Away

Sicily

Conversing

At first, I could only hear the sound made by something being dragged on the pavement. Then I saw her and her enormous broken suitcase. She noticed me looking at her and after a couple of seconds of uncertainty she opened the door of the shop and got in.

Sorry, may I ask you something?, she said.

Before I could answer, she went ahead:

Do you know where I could use a phone? I need to leave a message for someone in the US.

Hmm… The post office!, I offered. I am sure you could do that there.

I quickly checked my time and realized they might’ve closed already. I was just about to close the shop and leave myself. The woman watched me and then said:

Just the post office?

Right!

OK, then. She turned her back at me and, with ample gestures began turning her suitcase around and made towards the door.

But if you keep it short, you could use my phone as well.

Do you think so? She replied. You wouldn’t mind?

No problem… If you keep it short. And gave her the phone.

I am in Vienna now and I wanted to call you because I had to tell you a couple of things. Johnny, you have to grow up! You have to grow up and be the man you should be! Say good bye to Pretty Baby! Send her away! She had enough running your life like that. Running it and ruining it. You should know what is best for you! You have to show her and all the others who you are. You have to do it! You have to start all over again. Just be a man, for God’s sake! Why can’t you be a man? I am going to the Embassy right now. That’s where you can reach me. The American Embassy in Vienna. I will be there and I will be waiting for your call. You call me, you hear that? You better call me! Johnny… Why did you have to do that, Johnny? Why? Didn’t you like it? What did Pretty Baby do to you? Why did you let her come back? She’s nothing but a… Oh, forget it! I better hang up now. I better… are you there? Are you listening to me right now? Why don’t you pick up? Pick up! You know? It will get cold in Vienna…. And I am waiting for you. But I’m running out of money waiting for you. When are you going to make up your mind? Are you ever going to come? Was it just a game? Did she tell you to do this? Of course, that’s it! You just wanted to get rid of me, didn’t you? Get rid of ME! Here I am telling you to dump Pretty Baby and you actually dumped me! Well, that’s clever! You listen mister! You better call me today! I will be at the Embassy.

She hang up, handed me the phone, said thank you and turned to pick up her huge broken suitcase. The loud noise from dragging it on the pavement faded slowly away. That was almost a month ago. Today I saw her again. This time without her suitcase. The look on her face told me Johnny failed to call her. Busy with Pretty Baby, I gather. Somewhere in the States, playing The Sound of Music over and over again.

Roma

On Sunday there was a derby game – Roma vs. Lazio. Did not take too much notice of it. And I would’ve forgotten about it completely were it not for the ride back to the hotel. But first things first. Ambasciata di Abruzzo. Excellent aperitifs, good dinner. And the wine! A Cagiolo – Montepulciano di Abruzzo, thick and dark.

As the restaurant was not exactly close to our hotel we had to take a taxi. This time it happened to be a small Fiesta. Four people managed to get in and then we started our ride. The driver was in his fifties, I think, with a long white beard (à la Nitsch) and with a blue woolen cap on his head. He needed a couple of seconds to figure out where we want to go. He turned the radio a bit louder as he was following the football game and excused himself but said he cannot help it. It’s a derby! He has to know what was happening. A minute later his phone started ringing and he fumbled with it, not really answering but also not having a conversation. And then another phone started and then, since I thought he was so maladroit with the portable devices because he was following the traffic (which was already cause for a couple of gasps) I realized he was actually concentrating on the radio and suddenly he turned it as loud as possible and almost stopped the car in the middle of the street. His phones landed on the floor, his cap flew away and he almost jump to his feet. Goal, goal, goal, goal… he’d yell his mantra and, hitting the steering wheel, would toot like crazy. At every crossing he’d repeat this and would try to engage the drivers of the other cars in his exhilarating happiness. He excused himself every now and then but mentioned he cannot help it. We almost flew with 90 km/h along the Tiber, under the small tunnels, between other cars and mopeds, quickly building up enough adrenaline to chase away whatever alcohol we had and sober us up almost completely.

What else?

Dora Pamphilj – with Velasquez’s Innocent X in a small room, almost like a shrine. I would’ve liked to get closer… Two young Caravaggio, Breughel the Older, etc. etc. The whole palace is stuffed with paintings and some of them quite good. Doors were open to the apartments where (apparently) the offspring of the Pamphilj family still live today. A bit uncanny to see the old furniture and carpets, marble tables and, almost provocative, here and there, a book or a cd. Do they really live there?

National Gallery of Modern Art – I think a visit to a foreign country has to include a visit to the national gallery. The way the paintings are displayed, the kind of paintings hanged on the walls, the kind of paintings being made by the artists of this country, the play with the light and colors – all of this should be enjoyed and sought after as one enjoys and seeks the local food and wine. Anyhow, there could’ve been ten times more paintings there. There is enough art in Italy!

Ripa12 – amazing fish food (from fish Carpaccio to tuna Carbonara).

Da Gino – very small and almost hidden (thank you S.!) with great food, kitschy decorations and perfect atmosphere.

The list could go on and on… espresso, Aperol spritz, running after buses, parading on the streets, pizza alla romana, more Aperol spritz, an occasional Campari, Castroni, carciofi, swarms of starlings, bresaola, Trastevere, eating chestnuts on the Spanish steps, Tiber at night, St. Peter’s square with perfect evening light, foggy view of the city from Gianicolo hill, etc. etc.

Casting

She

Sunbathing by the pool. Every now and then a fly would buzz by and the dog would bark happily, playing on the lawn with its rubber toys. Not a worry in the world! She’s long and well built. Blond hair, big tits, slim, good legs. She must be around 30.

He

What use is the school? It bores me to death. Instead, I spend most of my time fishing. There seems to be very little going on here, on this pond. But that’s not true! Sometimes Jiri and Milos come by and we smoke a cigarette. Sometimes I take a book with me and I read. I read ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ the other day. I liked it. It’s about an old man who, after 80 days of not catching anything, manages to catch the biggest and the most beautiful fish ever. Actually, the old man and his little boat became part of the fish for a while. No, the fish did not eat them! They float together out in the open sea and the old man talks to the fish and lets him do whatever he wants. He does not want to kill him but he has to, in the end. He was tired and hungry. The fish was. But the old man as well. And then the sharks came and ate the whole fish. I don’t like sharks.

She

The sun pounced on every pore of her shiny skin. She was tired although it was only around noon. The drinking last night and the sex in the morning were taking their toll. Her body ached. She spread her suntan cream with slow motions, almost caressing herself. She thought about her fingernails… they needed to be polished again… And the stuffed “whatever” they ate last night. She had no idea what it was – she found no words for it in her language. But it tasted good. Her English was rather poor and only just about covered the basics. Picking up the right word for the dish and finding a correspondent in her language was too much of an enterprise. Whatever… Her buttocks hurt a bit and on her left shoulder she found a bite mark.

He

I don’t only fish all day. I do other things as well. For example, I cook whatever I manage to catch. My grandmother taught me how. I am usually happy with the results. I can make a good soup if I want. Or a fish pie. Or I can grill it. Grilled I like it best, actually. The rest of the time I spend on the computer. I don’t play games. Game playing is for sissies. I only browse and read whatever I find interesting. That’s why I don’t need to go to school any longer. If I need anything I just find it on the Internet. Like the other day, I wanted to know how many kinds of deep sea fish are there. There are many. And some of them are scary to look at. Can you imagine they barely see the light of day down there? We don’t have deep sea fish here. We don’t even have a sea here. There is just this pond at the end of the village.

She

Sweat drops. Tiny, transparent drops glinting for a fraction of a second and then slowly sliding away. I like the heat. I like to hear the heart thumping and the blood waving my body. Don’t think about love! Don’t love! Just fuck! He’s nice, I think. Does not talk much to me but tries to make it comfortable. He doesn’t have to, of course. That’s why I am here. So that he wouldn’t bother. I am here when he wants me, how he wants me. I just have to do it. No questions asked. It isn’t easy what I do, I know. I might as well be dead. Not really… Perhaps… Lucky, that’s what I am! And now I even have a vacation. A whole week. I won’t make much money like this but at least I’ll have a break. Somehow… A break…

He

I don’t like fighting. I got punished for it a couple of times and then I decided I don’t want to fight with anyone anymore. Not at school, anyway. So what if they talk? Let them talk. They never come here. They don’t have the guts. Except for Jiri and Milos. They are OK. They are my friends. Sometimes we talk about what we are going to do when we get out of this place. They think they will find work in Austria. Just across the border, in the Shopping Mall. But I don’t want that. I want to go to America. Why not?

She

In the evening she went for a walk. She said she’d be back soon. She walked past houses and taverns and took photos of the sunset. She smiled at tourists and smiled even more whenever she heard them speak her language. But never talked to them. She sat by the sea and smoked cigarettes. It’s rather far away from home. I never been so far. It’s beautiful here. And warm. I’d never want to leave from here again. If it only were that simple! Whatever happened with second chances? I’ll never be on the list for that, will I? That’s it! That’s the whole of it!

*

When she got back, he told her he’s got something for her. A present.

“I found them in the storage room downstairs. I think they belonged to my grandfather. I have no use for them. You have them!” In small boxes, colorful things, small jewels stole her eyes. Tiny blue feathers, yellow threads and shiny hooks. “For your son! He likes fishing, doesn’t he?”

The One or the Other?

Yesterday when I got up I found a request from PhilPapers in my mailbox. I wasn’t really awake; still had to rub my eyes to see well. Had nothing to eat or drink… But enough excuses… And what did the guys from PhilPaper want? A test. They wanted to make a DB and a statistic with the answers. Here are some questions.

• • Abstract objects: Platonism or nominalism?
  • Analytic-synthetic distinction: yes or no?
  • Epistemic justification: internalism or externalism?
  • Free will: compatibilism, libertarianism, or no free will?
  • God: theism or atheism?
  • External world: idealism, skepticism, or non-skeptical realism?
  • Knowledge: empiricism or rationalism?
  • Knowledge claims: contextualism, relativism, or invariantism?
  • Mental content: internalism or externalism?
  • Moral judgment: cognitivism or non-cognitivism?
  • Newcomb’s problem: one box or two boxes?
  • Normative ethics: deontology, consequentialism, or virtue ethics?
  • Perceptual experience: disjunctivism, qualia theory, representationalism, or sense-datum theory?
  • Personal identity: biological view, psychological view, or further-fact view?
  • Politics: communitarianism, egalitarianism, or libertarianism?
  • Proper names: Fregean or Millian?
  • Time: A-theory or B-theory?
  • Trolley problem (five straight ahead, one on side track, turn requires switching, what ought one do?): switch or don’t switch?

Well, it felt like a cold shower in the morning. I think now I have to do this kind of stuff each time I wake up. Gives you food for thought. Makes you think a bit the rest of the day. And, what’s more, made me think about starting a system, a structured way where I should bring together my thoughts on various matters and see how well they go together. This poll is a very good start. Having all this stuff put together… Yummy…

Good night…

Couldn’t help it…

This is about one hour of firefly activity near my home in rural Ontario. The precision of the background star trails is an interesting contrast to the chaotic pattern of the firefly flashes. (Photo and caption by Steve Irvine)

 

Friday evening

Friday evening.

He looked around in the metro. Two guys in front of him were kissing and feeling each other. He looked away. Why did she have to cancel the meeting tonight? What am I going to do now? It’s just 7. Should I go straight home? No. That is not an option! Perhaps I should call Manu. Perhaps we could go have a drink. He picked up his phone and dialed Manu’s number. No answer. He dialed again. Still no answer. Before putting his phone back in his pocked he decided he’d look up the scores of the last football matches. And started tipping on the screen.

Medium height. A receding hairline. A small nose. Lips thick enough to cover his teeth. And a beard; enough to hide his double chin. Deep into his mobile research, punctuated now and then with the rise of a brow or with a play of lips, he did not notice the beautiful woman who got in and was now traveling next to him. She was not from Paris. She held a tourist guide in one of her gloved hands and was watching carefully the succession of stations… He lifted his head for a second. Perhaps to see where he was. And then he saw her. Right there, a few centimeters away from him. He could smell her perfume and he could feel her coat rubbing against his hand. She’s the one! I have to talk to her, he decided. He slid his cellphone back in his pocket and started thinking about the best way to go about it. Tourist guide: she might need help. I can do that. I can be nice and I can talk to her. And, look! It’s Spanish. I can talk Spanish. Not bad! Oh, it’s going to be good! He started thinking about his appearance. Is his jacket straight? He checked his reflection in one of the windows and arranged his hair. He thought about checking his breath. But how could he do this without her noticing him? He looked away and, faking a cough, put his hand before his mouth and attempted to combine coughing and inhaling. Did not really work and wasn’t sure if he’d need a chewing gum or not. Just in case, he slipped his hand in one of the pockets of his jacket and, since he did not find anything there moved to the next pocket and then the next. Where the hell are they? Almost certainly he left them in the pub where he was before. Damn! Damn, damn, damn! Perhaps he does not need them anyway! Another check. Damn! What should he tell her, anyway? How should he start? He’ll ask if she needs help. He’ll get off the metro wherever she’ll get off and he’ll say he knows the area. Where are we anyway? Porte Dorée. Bercy… He realized he has no idea what was around there. Luckily, we’re going toward the city center, he thought. That’s something I know better! Where on earth are those gums? The woman seemed not to pay any attention to his tossing. She was following the stations and was checking now and then with her guide. Aha!, he almost shouted. Aha! Found them!, he thought. These chewing gums! He took out the pack and, surreptitiously, got out a couple of them. Right then, the train halted abruptly and he had to drop the gums and hold onto something. It was either that or falling over the woman next to him. Damn! What now? Calm. Calm. Let’s go over it again. I am going to get out with her and I will ask her if she needs help. As they were pulling in the next station, his phone started ringing. He looked for it and until he checked to see who’s calling and before he had the chance to answer, he realized the perfume of the woman next to him smelled differently as before. Strange. He moved his head a bit so as to get a glimpse at her again. Suddenly he realized the woman next to him was not the same. He looked around, she was nowhere to be seen. Damn! She already got off. His phone kept ringing and he did not know what to do. Should he jump, should he try to get out? Should he answer the phone? Who was calling him anyway? Shit! The train started moving already. Gone! Gone! He put his cell phone to his ear and answered: Oui, maman! Vingt minutes… Je crois…

Lately

Don’t really feel like writing lately. I want to, I sit at the computer and start typing but words don’t come up. After several good minutes of tossing around I abandon it altogether and try something else. Reading books and blogs, watching movies, planning challenges for the new ubuntu 9.10 I installed on the laptop I have at work, etc. But not writing. The brain in the vat thing; but with a twist. Not for the good though…

Anyhow –

It was Paris. Four days in the city. Planned to go from coffee house to coffee house and restaurant to restaurant (by way of metro) and nothing else but we ended up walking around for miles.

- musee d’Orsay + Orangerie. James Ensor – quite a good exhibition. And Ensor was quite an odd fellow. Spent some time watching the impressionists. Le dejeuner sur l’herbe – Manet, laughed at the youngsters trying to get a good and long view of Courbet’s L’origine du monde, etc. etc.
- the new Quai Branly museum (by Jean Nouvel) – one would need several good hours to really understand the whole stuff put on display there. I did not have that but I wanted to see the building. Which is impressive. Inside as well as outside.
The leather walls, the spiraling walkways…
- ended up (again) eating falafels in le Marais, Japanese at Kintaro, good French pastery on blvd. Beaumarchais, and brunching at Le Pain Quotidien. Missed having pancakes at Breizh. The weather was not particularly nice but we still had a bit of sun.
- the red wine was, to my surprise, almost everywhere we went, quite chilled. Did not expect that. What I also did not expect was the smokeless pubs and restaurants. That’s something I like and something I hate not having here in Austria. Bad, Ösies!
- met a friend I hadn’t seen for long and found out about the course she teaches, about Brasil and its impetuous urbanism.

 

Then, it was Carnuntum. The wine thingy in Lower Austria. Managed (again) to taste my way through the afternoon and discovered that the Oppelmeyer family had a good wine too. Of course, Nepomuk has perhaps more to offer for the price but the Pinot Noir 2006 from Oppelmeyer is quite exquisite.

Saw:
(again) Blue from Kieslowski and Zabrisky Point from Antonioni.
Politist, adj. (Porumboiu) – I really liked this movie. Of course, it seemed a bit too long at times but somehow it worked so as it was. One needs time to see it. You have to watch Cristi and you have time to think about what he’s thinking and to think about what you’d think if you were him. Opening and closing doors. Slurping soup… Using a dictionary in a police station… Good! (Thank you, A!).

 

Finished reading… Are you ready? The Time Traveler’s Wife, from Niffenegger. I read it till the end. And did not really get it. It’s not because it is a difficult book. It is not! Once you get over the time traveling thing, it is an unspectacular contemporary novel. Do you remember the dream you had when you were a child, the dream of a friend you’d have, only for yourself, with whom you’d spend time and to whom you’d be close without having to give any explanations to anyone? Well, the book is about that. And what’s more, this friend grows up to be your lover and your husband, etc. Having a cake and eating it too, sort of thing. But the feeling of loneliness is always there. The projection cannot get you over it. The two guys, Henry and Clare seem to me to be just two lonely people. Actually, since you take Henry to be Clare’s projection (which he is not but could very well be), this whole book is about a lonely person and her escapism. They don’t really have friends and their lives are pretty much the same over the years. But I could talk about it a little too long… I’ll cut it down here.

Now I read some stories from Lucian Dan Teodorovici. Which work. Somehow rustic and heavy but they work nonetheless.

 

A (very) small walk through the galleries in the first district…
Krinzinger – Kader Attia – French artist. A few photos, an installation [Po(l)etical] and a wall painted with water.
Mario Mauroner – Usle Civera Family Show – some of the stuff was interesting, some not. I liked the big paintings that look like books in a library.
(again) TB21 – Transitory Objects.

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 with it 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. They 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.