasons I have been asked to write about it. The term is a catchall that commonly refers to non-Western music of any and all sorts, popular music, traditional music and even classical music. It’s a marketing as well as a pseudomusical term — and a name for a bin in the record store signifying stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else in the store. What’s in that bin ranges from the most blatantly commercial music produced by a country, like Hindi film music (the singer Asha Bhosle being the best well known example), to the ultra-sophisticated, super-cosmopolitan art-pop of Brazil (Caetano Veloso, Tom Zé, Carlinhos Brown); from the somewhat bizarre and surreal concept of a former Bulgarian state-run folkloric choir being arranged by classically trained, Soviet-era composers (Le Mystére des Voix Bulgares) to Norteño songs from Texas and northern Mexico glorifying the exploits of drug dealers (Los Tigres del Norte). Albums by Selena, Ricky Martin and Los Del Rio (the Macarena kings), artists who sell millions of records in the United States alone, are racked next to field recordings of Thai hill tribes. Equating apples and oranges indeed. So, from a purely democratic standpoint, one in which all music is equal, regardless of sales and slickness of production, this is a musical utopia.
So Why Am I Complaining?
In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of dismissing artists or their music as irrelevant to one’s own life. It’s a way of relegating this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute, weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them.” This grouping is a convenient way of not seeing a band or artist as a creative individual, albeit from a culture somewhat different from that seen on American television. It’s a label for anything at all that is not sung in English or anything that doesn’t fit into the Anglo-Western pop universe this year. (So Ricky Martin is allowed out of the world music ghetto — for a while, anyway. Next year, who knows? If he makes a plena record, he might have to go back to the salsa bins and the Latin mom and pop record stores.) It’s a none too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture. It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move, White Man!
There is some terrific music being made all over the world. In fact, there is more music, in sheer quantity, currently defined as world music, than any other kind. Not just kinds of music, but volume of recordings as well. When we talk about world music we find ourselves talking about 99 percent of the music on this planet. It would be strange to imagine, as many multinational corporations seem to, that Western pop holds the copyright on musical creativity.
No, the fact is, Western pop is the fast food of music, and there is more exciting creative music making going on outside the Western pop tradition than inside it. There is so much incredible noise happening that we’ll never exhaust it. For example, there are guitar bands in Africa that can be, if you let them, as inspiring and transporting as any kind of rock, pop, soul, funk or disco you grew up with. And what is exciting for me is that they have taken elements of global (Western?) music apart, examined the pieces to see what might be of use and then re-invented and reassembled the parts to their own ends. Thus creating something entirely new. (Femi Kuti gave a great show the other night that was part Coltrane, part James Brown and all African, just like his daddy, Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musical mastermind.)
To restrict your listening to English-language pop is like deciding to eat the same meal for the rest of your life. The “no-surprise surprise,” as the Holiday Inn advertisement claims, is reassuring, I guess, but lacks kick. As ridiculous as they often sound, the conservative critics of rock-and-roll, and more recently of techno and rave, are not far off the mark. For at it’s best, music truly is subversive and dangerous. Thank the gods.
Hearing the right piece of music at the right time of your life can inspire a radical change, destructive personal behavior or even fascist politics. Sometimes all at the same time.
On the other hand, music can inspire love, religious ecstasy, cathartic release, social bonding and a glimpse of another dimension. A sense that there is another time, another space and another, better, universe. It can heal a broken heart, offer a shoulder to cry on and a friend when no one else understands. There are times when you want to be transported, to get your mind around some stuff it never encountered before. And what if the thing transporting you doesn’t come from your neighborhood?
Why Bother?
This interest in music not like that made in our own little villages (Dumbarton, Scotland, and Arbutus, Md., in my own case) is not, as it’s often claimed, cultural tourism, because once you’ve let something in, let it grab hold of you, you’re forever changed. Of course, you can also listen and remain completely unaffected and unmoved — like a tourist. Your loss. The fact is, after listening to some of this music for a while, it probably won’t seem exotic any more, even if you still don’t understand all the words. Thinking of things as exotic is only cool when it’s your sister, your co-worker or wife; it’s sometimes beneficial to exoticize that which has become overly familiar. But in other circumstances, viewing people and cultures as exotic is a distancing mechanism that too often allows for exploitation and racism.
Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to believe that once you grow to love some aspect of a culture — its music, for instance — you can never again think of the people of that culture as less than yourself. I would like to believe that if I am deeply moved by a song originating from some place other than my own hometown, then I have in some way shared an experience with the people of that culture. I have been pleasantly contaminated. I can identify in some small way with it and its people. Not that I will ever experience music exactly the same way as those who make it. I am not Hank Williams, or even Hank Jr., but I can still love his music and be moved by it. Doesn’t mean I have to live like him. Or take as many drugs as he did, or, for that matter, as much as the great flamenco singer Cameron de la Isla did.
That’s what art does; it communicates the vibe, the feeling, the attitude toward our lives, in a way that is personal and universal at the same time. And we don’t have to go through all the personal torment that the artist went through to get it. I would like to think that if you love a piece of music, how can you help but love, or at least respect, the producers of it? On the other hand, I know plenty of racists who love “soul” music, rap and rhthym-and-blues, so dream on, Dave.
The Myth of the Authentic
The issue of “authenticity” is such a weird can of worms. Westerners get obsessed with it. They agonize over which is the “true” music, the real deal. I question the authenticity of some of the new-age ethnofusion music that’s out there, but I also know that to rule out everything I personally abhor would be to rule out the possibility of a future miracle. Everybody knows the world has two types of music — my kind and everyone else’s. And even my kind ain’t always so great.
What is considered authentic today was probably some kind of bastard fusion a few years ago. An all-Japanese salsa orchestra’s record (Orquestra de la Luz) was No. 1 on the salsa charts in the United States not long ago. Did the New York salseros care? No, most loved the songs and were frankly amazed. African guitar bands were doing their level best to copy Cuban rumbas, and in their twisted failure thay came up with something new. So let’s not make any rules about who can make a specific style of music.
Mr. Juju himself, King Sunny Adé, name-checks the country and western crooner Jim Reeves as an influence. True. Rumor has it that the famous Balinese monkey chant was coordinated and choreographed by a German! The first South African pop record I bought was all tunes with American car race themes — the Indy 500 and the like. With sound effects, too! So let’s forget about this authenticity bugaboo. If you are transported by the music, then knowing that the creators had open ears can only add to the enjoyment.
White folks needed to see Leadbelly in prison garb to feel they were getting the real thing. They need to be assured that rappers are “keeping it real,” they need their Cuban musicians old and sweet, their Eastern and Asian artists “spiritual.” The myths and clichÚs of national and cultural traits flourish in the marketing of music. There is the myth of the untutored, innocent savant whose rhymes contain funky Zen-like pearls of wisdom — the myth that exotic “traditional” music is more honest, more soulful and more in touch with a people’s real and true feelings than the kid wearing jeans and the latest sports gear on Mexican television.
There is a perverse need to see foreign performers in their native dress rather than in the T-shirts and baggies that they usually wear off stage. We don’t want them looking too much like us, because then we assume that their music is calculated, marketed, impure. Heaven forbid they should be at least as aware of the larger world as we are. All of which might be true, but more important, their larger awareness might also be relevant to their music, which in turn might connect it to our own lives and situations. Heaven forbid.
La Nueva Generación
In the last couple of years, there have been any number of articles in newspapers and magazines about how Latin music in particular was finally going to become hugely popular in the U.S. of A. Half — yes, half — of the current top 10 singles in Britain, that hot and sweaty country, are sort of Latin, if you count Geri Halliwell’s “Mi Chico Latino,” and why not? The others are watered-down remakes of Perez Prado’s hits from the 50’s and 60’s. The Buena Vista Social Club record is the No. 1 selling record, in any category, in funky Germany. Les Nubians, a French-African group, is getting played on urban (translate as “black”) radio in America. So is this a trend or what? Are these more than summer novelty tunes for anglos? Are we really going to learn to dance, or is this some kind of aberration?
But what about the alterna-Latino bands that are touring the United States and Europe in increasing numbers. The Columbian band Bloque (which, I confess, is on my label) was named best band of the year by a Chicago critic; Los Fabulosos Cadillacs won a Grammy last year. Both bands, and many, many others, mix the grooves of their neighborhoods with the sounds and attitudes of the North American tunes they also grew up with. They are a generation with a double heritage, and their music expresses it.
It’s tough for this bunch to crack the American market: they’re not always cute, safe or exotic. Their music is often more innovative than that of their northern counterparts, which is intimidating. And as cool as they are, they insist on singing in their own language, to an audience that identifies completely with them, thereby making it more difficult to gain a foothold in the States.
These bands are the musical equivalent of a generation of Latin American writers, including Gabriel García Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Amado and Mario Vargas Llosa, that was referred to as the Boom. These musicians are defining their generation, finding a unique voice, and will influence countless others outside their home countries. Here, I believe, is where change will happen. Although they don’t sell very many records yet, these and others (for things analogous to this are happening everywhere, in Africa, in Morocco, in Turkey) will plant the seeds, and while I enjoy hearing Ricky Martin’s merengue on the radio, these others will change my life.
“I Hate World Music”
by David Byrne
The New York Times,
October 3, 1999
I hate world music. That’s probably one of the perverse reasons I have been asked to write about it. The term is a catchall that commonly refers to non-Western music of any and all sorts, popular music, traditional music and even classical music. It’s a marketing as well as a pseudomusical term — and a name for a bin in the record store signifying stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else in the store. What’s in that bin ranges from the most blatantly commercial music produced by a country, like Hindi film music (the singer Asha Bhosle being the best well known example), to the ultra-sophisticated, super-cosmopolitan art-pop of Brazil (Caetano Veloso, Tom Zé, Carlinhos Brown); from the somewhat bizarre and surreal concept of a former Bulgarian state-run folkloric choir being arranged by classically trained, Soviet-era composers (Le Mystére des Voix Bulgares) to Norteño songs from Texas and northern Mexico glorifying the exploits of drug dealers (Los Tigres del Norte). Albums by Selena, Ricky Martin and Los Del Rio (the Macarena kings), artists who sell millions of records in the United States alone, are racked next to field recordings of Thai hill tribes. Equating apples and oranges indeed. So, from a purely democratic standpoint, one in which all music is equal, regardless of sales and slickness of production, this is a musical utopia.
So Why Am I Complaining?
In my experience, the use of the term world music is a way of dismissing artists or their music as irrelevant to one’s own life. It’s a way of relegating this “thing” into the realm of something exotic and therefore cute, weird but safe, because exotica is beautiful but irrelevant; they are, by definition, not like us. Maybe that’s why I hate the term. It groups everything and anything that isn’t “us” into “them.” This grouping is a convenient way of not seeing a band or artist as a creative individual, albeit from a culture somewhat different from that seen on American television. It’s a label for anything at all that is not sung in English or anything that doesn’t fit into the Anglo-Western pop universe this year. (So Ricky Martin is allowed out of the world music ghetto — for a while, anyway. Next year, who knows? If he makes a plena record, he might have to go back to the salsa bins and the Latin mom and pop record stores.) It’s a none too subtle way of reasserting the hegemony of Western pop culture. It ghettoizes most of the world’s music. A bold and audacious move, White Man!
There is some terrific music being made all over the world. In fact, there is more music, in sheer quantity, currently defined as world music, than any other kind. Not just kinds of music, but volume of recordings as well. When we talk about world music we find ourselves talking about 99 percent of the music on this planet. It would be strange to imagine, as many multinational corporations seem to, that Western pop holds the copyright on musical creativity.
No, the fact is, Western pop is the fast food of music, and there is more exciting creative music making going on outside the Western pop tradition than inside it. There is so much incredible noise happening that we’ll never exhaust it. For example, there are guitar bands in Africa that can be, if you let them, as inspiring and transporting as any kind of rock, pop, soul, funk or disco you grew up with. And what is exciting for me is that they have taken elements of global (Western?) music apart, examined the pieces to see what might be of use and then re-invented and reassembled the parts to their own ends. Thus creating something entirely new. (Femi Kuti gave a great show the other night that was part Coltrane, part James Brown and all African, just like his daddy, Fela Kuti, the great Nigerian musical mastermind.)
To restrict your listening to English-language pop is like deciding to eat the same meal for the rest of your life. The “no-surprise surprise,” as the Holiday Inn advertisement claims, is reassuring, I guess, but lacks kick. As ridiculous as they often sound, the conservative critics of rock-and-roll, and more recently of techno and rave, are not far off the mark. For at it’s best, music truly is subversive and dangerous. Thank the gods.
Hearing the right piece of music at the right time of your life can inspire a radical change, destructive personal behavior or even fascist politics. Sometimes all at the same time.
On the other hand, music can inspire love, religious ecstasy, cathartic release, social bonding and a glimpse of another dimension. A sense that there is another time, another space and another, better, universe. It can heal a broken heart, offer a shoulder to cry on and a friend when no one else understands. There are times when you want to be transported, to get your mind around some stuff it never encountered before. And what if the thing transporting you doesn’t come from your neighborhood?
Why Bother?
This interest in music not like that made in our own little villages (Dumbarton, Scotland, and Arbutus, Md., in my own case) is not, as it’s often claimed, cultural tourism, because once you’ve let something in, let it grab hold of you, you’re forever changed. Of course, you can also listen and remain completely unaffected and unmoved — like a tourist. Your loss. The fact is, after listening to some of this music for a while, it probably won’t seem exotic any more, even if you still don’t understand all the words. Thinking of things as exotic is only cool when it’s your sister, your co-worker or wife; it’s sometimes beneficial to exoticize that which has become overly familiar. But in other circumstances, viewing people and cultures as exotic is a distancing mechanism that too often allows for exploitation and racism.
Maybe it’s naive, but I would love to believe that once you grow to love some aspect of a culture — its music, for instance — you can never again think of the people of that culture as less than yourself. I would like to believe that if I am deeply moved by a song originating from some place other than my own hometown, then I have in some way shared an experience with the people of that culture. I have been pleasantly contaminated. I can identify in some small way with it and its people. Not that I will ever experience music exactly the same way as those who make it. I am not Hank Williams, or even Hank Jr., but I can still love his music and be moved by it. Doesn’t mean I have to live like him. Or take as many drugs as he did, or, for that matter, as much as the great flamenco singer Cameron de la Isla did.
That’s what art does; it communicates the vibe, the feeling, the attitude toward our lives, in a way that is personal and universal at the same time. And we don’t have to go through all the personal torment that the artist went through to get it. I would like to think that if you love a piece of music, how can you help but love, or at least respect, the producers of it? On the other hand, I know plenty of racists who love “soul” music, rap and rhthym-and-blues, so dream on, Dave.
The Myth of the Authentic
The issue of “authenticity” is such a weird can of worms. Westerners get obsessed with it. They agonize over which is the “true” music, the real deal. I question the authenticity of some of the new-age ethnofusion music that’s out there, but I also know that to rule out everything I personally abhor would be to rule out the possibility of a future miracle. Everybody knows the world has two types of music — my kind and everyone else’s. And even my kind ain’t always so great.
What is considered authentic today was probably some kind of bastard fusion a few years ago. An all-Japanese salsa orchestra’s record (Orquestra de la Luz) was No. 1 on the salsa charts in the United States not long ago. Did the New York salseros care? No, most loved the songs and were frankly amazed. African guitar bands were doing their level best to copy Cuban rumbas, and in their twisted failure thay came up with something new. So let’s not make any rules about who can make a specific style of music.
Mr. Juju himself, King Sunny Adé, name-checks the country and western crooner Jim Reeves as an influence. True. Rumor has it that the famous Balinese monkey chant was coordinated and choreographed by a German! The first South African pop record I bought was all tunes with American car race themes — the Indy 500 and the like. With sound effects, too! So let’s forget about this authenticity bugaboo. If you are transported by the music, then knowing that the creators had open ears can only add to the enjoyment.
White folks needed to see Leadbelly in prison garb to feel they were getting the real thing. They need to be assured that rappers are “keeping it real,” they need their Cuban musicians old and sweet, their Eastern and Asian artists “spiritual.” The myths and clichÚs of national and cultural traits flourish in the marketing of music. There is the myth of the untutored, innocent savant whose rhymes contain funky Zen-like pearls of wisdom — the myth that exotic “traditional” music is more honest, more soulful and more in touch with a people’s real and true feelings than the kid wearing jeans and the latest sports gear on Mexican television.
There is a perverse need to see foreign performers in their native dress rather than in the T-shirts and baggies that they usually wear off stage. We don’t want them looking too much like us, because then we assume that their music is calculated, marketed, impure. Heaven forbid they should be at least as aware of the larger world as we are. All of which might be true, but more important, their larger awareness might also be relevant to their music, which in turn might connect it to our own lives and situations. Heaven forbid.
La Nueva Generación
In the last couple of years, there have been any number of articles in newspapers and magazines about how Latin music in particular was finally going to become hugely popular in the U.S. of A. Half — yes, half — of the current top 10 singles in Britain, that hot and sweaty country, are sort of Latin, if you count Geri Halliwell’s “Mi Chico Latino,” and why not? The others are watered-down remakes of Perez Prado’s hits from the 50’s and 60’s. The Buena Vista Social Club record is the No. 1 selling record, in any category, in funky Germany. Les Nubians, a French-African group, is getting played on urban (translate as “black”) radio in America. So is this a trend or what? Are these more than summer novelty tunes for anglos? Are we really going to learn to dance, or is this some kind of aberration?
But what about the alterna-Latino bands that are touring the United States and Europe in increasing numbers. The Columbian band Bloque (which, I confess, is on my label) was named best band of the year by a Chicago critic; Los Fabulosos Cadillacs won a Grammy last year. Both bands, and many, many others, mix the grooves of their neighborhoods with the sounds and attitudes of the North American tunes they also grew up with. They are a generation with a double heritage, and their music expresses it.
It’s tough for this bunch to crack the American market: they’re not always cute, safe or exotic. Their music is often more innovative than that of their northern counterparts, which is intimidating. And as cool as they are, they insist on singing in their own language, to an audience that identifies completely with them, thereby making it more difficult to gain a foothold in the States.
These bands are the musical equivalent of a generation of Latin American writers, including Gabriel García Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Amado and Mario Vargas Llosa, that was referred to as the Boom. These musicians are defining their generation, finding a unique voice, and will influence countless others outside their home countries. Here, I believe, is where change will happen. Although they don’t sell very many records yet, these and others (for things analogous to this are happening everywhere, in Africa, in Morocco, in Turkey) will plant the seeds, and while I enjoy hearing Ricky Martin’s merengue on the radio, these others will change my life.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Voting Problems
I just voted at the University of Michigan - South Quad Polling station in Ann Arbor, Michigan and there seem to be problems with the tally machine (i.e. it's not counting votes). Upon inserting my filled-out ballot into the machine (I think it was an optical-scan machine made by Sequoia Voting Systems), the number listed at the bottom (the tally) did not change. Moreover, it was 99 lower than the number on my ballot, which seems problematic, since I saw the table where they were handing out ballots and the ballots are handed out in numerical order (the person next to me got 368 while I got 369). I brought these issues to the attention of the poll worker, who looked flustered, paced nervously for a moment, and then dismissed me with a totally unreassuring smile, saying, "We'll figure it out." What does that mean? Who's going to figure it out? Not her, I suspect. 15 minutes after I left, a friend of mine stopped me in the library. She'd just come from the same polling station, though I hadn't seen her because she was further back in line. She said they were now having a huge discussion at the station and that there were apparently problems with the machines not counting votes and I relayed my experience.
I've waited a very long time to be able to cast this vote. To say I'd be disappointed if my vote didn't get counted would be a grave understatement. I have very little faith in the adequacy of our system and the integrity of those involved in putting together the finer details and making sure it runs smoothly.
I've waited a very long time to be able to cast this vote. To say I'd be disappointed if my vote didn't get counted would be a grave understatement. I have very little faith in the adequacy of our system and the integrity of those involved in putting together the finer details and making sure it runs smoothly.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Homeward Bound
I'm in Dublin now, come back from the Cairngorm Scottland Highlands. The most mystical spot on this round earth, that I've seen anyway. Tomorrow I head to Shannon at dawn to catch my plane back to the states.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.
The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.
We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.
-The luckiest guy in the world.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.
The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.
We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.
-The luckiest guy in the world.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Frankfurt, do you know?
Jesus Christ. They said it was sketch, but how could a neighborhood change so much in 400 meters? My heart is still pounding in my throat and my lungs feel like they’re full of helium. KaiserstraBe is the main street that leads out of the Frankfurt train station. It is the home of Frankfurt Hostel. MoselstraBe is the first street branching off from it. I left the hip comfort of Frankfurt Hostel, which was perfect, but full, and turned the corner in search of Easy Bed24, on Mosel, a name that is in no way explicitly or otherwise referring to beds for sex or shady business. The internet reviews said it’s in the middle of the red light district, populated by drug addicts, hookers, and people with hollow eyes. But Frankfurt hostel too, which is both safe and clean and a block away, is flanked by Wos, World of Sex, and a porno shop, so I was certain these reviewers were exaggerating or not aware of the alternatives. But I was wrong. I just saw my first bloody heroin arm, raised blue vein, faced cringed in pain, long raggedy hair under a blue baseball cap and missing teeth. He was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a car and the tainted blood trickled down to his wrist as the fire shot into the mainline. Oh my god. Next to him was a youngish woman in black bending down at a ledge near street level, looking through her purse, "for her phone," I thought. Then I saw the silver crack pipe resting on the concrete ledge. She was so young and so fair. She could have been anyone. She was someone. This is a world of pain and misery, horror, goosepimpled skin and handshake transactions. That’s how the money and the drugs are traded, I've seen it, through the handshake. But who trades in the lives and the bent faces? Who keeps that business running strong? I moved from the sidewalk and into the street. I wanted to cry. I can see them from out my bedroom window now. They stand in a diffused group and are very heterogenous. People from all walks, ages, skin colors, levels of attractiveness, life stories. I want to talk to them, to hear there stories, but I don’t think I will. I will just stand here and watch the bulging, bloodshot eyes, the smiles turn to grimaces, and the fast-action transactions in money, drugs and hungry faces that is life in the little community on Mosel Street. It is 1:56 p.m.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The boy writes an update!
So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.
So I'm feeling exhausted again and furious with myself. I just made a huge mistake, wasted an entire day, and lost 70 euros on an overnight train that I was unable to make because of my mistake (a confusion of days, times and numbers). I want to tear my hair out. I had an extra day at San Fermin, but one was sufficient. I didn't want to be there. Turns out, I wasn't supposed to be. My train left without me and now I'm stuck for the night in Barcelona, exhausted and did I mention pissed off? It sucks when you don't have anyone else but yourself to blame for an unideal situation. But it's something that should be done, when that's the case. The first thing that happened in Pamplona was that I lost or somebody stole my European resident card, so now I look like an illegal holder of an interail pass (for EU residents only) and I'm about to head into France, that country famous for it's American sympathies. Okay, I should go take care of business instead of procrastinating by writing in the blog. Wish me luck.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Saturday, July 5, 2008
A thought.
An assertive action followed by a successful outcome leads to the a powerful sense of greatness and satisfaction. The first instance taught me that it's worth trying. I'm hoping with this next one under my belt and hopefully more to come, I'll become addicted.
As a side note, I think some might appreciate this list from McSweeney's that Alex just sent me. 4 simple steps to becoming more decisive:
1. Eeny
2. Meeny
3. Miney
4. Mo
Haha.
The prompt for this update was the following (p.s. don't get used to consistently frequent updates...knowing me, though I may be changing, that would still be delusional...) I've just decided to stay another night in Burgos, a truly fantastic city with a river running through it and fiesta running through its veins. I have organized my hostel stay for this fiesta night and a suicide mission fit only for a student traveling through Europe that will allow me to see the best part of the San Fermin festivals and get a direct train from Barcelona to Turin, passing through France and sleeping on the train, which will be the only sleep be able to get after about 36 of constant san fermin frenzy and train hopping. Omg. brrrrr.
That's a shiver of excitement folks. Wish me luck. Happy fourth of July to all. I hope it was a...blast.
As a side note, I think some might appreciate this list from McSweeney's that Alex just sent me. 4 simple steps to becoming more decisive:
1. Eeny
2. Meeny
3. Miney
4. Mo
Haha.
The prompt for this update was the following (p.s. don't get used to consistently frequent updates...knowing me, though I may be changing, that would still be delusional...) I've just decided to stay another night in Burgos, a truly fantastic city with a river running through it and fiesta running through its veins. I have organized my hostel stay for this fiesta night and a suicide mission fit only for a student traveling through Europe that will allow me to see the best part of the San Fermin festivals and get a direct train from Barcelona to Turin, passing through France and sleeping on the train, which will be the only sleep be able to get after about 36 of constant san fermin frenzy and train hopping. Omg. brrrrr.
That's a shiver of excitement folks. Wish me luck. Happy fourth of July to all. I hope it was a...blast.
Scenes from European Travels: Madrid to Toledo to Madrid to Burgos
July 2nd
10 to 2 p.m.
AVE to Madrid. Todo ya va a empezar. A ver lo que hay. I'm giddy with excitement. 'Would love to capture this moment of anticipation, positive tension but my words fail me, probably because I won't try. I catch myself thinking "some day [I will try to capture experiences with words]" and remember that it is exactly that attitude I'm trying to eliminate. I suppose I can pardon this incident. I only have two hours. Life of Pi instead. Good book.
It's around 10p.m. in Toledo and I'm utterly exhausted and feeling a little broken, very much like when I arrived in Sevilla. Everything seemed grim then ("What the hell are these palm trees doing here?!? What is this, a joke? The difference now though is that I know the feeling now and that it can be beaten. I'll give myself rest.
Note to the potential backpacker: Everything in Toledo is uphill.
July 3rd
Leaving Toled on a bus with a busted front end. Before we've finished pulling out of our parking space, the bus driver, a man just past middle age with light-toned and thinning hair and a short sleeved button-up tucked tight around his belly into his pants, has brought the bus to two sudden halts (like, oops, didn't see that BUSslamonthebreaks), and he smiles. I look at the man sitting next to me and can see that he too is remembering the cracked windshield and fractured corner panel. But there's no more time to think of escape. With two unmeasured stomps on the accelerator, we're out of the block and rolling into the out. God save us.
Last night, in Toledo, I wanted to ask the Argentinian woman working at Bar Nicholas (in Toledo_ to come sit with me. I don't know why really. I just wanted someone to talk to I suppose and she was there, shuffling about, and so bent. But we merely exchanged the normal words, the words we always mutter when we're not really speaking, "Hola cómo estás. De donde eres? Cómo está la comida. etc..." and a few weary glances with half-forced smiles.
Later...
Bus to Madrid, tren to tren.
I recycled food in the Madrid train station. Somebody left perfectly good fries on the table, so I took advantage of the situation and squashed my hunger. It feels good being anonymous, liberating. All of the unimportant social rules (not to say that all rules are unimportant, but some, like keeping up appearances) suddenly slip away into meaninglessness when one is traveling with nothing but a bag and a notebook. It's liberating. My plans to get to Bilbao or San Sebastian were foiled by lack of available seats. I was dreading having to spend the night in the capital city, so I improvised. I would go north to Burgos o Vitoria. I feel much better than I did 30 minutes ago.
Reading Life of Pi I'm filled with both admiration, wonder, and envy. I am 20 years old and I want to be as good as or better than everyone. I know it's ridiculous. Perhaps I should stop worrying about my future and focus on being as happy and open to growth as I can be in the moment. And maybe working once in a while.
Later on the bus to Burgos/Vitoria...
I've finally met someone! A hip-looking chaval wearing thick glasses (slightly thinner than his ruler-like sideburns) and a black Ramones shirt sits down next to me on the train as we stop in Ávila, the highest point in Spain, which is also lays claim to one of the more beautiful countrysides I've seen so far, surrounded by mountains and patchwork plots of earth, rolling and melding together to form a perfect picture. Miguel teaches Spanish to English students who are, of all places, from Eastern Michigan University. ¡Que mundo más pequeño! The conversation started as I commented on the book, "High Fidelity" he had in his lap. Have you seen the movie? Sí, uno de mis favoritos. That's all it took. I had life of pi in my lap. Neither of us opened our books for the next 5 hours. Even better, he was going to Burgos and knew of a cheap hostel where I could stay. Score. Paulo Cohelo writes that when we really want something, the universe conspires to help us achieve our goal. This past year has led me to believe on countless occasions that this is true.
3 July 11:00 p.m. At Bar Miami's counter (I would stay in the hostel/pension above).
The first thing I saw upon arriving in Burgos was a wide old street flanked by two lanes of trees that formed a canopy of branches and leaves that looked like an arthritic woman's interlacing fingers. That and a giant crowd in uniform blue-shirt, white-pant dress (casi todos manchados) making brass sounds and shouting with smiles on their faces. The first thing that happened to me in Burgos was that one of these queerly dressed folk approached me with a funny-looking leather pouch, made a "tip back your head motion," and squeezed delicious red wine into my mouth. "Hola," he said as I swallowed that warmth and smiled. I immediately decided that I would like Burgos.
Later, I walked to my hostel. basically an apartment above the Bar Miami, and at 15 euros a night, not a bad deal at all. I came downstairs to the bar after leaving my stuff in my room. My shoulders jumped to life again, finally relieved of the burden of Tabitha. I wanted to find out the details about the fiesta. Miguel had told me there would be concerts. The bartender hadn't been very friendly when I arrived. ¿Me pones una cerveza, porfa? He pours me a beer from the tap. It's nice. Somebody orders a tinto. How much is the red wine, I ask. 1.30. Vale, ponme una copa cuando pueda. He pours me a glass of wine, and looks at me a bit differently. There were three other people next to me, standing. They were older, and one was a bit red in the face. I spoke with the woman briefly. She was friendly. The men were speaking, when suddenly, the one with redder face began singing. No humming, not whistling, but whistling. For those who do not know, it is not unusual for people drinking in a bar in Spain to break into song. But this was different. It wasn't a phrase or two. This man wanted to sing, and soon the other man was with him, and then the barkeeper, and then the woman next to me and they were there, in a bar on calle vitoria in Burgos, Spain, right next to me in 2008, singing neither sweetly nor beautifully but happily, and I too was happy. "This is what I love about Spain," I said. They laughed. Where are you from, you sound like an Andaluz. The States. They don't sing there? the woman asks. Sure they sing, but it's not quite like this. (details later, I hope...).
I filmed most of this experience, thanks to my new investment, and while the audio quality is pretty splotchy and not equalized, it's pretty cool to have that moment, though I remember it quite vividly. They continued singing. I was starving. Moments after the hunger hit me, the woman who runs the rooms upstairs brought out two and a half sandwiches from behind the bar. Eat, she said. The barman poured me another glass of wine. Nobody goes thirsty here. The songs continued, and I sat and watched, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I had found my concert, good people, food, drink, and shelter. In those moments, Burgos became my second favorite Spanish city.
4 July 10:02 a.m. Cafeteria Elba. Round table, window.
Burgos is fantastic. It's fista here--patron saint, hence the revelry of last night. I had wanted to go out last night to see things, parades, and concerts, and I did, but not before I was enraptured by the crowd and bartender of Miami who gave me much more authentic and gratifying improvised renditions of Spanish songs--a real Spanish bar concert--and free sandwiches, tortilla española and red wine. God I love this place. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. We talked, I filmed them, and will store this as a fond memory and consider it to be the real beginning of my European adventure. This is what I was dreaming of.
Sat. 1:04 p.m. in Buenas Noches Burgos.
Excellent tortilla and red wine. Today I've wandered around the city, taken a shower (finally), met and photographed an old beggar woman who called me peregrino, mago y guapo, watched an old hunched woman wage an uphill battle against ancient stairs with bags in her hands, cloudy blue sky above and soaring cathedral behind. I've climbed a castle, been to an impressive vagon and met with so many nice eyes and smiling faces that say, "Mira. Este tiene acento Andaluz." I worry that I'll be lonely when I leave Spain and become just another native language-dumb English speaker. But for now, I'm in a bar that plays classical American tunes and very much enjoying the moment. From here, if I can manage, I'll catch a train to San sebastian, or maybe I'll just stay and try to get to Pamplona to see the famous beginnings of San Fermin at noon on the 6th. A ver.
Later...
Today I watched fireworks burn the sky like musical torches. Bam ba ba ba BOOM. Ba!ba!ba!baDA! They flashed in the sky, brilliantly burning ferns and palm trees, very frondy, then a green tortoise, a magical ocean green blue creature swimming through the air, bathed in smoke and propelled by awe coming from below. I saw that when I left the bar. I sat on a castle, I watched love turn official and stately. I caught a young girl in a dress hurl a unicorn balloon up to the sky and men in ties whistle across a plaza with a fountain at bride passing beneath the cathedral. A cathedral that's seen centuries of life and death and war and strife and greedy hands and eyes and stolen riches. Seen more humanity than any human could bear. I climbed hills of tall grass and poppies. I spoke with a beggar woman on the steps of a cathedral and tried to capture her face, though I was embarrassed. I asked for permission, she asked for money. Both were given. She called me pilgrim, majo, guapo. I called her an image of beauty.
Now I go to Pamolona...
10 to 2 p.m.
AVE to Madrid. Todo ya va a empezar. A ver lo que hay. I'm giddy with excitement. 'Would love to capture this moment of anticipation, positive tension but my words fail me, probably because I won't try. I catch myself thinking "some day [I will try to capture experiences with words]" and remember that it is exactly that attitude I'm trying to eliminate. I suppose I can pardon this incident. I only have two hours. Life of Pi instead. Good book.
It's around 10p.m. in Toledo and I'm utterly exhausted and feeling a little broken, very much like when I arrived in Sevilla. Everything seemed grim then ("What the hell are these palm trees doing here?!? What is this, a joke? The difference now though is that I know the feeling now and that it can be beaten. I'll give myself rest.
Note to the potential backpacker: Everything in Toledo is uphill.
July 3rd
Leaving Toled on a bus with a busted front end. Before we've finished pulling out of our parking space, the bus driver, a man just past middle age with light-toned and thinning hair and a short sleeved button-up tucked tight around his belly into his pants, has brought the bus to two sudden halts (like, oops, didn't see that BUSslamonthebreaks), and he smiles. I look at the man sitting next to me and can see that he too is remembering the cracked windshield and fractured corner panel. But there's no more time to think of escape. With two unmeasured stomps on the accelerator, we're out of the block and rolling into the out. God save us.
Last night, in Toledo, I wanted to ask the Argentinian woman working at Bar Nicholas (in Toledo_ to come sit with me. I don't know why really. I just wanted someone to talk to I suppose and she was there, shuffling about, and so bent. But we merely exchanged the normal words, the words we always mutter when we're not really speaking, "Hola cómo estás. De donde eres? Cómo está la comida. etc..." and a few weary glances with half-forced smiles.
Later...
Bus to Madrid, tren to tren.
I recycled food in the Madrid train station. Somebody left perfectly good fries on the table, so I took advantage of the situation and squashed my hunger. It feels good being anonymous, liberating. All of the unimportant social rules (not to say that all rules are unimportant, but some, like keeping up appearances) suddenly slip away into meaninglessness when one is traveling with nothing but a bag and a notebook. It's liberating. My plans to get to Bilbao or San Sebastian were foiled by lack of available seats. I was dreading having to spend the night in the capital city, so I improvised. I would go north to Burgos o Vitoria. I feel much better than I did 30 minutes ago.
Reading Life of Pi I'm filled with both admiration, wonder, and envy. I am 20 years old and I want to be as good as or better than everyone. I know it's ridiculous. Perhaps I should stop worrying about my future and focus on being as happy and open to growth as I can be in the moment. And maybe working once in a while.
Later on the bus to Burgos/Vitoria...
I've finally met someone! A hip-looking chaval wearing thick glasses (slightly thinner than his ruler-like sideburns) and a black Ramones shirt sits down next to me on the train as we stop in Ávila, the highest point in Spain, which is also lays claim to one of the more beautiful countrysides I've seen so far, surrounded by mountains and patchwork plots of earth, rolling and melding together to form a perfect picture. Miguel teaches Spanish to English students who are, of all places, from Eastern Michigan University. ¡Que mundo más pequeño! The conversation started as I commented on the book, "High Fidelity" he had in his lap. Have you seen the movie? Sí, uno de mis favoritos. That's all it took. I had life of pi in my lap. Neither of us opened our books for the next 5 hours. Even better, he was going to Burgos and knew of a cheap hostel where I could stay. Score. Paulo Cohelo writes that when we really want something, the universe conspires to help us achieve our goal. This past year has led me to believe on countless occasions that this is true.
3 July 11:00 p.m. At Bar Miami's counter (I would stay in the hostel/pension above).
The first thing I saw upon arriving in Burgos was a wide old street flanked by two lanes of trees that formed a canopy of branches and leaves that looked like an arthritic woman's interlacing fingers. That and a giant crowd in uniform blue-shirt, white-pant dress (casi todos manchados) making brass sounds and shouting with smiles on their faces. The first thing that happened to me in Burgos was that one of these queerly dressed folk approached me with a funny-looking leather pouch, made a "tip back your head motion," and squeezed delicious red wine into my mouth. "Hola," he said as I swallowed that warmth and smiled. I immediately decided that I would like Burgos.
Later, I walked to my hostel. basically an apartment above the Bar Miami, and at 15 euros a night, not a bad deal at all. I came downstairs to the bar after leaving my stuff in my room. My shoulders jumped to life again, finally relieved of the burden of Tabitha. I wanted to find out the details about the fiesta. Miguel had told me there would be concerts. The bartender hadn't been very friendly when I arrived. ¿Me pones una cerveza, porfa? He pours me a beer from the tap. It's nice. Somebody orders a tinto. How much is the red wine, I ask. 1.30. Vale, ponme una copa cuando pueda. He pours me a glass of wine, and looks at me a bit differently. There were three other people next to me, standing. They were older, and one was a bit red in the face. I spoke with the woman briefly. She was friendly. The men were speaking, when suddenly, the one with redder face began singing. No humming, not whistling, but whistling. For those who do not know, it is not unusual for people drinking in a bar in Spain to break into song. But this was different. It wasn't a phrase or two. This man wanted to sing, and soon the other man was with him, and then the barkeeper, and then the woman next to me and they were there, in a bar on calle vitoria in Burgos, Spain, right next to me in 2008, singing neither sweetly nor beautifully but happily, and I too was happy. "This is what I love about Spain," I said. They laughed. Where are you from, you sound like an Andaluz. The States. They don't sing there? the woman asks. Sure they sing, but it's not quite like this. (details later, I hope...).
I filmed most of this experience, thanks to my new investment, and while the audio quality is pretty splotchy and not equalized, it's pretty cool to have that moment, though I remember it quite vividly. They continued singing. I was starving. Moments after the hunger hit me, the woman who runs the rooms upstairs brought out two and a half sandwiches from behind the bar. Eat, she said. The barman poured me another glass of wine. Nobody goes thirsty here. The songs continued, and I sat and watched, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I had found my concert, good people, food, drink, and shelter. In those moments, Burgos became my second favorite Spanish city.
4 July 10:02 a.m. Cafeteria Elba. Round table, window.
Burgos is fantastic. It's fista here--patron saint, hence the revelry of last night. I had wanted to go out last night to see things, parades, and concerts, and I did, but not before I was enraptured by the crowd and bartender of Miami who gave me much more authentic and gratifying improvised renditions of Spanish songs--a real Spanish bar concert--and free sandwiches, tortilla española and red wine. God I love this place. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. We talked, I filmed them, and will store this as a fond memory and consider it to be the real beginning of my European adventure. This is what I was dreaming of.
Sat. 1:04 p.m. in Buenas Noches Burgos.
Excellent tortilla and red wine. Today I've wandered around the city, taken a shower (finally), met and photographed an old beggar woman who called me peregrino, mago y guapo, watched an old hunched woman wage an uphill battle against ancient stairs with bags in her hands, cloudy blue sky above and soaring cathedral behind. I've climbed a castle, been to an impressive vagon and met with so many nice eyes and smiling faces that say, "Mira. Este tiene acento Andaluz." I worry that I'll be lonely when I leave Spain and become just another native language-dumb English speaker. But for now, I'm in a bar that plays classical American tunes and very much enjoying the moment. From here, if I can manage, I'll catch a train to San sebastian, or maybe I'll just stay and try to get to Pamplona to see the famous beginnings of San Fermin at noon on the 6th. A ver.
Later...
Today I watched fireworks burn the sky like musical torches. Bam ba ba ba BOOM. Ba!ba!ba!baDA! They flashed in the sky, brilliantly burning ferns and palm trees, very frondy, then a green tortoise, a magical ocean green blue creature swimming through the air, bathed in smoke and propelled by awe coming from below. I saw that when I left the bar. I sat on a castle, I watched love turn official and stately. I caught a young girl in a dress hurl a unicorn balloon up to the sky and men in ties whistle across a plaza with a fountain at bride passing beneath the cathedral. A cathedral that's seen centuries of life and death and war and strife and greedy hands and eyes and stolen riches. Seen more humanity than any human could bear. I climbed hills of tall grass and poppies. I spoke with a beggar woman on the steps of a cathedral and tried to capture her face, though I was embarrassed. I asked for permission, she asked for money. Both were given. She called me pilgrim, majo, guapo. I called her an image of beauty.
Now I go to Pamolona...
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Immigration in Europe
Notice the points that mention things like healthcare even for illegal immigrants and the logic that it is actually beneficial to allow individuals currently residing in your country to be included as normal, valued citizens. It's amazing what a little bit of understanding and a little less racism and fear can do. What the hell is wrong with us? Did you read the article about the hundreds of working Mexicans who were deported this week after RAIDS? What ARE we doing? Is deporting working individuals really a matter of top concern in the land of the free and the home of the brave; the land that is, more than anything else, a land of immigrants? I just don't understand it.
Anyway, this is a good article, because it's about Spain. It would be interesting to read an article that addressed the social issues (like how people in Spain really feel about immigrants.) It's actually not all that different in that there is a very wide range of opinions and passionate beliefs. Fortunately, they have a responsible government that is willing to give the individual, and not fear, the benefit of the doubt. Here's the article
Anyway, this is a good article, because it's about Spain. It would be interesting to read an article that addressed the social issues (like how people in Spain really feel about immigrants.) It's actually not all that different in that there is a very wide range of opinions and passionate beliefs. Fortunately, they have a responsible government that is willing to give the individual, and not fear, the benefit of the doubt. Here's the article
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Johnny Cash
I just heard this song on my room mate's computer, and I'm a fan. It's called, "A Satisfied Mind," by Johhny Cash, someone whose music I've been wanting to look into for a while now.
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
Once I was waitin'
In fortune and fame
Everything that I dreamed for
To get a start in life's game
Then suddenly it happened
I lost every dime
But I'm richer by far
With a satisfied mind
Money can't buy back
Your youth when you're old
Or a friend when you're lonely
Or a love that's grown cold
The wealthiest person
Is a pauper at times
Compared to the man
With a satisfied mind
When my life has ended
And my time has run out
My friends and my loved ones
I'll leave there's no doubt
But one thing's for certain
When it comes my time
I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
Once I was waitin'
In fortune and fame
Everything that I dreamed for
To get a start in life's game
Then suddenly it happened
I lost every dime
But I'm richer by far
With a satisfied mind
Money can't buy back
Your youth when you're old
Or a friend when you're lonely
Or a love that's grown cold
The wealthiest person
Is a pauper at times
Compared to the man
With a satisfied mind
When my life has ended
And my time has run out
My friends and my loved ones
I'll leave there's no doubt
But one thing's for certain
When it comes my time
I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind
How many times have
You heard someone say
If I had his money
I could do things my way
But little they know
That it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind
NYT Articles of Interest
Perhaps this is Old Testament God coming back. Or, perhaps we've just horribly abused and violated our earth for the last two hundred years and are now paying the consequences lump-sum. In either case, it is clear to me that serious change is in order and that waiting simply isn't an option. If anybody is aware of movements or has contact with people fighting for emissions control and responsible business and agriculture practices, please feel free to post in the comments.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/31/opinion/31blow.html
Interesting article in the times on bullfighting. I'd say it more or less captures the essence and ambiguity of bullfighting in Spain. Long, but worth at least reading the first 2 or 3 pages.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/31/opinion/31blow.html
Interesting article in the times on bullfighting. I'd say it more or less captures the essence and ambiguity of bullfighting in Spain. Long, but worth at least reading the first 2 or 3 pages.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Borges y yo
Borges and I (translated from the Spanish)
Jorge Luis Borges
It is to that other one, to Borges, that things happen. I walk through Buenos Aires and I pause, one could say mechanically, to gaze at a vestibule’s arch and its inner door; of Borges I receive news in the mail and I see his name in a list of professors or some biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typefaces, etymologies, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; the other shares these preferences, but in a vain kind of way that turns them into attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is hostile; I live, I let myself live so that Borges may write his literature, and this literature justifies me. It poses no great difficulty for me to admit that he has put together some decent passages, yet these passages cannot save me, perhaps because whatsoever is good does not belong to anyone, not even to the other, but to language and tradition. In any case, I am destined to lose all that I am, definitively, and only fleeting moments of myself will be able to live on in the other. Little by little, I continue ceding to him everything, even though I am aware of his perverse tendency to falsify and magnify.
Spinoza understood that all things wish to live on in their own essence; the stone wishes to be eternally a stone and the tiger a tiger. I will endure in Borges, not in myself (if it is that I am someone), but I recognise myself less in his books than in those of many others, or in the well-worn strum of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him by moving on from the mythologies of the slums to games with time and infinity, but those games are now Borges’ and I will have to conceive of other things. In this way, my life is a retreat and I lose everything and everything is turned over to oblivion, or to the other.
I do not know which of us is writing this piece.
Jorge Luis Borges
It is to that other one, to Borges, that things happen. I walk through Buenos Aires and I pause, one could say mechanically, to gaze at a vestibule’s arch and its inner door; of Borges I receive news in the mail and I see his name in a list of professors or some biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typefaces, etymologies, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; the other shares these preferences, but in a vain kind of way that turns them into attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to claim that our relationship is hostile; I live, I let myself live so that Borges may write his literature, and this literature justifies me. It poses no great difficulty for me to admit that he has put together some decent passages, yet these passages cannot save me, perhaps because whatsoever is good does not belong to anyone, not even to the other, but to language and tradition. In any case, I am destined to lose all that I am, definitively, and only fleeting moments of myself will be able to live on in the other. Little by little, I continue ceding to him everything, even though I am aware of his perverse tendency to falsify and magnify.
Spinoza understood that all things wish to live on in their own essence; the stone wishes to be eternally a stone and the tiger a tiger. I will endure in Borges, not in myself (if it is that I am someone), but I recognise myself less in his books than in those of many others, or in the well-worn strum of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him by moving on from the mythologies of the slums to games with time and infinity, but those games are now Borges’ and I will have to conceive of other things. In this way, my life is a retreat and I lose everything and everything is turned over to oblivion, or to the other.
I do not know which of us is writing this piece.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Well, it's been a while.
Things I'm especially fond of or interested in these days: This American Life on NPR, Cat Stevens' "Peace Train," writings of Jack Handy for the New Yorker and various other publications, anything by Julio Cortázar, love song mixes, love, hope, excitement, outside, cooking pasta and making guacamole, breaking old habits, the idea of growth. Also, universal health care, world economic systems, change, and running for ICC president next year. Food.
So much for writing a blog keeping people informed on happenings in Spain. I think that out of all of the blog posts I've written, probably only 4 or so are really about Spain. As usual, it's great here, though this semester has been very different from the last. For a while I felt that I had fallen off the face of the planet, as I was no longer seeing many of my Spanish friends, nor going out and being spontaneous as I had in the beginning. That was distressing. I think I've managed to strike more of a balance now between romance and...everything else (that's kind of how the categories tend to exist for me in practice at the beginning of a serious relationship. There's that one other person person (Alex), a little bubble in which the two of you fit, and then everything on the outside). But that's no good for anybody. Balance in all things.
School is wrapping up, which means exam season has arrived. Next week Friday, instead of taking an exam, I will be performing (as Vulcano, the lead role) in an 300 Millones, a play by the Argentinian writer Robert Arlt. I have a 15 minute monologue and am essentially an oafish Satan figure. Needless to say, the part comes naturally. I'm nervous, as I still haven't perfected my lines, but I'm also excited--we'll be performing in front of a large crowd of students, hopefully. We've worked hard on this project, and though I did my fair share of complaining in the beginning, it's turing out to be something I'm really proud of. Hopefully somebody will tape part of it. That'd be a cool thing to have, even if it ends up being a disaster, which I really don't expect. Oy, I'm procrastinating and not writing a very interesting post. I'll try to come up with some good observations or reflections on Spain and post them in the near future. Here's something to chew on, from my friend Chelsea last night. Spaniards have a tendency to dress like they're much older than they are when they're young (e.g. that 10-year old girl walking down the street wearing something out of a bad MTV video at half past midnight looking like she's about to go to the club, or dance on the pole), and act like they're much younger than they are for a very long time, for example, the 29-year-old who still lives with his mom because she does his laundry and cooks for him. It's actually less common here for a university student (most of them are older than American university students) to NOT still live with her parents. Not a bad thing, but certainly very different. Actually, if you ask most of the students still living with their parents, it tends to be more of a bad thing than a good thing, and yet that's just the way it works (unless you're very wealthy, in which case you probably share an apartment with other university students and just go home every weekend so you can get your laundry done and pick up a week's worth of already prepared food, like my master violinist roommate, Omar). Okay, that's all for now. Sorry for the weak post. I'll come back with more stuff, of better quality, in the near future.
Love,
Aaron
And now with a word from my good friend, Cat Stevens...
Peace Train
by Cat Stevens
Now I've been happy lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh I've been smiling lately,
dreaming about the world as one
And I believe it could be,
some day it's going to come
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Now I've been smiling lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on now peace train
Yes, peace train holy roller
Everyone jump upon the peace train
Come on now peace train
Get your bags together,
go bring your good friends too
Cause it's getting nearer,
it soon will be with you
Now come and join the living,
it's not so far from you
And it's getting nearer,
soon it will all be true
Now I've been crying lately,
thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating,
why can't we live in bliss
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Things I'm especially fond of or interested in these days: This American Life on NPR, Cat Stevens' "Peace Train," writings of Jack Handy for the New Yorker and various other publications, anything by Julio Cortázar, love song mixes, love, hope, excitement, outside, cooking pasta and making guacamole, breaking old habits, the idea of growth. Also, universal health care, world economic systems, change, and running for ICC president next year. Food.
So much for writing a blog keeping people informed on happenings in Spain. I think that out of all of the blog posts I've written, probably only 4 or so are really about Spain. As usual, it's great here, though this semester has been very different from the last. For a while I felt that I had fallen off the face of the planet, as I was no longer seeing many of my Spanish friends, nor going out and being spontaneous as I had in the beginning. That was distressing. I think I've managed to strike more of a balance now between romance and...everything else (that's kind of how the categories tend to exist for me in practice at the beginning of a serious relationship. There's that one other person person (Alex), a little bubble in which the two of you fit, and then everything on the outside). But that's no good for anybody. Balance in all things.
School is wrapping up, which means exam season has arrived. Next week Friday, instead of taking an exam, I will be performing (as Vulcano, the lead role) in an 300 Millones, a play by the Argentinian writer Robert Arlt. I have a 15 minute monologue and am essentially an oafish Satan figure. Needless to say, the part comes naturally. I'm nervous, as I still haven't perfected my lines, but I'm also excited--we'll be performing in front of a large crowd of students, hopefully. We've worked hard on this project, and though I did my fair share of complaining in the beginning, it's turing out to be something I'm really proud of. Hopefully somebody will tape part of it. That'd be a cool thing to have, even if it ends up being a disaster, which I really don't expect. Oy, I'm procrastinating and not writing a very interesting post. I'll try to come up with some good observations or reflections on Spain and post them in the near future. Here's something to chew on, from my friend Chelsea last night. Spaniards have a tendency to dress like they're much older than they are when they're young (e.g. that 10-year old girl walking down the street wearing something out of a bad MTV video at half past midnight looking like she's about to go to the club, or dance on the pole), and act like they're much younger than they are for a very long time, for example, the 29-year-old who still lives with his mom because she does his laundry and cooks for him. It's actually less common here for a university student (most of them are older than American university students) to NOT still live with her parents. Not a bad thing, but certainly very different. Actually, if you ask most of the students still living with their parents, it tends to be more of a bad thing than a good thing, and yet that's just the way it works (unless you're very wealthy, in which case you probably share an apartment with other university students and just go home every weekend so you can get your laundry done and pick up a week's worth of already prepared food, like my master violinist roommate, Omar). Okay, that's all for now. Sorry for the weak post. I'll come back with more stuff, of better quality, in the near future.
Love,
Aaron
And now with a word from my good friend, Cat Stevens...
Peace Train
by Cat Stevens
Now I've been happy lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh I've been smiling lately,
dreaming about the world as one
And I believe it could be,
some day it's going to come
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Now I've been smiling lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun
Oh peace train sounding louder
Glide on the peace train
Come on now peace train
Yes, peace train holy roller
Everyone jump upon the peace train
Come on now peace train
Get your bags together,
go bring your good friends too
Cause it's getting nearer,
it soon will be with you
Now come and join the living,
it's not so far from you
And it's getting nearer,
soon it will all be true
Now I've been crying lately,
thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating,
why can't we live in bliss
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again
Monday, April 28, 2008
Portugal Photos
Wow, I can't believe it's been nearly a month since the last post. Sad. I haven't been blogging or writing hardly at all lately, though there has been an awful lot going on (perhaps that explains my not writing). I'd like to try to give a real update in the near future, but for now, all I have are new photos uploaded from Portugal. You can find them here http://picasaweb.google.com/aaron8008/Portugal
'Til soon,
Aaron
'Til soon,
Aaron
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Recycling
Cool facts on recycling, taken from NPR.com's story "Beyond Recycling." Interesting stuff. Other notes: I'm planning a road trip to Portugal with some friends during the last half of Feria (April 10-14), a week-long cachondeo at least a large as Semana Santa, where nothing is sacred. I'm a fan of that pair. A week of saints, relics, giant Jesii, incense and KKK outfits followed by a week's rest and then a week of absolute debauchery. My how I love Spain. Also, I am finally learning how to cook. Last night I made "Wonderful Chicken Curry Salad" for myself and some friends (big success) and watched Across the Universe, which I really enjoyed. I'm very behind on the movie scene because movies don't get here until after they're out on DVD in the states, but in any case, I think Across the Universe is from the past year and it's a cool look at various aspects the 60s to the tune of Beatles songs. The songs are generally worked in smoothly, and there's a sweet scene with "I want you (she's so heavy)." Worth a watch, except for the end. The end is lame. Also, this is an old film, but everyone should see The Fountain, because it's one of the coolest movies I've seen all year--it's from 06 or '07 and very good.
Other things: I'll be living in Owen House co-op next year and am very very excited about that. It's 100+ year-old mansion with a bunch of people living, cooking, cleaning, and buying food together in a nice little socialist family. Guff.
It's taken me a long time to develop an interest in cooking, but now that I have, I'm loving it. Fun, easy, and very tasty hobby. I'm currently eating a salad with olive oil, balsamic, mandarins, and a bunch of veggies I bought fresh from the market and had left over from the last few meals I've made. I think that all together it can't cost more than 2 euros. If I had a restaurant, I would sell it for 27. Yes, it's that good. It's so good, in fact, that I'm going to go back to eating it right now and maybe try a more focused update tomorrow. Also, if anybody knows or is sleeping with someone who deals with graduating seniors at Michigan, please begin stating my case, because it turns out that you have to fill a handful of prerequisites in order to graduate from the cursed place, and, well, I didn't really do that. Can it be that I'm already a senior???
Recycling Facts
• Recycling a ton of paper saves 17 trees, two barrels of oil (enough to run the average car for 1,260 miles), 4,100 kilowatts of energy (enough power for the average home for six months), 3.2 cubic yards of landfill space and 60 pounds of air pollution.
• Americans throw away enough aluminum to rebuild our entire commercial fleet of airplanes every three months.
• Recycling creates six times as many jobs as landfilling.
• Recycling glass instead of making it from silica sand reduces mining waste by 70 percent, water use by 50 percent and air pollution by 20 percent.
• Recycling just one aluminum can saves enough energy to operate a TV for three hours.
• The energy saved each year by steel recycling is equal to the electrical power used by 18 million homes each year — or enough energy to last Los Angeles residents for eight years.
• If every U.S. household replaced just one roll of 1,000-sheet virgin fiber bathroom tissues with 100 percent recycled ones, it could save 373,000 trees, 1.48 million cubic feet of landfill space and 155 million gallons of water.
Sources: Eco-Cycle, Environmental Defense Fund, Colorado Recycles, Steel Recycling Institute, Seventh Generation Co.
Other things: I'll be living in Owen House co-op next year and am very very excited about that. It's 100+ year-old mansion with a bunch of people living, cooking, cleaning, and buying food together in a nice little socialist family. Guff.
It's taken me a long time to develop an interest in cooking, but now that I have, I'm loving it. Fun, easy, and very tasty hobby. I'm currently eating a salad with olive oil, balsamic, mandarins, and a bunch of veggies I bought fresh from the market and had left over from the last few meals I've made. I think that all together it can't cost more than 2 euros. If I had a restaurant, I would sell it for 27. Yes, it's that good. It's so good, in fact, that I'm going to go back to eating it right now and maybe try a more focused update tomorrow. Also, if anybody knows or is sleeping with someone who deals with graduating seniors at Michigan, please begin stating my case, because it turns out that you have to fill a handful of prerequisites in order to graduate from the cursed place, and, well, I didn't really do that. Can it be that I'm already a senior???
Recycling Facts
• Recycling a ton of paper saves 17 trees, two barrels of oil (enough to run the average car for 1,260 miles), 4,100 kilowatts of energy (enough power for the average home for six months), 3.2 cubic yards of landfill space and 60 pounds of air pollution.
• Americans throw away enough aluminum to rebuild our entire commercial fleet of airplanes every three months.
• Recycling creates six times as many jobs as landfilling.
• Recycling glass instead of making it from silica sand reduces mining waste by 70 percent, water use by 50 percent and air pollution by 20 percent.
• Recycling just one aluminum can saves enough energy to operate a TV for three hours.
• The energy saved each year by steel recycling is equal to the electrical power used by 18 million homes each year — or enough energy to last Los Angeles residents for eight years.
• If every U.S. household replaced just one roll of 1,000-sheet virgin fiber bathroom tissues with 100 percent recycled ones, it could save 373,000 trees, 1.48 million cubic feet of landfill space and 155 million gallons of water.
Sources: Eco-Cycle, Environmental Defense Fund, Colorado Recycles, Steel Recycling Institute, Seventh Generation Co.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
New Morocco Photos and Malaga
I just got back from my friend's house in an amazing city called Malaga, which is about 2.5 hours away from Seville and surrounded by mountains and ocean (best of both worlds, though the city itself isn't nearly as beautiful as Sevilla). Now I've seen Semana Santa in 2 cities particularly famous for their Semana Santa riutals. For those wondering what exactly Semana Santa is, it's Holy Week, which, in Sevilla and Málaga is not merely a mark on the religious calendar but a cultural and (if you're of that persuasion) religious event of, literally, monumental proportions. In short, every church in Seville (there are more than 200) has it's own statue of the virgin or of Jesus, and in Seville, all of them are centuries old (some dating back from the 15th century, like the one that belongs to one of the churches where I live, in Triana, and is also one of the most famous). Think of a city more than a thousand years old absolutely filled with people in the streets from noon until 6 in the morning. As I said, these are religious and non-religious people, your old and young, rich and poor. Everyone, except for the people who don't dig Semana Santa. I should clarify, when I say "statue," what I really mean is HUGE, 1000 kilo things of painted wood and solid gold and silver thrones piled with mountains of flowers of white (if it's Mary) and red roses (if it's Jesus). Moving them through the streets requires at least 60 very large and strong men to walk under these monstrosities with special towels wrapped around their heads, all of the weight resting on the backs of their necks and spinal columns. The people dress in what I can't help but describe as colored KKK uniforms, pointy hats, robes, and everything. Really. It's very startling for any American or non-Spanish person familiar with the odious organization. And then, behind all of them, hundreds of people walk: the penitents. Some of them walk barefoot. Some of the paseos, as they are called (tronos [thrones], in Málaga), are with music, and others go without. This music comes up through the ground and down from the sky. It's everywhere and it pierces through your soul. In Málaga, I stood in a plaza with my friends to see two very famous tronos which come out simultaneously (by the way, you can't really understand what a cathedral is unless you've been to Europe). The entire plaza, all of the sudden, filled with singing, something you don't get in Seville (in Seville the music is provided almost entirely by wind instruments). The plaza is a square, and since there were two tronos, there were people involved in the centuries=old procession on all sides. Imagine standing there in a plaza filled with people, surrounded by tall buildings, all of which have balconies filled with people watching from above, erupting in harmonized voices all at once, perfectly, just like they used to to 500 years ago, but without the electric Ben & Jerry's sign behind you. This is a religious experience for those who don't believe as well as for those who do. It is something one must live to believe and understand. I don't presume to understand it, but I'm glad to have lived it. I'll write more later. 'Gotta go to work.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
New Photos
New photos on picasaweb.google.com/aaron8008 of Morocco. I'll put a more narrowed down batch on Flickr soon, but it was easier to get these ones up now. Semana Santa begins today. I go to work in 5 minutes. Should be good. Apparently Seville is going to explode with people in the streets any second. If not, more ice cream for me...
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A Post!!!
Once I went to Barcelona and walked among tall buildings on lonely streets that saw only the sun reflected from the sky but never felt its real caress. In this place I walked by closed stores and open stores and wondered why the hell are there so many of these? In Barcelona I saw a man painted all brown--his skin and his clothes, even his army general glasses the same mud brown--he sat on a rock on Las Ramblas, painted and motionless like that with a lit cigar in his mouth, an army phone in his hand and a hat on the ground to receive whatever people were willing to put into it. I wondered how long he'd been sitting there and where he went at nights when he walked home, but I didn't want to break his concentration, so I kept on moving.
Earlier, in Morocco, I walked in a city all blue and white with 14 old doors that they used to close at night, locking themselves up in the safety of the cool night and keeping out the invading Spaniards. That was when invasion was still cool. This place, which goes by the name of Chefchaouen, prides itself on its wool, its hashish, and its mountain water. I tried all of them and I approve. I felt myself growing in the town of blue and white and sand. That charming and very strange town full of people who don't want to sell you anything but just want you to take a look, friend, amigo; where you are greeted on the street in three languages, but almost never in arabic or berber. Hello, hi. Hola, bonjour. Or that time when we found ourselves far from the center in a strange garage with a man named Mohammad, another fatter one he called his brother and a black garbage bag full of substance and the words "600 durham is the minimum" and feeling suddenly very small and noticing that voice in my head speaking very quickly. In Morocco, I learned how to listen to that voice.
Or there was that other time when, seeing a mountain, I decided to climb it. And on approaching the mountain I was myself approached by one who would be a multilingual 18-year-old Moroccan named Ílias who may be the only person who actually didn't want to sell us anything in Morocco. So we three (Andrew, Ílias and I) fell up the mountain pell-mell (I’ll put pictures up soonish) where Ílias rapped 50 Cent and some of his own material for us on top of Mount Sayta. We thumped our chests, clapped our hands and made sounds to accompany our hand-made Moroccan beat. We laughed, three guys from different worlds (Morocco, a place with lots of states, united, and Brazil). We did this on the top of a mountain where you could see the sun shining and shading different parts of the rolling landscape and all of the old walls that used to protect a city under siege but now stand as markers of old and new--Old Medina and new city.
In Morocco I learned how to deal with hash dealers and scammers, heard of aphrodisiac fireproof blankets and drugs that take you to another world, but I also learned how much a look from a stranger can mean, or a wave from a woman inside an autobus when you're traveling in a strange country and sitting in the parking lot excited and waiting for yours to come. It was silly really, but that forbidden wave sent us both laughing and I don't know about her but what I felt was an embrace. In Morocco, the contact you have with women is minimal, but when it happens, the intimacy is startling.
My how the times they’re a-changing! I’ve moved from my old jail and have a new room with new people, friends, a kitchen, a bike, a bed to share, liberty! It’s exactly what I’ve been lacking and I feel so alive! I’m taking advantage of all of those things.
There’s this thing about getting older, about feeling like I’ve wasted so much, of letting myself down, of sometimes feeling powerless to make it better, of getting better at ignoring that self-negation and defeatism, of taking control, of being a little bit afraid sometimes because I’m not too sure what to do with the control I have. There’s a newly acknowledged, intense fear of commitments of all kinds and the thought, "This explains some things." The bigger realization (which isn’t so much a realization as a thought from a now older-person’s perspective) that there’s so much shit I still can’t explain. I can’t forget about the excitement that I feel some days when I wake up, like today, with a fresh feeling and a thought of squeezing the day for all it's worth, of preparing for what’s coming, whatever that is. There’s compromising, forgetting to do things, getting used to failure and mistakes, refusing to believe that mistakes are a bad thing but still not being a fan of failure.
I’ve noticed a pattern lately, where I find myself sitting in the sun or maybe walking and being transported to those days when I had five years or seven years and sunshine hair and nothing but love and a life full of potential ahead of me…before I new what potential meant. Before I knew expectations and the only things I feared were monsters, losing my parents, and bad guys. That was before I knew that often the “good guys” are bad guys, that gray is a color of many shades, that monsters really do exist, and that losing yourself is just as scary and likely a possibility as losing the people you love. That was when I said I would never leave home because home had everything I needed. That was when I thought I knew what I needed and almost always knew what I wanted. When rain meant indoor recess. When weekends meant rollerblading and Free Time. That was when I thought that free time existed, and to the extent that it did, found it boring. That was before I knew the thrill of a crush and what it means to really want something (do I even now know what it means to really want something?) Before heartbreak. Before being in love and lust. Before starting over, before nostalgia and forgetting. That was when the world was so damn big and I was not a small boy but a big boy. That was when I used to go to Big Boy with dad to eat Slim Jim’s and try to color inside the lines. That was when I was a golden-eyed, sun-haired child and it was easy to impress people. When it was enough just to be a little boy or a tree or a flying ninja with special armor, and people let you do that, just be. But now it’s not all like that. Something’s changed, and I’m not sure when or how all of that happened, but I think with each day, I’m somehow becoming more okay with that fact, with the newness and learning of this adventure, where you’re not allowed restarts and have to think on your feet. Where there really aren’t answers and where, eventually, you realize that the answers aren’t the point, and so you take a deep breath, pick up your backpack, say bye to the people at work and walk to class. And like always, you look up at the sky while you're walking and smile, laughing silently at yourself and the world.
Earlier, in Morocco, I walked in a city all blue and white with 14 old doors that they used to close at night, locking themselves up in the safety of the cool night and keeping out the invading Spaniards. That was when invasion was still cool. This place, which goes by the name of Chefchaouen, prides itself on its wool, its hashish, and its mountain water. I tried all of them and I approve. I felt myself growing in the town of blue and white and sand. That charming and very strange town full of people who don't want to sell you anything but just want you to take a look, friend, amigo; where you are greeted on the street in three languages, but almost never in arabic or berber. Hello, hi. Hola, bonjour. Or that time when we found ourselves far from the center in a strange garage with a man named Mohammad, another fatter one he called his brother and a black garbage bag full of substance and the words "600 durham is the minimum" and feeling suddenly very small and noticing that voice in my head speaking very quickly. In Morocco, I learned how to listen to that voice.
Or there was that other time when, seeing a mountain, I decided to climb it. And on approaching the mountain I was myself approached by one who would be a multilingual 18-year-old Moroccan named Ílias who may be the only person who actually didn't want to sell us anything in Morocco. So we three (Andrew, Ílias and I) fell up the mountain pell-mell (I’ll put pictures up soonish) where Ílias rapped 50 Cent and some of his own material for us on top of Mount Sayta. We thumped our chests, clapped our hands and made sounds to accompany our hand-made Moroccan beat. We laughed, three guys from different worlds (Morocco, a place with lots of states, united, and Brazil). We did this on the top of a mountain where you could see the sun shining and shading different parts of the rolling landscape and all of the old walls that used to protect a city under siege but now stand as markers of old and new--Old Medina and new city.
In Morocco I learned how to deal with hash dealers and scammers, heard of aphrodisiac fireproof blankets and drugs that take you to another world, but I also learned how much a look from a stranger can mean, or a wave from a woman inside an autobus when you're traveling in a strange country and sitting in the parking lot excited and waiting for yours to come. It was silly really, but that forbidden wave sent us both laughing and I don't know about her but what I felt was an embrace. In Morocco, the contact you have with women is minimal, but when it happens, the intimacy is startling.
My how the times they’re a-changing! I’ve moved from my old jail and have a new room with new people, friends, a kitchen, a bike, a bed to share, liberty! It’s exactly what I’ve been lacking and I feel so alive! I’m taking advantage of all of those things.
There’s this thing about getting older, about feeling like I’ve wasted so much, of letting myself down, of sometimes feeling powerless to make it better, of getting better at ignoring that self-negation and defeatism, of taking control, of being a little bit afraid sometimes because I’m not too sure what to do with the control I have. There’s a newly acknowledged, intense fear of commitments of all kinds and the thought, "This explains some things." The bigger realization (which isn’t so much a realization as a thought from a now older-person’s perspective) that there’s so much shit I still can’t explain. I can’t forget about the excitement that I feel some days when I wake up, like today, with a fresh feeling and a thought of squeezing the day for all it's worth, of preparing for what’s coming, whatever that is. There’s compromising, forgetting to do things, getting used to failure and mistakes, refusing to believe that mistakes are a bad thing but still not being a fan of failure.
I’ve noticed a pattern lately, where I find myself sitting in the sun or maybe walking and being transported to those days when I had five years or seven years and sunshine hair and nothing but love and a life full of potential ahead of me…before I new what potential meant. Before I knew expectations and the only things I feared were monsters, losing my parents, and bad guys. That was before I knew that often the “good guys” are bad guys, that gray is a color of many shades, that monsters really do exist, and that losing yourself is just as scary and likely a possibility as losing the people you love. That was when I said I would never leave home because home had everything I needed. That was when I thought I knew what I needed and almost always knew what I wanted. When rain meant indoor recess. When weekends meant rollerblading and Free Time. That was when I thought that free time existed, and to the extent that it did, found it boring. That was before I knew the thrill of a crush and what it means to really want something (do I even now know what it means to really want something?) Before heartbreak. Before being in love and lust. Before starting over, before nostalgia and forgetting. That was when the world was so damn big and I was not a small boy but a big boy. That was when I used to go to Big Boy with dad to eat Slim Jim’s and try to color inside the lines. That was when I was a golden-eyed, sun-haired child and it was easy to impress people. When it was enough just to be a little boy or a tree or a flying ninja with special armor, and people let you do that, just be. But now it’s not all like that. Something’s changed, and I’m not sure when or how all of that happened, but I think with each day, I’m somehow becoming more okay with that fact, with the newness and learning of this adventure, where you’re not allowed restarts and have to think on your feet. Where there really aren’t answers and where, eventually, you realize that the answers aren’t the point, and so you take a deep breath, pick up your backpack, say bye to the people at work and walk to class. And like always, you look up at the sky while you're walking and smile, laughing silently at yourself and the world.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Woman Wanted (excerpt)
"You know," he said, "I do well on the sex quizzes."
Edna sipped at her drink and didn't answer.
"How do you do on the sex quizzes?" Joe asked.
"I've never taken any."
"You should, you know, so you'll find out who you are and what you are."
"Do you think those things are valid? I've seen them in the newspaper. I haven't taken them but I've seen them," said Edna.
"Of course they're valid."
"Maybe I'm no good at sex," said Edna, "maybe that's why I'm alone." She took a long drink from her glass.
"Each of us is, finally, alone," said Joe.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, no matter how well it's going sexually or love-wise or both, the day arrives when it's over."
"That's sad," said Edna.
"Of course. So the day arrives when it's over. Either there is a split or the whole thing resolves into a truce: two people living together without feeling anything. I believe that being alone is better."
"Did you divorce your wife, Joe?"
"No, she divorced me."
"What went wrong?"
"Sexual orgies."
"Sexual orgies?"
"You know, a sexual orgy is the loneliest place in the world. Those orgies -- I felt a sense of desperation -- those cocks sliding in and out -- excuse me ..."
"It's all right."
"Those cocks sliding in and out, legs locked, fingers working, mouths, everybody clutching and sweating and determined to do it -- somehow."
"I don't know much about those things, Joe," Edna said.
"I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants."
"You mean people have to like each other?"
"It helps."
"Suppose they get tired of each other? Suppose they have to stay together? Economics? Children? All that?"
"Orgies won't do it."
"What does it?"
"Well, I don't know. Maybe the swap."
"The swap?"
"You know, when two couples know each other quite well and switch partners. Feelings, at least, have a chance. For example, say I've always liked Mike's wife. I've liked her for months. I've watched her walk across the room. I like her movements. Her movements have made me curious. I wonder, you know, what goes with those movements. I've seen her angry, I've seen her drunk, I've seen her sober. And then, the swap. You're in the bedroom with her, at last you're knowing her. There's a chance for something real. Of course, Mike has your wife in the other room. Good luck, Mike, you think, and I hope you're as good a lover as I am."
"And it works all right?"
"Well, I dunno . . . Swaps can cause difficulties . . . afterwards. It all has to be talked out . . . very well talked out ahead of time. And then maybe people don't know enough, no matter how much they talk . . ."
"Do you know enough, Joe?"
"Well, these swaps ... I think it might be good for some . . . maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn't work for me. I'm toomuch of a prude."
Joe finished his drink. Edna set the remainder of hers down and stood up.
"Listen Joe, I have to be going ..."
Joe walked across the room toward her. He looked like an elephant in those pants. She saw his big ears. Then he grabbed her and was kissing her. His bad breath came through all the drinks. He had a very sour smell. Part of his mouth was not making contact. He was strong but his strength was not pure, it begged. She pulled her head away and still he held her.
WOMAN WANTED.
"Joe, let me go! You're moving too fast, Joe! Let go!"
"Why did you come here, bitch?"
He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug.
."God, god ... why'd you have to do that? You tried to kill me . . ."
He rolled on the floor.
His behind, she thought, he had such an ugly behind.
She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn't a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again.
Bukowski, South of No North
Edna sipped at her drink and didn't answer.
"How do you do on the sex quizzes?" Joe asked.
"I've never taken any."
"You should, you know, so you'll find out who you are and what you are."
"Do you think those things are valid? I've seen them in the newspaper. I haven't taken them but I've seen them," said Edna.
"Of course they're valid."
"Maybe I'm no good at sex," said Edna, "maybe that's why I'm alone." She took a long drink from her glass.
"Each of us is, finally, alone," said Joe.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, no matter how well it's going sexually or love-wise or both, the day arrives when it's over."
"That's sad," said Edna.
"Of course. So the day arrives when it's over. Either there is a split or the whole thing resolves into a truce: two people living together without feeling anything. I believe that being alone is better."
"Did you divorce your wife, Joe?"
"No, she divorced me."
"What went wrong?"
"Sexual orgies."
"Sexual orgies?"
"You know, a sexual orgy is the loneliest place in the world. Those orgies -- I felt a sense of desperation -- those cocks sliding in and out -- excuse me ..."
"It's all right."
"Those cocks sliding in and out, legs locked, fingers working, mouths, everybody clutching and sweating and determined to do it -- somehow."
"I don't know much about those things, Joe," Edna said.
"I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants."
"You mean people have to like each other?"
"It helps."
"Suppose they get tired of each other? Suppose they have to stay together? Economics? Children? All that?"
"Orgies won't do it."
"What does it?"
"Well, I don't know. Maybe the swap."
"The swap?"
"You know, when two couples know each other quite well and switch partners. Feelings, at least, have a chance. For example, say I've always liked Mike's wife. I've liked her for months. I've watched her walk across the room. I like her movements. Her movements have made me curious. I wonder, you know, what goes with those movements. I've seen her angry, I've seen her drunk, I've seen her sober. And then, the swap. You're in the bedroom with her, at last you're knowing her. There's a chance for something real. Of course, Mike has your wife in the other room. Good luck, Mike, you think, and I hope you're as good a lover as I am."
"And it works all right?"
"Well, I dunno . . . Swaps can cause difficulties . . . afterwards. It all has to be talked out . . . very well talked out ahead of time. And then maybe people don't know enough, no matter how much they talk . . ."
"Do you know enough, Joe?"
"Well, these swaps ... I think it might be good for some . . . maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn't work for me. I'm toomuch of a prude."
Joe finished his drink. Edna set the remainder of hers down and stood up.
"Listen Joe, I have to be going ..."
Joe walked across the room toward her. He looked like an elephant in those pants. She saw his big ears. Then he grabbed her and was kissing her. His bad breath came through all the drinks. He had a very sour smell. Part of his mouth was not making contact. He was strong but his strength was not pure, it begged. She pulled her head away and still he held her.
WOMAN WANTED.
"Joe, let me go! You're moving too fast, Joe! Let go!"
"Why did you come here, bitch?"
He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug.
."God, god ... why'd you have to do that? You tried to kill me . . ."
He rolled on the floor.
His behind, she thought, he had such an ugly behind.
She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn't a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again.
Bukowski, South of No North
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A Big Day
Big Day Today:
Castro Steps down as President of Cuba
Musharraf accepts defeat???
Kosovo's a country
And I'm moving.
AND...I'm moving.
Castro Steps down as President of Cuba
Musharraf accepts defeat???
Kosovo's a country
And I'm moving.
AND...I'm moving.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Camping Photos
I was unable to bring my camera on the backpacking/camping trip (a major bummer), but here is a link to my friend Andrea's pictures. They're good. The trip was amazing. I've never seen so many stars, wild cows, or rocks like old men. My first trip to the mountains will surely not be my last. We're already talking about making another trek out to Ronda and camping out there for a weekend. Trouble is everybody is planning things for Semana Santa and I already promised my boss that I'd work through the whole week. Perhaps I can use that money to make some trips after classes end. Today is day two of the new semester. I'm taking all Anthro classes and an Art History class in the program center on the Great Spanish Masters (from Velázquez to Dali/Picasso). Things are looking good. A fresh start with all of the perks of having already lived here for 5 months.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Camping
I'm leaving for the Sierra de Grazalema (mountains in Cadiz) with some friends from the Uni today at 5 on a camping trip which should last until Sunday. We'll be sleeping under the stars (hopefully dryly...) I've been thinking about it and it's shocking to me that I've NEVER really done this before. I mean, never, not even once, have I just packed up food and clothes in a backpack and set out into the wilderness. I'm excited, but wishing I had a bit more experience packing/preparing food. I really have no idea what I'm doing. I'm figuring bread, peanut butter (except that that doesn't exist here...crazy spanish people) wine (to keep warm), bacon, granola, water, cheese, and some assorted veggies. And if that's not enough, there are a few people on the trip who I don't know and probably wouldn't miss.
I'm off to the market to buy goods. Still have to post on Carnival and an assortment of other adventures. I'll try to do that when I get back.
I'm off to the market to buy goods. Still have to post on Carnival and an assortment of other adventures. I'll try to do that when I get back.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
A Must-Read Article for those concerned about the current state and future of the world
This is the NEW best essay I´ve read on our current political situation--much better than the piece in the New Yorker--which unlike the multitude of hack pieces churned out for the race-addicted public (I don´t exclude myself from that group), manages to incorporate the political race into the more important context of our conflicted history and our world as it is developing before us. That is to say, it is not so much an article (it is an essay) about one candidate over the other (though it is "about" Obama) as it is a well-written and critical account of our culture and our politics as they have shaped the world and will continue to do so. Keep in mind that the piece is written by Andrew Sullivan, a well-known conservative author (former editor of the New Republic). I found it worth every second of the read and I hope you will too. Oh, and no matter who you´re planning on voting for (granted, there´s still a lot of time left) please remember to vote. Let me also add innocently (or not so innocently, but earnestly) that I think it would be unfortunate to wager the "electability" of a candidate in deciding who to vote for--that´s not exactly in the spirit of American politics as I understand them to have been originally conceived. Moreover, I continue to believe that if enough individuals act with their minds and hearts, an awful lot is possible. So read up, feel the energy, stay strong and when the time comes, rush the booth.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Ben Franklin - American Master
The following link leads to an article about the life of Benjamin Franklin and his many aliases, particularly Poor Richard (of the Almanacs). If anybody has read some kind of literature or reportage on Ben Franklin that they enjoyed, please share, because I'd really like to learn more about this mythical man.
Here's the link:
Here's the link:
Monday, January 21, 2008
Best Piece I've read on Clinton/Obama
This, to me, is the most honest and personal approach to the Democratic split I've seen so far. It focuses mostly on Hillary and is neither drooling nor overly aggressive, but instead relies on a great deal of comments from campaign advisers and friends (who speak candidly about both candidates). You can find it here:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/01/28/080128fa_fact_packer
Word of the Day: Shibboleth
n.
1. A word or pronunciation that distinguishes people of one group or class from those of another.
2.
1. A word or phrase identified with a particular group or cause; a catchword.
2. A commonplace saying or idea.
3. A custom or practice that betrays one as an outsider.
Origin
The term originates from the Hebrew word שיבולת, which literally means the part of a plant containing grains, such as an ear of corn or a stalk of grain [2] or, according to other sources, "stream, torrent"[3] [4] (the latter meaning is not in use in Modern Hebrew). It derives from an account in the Hebrew Bible, in which pronunciation of this word was used to distinguish members of a group (the Ephraimites) whose dialect lacked a /ʃ/ sound (as in shoe) from members of a group (the Gileadites) whose dialect did include such a sound.
In the Book of Judges, chapter 12, after the inhabitants of Gilead inflicted a military defeat upon the tribe of Ephraim (around 1370–1070 BC), the surviving Ephraimites tried to cross the Jordan River back into their home territory and the Gileadites secured the river's fords to stop them. In order to identify and kill these disguised refugees, the Gileadites put each refugee to a simple test:
And the Gileadites took the passages of Jordan before the Ephraimites: and it was so, that when those Ephraimites which were escaped said, Let me go over; that the men of Gilead said unto him, Art thou an Ephraimite? If he said, Nay;
Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand.
– Judges 12:5-6, KJV
(This info is from the "Shibboleth" article found at Answers.com)
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/01/28/080128fa_fact_packer
Word of the Day: Shibboleth
n.
1. A word or pronunciation that distinguishes people of one group or class from those of another.
2.
1. A word or phrase identified with a particular group or cause; a catchword.
2. A commonplace saying or idea.
3. A custom or practice that betrays one as an outsider.
Origin
The term originates from the Hebrew word שיבולת, which literally means the part of a plant containing grains, such as an ear of corn or a stalk of grain [2] or, according to other sources, "stream, torrent"[3] [4] (the latter meaning is not in use in Modern Hebrew). It derives from an account in the Hebrew Bible, in which pronunciation of this word was used to distinguish members of a group (the Ephraimites) whose dialect lacked a /ʃ/ sound (as in shoe) from members of a group (the Gileadites) whose dialect did include such a sound.
In the Book of Judges, chapter 12, after the inhabitants of Gilead inflicted a military defeat upon the tribe of Ephraim (around 1370–1070 BC), the surviving Ephraimites tried to cross the Jordan River back into their home territory and the Gileadites secured the river's fords to stop them. In order to identify and kill these disguised refugees, the Gileadites put each refugee to a simple test:
And the Gileadites took the passages of Jordan before the Ephraimites: and it was so, that when those Ephraimites which were escaped said, Let me go over; that the men of Gilead said unto him, Art thou an Ephraimite? If he said, Nay;
Then said they unto him, Say now Shibboleth: and he said Sibboleth: for he could not frame to pronounce it right. Then they took him, and slew him at the passages of Jordan: and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites forty and two thousand.
– Judges 12:5-6, KJV
(This info is from the "Shibboleth" article found at Answers.com)
Sunday, January 20, 2008
New Book: Life stories in 6 words
I like the idea of this. Definitely fulfills that most American desire for instant gratification.
 clipped from www.youtube.com
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Thursday, January 17, 2008
Apes and evolution
Something is happening which is not happening.
Something is happening that is not happening at all.
Exams are coming up next week and of course it's one of the most beautiful weeks we've had here in a while. Thanks, Justice-delivering Weather Gods. (Dicks.) He kicks himself in the now fairly-well-dented-from-kicking region for not using some of that long-gone "free time" to do a better job of preparing for exams gradually. When will he learn? "Probably never," he whispers to himself under his breath and laughs a mocking laugh thinking, "How could such a self-destructive personality be the result of thousands of years of evolution?" He proceeds to wonder how he might have been as an ancient ape and falls into a deep reverie, failing to make any progress on the mountain of 17th and 18th century Spanish poetry books he has yet to scale. Coming back to himself a long while later, he thinks "If the above were more than a just a bad metaphor for “a lot of work,” it would probably be quite helpful to have an ape-like physique to climb said mountain of books. Climbing books might even be fun. You could build some really cool obstacles with books. Suddenly receiving a neural message from his more others-focused side (that is to say, his less egocentric side), he mulls “Maybe there is some way to blend the activities of climbing and reading books that could be designed into a low-cost, after-school activity and implemented in underfunded school districts to encourage kids to read. Leaving that puzzle for another time the ape scratches his head and tries to understand this habit he's developed of going on epic mental journeys of late. He remembers the mountain of books and proceeds to ask himself (rhetorically) why he is so averse to sitting down and doing as much of the work in front of him that he can in the time he has left, like any reasonable ape would do. But before he can move forward with that train of thought, he finds himself overwhelmed by a craving for potassium, so he leaves his room, pulling himself along on his knuckles and starts on his way to the nearest banana grove, which is somewhere in Africa. He was never very good at thinking things through before acting. Upon arriving at the spot where his landmass meets the indifferent and bananaless ocean, he sighs deeply, sits on a rock, and wonders why he can’t ever seem to get to where he’s going.
Something is happening that is not happening at all.
Exams are coming up next week and of course it's one of the most beautiful weeks we've had here in a while. Thanks, Justice-delivering Weather Gods. (Dicks.) He kicks himself in the now fairly-well-dented-from-kicking region for not using some of that long-gone "free time" to do a better job of preparing for exams gradually. When will he learn? "Probably never," he whispers to himself under his breath and laughs a mocking laugh thinking, "How could such a self-destructive personality be the result of thousands of years of evolution?" He proceeds to wonder how he might have been as an ancient ape and falls into a deep reverie, failing to make any progress on the mountain of 17th and 18th century Spanish poetry books he has yet to scale. Coming back to himself a long while later, he thinks "If the above were more than a just a bad metaphor for “a lot of work,” it would probably be quite helpful to have an ape-like physique to climb said mountain of books. Climbing books might even be fun. You could build some really cool obstacles with books. Suddenly receiving a neural message from his more others-focused side (that is to say, his less egocentric side), he mulls “Maybe there is some way to blend the activities of climbing and reading books that could be designed into a low-cost, after-school activity and implemented in underfunded school districts to encourage kids to read. Leaving that puzzle for another time the ape scratches his head and tries to understand this habit he's developed of going on epic mental journeys of late. He remembers the mountain of books and proceeds to ask himself (rhetorically) why he is so averse to sitting down and doing as much of the work in front of him that he can in the time he has left, like any reasonable ape would do. But before he can move forward with that train of thought, he finds himself overwhelmed by a craving for potassium, so he leaves his room, pulling himself along on his knuckles and starts on his way to the nearest banana grove, which is somewhere in Africa. He was never very good at thinking things through before acting. Upon arriving at the spot where his landmass meets the indifferent and bananaless ocean, he sighs deeply, sits on a rock, and wonders why he can’t ever seem to get to where he’s going.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
HIDING THE BALL
 clipped from www.mcsweeneys.net
BY JASON KELLETT Mr. President, we have all heard the reports that you are extremely health-conscious—exercising daily, eating right, and making sure you get to bed at a decent hour. But with all the stress that comes along with being the leader of the free world, I imagine there must be days when you find yourself hard-pressed to find time to run. And as for healthy sleep patterns, I know when I'm under a great deal of stress I sometimes lie in bed tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning. I've tried Ambien, warm milk, sheep-counting. Nothing seems to help. So tell me, Mr. President, how do you sleep at night?
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Liberal Media ask President questions they've been burning to ask
 clipped from www.mcsweeneys.netA while back, a wire story on the contents of your personal iPod reported that you were listening to the Knack, Credence Clearwater Revival, and Van Morrison. Noticeably absent from the reported playlist at that time were any classic '70s soul-music artists such as Al Green or James Brown. Perhaps you have added some Marvin Gaye to the rotation since that story. I wonder if you'd like to update us on your current iPod selections. Have you no soul, Mr. President? On my tour of the White House, I noticed that the hall leading from the Oval Office to the press room is devoid of mirrors or reflective surfaces of any kind. Now, surely you sometimes want to make sure your tie is straight or your hair is fixed before a press conference. How do you even look at yourself in the mirror?
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Borowitz Shouts and Murmers on NYC Real-estate
 clipped from www.newyorker.com
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Geece Pictures
I just added a new Picasa Web Gallery of what I think are the best of my Greece pictures. Feel free to take a look if the disposition strikes you. I think they're pretty decent for the most part.
http://picasaweb.google.com/aaron8008/Spetses
Comments welcome
http://picasaweb.google.com/aaron8008/Spetses
Comments welcome
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Politicial Mudslinging and a nice reader response
Nicely put. I'm a fan of the ending
 clipped from andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com
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Thursday, January 10, 2008
The Spetses Adventure, First Installment
We were on the Flying Dolphin and halfway to the island when she looked over and said, "I should probably call my Mum."
"Mum, hi. Yes, it's Katerina, your daughter. Yes, Mum, I'm coming today. Mum, I have a friend with me and he's staying for Christmas. What should I do?"
Needless to say, this is not exactly the conversation I was expecting to overhear.
"Well," said Margaret, "I suppose you should bring him here and tell your father that he's a friend of yours from school who had no where to go for Christmas. That's what you usually do, isn't it?"
So here I am in the middle of some Greek ocean waters, unspecial--I would come to learn that Katerina always brings someone home with her when she decides to come home because she has a rocky relationship with her father who simply doesn't understand why she insists on running off to live on other land masses when she could just stay on Spetes, take over one of the hotels and lead a happy Greek life like her younger sister Kristiana, who never struck me as being particularly happy--AND unexpected. Surprise! Another stranger will be dining with us on Christmas! Naturally I felt a little uneasy. "I told you I wasn't very organized," she said. I smiled a smile, laughed a confused laugh, and sat nursing my bruised ego while drifting in and out of sleep with the little Greek waves until we arrived at Spetses.
(More to come)
"Mum, hi. Yes, it's Katerina, your daughter. Yes, Mum, I'm coming today. Mum, I have a friend with me and he's staying for Christmas. What should I do?"
Needless to say, this is not exactly the conversation I was expecting to overhear.
"Well," said Margaret, "I suppose you should bring him here and tell your father that he's a friend of yours from school who had no where to go for Christmas. That's what you usually do, isn't it?"
So here I am in the middle of some Greek ocean waters, unspecial--I would come to learn that Katerina always brings someone home with her when she decides to come home because she has a rocky relationship with her father who simply doesn't understand why she insists on running off to live on other land masses when she could just stay on Spetes, take over one of the hotels and lead a happy Greek life like her younger sister Kristiana, who never struck me as being particularly happy--AND unexpected. Surprise! Another stranger will be dining with us on Christmas! Naturally I felt a little uneasy. "I told you I wasn't very organized," she said. I smiled a smile, laughed a confused laugh, and sat nursing my bruised ego while drifting in and out of sleep with the little Greek waves until we arrived at Spetses.
(More to come)
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