Pluie!

Parlez-moi de la pluie!

Yes. Tell me about the rain. Actually, why is it called like this? According to Wikipedia, the screenwriter, director and actor Agnès Jaoui had a song in her ears when she was rushing to a writing session with her husband. L’orage by Georges Brassens. Which begins with Parlez-moi de la pluie, et non pas du beau temps. This is a good movie. Yesterday we walked through the city, had a coffee here a drink there, talked with friends and then, in the evening decided to go to the movies. No reviews read, no idea about what plays where. Had a tour of the movie theaters near the city center and then decided on the one that started soonest. It was getting cold outside… And there it was… Parlez-moi de la pluie! Pretty much opposite of the song mentioned earlier, the movie has not the fury of a hurricane and the rain to be seen on the screen is rather faible. The characters… don’t know if there are any to be liked or to identify with. They are no heroes. Just normal, plausible people, doing normal, plausible things. The plot – not a big deal (apparently). Just a couple of guys making a documentary about successful women (apparently). And then, slowly, other things come up but the whole never becomes too complicated.

A bit of normal life. Which, although usually sunny, gets a few rainy days as well.

FaceBooking…

Sora Exacta

Citesc din Sora Exacta a lui Iulian Tanase. E altfel decit Iubitafizica. Foarte altfel. Mai timpuriu? Probabil. Ceva descoperit in sertarul cu insemnari. Probabil.

//

Sfirsitul lumii a avut loc deja si noi continuam sa traim ne prefacem ca sintem vii ne sarutam pe gura pina ametim mergem la cite un film trist si iluzia vietii devine si mai stridenta. Insa cine mai sta astazi sa numere sfirsiturile lumii.

Pe noi singuratatea pe dinafara ne stie si tristetea pe dinauntru.

Cimitirele profunde ale retinei ne aratau locul unde unii sau altii vorbecaiau in intunericul acela oscilant cautind cuvintele cele mai improprii.

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Inspiration – dry. Too many thoughts have been washed away. Too little reading…

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Decisive Moment … ?

Academia

O… the world of Academia! It’s been long since I took part in a lecture, or heard people talk about what they’re writing, discuss their findings, etc. It was a small conference I attended this weekend. Small, because the public was made up of just a handful of people except the participants. The questions asked were not profound (perhaps with a couple of exceptions) and the comments were not enthralling. The general “patting on the shoulder” thing.

Anyhow, I got the chance to see Margaret Atwood and hear her talk (she was rather entertaining and witty at the same time). David Staines, Aritha van Herk – a couple of names I learned and a dozen interesting things I found out. About the aviary life with Audubon, about a couple of trips made by the only First Lady who was not born on American soil – Louisa Adams, about an eye surgeon who trained in Vienna (in the very rooms where the conference took place) in the 1840s and who was Oscar Wilde’s father, about Margaret Atwood’s cartoon works, about Jorie Graham’s poems on paintings, etc. Well, time (relatively) well spent! Hopefully, something good will come out of it!

But I wasn’t there only for receiving knowledge. I also looked around and studied people. How do they do what they do? How might be their lives outside this weekend, when they all will be back home, or in their office, chatting with students, arguing with their spouse, writing their papers. Somehow, Maugham was right: there are only so many characters!

As Ricoeur put it, there are three stages of mimesis. There are things happening in the world, actions, characters. Then, they become parts in narratives, they land in books and we read them, or theater plays and we go and see them, or films and we watch them. And then, these kinds of actions, of characters which were born in the world, turn back to the world after they were “purged” through narratives.

Thus, you read about these people, or see movies about them. And then you see them before your eyes. The one picking his nose, being there because he had to be there to promote his upcoming book; or the one drawing attention to herself laughing a bit louder, asking a question that wasn’t really to the point but getting away like this and being able to keep reading her book or making her notes… I know them all! I’ve seen them all! I read about them!

O… the world of Academia!

What should I do then? Not take this whole stuff seriously? Not taking life seriously? Be the sort of clown K. is? Would it work smoother then? Would it be easier?

Three movies

A couple of more movies I saw recently:

Synecdoche, N.Y. – all through the movie I thought I was having a nightmare. I like Seymour-Hoffman. But the movie is nothing but a flop for me. Of course, there is the narrative within the narrative, the play within the play, etc. but the movie is not up to it. Simply not up to it.

Three Monkeys – from Nuri Bilge Ceylan. Well, this a beautiful movie! The narrative is rather simple but the photography is mind blowing. From the beginning, with the car going through the woods at night and the light play on the tree trunks, all the way to the end, with this HUGE sky in Istanbul… I do not know how much time did it take to put this film together, how long did they have to wait until the light was just right… but they did a good job!

I liked Uzak, from the same director and I knew I was in for a treat with this new movie. But did not expect it would be that beautiful! Not perfect, perhaps, but very beautiful! One can do a lot with a camera that does not move, that stays there and observes, that lets you get involved (or not) as you desire.

The Thomas Crown Affair – the old one with Steve McQueen. Nice! And tonight we’ll see the new one, with Brosnan. Just because!

Varia

The Human Stain. The movie. I read the book long time ago and liked it. But it was only now that I got to see the movie. Which isn’t bad, but does not match the book. It’s not easy to match it, anyway, as it is pretty densely packed with stuff to think about. You simply cannot put all that in a feature film.

Philip Roth is one of my favorites (don’t think about the Nobel). I read several of his books and I like the sinew, the strength he is able to convey. And, of course, he’s funny. A different kind of funny, but he can sure make you laugh. The Anatomy Lesson, for example. I think I want to read this again. And The Dying Animal. That was quite a story. Or The Ghost Writer… Where could I find the time? Where? Where?

There is so much to do!

The last couple of weeks I lingered around with Calvino’s If on a Night, a Traveller…. I think I only read about 60 pages. This is definitely not a book that one could read in the underground or in chunks of 20 min. It’s a book that needs time. Hours… to be read slowly… I just cannot do that now…

I had to go back to Hemingway. And now I am almost through with The Old Man and the Sea. I do not need to write about it, do I?

I think (again) about studying. I just like the university. But how to do it? And where? Another Ph.D.? What for? I think it is because sometimes I need to talk to people about things other than work and daily life. Or hear other people talk about it. Time.

This week I saw a photo documentary on Lens (Ernesto Bazano). It was called Sisyphean Days in Cuba. Wonderful BW photos of Cuba. Perhaps I should call all this Sisyphean Days in Vienna. Sometimes there is too much…

The display of the A200 has a problem. Might be broken. Did the last trips in the mountains have something to do with it? I guess not. I have to send it to be repaired anyway. What am I going to do now without a camera? Well, I think I am going to buy some rolls of film and try my luck with shooting analog. The old Minolta sits in the cupboard and just waits. I never shot film with an SLR before so there is something new to try out. I already looked around to see what’s available and I think I’ll go with Fuji’s Superia. I have to shoot a lot less, I have to wait for the right light to be available and I have to learn how to use a new camera. A handicap that could turn into something exciting! And the field of view is so much different on a full frame! So much wider. Definitely will have to try it! I can only hope the weekend is going to be sunny enough.

There is another film I recently saw. The Reader. I think it might’ve been a very good movie if they hadn’t pushed the melodrama button. A bit too much violin and too slow reactions. Winslet was great but Finnes… already stereotypical. This is a movie one could talk long about. Beginning with the relationship between the kid and the woman, going through the moral issues and pride and ending with the film itself as an artistic product.

Not write about it but talk about it! It’s not a very good movie but it’s good enough!

Going up the mountains. This is something I always liked to do and now it finally happens more often (thank you R.!) Hohe Wand, Schneeberg, Rax. Each time a bit more challenging, each time more beautiful. The light was just perfect last time! I think every day with good light must produce at least a good photograph.

RDP

While running I had the chance to hear a discussion on the radio with Richard David Precht. I heard about his latest book and wanted to read it, but now I have second thoughts. It started pretty interesting anyway. And I thought the guy had a certain sense of humor. But then, as he went on he became bitter and was snapping around at everything.

Adam Smith put out the idea that capitalism is good for you. Think greed! As long as the buy-sell machine works, that is. If it doesn’t any longer, i.e., what started to happen (again) last October, it crashes and it takes pretty much everything down with it. We have to buy to keep the beast going (and not only that, draining up the earth of its resources in the process). Well, the guy suggested we should stop doing this, we should stop buying things we do not need. (Duh!) But, because it is not an easy decision, we need someone, or a sort of moral instance who could guide us and teach us how to do it right. Too bad the church lost its power (duh!) because it could’ve been a good leader. In terms of reaching out the masses, of course! Because, I would say, in lots of other ways it kind of screwed up big time quite a lot. Well, it does not have the same power it had once upon a time and now something has to fill up the vacuum it left behind. Who should that be? The politicians? No, he says. They’re only interested in securing their votes. Saving the planet is of little interest for them. Today’s democracy is very tightly linked to capitalism. Then, who’s going to do it? Well, the philosophers! Might this be an answer? Does this mean going back to a  Plato’s Republic of a sort? Cannot think about this without Popper’s take!!!

But it’s not the individual people who do most harm. Not you and me who buy the crap we don’t need. Just think about the big guys, the huge corporations!

…

Then, somehow (I must have lost a minute concentrating on running), the whole discussion changed and got into the field of genetics and biology in an effort to explain love. Well, his latest book is a book on love (!). He says that between 80% and 90% of Richard Dawkins’ readership is male. Most of the popular science writers who come from this field (the evolutionary biologists) have a huge appeal to men because they somehow provide them with a (more or less) clear cut answer to questions/problems which are rather difficult and not easy to even circumscribe. Somehow, they provide them with the escape goat. If your personal relationship is not running as it should, until now one had the choice between “it’s me” or “it’s you” when it came to explaining why this does not work or why that should be different. Now, with the emergence of gene research, one can blame the genes. It’s not me and it’s not you, anymore. We’re alright! It’s the genes! A clear cut answer. Well, I might be interested in reading his book and see what he thinks about it. The thing is, I suspect him of a sort of preciseness/correctness which I am not very fond of. Hearing him speak, saying the words he said, talking about himself it gave me the impression of an old man. But he’s only 44. His way of speaking, of gathering answers was likewise. There was no thing he would leave unanswered, he never cracked a joke or provoked a smile or a laugh during the discussion (and not only that – actually, I watched some interviews with him on youtube: he’s pretty much the same).

I can only take him seriously if I trust him. Do I? Well, do I? Not at the moment. I’ll have to read him first.

If he could only smile a bit…

…fizica

Care for a new non-philosophical obsession? Iubitafizica might be the answer. Well, it’s not really new and not really non-philosophical. But it certainly can become an obsession.

N-am stiut de Iulian Tanase pina acum dar imi pare bine ca l-am descoperit (multam, A.)

As da oricind metafizica pe iubitafizica.

Ma rafuiesc cu filosofia destul de des. Pe de o parte vreau sa ramin la current cu ce se mai publica, pe de alta parte, temele sint mereu aceleasi (ca si solutiile, de altfel). Pe de o parte, vreau sa ajung din nou la universitate (si nu vad o alta posibilitate decit prin filosofie), pe de alta parte, disciplina asta e oarecum fada (are gura mare dar miinile foarte mici). Mi-ar place sa predau insa, sa fiu printre studenti, sa vad in ce culori le sclipesc lor mintile. Ca pe vremuri…

Cu cit trece timpul, cu atit ajung sa cred ca filosofia e doar ceva ce fiecare poate face pentru sine. Este necesara aceasta indeletnicire? Ma indoiesc, oarecum. Pentru mine pare totul incheiat. Stiu citeva nume, ceva doctrine, pot sa vorbesc ore in sir despre discursul cartezian sau despre teoria metaforei, despre Husserl sau despre Platon, dar nu stiu la ce mi-ar folosi. Ma intreb daca fara filosofie as gindi la fel, daca as vedea lumea la fel, daca as simti la fel. Daca da, neamul filosofilor ar trebui totusi apreciat – jos palaria!, neam de hermes ce sinteti! Buni la inselat! Daca nu, ce diferenta este intre aceasta disciplina si un borcan mare cu formaldehida (si, probabil, un creier in el)?

Am vazut ca a aparut si Sora Exacta la Liternet. Sint curios.

Morning

After teaching, I went to the gallery on foot. It was such a lovely morning! Memories of last night’s opulent dinner and fun, combined with the beautiful light and the fresh air, with the laughing of kids in the park, with the taste of a fresh French croissant… And a bit of music…

I really like Vienna!

Some movies

Vendredi Soir – A movie of very few words. I guess the whole script would fit into a couple of pages. But again, it is one of those movies where one has to be patient to enjoy them. I must confess I was tempted several times to push the fast-forward button. I did not do it and it was good I did not. This movie has to be slow. If you’re in the right mood for it, you could do with an even longer version. It’s about love. It’s made by a woman and it shows. The gestures, the close-ups, the surroundings.  I liked it. It’s about two people meeting in a car and wanting to know more of each other. Not too much though – whatever they need to say they do it exchanging glances and touching. All this in a cold autumn night in Paris.

My Summer of Love – Somehow, it barges in. I did not know where to begin with it. Slowly it started to make sense. The stories of the two girls started to develop and grow into something. It reminded me of the other two girls, down in New Zeeland, with Kate Winslet (Heavenly Creatures). One of the girls actually looked a bit like Winslet. It cannot be!, I thought. And, indeed, it was not. It took a sharp turn and changed everything upside down.  Today I was thinking though why was it called My Summer of Love. Whose summer of love was this? What did they love, these girls, anyway? Each of them only projected their ideas of freedom onto the other. And played…

Ice Storm – That was quite a movie! I saw it years ago but was happy to watch it again. Pretty well done in all respects. I liked the 70’s feel to it and the absence of the need to explain. Why did this happen, why did that happen? It does not matter! I mean, it does, of course, but not for the film itself.  The explanations are to be made individually. You have to take your time and try to see for yourself. No good film would show a story that stops bothering you as soon as you got out of the theater. No explanation should be served up like popcorn!

Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress - a “re-run” (saw it long ago). A bit funny, a bit sad. Not a masterpiece but good to watch. Am wondering about the ratings IMDB gives to films. Yes, the readers/movie goers rate them, but I do not agree with many of them. Question of taste! The same happened to me with book reviews and since then I stopped reading them. Just have to do it!

China is getting ready!

The Big Picture!

Galerienrundgang

Yesterday,  another Galerienrundgang. I did not know about it until I saw someone who came into the gallery with the flyer. Funny thing though, this guy stepped in and, very confident said he’s been walking by every so often but never got in. And he wanted to ask if we only have Russian paintings.

“Actually”, I tried to be not very blunt, “at the moment we do not have ANY Russian painting in the gallery. We deal mostly with Austrian, German, Italian, French and Hungarian paintings. Russian stuff… we get this rather rarely…” That means, we have none and you have no idea about art.

Anyway. Galerienrundgang. As unexpected as it was, I liked it.

What I saw:

Galerie Johannes Faber – with lots of bondage photos from Nabuyoshi Araki (and some classics as well)

TB21 – Transitory Objects – Dan Flavian’s Neon Light reminded me of Turrell and his light space, Cerith Wyn Evans with something like a picture did exactly that, and the Neon columns were quite a feast of light (the whole room was bursting with light; it was light everywhere in every nook and cranny; little photons bounced from wall to wall like crazy and sometimes they found their peace in the dim courtyard below), not interested in John Bock,  Fred Sandback – liked, Rodney Graham – liked, Matthew Ritchie with Aranda\Lasch and Arup AGU – liked.

Galerie Lang – Othmar Zechyr

Galerie Krinzinger – Republic of Illusions (Anita Dube, Sheba Chhachhi, Probir Gupta, Pushpamale N., Ram Rahman, Raqs Media Collective, Dayanita Singh) I have to learn a bit more about them before I make up my mind.

Galerie Mario Mauroner – Jaume Plensa – somehow interesting. Conceptual. Aesthetic?

Galerie Ernst Hilger – Kosta Tonev, Michail Michailov, Lies Maculan

Palais Niederösterreich

O, Brother, where art thou?

Most of my bags are packed. T-shirts and sweaters are neatly folded, trousers pressed, underwear and socks are tucked in a corner of the suitcase, my new toothbrush is certainly there, with bathroom paraphernalia, crammed in a small ‘overnight’ bag. And all is tightly held together by an armor of books. No! There are not that many. Just a few I wouldn’t want to live without. And I weighted everything. Just to make sure. It’s not more than twenty kilograms. As you suggested. I do not know if there were more things I would’ve wanted to take with me, anyway. Gee… just imagine: a man’s life in twenty kilos. A man’s life in twenty pages would’ve sounded a lot better. But perhaps, it would’ve weighted more!

Till very soon!

*

O, brother, where art thou? How is the world you inhabit? Are there any parts of it still here? I took pictures, just in case. Said good bye to the trees in the orchard. There’s going to be a good apple harvest this year. Who’s going to pick them up? I went on a bike tour around the village. I got myself lost in the dust the tractors raised on the road. I thought – I’m going to fly… soon, I am going to be in a plane and I will be flying. The thought whirled in my head like the dust devils on the road. I pedaled on my bike until the village looked like a pile of Mahjong cards, with nice signs painted on them. I ate cheese sandwiches and tomatoes from the garden up-on-the-hill-where-everything-is-silent. I took a swim in the pond…

Just a couple of days left, a few (long) flying hours and then I will be there, with you…

Will this miss me? Will I miss this? My bike… what’s going to be with my bike? Will have to think about it. Should I give it away? My bike? Should I keep it… Just a few days!

*

He flew LOT – Polish Airlines. Over the Atlantic, over and under carpets of clouds. The darkness of the ocean, with white foam patches scattered here and there. Waves. He thought they were dolphins or whales jumping and splashing. Then the ocean finished. Inland. The dark-blue of the ocean became the dark-green of the forests. Towns: brown patches in a thin, nervous system-like structure.

Toronto. At first, this was the name given to a huge milky cloud, pierced with red sun rays. A funky tea cozy. Then, it was the name given to a colored patchwork of miniature houses on a brownish background. Then, finally, the city itself, his New World, was called Toronto.

L.B. Pearson International Airport. L stands for Lester. B for Bowles: former Canadian Prime-Minister (he did his homework). The airplane landed gently, on a soft cushion of applauses.

Inside the airport he was looking for directions. White letters on green boards making up English words provided him with directions. He picked up his suitcase and went towards the exit point. A swarm of people was buzzing around in a language he only knew from books and television. Now it was real. Actors and writers lost the privilege of being the only ones who could utter/write words in this language. Real people were chatting away.

He was tired. Jet-lagged. He could hear his brother’s happy voice as the car, a huge throstle, span a whole new city for him. Other cars in shapes and sizes he never saw before drove along on the highway. Traffic lights were hanging on the other side of the intersection. Blocks of flats, one after another. Skyscrapers. Ads. Ads. And the happy voice of his brother.

‘We’ll be there soon. I cooked some nice food. And I have some good wine… How do you like it?’

His voice seemed to have come from a distant era where they used wool threads instead of phone wires. So far away and so soft. Almost inaudible.

‘Nice…’

‘Ha! Jet-lagged? Just hang on for a while. In a few hours you’ll think it’s morning again…’

‘You think?…’

‘I’m sure!’

The world was spinning around him. Trees and cars, lights and people at crossings, so far away already… Such a dark-blue ocean, and so many dolphins!… He felt himself sinking in the comfortable seat of the car. Closed his eyes and gone he was…

When he woke up again it was already night. His neck was stiff, his face against the car window. They were in a small driveway, in front of a garage door with a blue exotic fish painted on it.

‘Welcome back!’, his brother greeted him again. He was smoking a cigarette. He did not want to wake him up when they got home and he did not want to leave him there alone in the car. So, he stayed with him. He kept his left hand over the top of the car, so that the smoke would be taken away by the light breeze of the evening. It was a quiet area. They were at home for a few good hours now.

‘Gee! It’s really stiff!’

‘I’ll give you a massage!, if you want!’

‘Would it help?’

‘It’s no harm trying…’

‘I guess you’re right.’

He stretched his body a bit and then he asked about food.

‘Let’s get in!’

Miss Amelia (part II)

His house had stone walls. Big brown stones. And between them, scattered here and there, smaller white, round stones. Over the door frame one of these white stones had been painted – a lady in a green outfit with a straw hat holding an umbrella against the sun. Just as you would see in a century-old photo. Over, on the back wall, another one. Now, something in the way of an icon. A saint of a certain kind. And then, I discovered yet another one – a flower bouquet. All, small, almost unnoticeable. All bringing a whiff of color into the brown-white monotony of the walls. How did they get there?

Do you want to know?, he asked me.

Of course I do!

Look!… There is this woman. A big woman. I mean not fat but big and strong. And yeah, she is a bit fat but not much. She’s big! And she used to drive a fruit and vegetables truck to Athens. Every day for ten years. She had a husband. He used to drive the truck but then he died. He made her three children and then died. And he drove the truck up and down these streets. Is not easy you know. There are really dangerous the streets here, up in the mountains. So he did this and then died. And then, because she had to feed her kids, she started driving the truck. A big woman she is, wheeling that truck on these narrow streets. Can you imagine that? Like from a movie. Or something. And she came to visit when the house was not yet finished. She was curious and I told her to come and visit. Because now she does not drive anymore. She has an inn. An inn where there is nothing to eat. I mean, there is something to eat, but only the usual stuff. Nothing cooked. But she would cook if you’d give her time. She’d come and tell you what she could cook and if you’d want, she’d cook for you. Meat and stuff… Whatever she’d have… And so I met her and we had lots of fun at her inn. You can imagine how much one needs to drink on an empty stomach to have good fun. So, we had fun. And then I told her about the house and she came to visit. See how much is already finished. And she was a very poor woman. Sad, I mean. Her husband died. He made her three kids and then died. And her father died. The Nazis killed him. He sided with the communists and they killed him. She was just a kid back then. And then her husband…. And she took up driving the vegetables truck to Athens. Do you know how hard it is? Such a job? Up and down the mountain. With five tones of apples at the back. Or whatever else she was carrying to Athens and sold at the market. But she is a big woman and she managed it. And then, when she came to visit she looked at the house and liked it and we talked and she told me about her life and… it was nice. And then she said she did not bring me anything as a present, you know, house warming present thingy. But she told me she had only one joy in her life, something she always did and liked. You know what that is? When she’d have a bit of time she’d go down to the beach, she’d find an isolated spot and she’d sit there with the waves and the sun and the sand. And she’d paint. Small stuff, little things… on the white stones she’d find at the beach. Not that bad, you know! Not bad. And she said the only thing she could give me would be these stones she painted. She brought three of them along and she gave them to me. I thanked and she went away. I put them in the walls later on. She does not know yet where her stones landed. But I’ll invite her once and let her discover them for herself. I hope she likes them that way. Boy, she is really one of a kind. Such a big woman…. But very nice, you know…

Men and Women

I finished reading Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. I have to get used to his style. There is none actually. He just writes. His technique of shaving off any words and phrases which are not vital for the plot is visibly at work. There is no subtlety, no hidden dealings. The story, all of it is right there, in front of you. What you do with it, is your business. In a way, it reminds me of Murakami. The writing does not spark; metaphors do not pop up here and there to make the reading more appealing. Actually, one does not really need them, a story can very well be a good story without much beautification. But I like them, I like this whole metaphor business. Nevermind! This is one of his early works. Am curious to see how his writing develops, what changes occur (if any), etc.. I hope I can follow.

Lady Ashley. Well, it is her I am thinking about (like most of the men in the book, anyway; the “lost generation”). She must’ve been very beautiful. Does this justify though the swarm of men around her? Writers, counts, bullfighters. Old, rich, nice, brutes, young, you name it! The events around the bullfighting are quite well developed. Her aching for the young torero, her using Jake whenever and for whomever she wanted… And he did not flinch once. Always there for her when she needed him. What did he get in return? Nothing more than her company. She must’ve been really something!

–

Men without Women – a collection of stories by Hemingway. Again, something he wrote when he was young. I think I can grow to like his writing. The first story is quite well written. And with the others I could see his sense of humor, his seriousness, his playfulness. Not that bad (sic!). And I even found myself laughing in the underground when reading An Alpine Idyll. It is funny.

The last story, Now I Lay Me, sent some melancholic shivers down my spine. The main character in the story is in a room where silk worms are being bred. Lots of them, gnawing away at the mulberry leaves. Not being able to sleep, not being able to close his eyes. Shell-shocked…

Back then, in the dusty and glorious Romania, one of our duties, as brave red tie bearers, was to do our best in everything we did. No matter if that were math, literature, sports or breeding silk worms. We had a couple of mulberry trees at the back of our garden and we’d pick leaves (a few plastic sacks full) and we’d bring them to school to feed them to the worms. They came once a year. They were delivered (by whom? I have no idea) and then, as mysteriously as they came, exactly so would they disappear. Somebody would drop by and pick up all the fat and silky cocoons). They lived their short lives on newspapers scattered across ping pong tables in the gym (actually, an all-purpose room). Their long bodies were crawling from one leaf to the next, eating and eating and eating. Late in the evening, at the beginning of autumn, sometimes even without electricity, it was eerie to hear them munching. We did our best! Always!

There was no fear the whole world would disappear when one would close his eyes… No shell-shock. Not until later, in that spring when I realized what happened. As if I suddenly discovered that I was hanging on a tree root above the abyss.

… and water

Sayano-Shushenskaya

Fire

Wow (Athens), wow and wow (L.A.)…

Noctilux

What a nice name! A Leica lens. 50/0.95. Can you imagine that? I know there are some film lenses that go even wider than that. 0.7 – Kubrick – Barry Lyndon: most of the night scenes (candle light) were shot without extra light. And only a lens so fast could’ve done the job. Anyway, click here to see some photos taken with it. The wonderful Bokeh, the slight vignetting, the perfect sharpness… And, by the way, it only costs a little over $ 10,000! Pipe dreams…

Cardiac slaves of the stars…

At the weekend I was in a place about an hour away from Vienna, very close to the Hungarian border. A bunch of people got together, bought some land and made it into a paradise for horses.

–

I only heard a few knocks on the door. Did not know who might be, did not know we expected somebody else. It was already rather late and with all the bad weather that day, it felt cold. I was sleepy and was already thinking about the warm bed waiting for me upstairs. The host got up and let guest in. I felt like I was being given a test. Who is this? Is it a man or a woman? She wore a pair of jeans and a pink sweatshirt. Red hair, not very thick and (perhaps because of that) tucked under a cap. A few careless threads hanging on her shoulders tied together with a black plastic clam. She looked like a man. One could even see the very small beard hairs on her face. No hips. No breasts. And then, these huge hands with thick fingers and rough skin, with scars and painted fingernails. I expected a sort of flamboyant person. Or, at least, trying to be so. But I was wrong. She was quiet and nice. She kept to herself. It felt awkward to see her picking the broad beans from the (otherwise would be left-over) salad and eating them one by one. With her huge, construction worker hands.

After she ate we watched photos. Our host just returned from a trip abroad. Far away in South-East Asia. The pictures were beautiful. Inciting. The wildlife, the people, the little stories she told us. Quite a feast. And she sat through and wondered at their beauty. These are things she might never be able to see otherwise.

She lives in a trailer (which she just parked outside, in the orchard). She has a dog. And she travels here and there throughout Austria from one job to the other, repairing fences. Yeah, that’s what she does. She repairs fences and, apparently, she’s quite good at it.

Next morning, the good weather returned. It was sunny; a clear sky.

In one stable Ferdinand waited. An old horse he is, Ferdinand. She untied him and brought him out, to enjoy a bit of the sun and have more space to walk around. He started nickering and tramping loudly. He wants to let the others know he’s still alive, still moving. Still… A long body, little flesh, lots of bones. The hind legs arched towards the sides of his body. Hours before I was reading several stories from Calvino’s Difficult Loves. One of them – Bisma – about the war ridden Italy. A small village in the mountains. Isolated. In need of food and cut out from the rest of the world by an almost continuous gunfire across the only path leading down. They needed bread to survive and bread was in another village, in the valley. They had to find someone to bring it to them. They gathered in a cave and started discussing who should go down. Then, the old Bisma (named so because of the way he trimmed his mustache, making it resemble Bismarck’s) got out of the meeting and returned with his bony donkey and said he’d do it. And, indeed, he did it. Both of them old and barely able to move, but they were the ones who saved the village.

‘It used to be my horse, she said. When I was young, we had a place near Salzburg. A farm. We had many horses but on this one here I learned how to ride. He’s already 25 years old. A fine horse he was!’

The rest of the day she repaired the fence. Her big hands with glittering fingernails digging holes, cutting wood, hammering nails… She used to have a family. A wife and two kids. They are still in Salzburg. The woman she married was a high-school sweetheart. When did the switch happen? Why did she want to be a woman? A woman with disheveled hair and thick fingers? Did she hope to become a diva, throwing shows throughout the world? How can she put up with all this alone? How does she manage enjoying the world vicariously through photos and stories, enjoying the showbiz glitz through the glitter of her nail polish? Traveling throughout Austria in her trailer, repairing fences, walking her dog…

Pessoa:

Cardiac slaves of the stars,

We conquer the whole world before getting out of bed…

Hemingway

I’ve only read half of The Sun Also Rises but I think  I can somehow spot the Americanness of Hemingway. Yes, I did not read any Hemingway until now but I got a whole collection with most of his books and I do intend to read them (all). After half of the book the intrigue just starts to unveil (at least, that’s what I think he’s pointing to). There are lots of dialogues in there and rather little analysis thus far. Yes, I know he’s not a judge (H) and never will be. Perhaps that’s why he’s so appreciated. Am curious what the rest is going to bring.

In the underground – listened to Sophocle’s Antigone.

Case sure

El e mic și îndesat. Gras (de fapt). Cu o burtă ce s-ar încadra lejer la categoria “femei însărcinate, luna a opta”. Ea e blonda. Subțire. Ochi albaștri (sic!).

El neamț. Ea moldoveancă.

El vorbește o română stîlcită, grea, germanizată.

Ea – moldovenește.

Oarecum amuzant să îi aud pe amîndoi sporovăind de zor. El despre serviciul lui și ea despre trăitul bine. Nu, nu prea are a face cu ‘the good life’ a lui Taylor ci cu trăitul bine neaoș. Casă, mașină, cumparaturi.

E dificil să discuți cu cineva care nu are nici un hobby. Păi cum să închegi un small talk? Doar de asta vrea să învețe româna mai bine, nu?

- Eu nu fac small talk, îmi spune.

- Dar cînd vorbiți cu cineva în România, despre ce vorbiți?

- Despre serviciu. Despre livrări, încasări, reclamă, și altele.

- Și apoi, cînd terminați de vorbit despre serviciu, ce faceți?

- Nimic. Pentru că eu nu termin niciodată de vorbit despre serviciu.

Ok….

- Dar la cinema mergeți, de exemplu. Sau cărți citiți? De sport nu l-am mai întrebat, ca nu avea rost. S-a gîndit o clipă și apoi, rîzînd, mi-a explicat cît de mult lucrează (de dimineață pîna seara și, foarte des, chiar în weekend) și că nu are timp de chestii de astea.

- Ba da! Ari un hobby, strigă nevasta-sa intrînd în cameră după ce, se pare, a tras cu urechea de după ușă. Mă întorc spre ea și o privesc mirat.

- Da, ai un hobby. Di și nu vriei sî spui? El colecționezî ceaune. Și oali vechi. Cu borți’n ieli. Șiobite… cari li-aruncî lumea.

- Nu este adevarat. Lasă astea… Eu trebuie să învaț.

Dar nu a fost chiar așa de ușor. Nu știu de ce, donșoara voia să stea de vorbă. Small talk, cred, ar fi fost punctul ei forte. De fapt, cred că se plictisea cumplit. Nu avea nimic de făcut. Cu vreo jumătate de oră în urmă s-a întors de la cofetărie, mulțumită de înghețata pe care o mâncase. Iar el… grijuliu cum e, i-a spus de cîteva ori că nu ar trebui să mănînce atît de multă înghețată, că o să ajungă o balenă (sic!).

- V-a spus câ o sî merjim la București mai repidi dicît am crezut? Poati merjim deja in ianuarie. Tari mă bucur! Cînd eram în Chișinău șî ne-am mutat la București, a fost bini. Cî Bucureștiu-i mari șî plin în comparatie cu Chisinau‘. Da‘ apoi ne-am mutat la Berlin ș-o fost șî mai frumos. Da acu’ ma bucur ca o sî mergem din nou in România ș-n Bucuresti. O sî stăm la casî: am vazut pi internet cîteva oferte bune. Da’ prețurile’s ca aiși. Da’i casî. Cu etaj șî curte. Șî di-acasî pînî la București se ajunge cu masina în 45 min sau o ora. Ca ș-aiși, di fapt. Așa cî n-o sî si schimbe nimic. Da’ acolo îi bine cî sî poati vorbi cu lumea. Fumezi o țîgarî, stai di vorbî șî ai un prieten! Da’ aiși, după ani și ani și tot n-ai pi nimeni.

Din cealalta cameră, el o întreaba ce vrea sa comande de la restaurantul chinezesc. Cu nasu’n calculator, bifa feluri de mîncare și garniturile. De ce să irosească timpul? Eficiența germană.

- E practic, îmi spune. În 20-30 de minute ai deja de mîncare și e mereu bun. Și ieftin.

- Și-n București îs atît di mulți oameni și multi clădiri, mari și sure. Mi-o plăcut tari mult.

Am ramas puțin blocat la ‚case sure’. Ce-or fi fiind alea? Habar nu aveam. Sunt frumoase, casele astea sure? Fiind in București, știam că nu pot fi frumoase. Dar, de fapt, încă nu am fost in Chișinau și nu pot spune cum sunt casele acolo.

- A, știu! El are un hobby adevarat. El călătorește.

-A, da? Vă place să călătoriți? Sperînd într-un răspuns care să foloseasca pronumele personal la dativ.

- Da. Îmi place să călătoresc. În țările din est.

- Ca de exemplu?

- Am fost deja în 30 de țări. Moldova, Ucraina, Latvia, Transnistria, etc.

-Transnistria? Am facut ochii mari.

-Da!

- Și cum vi s-a părut?

- Am fost în Tiraspol. Ia spune, cum a fost în Tiraspol?, o întrebă el.

- Foarte bine. Foarte curat.

- Și oamenii?

- Li merji bini. Au salariu în fiecare lună. Chiar dacî nu muncești tăt timpu’, ți sî dă salar. Nu ca la noi, cî muncești tăt timpu‘ șî nu primești salariu cu lunili. Acolo sî dă.. Șî li merji bini. Șî-i mai curat ca în Chișinau.

Or fi avînd și acolo case sure?

Mi-am amintit ce îmi povestea el despre recenta vizită a mamei soacre și a surorii ei. Credea ca o sa înnebunească, mi- a spus. A lucrat peste măsură de mult (a se înțelege – a rămas la birou și mai mult decît de obicei) doar pentru a nu avea de-a face cu rudele ei. Mi-a spus să încerc să îmi imaginez cam cum ar fi  să ies în oraș cu ele. Mama soacră, cu pantofi de piele cu puțin toc și cu pantaloni de training, cu un sacou și cu batic pe cap. Sora ei, așijderea. Grațioase ca la prașit porumbul.

Și frumoase ca niște case sure.

Probabil.

A! Și încă niște cuvinte interesante: răscruce cu semafor, colțuni, pătrînjele (de fapt, a înțeles el greșit – era vorba de pătlăgele, i.e. roșii).

Books

LeClezio  - Poisson d’or

I read this in French. Had all the time in the world, but it went rather fast. The whole book is in the title: the gold fish that slips away. It gave me the impression though that at times it moved a bit too fast (as if the author felt he’s in a blind alley and had to get out in order to keep the story rolling). There are lots of scenes that stayed with me, there is a lot of pain in there as well and lots of broken people.

J’avais compris que si les gens ont à choisir entre toi et leur bonheur, ce n’est pas toi qu’ils prennent.

A l’entree, un group de Gitans discutait autour de carcasses de metal, comme des chasseurs qui aurainet depece une proie.

–

Michael Chabon – The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

One can only love them – the two guys… Sammy and Joe. They hold together the whole book like the heavy chains from which Houdini always emerged victoriously. And you have the key. You, the reader. You open it and you (should) know you can only do it because of love. As Kornblum said, “only love could pick a nested pair of steel Bramah locks”. It made a stir, this book. Not very deep a stir but strong enough to feel it.

The words echoed Kornblum’s sound advice, but somehow they chilled Josef. He could not shake the feeling – reportedly common among ghosts – that it was not he but those he haunted whose lives were devoid of matter, sense, future.

//

Every universe, our own included, begins in conversation. Every golem in the history of the world, from Rabbi Hanina’s delectable goat to the river-clay Frankenstein of Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, was summoned into existence through language, through murmuring, recital, and kabbalistic chitchat – was, literally, talked into life.

//

The clerk or secretary – a woman, more often than not – pinned to a hard chair by a thousand cubic feet of smoky, rancid air that caught like batter in the blades of the ceiling fans, deafened by the thunder of the file cabinets, dyspeptic, despairing, and bored, would look up and see that Joe’s thick thatch of curls had been deformed by his headgear into a kind of glossy black hat, and smile.

//

The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place.

//

He had been lying to her steadily, and with her approval, for years. It was a single, continuous lie, the deepest kind of lie possible in a marriage: the one that need never be told, because it will never be questioned.

–

Richard Dawkins – The Selfish Gene

Well, good that I stumbled upon this book! I mean, I knew about most of the stuff Darwin’s Rottweiler talks about here but never had the chance to put it into perspective. And that’s what he does with The Selfish Gene. Well, it’s a book which was published long before I was born, actually, but it does not seem to be outdated. I first saw Dawkins talking about this book in the documentary about Desmond Morris (one of whose paintings makes up the cover of the first edition). There are quite some new concepts which were somehow rearranged in my head. Never really thought of myself until now as a survival machine for my genes. Not bad, you genes! Well done! Right… No, really… Sure! Well, I could’ve ended up as a Nematode. They – can you believe this? – well… they (only) live in… I cannot even bring myself to write it! They only live in German beer mats!!!! Lucky them!

Different sorts of survival machines appear very varied on the outside and in the internal organs. An octopus is nothing like a mouse, and both are quite different from an oak tree. Yet in their fundamental chemistry they are rather uniform, and, in particular, the replicators that they bear, the genes, are basically the same kind of molecule in all of us – from bacteria to elephants. We are all survival machines for the same kind of replicator – molecules called DNA – but there are many different ways of making a living in the world, and the replicators have built a vast range of machines to exploit them. A monkey is a machine that preserves genes up trees, a fish is a machine that preserves genes in the water; there is even a small worm that preserves genes in German beer mats. DNA works in mysterious ways.

//

Genes for indirectly control the manufacture of bodies, and the influence is strictly one way; acquired characteristics are not inherited. No matter how much knowledge and wisdom you acquire during your life, not one jot will be passed on to your children by genetic means. Each new generation starts from scratch. A body is the genes’ way of preserving the genes unaltered.

//

Once upon a time, natural selection consisted of the differential survival of replicators floating free in the primeval soup. Now, natural selection favours replicators that are good at building survival machines, genes that are skilled in the art of controlling embryonic development. In this, the replicators are no more conscious or purposeful than they ever were.

//

Etc.

A little soul…

Sunday mornings, on FM4 there is a show called Sunny Side Up. Which I like and try to listen to whenever I can. It has just good music. Music to listen to after a long Saturday night out. Music to listen to when the sun warms up your living room and you’ve just thrown a perfect omelet on a plate, cut the tomatoes and the cucumbers, made the tea, got yourself the newspaper and… Time to enjoy your breakfast! Mmm, the croissants are hot and fluffy and give off a beautiful aroma. And the music wraps everything up and makes it even nicer!

Now and then, the guy making the program changes the tempo. There comes a jingle that says ‘A little soul!’.

Well, even if writing this blog comes nowhere near enjoying a breakfast on a Sunday morning with good music in the background, I think I have to pause a bit and let the jingle do its job: ‘A little soul!’ Yeah… Soul… That’s what I feel it lacks.

On Tuesday I saw Crash again. And I remembered why I liked this film. It was the violence. The emotional violence it lets loose. It’s like a “Boom!” every 15 minutes. It plays with you. It shakes you up so that you know you’re still alive, that you can feel you’re still alive even if you have to go to work, do your shopping, etc.

That’s what I have to find! Something to stir up the soul. A bit of “Boom!”. A bit of noise. A bit of stuff that’s not that comfortable. A bit of love. A bit of nausea. A bit of beauty at the tip of a whip.

It will come soon!