Rigid fingers

Here is a portrait of me as a Lego, courtesy of here, via mor.

Thank you, William Randolph Hearst

Look at this, via 42. Some of them are actually good.

Succulent mega-tart

This is what Tot brought us for dessert on Sunday. The mound seen consists entirely of cream and strawberry pieces. The spoon was placed to indicate scale. The confectionary concoction seems to have been devised in the Outpost, and also comes in an even larger size (the particular one is meant to be shared by five).

Front view:

Rear View:

The time of reckoning

This post is like those crappy sitcom ’specials’, which are actually reruns with just an added twist at the end. As the drums sound in the distance once more, I am sitting in my office, unable to concentrate on work, calmly thinking about what we have learned during the past three months:

I never liked the weather here. The lack of somewhere to walk in(to) has really intensified our general sense of entrapment. Ignorance (especially among those who should afford none), can be hilarious, irritating or disheartening, depending on the circumstances, but usually not lethal. Hypocrisy and the local form of doublespeak, likewise. Maybe the quasi-fascist mores of part of the society are more perilous, but there are those who are alert. The fierceness of the people I was lucky enough not to experience directly, after all I came here 50 years late for the times when people would kill their neighbours with stones and sticks. Then, there is the coarseness and peculiar conversation strategies, which we have managed to partly negotiate.

Still, it has been much harder to cope with the ugliness of the landscape and some instances of rampant parochialism. Of course, these and much more can often be overcome with a little help from sound social life. However, you also know about the social tedium and the general feeling of loneliness we are going through here, too.

So, it became almost official last weekend: we are languishing here and we need out soon. Although I am no longer as cautious when it comes to the ‘where to‘ question, we still have nowhere to go.

Pictures

Just two pictures.

Still…

… the single most beautiful and uplifting thing in the Capital throughout those long (almost) four years has been this:

Hundreds of birds (what birds are they?) gathering daily inside the ficus benjamina trees lining some streets of the Capital at sundown and deafeningly cheeringly chirping to each other, masking the noise.

Youth

I have faith in the Outpost youth. They grow up in a materialist but fanaticised, parochial and entrenched society, with little stimulus and with little of note to do (except perhaps some sport), a society that only recently has begun opening up to the possibility of there existing an outside world of any true importance. Still, an impressively large proportion of them escape early marriage, early employment, early procreation and the ensuing sweet lull of building a family home, of buying an unrealistically expensive car and of living life like strangers with a spouse they used to know well, in jobs found for them by the family. Large sections of the Outpost youth has an almost indomitable desire to learn, to create, to contribute — some young individuals are among the most brave, spirited, open-minded and open-hearted people I have known.

They are everywhere: journalists who want to do graduate studies so that they “do not bluff their way through writing, without a solid theoretical foundation”, hard-working students, amateur actors, ingenious and patient diplomats with principles (wow), rocking schoolkids, political activists, playful artists and grave artists — all making a difference.

Most of them have studied abroad or intend to. They leave the Outpost ignorant, fearful of familylessness and of the wide open world, the males subdued by the 26-month-long daily pointlessness of military service, the females on the brink of mental castration. They come back, well, enlightened.

On a less than cheery note, compare this with most Compatrido youths studying abroad: they leave Compatridia omniscient, fearful of the wide open world and oh so ready to rock. They go on to spend their studies (?) lamenting the lack of everything they prize: cheap cigarettes, mum’s cooking, easy ways to cheat, cheap booze all night long, toleration of plagiarism, TV shows and everyone considering them nothing short of brilliant. No need to debate the state they come back in.

Theatre

Theatre in the Outpost is exceptional. There are many and very good stages, starting with the brilliant Principality Theatrical Organisation, and not all of them are in the Capital. The actors tend to be at least decent (and sometimes really good), and even when they are not talented, they are usually diligent and meticulous. The repertory is varied and the venues quite numerous (and usually packed), considering. There are also visiting theatre groups aplenty, usually of high standing. All that in a tiny place, from limited resources (bar the lavishly funded Principality Theatrical Organisation) and for a small population.

We’re off to a production of Mamet’s Oleanna in the weekend; I’m very excited, actually.

Power

A thought on power, also useful should we seriously consider mixing God with politics.

Another birthday

or The Sorrows of Young Werther

I don’t want to write this post. In fact I have work to do and if I were to post something, I would rather tell you about Outpost theatre, which is so very good. I don’t want to write the post I am actually writing, mainly because of the on- and off-line brouhaha it might cause. But I have to.

My birthday was to be celebrated on the same day as Great Westphalian’s housewarming party. Great Westphalian asked us to drop by later, and I vaguely said I would. The day passed at work and then quietly and sweetly, courtesy of Jod (and her presents). In the evening, the members of the bubble, friends and some house guests would all go to a live music restaurant to celebrate.

It turned out that very few people remembered me for the occasion, especially compared to last year (when I was away in England). With few exceptions, like Jorge (may God make him serene, rich and job-happy — as everything else, he has) and people such as, say, my parents and the like.

We went to the restaurant. The food was very good, the music quite good, the wine list crap (they had no Outpost beer, either). But what really bewildered, enraged and depressed me was my dinner guests’ behaviour. With very few bright exceptions, they chatted the night away among them, paying very little attention to the person whose birthday they were supposedly celebrating. I’ll keep it short here, just mentioning that no fun whatsoever was had, at least on my behalf.

We went home not particularly early, some time after 1:30 am. It turned out that Great Westphalian was expecting me after that in his housewarming party, as he had a little birthday surprise for me (complete with cake and presents). He was not very happy afterwards, and how can I blame him?

The following days have been very difficult for both me and Jod. I could cast a malediction (ineffective), or blame the Outpost for the lot (totally unfair). All I can really do is bark my frustration away in this so very public stage of my internal life.