Giving the salute

Rather busy, hence I thought I would refrain from posting, but there was this remarkable thing that happened today (people here are still full of surprises, although we should know better by now).

Today the school's principal, who is of course the Leader's daughter with a PhD in Economics, summoned Jod to her office because she made a comment in the staff room that displeased some. She told Jod that she does not know the history of the Outpost (that's the old argument / invective: "you are not familiar with Outpost realities", see also this) and that she should say nothing and express no opinions whatsoever on such matters (yes, Jod's comment was political: boooo, scary). She added that Jod has been here for just a year (well, she has worked in the school for two, but surely the principal has many things on her mind) but has a job — something she should be grateful for, instead of making comments.

Mugabe will be re-elected today, won't he?

From 44 to 2046

I read this powerful post, once more by Francis Strand. It has everything: missed connections to loved ones, “stretches of open water held impossibly still by the ice so that the reflection is nearly flawless of the sky”, a refutation of naively optimistic takes on life (always enjoyable), transport-induced impatience, elementary Finnish for foreigners, moments of odium towards the hospitable but foreign land (also considering that, unlike some other characters, he has ”a high opinion of Swedes”), birthday blues. Regarding the last one, yes, 44 is a great age: happy birthday (belatedly), anyway.

After a long wait I finally saw Wong Kar Wai’s 2046 last night. I initially loved it (it is visually enticing) but, overall, I don’t think I have anything coherent to say about it.

Charity begins in the street

People are rather charity-conscious in the Outpost (unlike Compatrido pachyderms, who have only recently discovered similar notions). On rainless days (i.e. usually), when traffic lights turn red, people in caps and T-shirts, raffle tickets in hand, leave the pavement corners and balance their way between the rows of waiting cars asking for contributions. The old-fashioned pedestrian-oriented version is simply not found here: only immigrants walk.

Spring in a vase

Some wildflowers from an empty yard in Enclave, off Co-operation Street.

I like Enclave, with its beautiful stone houses, narrow streets, untouched gardens and lots of space. No 'contemporary' housing there, as nobody wants to live in an enclave. Co-operation Street is one of the many in the area that leads to a dead-end.

Melaina Chole

The weather is pleasant: first sunny and breezy, now overcast and slightly windy. Finishing Ishiguro (read it! read it!), I chose to play Bach's Cello suites and stood behind the study window watching the birds flying low and sitting on aerials and water tanks, while the leaves negotiated the wind. I silently gazed at the sheer dreamlike quality of the afternoon outside, the light oblique and discrete. The dreamlike sense was maybe enhanced by the switch last night to daylight saving time: we are all jet lagged, we travelled one hour ahead without moving, without going anywhere.

Music started. Jod asked what it was. "It feels like Brugge.", she said. Spot on, as ever. Last night we saw Columbia University on TV, some straight-to-video film playing silently while we were studying. "We must get out of here", we almost simultaneously said. And we haven't even been to New York, yet. Similar reactions were elicited by reading the papers today, some lucky illustrious 24-year old Compatrido working in Amsterdam, enjoying it immensely.

Jorge so seriously thinks we are in a nasty mood, he even rang us long distance today — and he would not hang up, either. The comfort of friends.

The last word on lemons

Steph got it right: we went to Amir-am-M's place for lunch and to see their pictures from a recent trip to Jordan. Although there are only three lemon trees in their garden, they have already made lemonade to last them until next winter, they treated us to a bagful of lemons, and the impertinent trees are still half full.

Otherwise, today was a day of parading to the sound of drums. Not just the army, but school children, too. Nicely regimented militaristic customs, traditions imported from Compatridia (themselves dating from its own fascist dictatorship of the 30s, I think), as the Evil Empire was interested in subtler forms of control.

So, enough about lemons.

Absent-mindedness

Ouch! I forgot to water the plant at work. Which wouldn't be grave if it weren't pretty thirsty; or if it weren't a gift from NewYorker. With whom I share the office.

And tomorrow is a holiday.

“when the streets are cold and lonely”

Jorge said "Sure" when I asked him if I should post more photos.

So, here, from my last visit to the Home City (Yuletide testimonials are visible), with sober nostalgia.

Few words

The photo below is not great (but you can enlarge it by clicking on it): it's me who shot it, after all. Still, I highly prize any element of urbanity found here. Even more than this, the photo exudes something ambiguous about its atmosphere and feel that appeals to me.

Muffled

Ishiguro's astounding 'Artist of the floating world', the only respite in a day full of trivial nastiness which I won't immortalise by describing in detail, irrational violence and majorities without hope or, for that matter, water.