Surprise

Last Saturday, the idea was that, before going to a party where Jack the Wizard would be playing, we had to stop by Yu’s housewarming party in the bar above the local Chinese place. I was encouraged to dress up well. “But what’s the point?”, I whined, “Jack the Wizard’s parties are an informal affair. And we are not staying that long at this housewarming thing, are we?”

While we were walking there Jod sounded curiously interested in what I was telling her about R. Zelazny’s Lord of Light, which I was in the process of finishing. She was also very interested in my views on how people in the ’60s thought 2000 would be (lots of flying, lots of space travel, no electronics). She was glancing around at the cars, like she was looking for something. I almost noticed but paid no attention because we have been counting Hondas and Toyotas on the road recently. We reached the bar, I opened the door.

Something was wrong. NewYorker’s boyfriend was there. NewYorker, too. One of the Seven, too. Ok, Yu, too. But what were all these people doing at Yu’s party?

When people started congratulating me I realised I had been dragged into a surprise party for me. I spent the next 45 minutes looking gobsmacked — mouth agape and all. I had not understood a single thing and the conspiracy had been going for three weeks, coordinated from Jod’s laptop, under my very regal nose. Most of my friends here were there: One of the Seven, NewYorker, pH, St, Great Westphalian, Amir-am-M, CWB, FT, Yu, Genjihualpa and his wife, Philo and Francesca, as well as the Floating Islander and the Boss. Dancer was excused.

I was delighted: after the last two not very happy birthday parties, it was good to feel among people who were there to share my success with me and wish me well. I felt less lonely and stranded on Saturday. Needless to say, we never made it to Jack the Wizard’s party.

A day in the Outpost

Jod pierced her nose a couple of days ago. A colleague went out for coffee with her this morning. She noticed the stud (in her nose). She was shocked. In her own words:

“I had no idea you were that kind of person! What does your husband think of that?”

During lunch time, on a talk show about depression, a list of symptoms (e.g. abnormal sleeping and eating patterns) were given as causes of depression. By a non-specialist.

Jod then went to this government training seminar she is attending. A colleague presented the psychology teacher and the class with a question in the form of a case: a mentally disabled guy in her neighbourhood got married to a less severely mentally disabled woman. They have three children, all suffer from some form of mental disability. “Why does the State (she means the Principality) allow this? Sure disabled people have rights, but should the State not prevent them from procreating?” Some people agreed and there was calm debate on the matter. Jod was very close to laughing hysterically (her hysterical laugh typically signifies not being at ease or even fury) but focused on something else.

“Hasn’t anyone told them about Hitler?” I commented on our way back from the gym. “He was the man with the solutions.”

Another colleague saw the stud (in Jod’s nose): “What do you want that for? You are a teacher after all.”

A ray of hope. In my five years in the Outpost, tonight was the first time I saw an immigrant referred to by her name on a news report, not as Ausländer. The story was about the house she was a tenant in, which collapsed this morning. Spontaneously.

Behold: all things come to me. I am close to attaining Nirvana, now.

In notes of 5(0)

Tidying up today, I found some banknotes I have kept as souvenirs. I scanned them and am presenting them here for your viewing pleasure. I understand they are all under copyright and are reproduced here as long as there is no objection or legal hindrance towards this.

Thailand: 50 baht

Not thrilling or original, but solid, sober, traditional banknote design.

France: 50 FF (obsolete)

How can you not love this one: a map, Saint-Exupéry and The Little Prince on it.

The Netherlands: fl50 (obsolete)

Breathtaking. So glad I have kept this one.

Northern Ireland: £5 (Northern Bank)

Like in Scotland, each bank print their own money in Northern Ireland. This is a special millennial edition. Notice the orientation! Printed on the same (?) plasticky paper as Australian dollars.

Decoration

From a recent visit in Aerosol. The teapot rules, however.

And then I emerged back into the darkness

People here order too much food when eating out. Of course, sometimes food just arrives, especially when ordered as a set menu. Well, Compatridos order a lot of food, too, but, whereas Compatridos pretty much eat up what they have ordered, Outposters are blissfully comfortable leaving copious quantities of food untouched, to be thrown away. This still makes me uneasy; I actually find it very annoying.

Tonight, on my way to a poetry reading (accompanied by lots of food and drink), I stopped at a photo exhibition. A number of brilliant photos of the Capital by someone who — naturally — shoots so much better pictures than me. I looked at the photos, had a glass of wine with the photographer (yet another Compatrido washed up on these shores), thought of maybe buying a couple of his prints (they are $220 each, however). And then I emerged back into the darkness.

The poetry reading was good. Poetry better works orally, after all. One of the poets was Marc Matthews, a wizard of recitation — although calling his rendering ‘recitation’ hardly does it any justice. He tried getting the audience to engage into some call and response routines, but to no avail. The food, Syrian, was excellent. It disappeared in a matter of minutes and none at all was wasted.

L’acqua ch’io prendo già mai non si corse

Now that I have mastered my rage against and general dislike of the Outpost, now that I have achieved focusing on what matters and that I have firmly resolved to filter out all that is annoying and ugly and stupid, unless I (think I) can fight it, what is there to write about? Deep down I dislike ranting and, even more obviously, I detest obsessing (unless it materialises in the form of love): therefore, if this is a ‘comedy of characters’ and morals and small-time countries and closed societies, I can hardly continue writing it if I am not fully engaged in the “process”. I can’t fake it, people.

Although barely reflected here, it has been a deeply changing season. I promise I will talk about its highlights when (almost) all is said and done (soon, I hope). I still enjoy having a place to express my internal life and rehearse my external monologue, but things are not going to be the same. In other words, I fear/guess/hope (but one can never be sure, right?), we will be getting very few posts of the sort linked to from here.

Times are a-changing.

For the time being, here is a picture of Jorge and Theta the Cuttlefish. Jorge is the one savaging the jacket potato.

Let go

I finished ‘Never let me go‘ last night. It took me a month? The last two pages are superb. But not worth going through the preceding 281.

Bats

Bats in Outpost Capital are huge, the size of big pigeons, and this makes them look really graceful.

I like bats: they are timid despite looking scary and generally intimidating. Jod always thinks of them as flying rats. Whatever.

Graffiti

I again walked home from work today. Invigorating. I cover the distance in 40 minutes. The weather was what can be described as ‘breezy spring’.

I saw this graffiti near a school. I like it a lot, the ‘love symbol‘ in it, too.

Shards and fragments

The whole plot of Oedipus Rex relies on a banal and crude case of road rage: when in the fateful Y-shaped crossroads, Oedipus will not yield the right of way to the king of Thebes, his unknown father. When told to, he says that he ’struck the charioteer in anger’ and that he then went on to ‘kill them all’. This is what sets the whole plot in motion: neither Fate, nor the Gods, but temper.

Last time I was walking in London, Orbital’s The Box was playing in my head no more.

Last night we went to see Dreamgirls. We made the critical error (but see below) of going to the local cineplex for the 19:35 showing. The place was crammed with teenagers. Teens are, of course, a pest in cinemas everywhere, but even more so in the Outpost: here they are (even more) antisocial and spoiled in extremis, as a lot of them grow up with grandparents, who can work wonders with spoiling children. The film started and three 13-year olds were still chatting and exchanging text messages right behind me. I turned around and politely asked them to hush. One of them answered something back, I could not understand what (remember that I don’t speak the language). We moved to other seats, but there was a generalised brouhaha around us anyway. I right then remembered stories from working class cinemas of yesteryear: how people would chat and jeer and join in. For instance, my father once told me that in the fifties it was not a good idea to sit below the edge of the balcony in a cinema, as spectators might wish to spit or throw snacks at the villain… In the meantime, the film quickly evolved into the modern equivalent of a Mozart opera: elementary plot, great acting, even better singing (some dancing, too) and a lot of songs. A lot. Plenty of them: songs the characters sing because they are singers and songs they sing because they won’t do dialogue or the odd monologue. After the Oscar winner sang her determination not to be sacked from the band (she gets sacked anyway), the teenage crowd broke out in spontaneous applause. From this point on, it was all African-American congregation-style participation, albeit in an Outpost cinema. More applause; “Die!” the villain would be shouted at. “Oh no!” would be exclaimed when a third song in a row would start (I remembered the gay musical-addict prince from Monty Python and the Holy Grail). We had a great time and we definitely enjoyed the particular film much more than we would in a solemn and ‘appropriate’ environment. A refreshing experience, but one we will not repeat with, say, serious films. And Beyoncé Knowles is heartstoppingly stunning. But you already know that.

Flying back from London. The Outposter guy in the seat next to me takes a good look at me and my books in English, then does sudoku puzzles, then dozes off. I take my shoes off (yes, before you ask, I am a personal hygiene freak: I’d rather not do that than have the slightest whiff of suspicion). He wakes up before landing. I put my shoes back on but do not tie my shoelaces. Not a single word exchanged between us: I avoid speaking to strangers anyway, my roaring timidness masked under apparent aloofness is to blame. We get off the plane and into the terminal bus. I crouch down to tie my shoelaces, so that I do not get killed in the stampede to passport control once in the terminal. The guy, without making any eye contact, says very loudly:
“You take your shoes out, huh? You take your shoes out.”
Then nothing at all. I pretend I do not understand he is talking to me. The bus stops. I get off.

I went back to Macdonalds for lunch last Thursday. What a sad place — both meanings of the word apply here: obese kids with mobiles, stressed-out overworked line staff, loads of unnecessary packaging, ghastly decor, food making your stomach feel like crap until you go to bed (and I had the Lenten option, mind you).

Between the crudeness, tedium and ugliness of here and the musty sadness and squiffy misery and substandard overpriced homes of there, what do I choose? I choose here, I know people here. I also have a job to do here.