malaise

Not a good day, not a good day.

My work has been becoming less and less rewarding for the last two months or so. Given that my job here is the one thing that sustains me (besides what is in the internal domain) and serves as an excuse of me being here, this is bad news. Today then was one of those days when I could see the metaphorical job satisfaction gauge drop a little bit. Needless to say, I remain busy and demotivated.

The weather, still balmy, does not help either. There were clouds at the beginning of the week, but not today.

Ok, enough. On to something different.

I found the picture below on my mobile.

It is from last Thursday, when I had lunch at the local MacDonalds. I consciously boycott the chain for all the well-known reasons (bar the occasional McFlurry to go) and it had been years since I had bought food from them, let alone meat, let alone consume it sitting down. So, last Thursday I did all the above. Let me tell you: it was bloody weird. First of all, the creepy Ronald McDonald pictures (a clown proportioned like an adult — no wonder he is so scary), an unreal environment, aniconic and heavily decorated at the same time. I had a feeling I could sense the people working there stressing all the time. However, I enjoyed the fries (they are always good) and, above all, the Royale with Cheese this time: it actually brought me back the memory of my first burger ever, from a place called Jolly’s (it has been defunct for decades), with cheese, ketchup, pickle and, yes, an egg. The delight of this rare madeleine moment was marred by the sight of primary school pupils and preschoolers (with their families) gobbling fries and burgers and imbibing the dreadful sugary versions of Coke (I can never finish them) fast food places serve.

Six words

make very short stories.

24 months

Happy birthday, blog.

Perceptions of speed

Since I have started telling people in the real world about this as my blog, I have had a lot of off-line discussions that started like this:

‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘Whassup.’
‘Whassuuuuup.’
‘Listen, about that thing you wrote in the blog the other day…’

I feel this is not how blogging should turn out to be; I think discussion should mainly take place in the comments. Anyway. Since my half-joking ‘discovery’ that Outposters are peasants and the furore it caused (Outposters are not exactly keen on irony and many of them firmly believe that everything carries a hidden meaning that should be read between the lines; yea, verily this is Da Vinci Code-land sometimes), as well as the recent story about breasts and war, I am a bit wary about what I write here.

However, there is the topic of slow Outposters that has been bugging me for years, and I need to write about it. To avoid any misgivings or cries of me being an orientalist, a gleeful Momus full of Loki-esque scorn for locals or, even, a racist (“but would you think Outposters are a race, Loxias?” my Sensei once wryly objected), I will cast the ugly wigs and masks of irony and sarcasm and most forms of meta-representation aside and be a literal and careful (as careful as I can be) observer.

One thing I ‘knew’ about Outposters before I came here, the ‘knowledge’ originating from spending some time with those Outposters I knew personally and from the stereotypes of Compatridos (who hate everyone and, most of all, themselves and each other), was that Outposters are painfully slow-witted, they are dim and oh-so-thick. This is quite a widespread view where I come from, to the extent that the ever-suspicious and paranoid Compatridos sometimes feel this dimwittedness must be feigned, a decoy while Outposters are successfully taking over Compatridia’s banks and nightlife.

My theory back then was that, due to the Principality’s oppressive educational system, Outposters are too shy when speaking Compatridese (for fear of sounding, well, like Outposters), which resulted in them sounding a bit slow. I have been a foreigner with my tongue tied too many times due to poor language skills, fearful I would open my mouth and sound like a retard, ending up looking like a retard in the end, for having said nothing at all. I would therefore completely sympathise with them. So, the problem, I thought back then, was one of language shyness.

After almost five years here, I now think I was very wrong and a little bit right. Outposters are excruciatingly slow thinkers, even when using their own language(s). By Compatrido standards, of course. Exchange of quick witticisms, well-placed answers and ripostes, subtlety in humour or elsewhere, “nudge-nudge” tacit mutual understanding, displays of brilliance, make-believe (and irony, of course) are scarce. Blank stares are often the default, jaws dropping in perplexed incomprehension all too common — and so on. Finally, this seems not to be an opinion I share with nobody else, or one that comes from my line of work only.

So, is that a problem? Nope. The society has its own rhythms and norms. I mean, nobody is ever in a hurry here, mentally or physically. Even when they are late. The first car in a queue usually takes off whole seconds after the lights turn green (even though drivers in the Outpost have the benefit of a ‘ready, steady, go’ orange light before green). Actually, nobody seems to be in a hurry, except ‘whining Compatridos’ and ‘foolish foreigners’. I have never seen anyone rushing anywhere. Maybe I am surrounded by devout Buddhists. Maybe I am warped. Or evil. Or unfamiliar with local realities.

So, slow, either in thinking or in moving, is ok. What is not ok is that many people here behave like they are lifetime underachievers, talented individuals who cannot bother. There is only so much they want to do (get a car, a house, a family, Saturday shopping — then talk about them), learn or achieve. Now, this could be a problem and I think the educational system plays its role.

As I have said before, the dominant ideology here is in effect all-pervasive and virtually incontestable. It is inculcated upon the locals via the family, the school, the media — the army and the Church less so, I sometimes feel these two are not taken very seriously. This dominant ideology is about loss and victimisation; about a Utopian past irrevocably lost; about organised Evil being out to destroy the Principality and all the values of human civilisation and dignity it stands for; about overinflated national Pride; about family values; about making do and coping, one way or another. All that people are supposed to need is, again, a job, a car, a house, a family, Saturday shopping. Naturally, the above mantras sound all-too-familiar. The emphasis here is on these mantras forming part of a subtly repressive and virtually inescapable ideological package, where everyone should know their place, and they usually do.

In other words, on top of a slower lifestyle (which is, really, nobody’s business to criticise, unless they live here and have to get home for dinner), we have an authoritarian conformist society making sure that no head protrudes, that no overt display of brilliance or curiosity or talent and wit sees the glaring light of the Outpost day. Actually, it seems that all those brilliant or curious or talented and witty Outposters I have had the joy of meeting since I came here either have secret niches they ‘hide into’, or flee the Outpost.

Irony warning on: The really dim ones they send to Compatridia, as a means of cruel punishment, maybe.

Irony warning off: I would really like to hear your views on the above. Not over the phone or over coffee. Finally, please do not key my car, it already looks like crap.

Birthday weekend

Yesterday I was rudely woken up in the morning by persistent doorbell ringing. Well, not so rudely, really: a wonderful arrangement of flowers faced me when I opened the door. More little surprises followed on my birthday, some of them pleasant (and almost invariably originating from Jod), some of them quite unpleasant (and all of them originating from others).

I am not the kind of guy who normally suffers from birthday blues and I had never felt any until the year before last. I actually used to truly enjoy my birthday, as it is all about me, me, me. The last two years’ mildly melancholic birthdays, I can vouch for that, are a result of external factors only.

Today was not much better. Then Tot invited us to the Capital racetrack to watch her horse’s first ever race. A first for me. Although my first reaction was “what?”, we went.

A diverse crowd among the spectators: posh members of the Club, families, dodgy-looking fellows (in packs or coupled with Slavic-looking women), old ladies, youths with a shower long overdue. One could tell rich families from not-so-rich ones by the state of the wives’ hairdo.

As a guest of an owner’s, I visited the stables before the race and was impressed by the casual shitting horses are capable of but also, seriously now, by their splendour and grace and beauty. Indeed they are magnificent animals, as imposing and majestic as no carnivore could ever dream to be.

Then the race started and everybody was tense.

In the end, our horse came fourth — although it would have taken it only another 50 metres to come third. Anyway, I didn’t mind the 15 euro I bet on it, it was great entertainment.

Before parting for tonight, two more pictures from this realm of absurdity

and urban neglect

I live in.

The Amber Spyglass

or The Partial Blasphemy Post.

I started the third book of the Pullman trilogy right after I posted on the second one. I read all but 25 pages of it throughout Sunday and then stopped. I could not bring myself to read those final 25 pages, alas. I did so last night.

The reason is clear: the Amber Spyglass, by no means a bad book, is something of a let-down after the previous two. Here, the scope is much narrower and a lot of unnecessary (?) sentimentalism and didacticism enter the discourse; inspiration remains rampant (think wheeled elephants and the old guy in the crystal box — wow) but crass and uninteresting from time to time; wit subsides somehow and all-American ‘family’ values such as loving mum and dad, saying sorry when hurting friends (even if this involves an abysmal bulge in the plot), the purity of baby love (bah!), the irreplaceability of hard work and so on take over; the brilliance of descriptions is dulled by their looser link to the plot and their timidity (is that all the mighty and magnificent Pullman can do when it comes to such a War and with such formidable enemies?).

In the Amber Spyglass, the ‘cunning intertextual background’ I talked about in the previous post comes out on the surface like globules of fat in an ill-conceived fondue with Dutch (instead of Swiss) cheese: we get chapter mottoes, tolkienesque pastoral finales (yuk!), a tolkienesque plunge into a chasm, a space-opera not-so-subtle bomb to end all bombs, all the mumbo-jumbo bits and pieces William Blake would be proud of, sonorous echoes of Homer’s Nekyia and a whole world out of Douglas Adams (although superb compared to anything by Adams) or out of Mary Doria Russell’s The Sparrow.

The book delectably attacks monotheistic religion, fiercely criticising it as organised fear, lies and repression. I am sure this is going to cause an uproar when it is released in film. The reason there has been no uproar yet, although the book has been around for so many years, is that you still need to be too intelligent to read it and find out all those nasty things it says about, well, religion as lie and repression from top to bottom.

Two last points of criticism: in this final book the fine balance between an adult-oriented narrative of essay-like qualities and an allegory inculcating lay virtue to teens is severely upset at the expense of the former. Moreover (spoiler follows), we learn that the ‘one god’ is a crook (he is not even the creator). And what are his names? Yahweh, the Almighty, El, Father, God, the Creator and so on. Yes: no mention of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate; throughout the book, the ‘Church’ (a Christ-less Catholic Church of Calvinist principles, for it to be as fierce as possible) and monotheism in general are savaged, but no word on (anything that would remind of) Islam. A fair marketing choice, as Judaism and Christianity have always been soft targets (some Jews are even happy to make fun of their own religion, Christians so much less so, but there be many rationalist and atheist Dawkinsian dragons among Christians — so cool); at the same time, a serious compromise of the trilogy’s moral stance and even anguish against the evils of monotheistic religion, as it gives Islam an easy ride.

Let me not be misunderstood: I would not expect a thorough criticism of all religion. It’s a novel, after all. I also believe it is healthy to expose (young) people to attacks to religion, even if such attacks, especially of the brilliance of Pullman’s, would upset them. I just feel that neatly leaving Islam out is the easy and pusillanimous thing to do, especially given the fact that what Pullman criticises the ‘Church’ for (also to include Judaism), Islam has aplenty. Generally speaking, I fear we are entering an age when taking out religion will mean attacking strictly non-Islamic religions, keeping Islam under immunity and thus suggesting it has no share in the cruelty, oppression and manipulation Christianity and Judaism are customarily accused of… This would be a lie. Feelings and thoughts such as the above are also echoed here.

Still, the rest of the third book, characters, story, most of the plot, are of masterpiece grade. I was really enchanted by the description of the Chariot, among many other things, and angels are magnificent in an angelic way (i.e. not too much). All in all the trilogy is brilliant, although it comes a close second to the Lord of the Rings.

Chávez the linguist

Apparently, that was a very interesting talk:

From Tenser, said the Tensor reporting here.

The Subtle Knife

I’ve just finished the book, which is the second part of Pullman’s Dark Materials trilogy. I am not giving any links because, if you haven’t read the thing, spoilers can really spoil it for you, as twists in the plot are always weaved in little by little, hint by hint, foreshadowing by foreshadowing.

The books are astounding in so many ways: the scope, the combination of inspiration and wit, the brilliance of descriptions, the cunning intertextual background, the restrained narrative, the way the plot flows (sometimes in a trickle, sometimes flooding through a suddenly released lock) and the subtlety of the overarching structure.

Moreover, the books work on a multitude of levels: as fantasy, as teen adventures, as metaphysical essays, and as a quite a lot in-between. I haven’t read anything like this since J. L. Borges’ short stories and (excerpts of) The Lord of the Rings.

Ambivalence

Last night I went for a walk. The day had been hot and oppressively humid. Now, the darkness was gathering around me, nightfall’s ink dissolving into low clouds. I bought a newspaper, just before they were tied together for returns. Some raindrops, tentative. Then, a cool wind. Not a breeze. I passed outside the Danish embassy. I looked up to see the swallow-tailed flag fluttering in the wind, against a lead-grey sky. Then I wandered in the nice neighbourhoods, the only person walking. The last drop fell. A pedestrian emerged, someone just walking her dog. Through the open windows I can see lonely domestic workers, foreign, with only a rudimentary knowledge of the language, placed in front of TV screens, as part of their evening entertainment; they occasionally glance out of the window at strange people passing by, like myself, they accidentally catch my eye. They look away, but not back at the TV screen.

Not much during the weekend, odd jobs around the house, the Urban Soul Festival (exhilarating), breakfast with One of the Seven. Good DVDs. Trivial exasperations, tiny. Unwilling to work. Unable not to work. Unputdownable Philip Pullman, one down two to go. So many precious personal ‘happinesses’ one wouldn’t write about.