I'm awake but only justThinking of the things I must
Accomplish in the day ahead
I'm so much better off in bed
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
THE EMERGING DYSTOPIA
Yesterday after work I went out for a drink with Peter, an "old" socialist (as opposed to a New Labourite.) You wouldn't think there were any of these beasts still around - yet there he was, and with his utterly convincing Tony Benn impersonation, and references to class struggle and "Maggie" Thatcher, it was like going back in time. He joined Labour in 1981 and watched as Neil Kinnock betrayed the Left. Of course, he had absolutely no mercy for Tony Blair and the New Labour project. Here are some of the facts - I wish I had time to source them all properly.
1% of the UK population own... could you guess?... 89% of the wealth.
"Between 1996/97 and 2001/02, income inequality rose on a variety of measures, to reach its highest ever level (at least since comparable records began in 1961) ... Since then, income inequality has fallen, and it is now at a similar level to that in 1996/97: the net effect of eight years of Labour government has been to leave inequality effectively unchanged."
Institute of Fiscal Studies
Even though there is greater wealth among the middle strata of society, the bottom decile (10%) of the UK population are worse off in relative terms than they were under Mrs Thatcher. This is the "underclass", whose benefits have been cut under Labour and from whose ranks the bulk of the prison population (which is double what it was in the 1970s) is composed.
And then here's one statistic that has stuck in my memory: Labour, during its term in office, is estimated to have thrown away £70 billion of public money (who else's?) on consultancy fees.
In response to the idea that Labour have kept Blair because he was media-friendly after Labour's years in the wilderness, Peter pointed out that, far from being a populist, Blair has been engaged in forcing through several changes which have been unpopular in many cases - not just support of Bush in Iraq (and whole neo-con agenda) but privatisation of the London Underground, health service reforms, tuition fees, ID cards, and so on. As for people's expectations of Gordon Brown, he compared them with the, now laughable, expectations of Labour's second term - remember those?
He had three questions to which he wanted a deeper answer than the usual one (that Labour were just desperate to keep the media on-side):
How did a man like this, a conservative, get to lead the party in the first place?
Why was he permitted to remain?
Why is there no realistic left-wing alternative?
Perhaps those "deeper" answers have to do with Thatcherism: the deliberate fragmentation of the working class, particularly their group identity; increased prosperity coupled with political apathy; the interests of capital "manufacturing consent" through control of the media. There wasn't time to discuss these further.
As with the last time I heard a real Marxist speak (in Hyde Park) I left the conversation feeling badly informed (not having these kind of facts and figures at my fingertips) and also wishing that more people were interested in what was really happening in the world, rather than the many distractions of gadgets, sport, home redecoration and Big Brother. I am convinced that continued lack of engagement with politics - with no grassroots left-wing political party in the UK - can only lead to a future similar to the one portrayed in the film Children of Men last year i.e. a deeply divided, and more violent society, where an authoritarian regime protects the "haves" against the "have-nots". Or maybe we're already there.
Yesterday after work I went out for a drink with Peter, an "old" socialist (as opposed to a New Labourite.) You wouldn't think there were any of these beasts still around - yet there he was, and with his utterly convincing Tony Benn impersonation, and references to class struggle and "Maggie" Thatcher, it was like going back in time. He joined Labour in 1981 and watched as Neil Kinnock betrayed the Left. Of course, he had absolutely no mercy for Tony Blair and the New Labour project. Here are some of the facts - I wish I had time to source them all properly.
1% of the UK population own... could you guess?... 89% of the wealth.
"Between 1996/97 and 2001/02, income inequality rose on a variety of measures, to reach its highest ever level (at least since comparable records began in 1961) ... Since then, income inequality has fallen, and it is now at a similar level to that in 1996/97: the net effect of eight years of Labour government has been to leave inequality effectively unchanged."
Institute of Fiscal Studies
Even though there is greater wealth among the middle strata of society, the bottom decile (10%) of the UK population are worse off in relative terms than they were under Mrs Thatcher. This is the "underclass", whose benefits have been cut under Labour and from whose ranks the bulk of the prison population (which is double what it was in the 1970s) is composed.
And then here's one statistic that has stuck in my memory: Labour, during its term in office, is estimated to have thrown away £70 billion of public money (who else's?) on consultancy fees.
In response to the idea that Labour have kept Blair because he was media-friendly after Labour's years in the wilderness, Peter pointed out that, far from being a populist, Blair has been engaged in forcing through several changes which have been unpopular in many cases - not just support of Bush in Iraq (and whole neo-con agenda) but privatisation of the London Underground, health service reforms, tuition fees, ID cards, and so on. As for people's expectations of Gordon Brown, he compared them with the, now laughable, expectations of Labour's second term - remember those? He had three questions to which he wanted a deeper answer than the usual one (that Labour were just desperate to keep the media on-side):
How did a man like this, a conservative, get to lead the party in the first place?
Why was he permitted to remain?
Why is there no realistic left-wing alternative?
Perhaps those "deeper" answers have to do with Thatcherism: the deliberate fragmentation of the working class, particularly their group identity; increased prosperity coupled with political apathy; the interests of capital "manufacturing consent" through control of the media. There wasn't time to discuss these further.
As with the last time I heard a real Marxist speak (in Hyde Park) I left the conversation feeling badly informed (not having these kind of facts and figures at my fingertips) and also wishing that more people were interested in what was really happening in the world, rather than the many distractions of gadgets, sport, home redecoration and Big Brother. I am convinced that continued lack of engagement with politics - with no grassroots left-wing political party in the UK - can only lead to a future similar to the one portrayed in the film Children of Men last year i.e. a deeply divided, and more violent society, where an authoritarian regime protects the "haves" against the "have-nots". Or maybe we're already there.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
A HAPPY NEW YEAR
Some thoughts on happiness garnered from the last few minutes of a radio show on Christmas Day:
One speaker pointed out the fact that that happiness is a different thing from pleasure and that, realising this, we should be both more other-directed and focused on the achievement of our long-term goals; inactivity in the face of unhappiness was worst of all. "DO something, Mutley!"
Research apparently shows that happiness is largely a matter of temperament, and is generally affected only for a short time by events such as winning the lottery, or even being interned in a concentration camp, after which it eventually resumes its previous level! One speaker suggested that, if unhappy, we remember how earlier unhappiness faded over time, and things worked out - and have a drink!
I have been thinking this week how realists stand a better chance of being happy than idealists do. This is because, in the practical sphere at least, realists have adjusted their expectations in the light of experience to reflect an imperfect world, whereas idealists continue to strive for the unattainable, refusing to acknowledge, for example, the animalistic and tribal behaviours bred into us by millions of years of genetic selection. Realists are less often disappointed.
Some thoughts on happiness garnered from the last few minutes of a radio show on Christmas Day:
One speaker pointed out the fact that that happiness is a different thing from pleasure and that, realising this, we should be both more other-directed and focused on the achievement of our long-term goals; inactivity in the face of unhappiness was worst of all. "DO something, Mutley!"
Research apparently shows that happiness is largely a matter of temperament, and is generally affected only for a short time by events such as winning the lottery, or even being interned in a concentration camp, after which it eventually resumes its previous level! One speaker suggested that, if unhappy, we remember how earlier unhappiness faded over time, and things worked out - and have a drink!
I have been thinking this week how realists stand a better chance of being happy than idealists do. This is because, in the practical sphere at least, realists have adjusted their expectations in the light of experience to reflect an imperfect world, whereas idealists continue to strive for the unattainable, refusing to acknowledge, for example, the animalistic and tribal behaviours bred into us by millions of years of genetic selection. Realists are less often disappointed.
THE PARTYGOERS
As Hunter dropped his last few Christmas cards into the station post box and reflected on the fact that all the loose ends of the year had been tied up, he savoured the prospect of the journey north. The feeling first stirred when he bought his ticket, usually around Hallowe’en – for he was a creature of habit. Now, waiting below the timetable at Kings Cross station, he read over the times and destinations with a feeling of immense pleasure. What freedom! He would spend seven hours on a train. Out of reach of mobile signals, owing nothing whatsoever to anyone, completely unavailable, with a weightless mind, he would abandon himself to the beguiling decades-old acid folk music he loved, and get intoxicated as fields and silhouetted rooftops raced by.
The rolling fog on the fields was as high as a person, or a house, and the patches of ice looked blue in the golden twilight. Hunter let his mind wander to Christmases past: the sweet smell of the gum and glitter he and his friends used to make pictures with as a child; the snow dripping from the red lettering of The Dandy; first kiss to Last Christmas; the costumed Holly King and Oak King battling it out on a snow-covered hilltop; choirs by candlelight… There was still a lot of magic around, even if it was all ultimately empty. He often felt as if he were the only one who felt it, marooned in the kind of innocent excitement and imagery that had been long ago dismissed by everyone else he knew as irrelevant to their responsible plods through adulthood.
“Hi, Hunter! Wow, haven’t seen you for ages. You’re looking well, mate. Help yourself to drinks – they’re in the kitchen.” Giles, tonight’s host, gesturing to the phalanx of bottles and cans in the kitchen, and moving off to join his colleagues in the front room.
Hunter looked around for somewhere to put down the plastic bag that contained his present. Now didn’t seem as if it was the right moment. He filled a glassful of wine, took a deep breath and walked towards the door, from which he could hear a riot of laughter. How to enter, how to begin, how to smile at people he hardly knew – basic stuff he felt he’d never properly mastered.
Entering the room, he was assailed by a little gale of laughter. He’d just missed the joke. He greeted everyone hastily, raising his glass with an awkward movement and a forced smile.
“How’s life?” this from Catherine Wood, a former classmate whom he’d hardly talked to at school, her pinched face apparently overjoyed.
Here we go, he thought. The casual humiliation of questions.
“Great, thanks. Yeah, things are going really well in London.”
“What is it you do now?”
“Well, actually…” Hunter coughed, “I’m not doing anything much! I’m trying to work on a bit of painting, so I work part-time for a lecturing agency.”
“Oh, yeah, well that’s the right idea, isn’t it? Everyone works far too hard these days anyway, don’t you think? Where are you living – have you got your own place, or?”
“It’s just too pricey down south, you know how it is. I’m sharing.”
“Oh, I see.” Catherine tried to think of a positive spin to put on it.
“It’s a bit like Men Behaving Badly, if you remember that.”
“Oh, yeah. I loved it as a student, y’know, communal living! Look, I’m just going to get another drink and I’ll be right back.”
Deserted. Hunter let his eyes pan round the room. Look nonchalant, look bored. How the Hell should he look now?
Several unmemorable conversations later, he found himself sitting with Cameron Harris, a film enthusiast and the elder brother of a friend who no longer cared to return to this part of the world.
“I really enjoyed that remake of Death In Venice,” said Hunter. “Atmospheric.”
“Well,” Cameron made a groaning sound, “It’s not my taste. I wouldn’t go to a film like that.”
“Did you think it would be a bit slow?” asked Hunter.
“I read the reviews, but I’ve never liked that director anyway. I can’t stand the way he uses those clichéd camera angles. And the acting’s not going to be worth watching with Jose whatsisname, is it? What I always want in a film is three things: a bit of challenge, like a really good twist or something; actors with presence; and something with real passion!”
“I think you’d find it was passionate, at least. No one could say…”
“What you mean by it and what I mean by it are different things. Films are my thing and I know what I’m talking about. You can say whatever you like about it, but a solitary writer on some kind of self-destructive whatever it is will never hold my attention.” Cameron said emphatically. “And the director’s a dumb twat, like I said.” He laughed.
“What did you like, this year?” Hunter ventured, wondering where along the line he had lost his sense of humour.
“Well, now, there were only three films worth the ticket price this year – in my opinion…”
“Look, I can’t do this any more. It’s too boring.”
“Pardon?” Cameron thought he’d misheard.
“You are an opinionated old bore, so I’m off.” Hunter said flatly.
“Fine.” Cameron walked away, seemingly unruffled.
Suddenly Hunter noticed how noisy it was. He ran the gauntlet of random fragments of conversation which emerged bleating and whinnying from the cigarette smoke. Someone laughed; it caught. He would have loved to be in that little crowd at that moment, but he felt himself impelled towards the door. He apologised as he made his way through the now crowded living room, and stumbled on someone’s coat.
“Sorry, sorry!”
“Hunter, you OK?” It was Giles, interrupting his stream of jovial remarks.
“Yeah, I, er, I have to go soon. There’s a present…”
“Thanks. You shouldn’t have! Look, why don’t you wait and get a taxi?”
“No, I’m just a bit sleepy, that’s all. Anyway, I put it by the coathangers.”
“OK. Look, we’ll have to go out for a drink while you’re still here – next week?”
“That’d be good. Let me know. Actually, no, sorry, I can’t be bothered. I just want to hibernate this year.”
Hunter smiled briefly, but was sorry to see his old schoolmate at a loss for words. He made a “can’t help it” gesture with his hands, looked at the floor and moved off quickly.
In the hallway, he brushed past Catherine.
“Are you off, then?’ she asked, smiling.
“Yeah, I’m feeling…”
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk more. Parties! You know how it is.”
Hunter shrugged and looked for his coat.
Catherine’s eyes followed his movements, and then looked sadly back at the living room. She fingered her glass nervously. “I would have liked to know more about your painting.”
He rounded on her. “Don’t. Patronise. Me.”
She gave a half-smile of disbelief. “Wha-at?”
“Catherine: You don’t care if I live or die.”
Outside in the street, Hunter made a quick recovery as he made contact with the cold air. He gazed at the Christmas lights – so imaginatively done this year, the Twelve Days of Christmas sparkling in blue and gold. He reflected that tonight was Yule, and the return of the light – now there was something worth celebrating. He would light a candle to that before he went to bed, just as he used to as a child. To keep the magic alive in his soul.
Beneath the coats in Giles’s flat, bathed in a puddle of Tennent’s Export at the bottom of a plastic bag, lay a forgotten painting of a brightly coloured landscape. Giles’s wife discovered it the next day, cleaned the sticky beer off the front, and put it in a drawer in case anyone came back for it.
As Hunter dropped his last few Christmas cards into the station post box and reflected on the fact that all the loose ends of the year had been tied up, he savoured the prospect of the journey north. The feeling first stirred when he bought his ticket, usually around Hallowe’en – for he was a creature of habit. Now, waiting below the timetable at Kings Cross station, he read over the times and destinations with a feeling of immense pleasure. What freedom! He would spend seven hours on a train. Out of reach of mobile signals, owing nothing whatsoever to anyone, completely unavailable, with a weightless mind, he would abandon himself to the beguiling decades-old acid folk music he loved, and get intoxicated as fields and silhouetted rooftops raced by.
The rolling fog on the fields was as high as a person, or a house, and the patches of ice looked blue in the golden twilight. Hunter let his mind wander to Christmases past: the sweet smell of the gum and glitter he and his friends used to make pictures with as a child; the snow dripping from the red lettering of The Dandy; first kiss to Last Christmas; the costumed Holly King and Oak King battling it out on a snow-covered hilltop; choirs by candlelight… There was still a lot of magic around, even if it was all ultimately empty. He often felt as if he were the only one who felt it, marooned in the kind of innocent excitement and imagery that had been long ago dismissed by everyone else he knew as irrelevant to their responsible plods through adulthood.
“Hi, Hunter! Wow, haven’t seen you for ages. You’re looking well, mate. Help yourself to drinks – they’re in the kitchen.” Giles, tonight’s host, gesturing to the phalanx of bottles and cans in the kitchen, and moving off to join his colleagues in the front room.
Hunter looked around for somewhere to put down the plastic bag that contained his present. Now didn’t seem as if it was the right moment. He filled a glassful of wine, took a deep breath and walked towards the door, from which he could hear a riot of laughter. How to enter, how to begin, how to smile at people he hardly knew – basic stuff he felt he’d never properly mastered.
Entering the room, he was assailed by a little gale of laughter. He’d just missed the joke. He greeted everyone hastily, raising his glass with an awkward movement and a forced smile.
“How’s life?” this from Catherine Wood, a former classmate whom he’d hardly talked to at school, her pinched face apparently overjoyed.
Here we go, he thought. The casual humiliation of questions.
“Great, thanks. Yeah, things are going really well in London.”
“What is it you do now?”
“Well, actually…” Hunter coughed, “I’m not doing anything much! I’m trying to work on a bit of painting, so I work part-time for a lecturing agency.”
“Oh, yeah, well that’s the right idea, isn’t it? Everyone works far too hard these days anyway, don’t you think? Where are you living – have you got your own place, or?”
“It’s just too pricey down south, you know how it is. I’m sharing.”
“Oh, I see.” Catherine tried to think of a positive spin to put on it.
“It’s a bit like Men Behaving Badly, if you remember that.”
“Oh, yeah. I loved it as a student, y’know, communal living! Look, I’m just going to get another drink and I’ll be right back.”
Deserted. Hunter let his eyes pan round the room. Look nonchalant, look bored. How the Hell should he look now?
Several unmemorable conversations later, he found himself sitting with Cameron Harris, a film enthusiast and the elder brother of a friend who no longer cared to return to this part of the world.
“I really enjoyed that remake of Death In Venice,” said Hunter. “Atmospheric.”
“Well,” Cameron made a groaning sound, “It’s not my taste. I wouldn’t go to a film like that.”
“Did you think it would be a bit slow?” asked Hunter.
“I read the reviews, but I’ve never liked that director anyway. I can’t stand the way he uses those clichéd camera angles. And the acting’s not going to be worth watching with Jose whatsisname, is it? What I always want in a film is three things: a bit of challenge, like a really good twist or something; actors with presence; and something with real passion!”
“I think you’d find it was passionate, at least. No one could say…”
“What you mean by it and what I mean by it are different things. Films are my thing and I know what I’m talking about. You can say whatever you like about it, but a solitary writer on some kind of self-destructive whatever it is will never hold my attention.” Cameron said emphatically. “And the director’s a dumb twat, like I said.” He laughed.
“What did you like, this year?” Hunter ventured, wondering where along the line he had lost his sense of humour.
“Well, now, there were only three films worth the ticket price this year – in my opinion…”
“Look, I can’t do this any more. It’s too boring.”
“Pardon?” Cameron thought he’d misheard.
“You are an opinionated old bore, so I’m off.” Hunter said flatly.
“Fine.” Cameron walked away, seemingly unruffled.
Suddenly Hunter noticed how noisy it was. He ran the gauntlet of random fragments of conversation which emerged bleating and whinnying from the cigarette smoke. Someone laughed; it caught. He would have loved to be in that little crowd at that moment, but he felt himself impelled towards the door. He apologised as he made his way through the now crowded living room, and stumbled on someone’s coat.
“Sorry, sorry!”
“Hunter, you OK?” It was Giles, interrupting his stream of jovial remarks.
“Yeah, I, er, I have to go soon. There’s a present…”
“Thanks. You shouldn’t have! Look, why don’t you wait and get a taxi?”
“No, I’m just a bit sleepy, that’s all. Anyway, I put it by the coathangers.”
“OK. Look, we’ll have to go out for a drink while you’re still here – next week?”
“That’d be good. Let me know. Actually, no, sorry, I can’t be bothered. I just want to hibernate this year.”
Hunter smiled briefly, but was sorry to see his old schoolmate at a loss for words. He made a “can’t help it” gesture with his hands, looked at the floor and moved off quickly.
In the hallway, he brushed past Catherine.
“Are you off, then?’ she asked, smiling.
“Yeah, I’m feeling…”
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk more. Parties! You know how it is.”
Hunter shrugged and looked for his coat.
Catherine’s eyes followed his movements, and then looked sadly back at the living room. She fingered her glass nervously. “I would have liked to know more about your painting.”
He rounded on her. “Don’t. Patronise. Me.”
She gave a half-smile of disbelief. “Wha-at?”
“Catherine: You don’t care if I live or die.”
Outside in the street, Hunter made a quick recovery as he made contact with the cold air. He gazed at the Christmas lights – so imaginatively done this year, the Twelve Days of Christmas sparkling in blue and gold. He reflected that tonight was Yule, and the return of the light – now there was something worth celebrating. He would light a candle to that before he went to bed, just as he used to as a child. To keep the magic alive in his soul.
Beneath the coats in Giles’s flat, bathed in a puddle of Tennent’s Export at the bottom of a plastic bag, lay a forgotten painting of a brightly coloured landscape. Giles’s wife discovered it the next day, cleaned the sticky beer off the front, and put it in a drawer in case anyone came back for it.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
2006: MY LIFE ON HOLD
Here's a confession. I learned one new thing only this year - to make music on my computer. I still remember last January gazing at the time-lines and various buttons of the comparatively simple (as it turns out) software GarageBand and sighing about the learning curve that it was going to involve. With help from a couple of my friends, and a bit of encouragement about the initial results, I finally got to record an album of digital sound quality where pay-by-the-hour time was not a factor. (Never before.) There's nothing brilliant on there, but I'm not in my 20s anymore. It's a good enough album, and it's a start. Making it gave me hours of pleasure, and only a little frustration - it's much easier than old-style 8-track cassette recording. So now I have a technique, and I want to go looking for some inspiration, perhaps in some of the "nu folk" compilatons that have been released in the last year or so.
Suddenly, the kind of music I've always liked - and actually been making, since 1990 - more or less psychedelic acoustic stuff with a nod to folk tradition, has become, if not exacty mainstream, a genre that's written about in the music press. I think Devendra Banhart really got this thing going - it started happening in the States following his Golden Apples of The Sun compilation. Congratulations to people like King Creosote, Tunng, Espers and Joanna Newsom, as well as Rob da Bank and the Green Man festival (wish I could have been there) for carrying the torch! Maybe there will be enough fans of this kind of thing to come out and fund Roy Harper's pension?
With this, and Doctor Who being so popular in the UK now, I feel part of the cultural mainstream in a way I haven't for years. It's an eerie feeling. The last time was when I eagerly anticipated the third Oasis album and shook Tony Blair's hand in Downing Street (Spring '97) - neither of which I'm proud of now.
In 2006, apart from my album, I have achieved little else that's new. My life is on hold. The things I have most dearly longed for since I was a teenager, I have not got. I realise it's selfish to dwell on it. I don't.
I've managed to be unrelentingly upbeat ("unrelenting self-confidence and positivity" is a mantra I got from a friend in 2002) but sometimes it seems like putting a brave face on things. Against the backdrop of real, if not severe, disappointment, I've been getting on with it this year. Three things that have made me happy are positive feedback at work from our TEFL trainees (month after month, it's a shot in the arm); my unstintingly supportive boss; and Brindle, who keeps smiling through anything, and is determined that there's a spiritual meaning behind all of this!
I'm also happy to come home to "my" new flat in Budapest, where I can read, play, get online, and download at will. But it all seems a bit "adultescent", the Dylan period! I've often poured scorn on,
"...them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in."
feeling that I was something different - free, and for the most part happy. But I do wonder when I can comfortably begin to invest in the future in any way at all - I don't mean money and property, though that's part of it. In 2007, I would like to discover something of this, something long-term. If I don't succeed, I may turn the corner towards unhappiness and the beginnings of bitterness. There. I said it.
Best of 2006:
The best album was Broken Boy Soldiers by the Raconteurs. It's full of enthusiasm, and presses all the right retro buttons. I said that about the White Stripes before. Funny, that! "Good Ol'" MOJO picked it as album of the year too. I enjoyed every track but one, quite unusual in an album. I also enjoyed the incredibly hard-to-track down El Perro Del Mar debut (the tracks I've heard) for her lightness of touch and melodicism, and the unashamedly Hammond-driven grooves of Winner by Big Boss Man.
Some of the refreshed Beatles songs on Love were amazing - great to hear I Am The Walrus and Strawberry Fields in rounded digital brilliance. Love really worked - 9 out of 10. (My only reservation was the new ending of Strawberry Fields, which was a bit too much.) The best thing I heard all year was easily No Fit State by Hot Chip (actually from 2005) included on the Uncut compilation this month. It reminds me of the 1980s, not always a good thing, but is just such a effortlessly well crafted and well produced song, I never tire of it.
Films I liked were Knallhart (gritty realism), The Wind That Shakes The Barley (ditto), Children of Men (for the chillingly convincing vision of Britain in the future.) Best of all was Brokeback Mountain, for the reasons you've read elsewhere! And also because we've been ripping off the Texan drawl ever since in our office to mouth obscenities and let everyone know "Ah'm sick of beans" (sic?) The best TV I saw was Blackpool, a couple of years old now, probably? To me, it was just the kind of entertaining drama where you couldn't wait for the next episode. Nice to have that Dennis Potter-esque musical "commentary track" revived. The second Doctor Who series had its moments (notably, The Girl In The Fireplace) but wasn't a patch on the first.
The best books I read were (#2) Steven Pinker's How The Mind Works, where he deals neatly with Nature v Nurture and whether we should follow the ethical "dictats" of our genes - in the first two chapters! Then he goes on to discuss the mystery of consciousness... It's ambitious. Haven't finished it yet; the diagrams slow me down a lot. #1 was The Master and Margarita by Bulgakov, which I read and speculated about for hours, while I was living in Minsk (June) and gazing over the forest of tower blocks in the morning sun.
Being in Minsk was the peak of the whole year for me because it underlined that you can have an unforgettable experience form something you think beforehand will be disappointing. The summer was breaking out day after day, and the reaction of the trainees to the experience of communicative teaching added some belief against the doubt about whether the job I do is worth anything at all. (When you've turned your back on the property option and have opted to earn less to gain more in other ways, you need this!) My big wish in 2007 is for something else like this, and to feel that my life has some real momentum behind it. I'm also ready to record some more, in a stranger folkier vein. So bring it on.
Here's a confession. I learned one new thing only this year - to make music on my computer. I still remember last January gazing at the time-lines and various buttons of the comparatively simple (as it turns out) software GarageBand and sighing about the learning curve that it was going to involve. With help from a couple of my friends, and a bit of encouragement about the initial results, I finally got to record an album of digital sound quality where pay-by-the-hour time was not a factor. (Never before.) There's nothing brilliant on there, but I'm not in my 20s anymore. It's a good enough album, and it's a start. Making it gave me hours of pleasure, and only a little frustration - it's much easier than old-style 8-track cassette recording. So now I have a technique, and I want to go looking for some inspiration, perhaps in some of the "nu folk" compilatons that have been released in the last year or so.
Suddenly, the kind of music I've always liked - and actually been making, since 1990 - more or less psychedelic acoustic stuff with a nod to folk tradition, has become, if not exacty mainstream, a genre that's written about in the music press. I think Devendra Banhart really got this thing going - it started happening in the States following his Golden Apples of The Sun compilation. Congratulations to people like King Creosote, Tunng, Espers and Joanna Newsom, as well as Rob da Bank and the Green Man festival (wish I could have been there) for carrying the torch! Maybe there will be enough fans of this kind of thing to come out and fund Roy Harper's pension?With this, and Doctor Who being so popular in the UK now, I feel part of the cultural mainstream in a way I haven't for years. It's an eerie feeling. The last time was when I eagerly anticipated the third Oasis album and shook Tony Blair's hand in Downing Street (Spring '97) - neither of which I'm proud of now.
In 2006, apart from my album, I have achieved little else that's new. My life is on hold. The things I have most dearly longed for since I was a teenager, I have not got. I realise it's selfish to dwell on it. I don't.
I've managed to be unrelentingly upbeat ("unrelenting self-confidence and positivity" is a mantra I got from a friend in 2002) but sometimes it seems like putting a brave face on things. Against the backdrop of real, if not severe, disappointment, I've been getting on with it this year. Three things that have made me happy are positive feedback at work from our TEFL trainees (month after month, it's a shot in the arm); my unstintingly supportive boss; and Brindle, who keeps smiling through anything, and is determined that there's a spiritual meaning behind all of this!
I'm also happy to come home to "my" new flat in Budapest, where I can read, play, get online, and download at will. But it all seems a bit "adultescent", the Dylan period! I've often poured scorn on,
"...them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in."
feeling that I was something different - free, and for the most part happy. But I do wonder when I can comfortably begin to invest in the future in any way at all - I don't mean money and property, though that's part of it. In 2007, I would like to discover something of this, something long-term. If I don't succeed, I may turn the corner towards unhappiness and the beginnings of bitterness. There. I said it.
Best of 2006:
The best album was Broken Boy Soldiers by the Raconteurs. It's full of enthusiasm, and presses all the right retro buttons. I said that about the White Stripes before. Funny, that! "Good Ol'" MOJO picked it as album of the year too. I enjoyed every track but one, quite unusual in an album. I also enjoyed the incredibly hard-to-track down El Perro Del Mar debut (the tracks I've heard) for her lightness of touch and melodicism, and the unashamedly Hammond-driven grooves of Winner by Big Boss Man.
Some of the refreshed Beatles songs on Love were amazing - great to hear I Am The Walrus and Strawberry Fields in rounded digital brilliance. Love really worked - 9 out of 10. (My only reservation was the new ending of Strawberry Fields, which was a bit too much.) The best thing I heard all year was easily No Fit State by Hot Chip (actually from 2005) included on the Uncut compilation this month. It reminds me of the 1980s, not always a good thing, but is just such a effortlessly well crafted and well produced song, I never tire of it.
Films I liked were Knallhart (gritty realism), The Wind That Shakes The Barley (ditto), Children of Men (for the chillingly convincing vision of Britain in the future.) Best of all was Brokeback Mountain, for the reasons you've read elsewhere! And also because we've been ripping off the Texan drawl ever since in our office to mouth obscenities and let everyone know "Ah'm sick of beans" (sic?) The best TV I saw was Blackpool, a couple of years old now, probably? To me, it was just the kind of entertaining drama where you couldn't wait for the next episode. Nice to have that Dennis Potter-esque musical "commentary track" revived. The second Doctor Who series had its moments (notably, The Girl In The Fireplace) but wasn't a patch on the first.
The best books I read were (#2) Steven Pinker's How The Mind Works, where he deals neatly with Nature v Nurture and whether we should follow the ethical "dictats" of our genes - in the first two chapters! Then he goes on to discuss the mystery of consciousness... It's ambitious. Haven't finished it yet; the diagrams slow me down a lot. #1 was The Master and Margarita by Bulgakov, which I read and speculated about for hours, while I was living in Minsk (June) and gazing over the forest of tower blocks in the morning sun.
Being in Minsk was the peak of the whole year for me because it underlined that you can have an unforgettable experience form something you think beforehand will be disappointing. The summer was breaking out day after day, and the reaction of the trainees to the experience of communicative teaching added some belief against the doubt about whether the job I do is worth anything at all. (When you've turned your back on the property option and have opted to earn less to gain more in other ways, you need this!) My big wish in 2007 is for something else like this, and to feel that my life has some real momentum behind it. I'm also ready to record some more, in a stranger folkier vein. So bring it on.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
THE QUALITY OF AMAZEMENT
I remember reading (in Sophie's World) the part where her philosopher friend reminds her not to lose the ability to be amazed by things. He mentions waking up to the fact that we are on a planet in the middle of "outer" space, and that we are sentient and so can reflect on it, except that people don't. Doctor Who echoes these sentiments when he tells Rose he can feel the Earth spin beneath him. The same idea is repeated in a different way in Steven Pinker's How The Mind Works when he writes about the "everyday miracles" performed by the human mind. He quotes Confucius: "A common man marvels at uncommon things: a wise man marvels at the commonplace." Now, is that enough intellectual backing? I get a lot of flak from people at work for using superlatives all the time; they think it's charmingly naive of me or something. It's not. I am in the world and this is my response: amazement.
Take this, as a random example of why. On Monday, I was travelling home for the midwinter festival (bring back the old festivals! by the way) and had time to think. I had just come through the futuristically refurbished Kings X, and I was sitting on a vehicle moving at great speed along a steel rail linking that surreal beast of a city which is London to my old home town. I was listening on these great Bose headphones I have to a digital reproduction of some Romanian gypsy musicians playing cymbalom, accordion and, over this, a seductively wailed melody line full of joy and real swagger. This was on CD not MP3 so it felt as if they were there in the same room. (Remember CDs?) I could stretch my legs out (on a cheap first class ticket) - it was bliss. And that was even before the wine hit. For the light effects, see below.
Be amazed again. It's worth it.
I remember reading (in Sophie's World) the part where her philosopher friend reminds her not to lose the ability to be amazed by things. He mentions waking up to the fact that we are on a planet in the middle of "outer" space, and that we are sentient and so can reflect on it, except that people don't. Doctor Who echoes these sentiments when he tells Rose he can feel the Earth spin beneath him. The same idea is repeated in a different way in Steven Pinker's How The Mind Works when he writes about the "everyday miracles" performed by the human mind. He quotes Confucius: "A common man marvels at uncommon things: a wise man marvels at the commonplace." Now, is that enough intellectual backing? I get a lot of flak from people at work for using superlatives all the time; they think it's charmingly naive of me or something. It's not. I am in the world and this is my response: amazement.
Take this, as a random example of why. On Monday, I was travelling home for the midwinter festival (bring back the old festivals! by the way) and had time to think. I had just come through the futuristically refurbished Kings X, and I was sitting on a vehicle moving at great speed along a steel rail linking that surreal beast of a city which is London to my old home town. I was listening on these great Bose headphones I have to a digital reproduction of some Romanian gypsy musicians playing cymbalom, accordion and, over this, a seductively wailed melody line full of joy and real swagger. This was on CD not MP3 so it felt as if they were there in the same room. (Remember CDs?) I could stretch my legs out (on a cheap first class ticket) - it was bliss. And that was even before the wine hit. For the light effects, see below.
Be amazed again. It's worth it.
MIDWINTER LIGHT - UNCAPTURED
On this season's much anticipated journey home, I had to take at least three photographs in my mind. This is because I forgot to bring my camera. In fact hardly any of my best photographs have made it on to a format which can be publicly viewed. Come to think of it, it's true of my best music, which is often lost in waking up, and the best thoughts I come across, which spring up in a conversation but are never recorded for later.
First picture. I woke up, hours ahead of everyone else, on Sunday morning at a friend's house in Kilburn. It was just beginning to get light. The window looks on to an area of greenery, but from my sofa-bed I can only see twigs, branches and part of a tree trunk, bare for December. The sun, starting to rise, makes the tree look pale blue with green shadows against the palely lit (cloudless) sky behind. Then, at once, the branches are touched with bright coppery light. It's all framed by the window and looks like a perfect cover for a wintry song collection. But not mine, this time.
Second picture (sequence of films). Seen from a train window. On Monday, the countryside north of London was shrouded in freezing fog. (Still is.) The lines of trees across the fields look like a two-dimensional scene made with (does it still exist?) tracing paper. Each strip of scenery is covered with a layer so that the trees receding into the distance are greying into white and out of view altogether while the ones close to the train are quite distinct. Suddenly as we career past Morpeth, the sun shows, ghostly behind the mist at first. It's teasing, peering, gone again - then suddenly, and this is just as my first glass of wine kicks in, the clouds are gone as we emerge from the fog, and the scene is suffused with golden light, the white layer of frost on the fields accentuating the blueness of the shadows. Later as the sun sinks, it is all Christmas card silhouettes. The smoke and other vapours have turned dark blue against the sky which is still alight, its orangeness reflected by the pools of water (or ice?) on the ground. Now the freezing dark mist is low on the fields and as high as a person, or perhaps a house.
Third picture. Walking along Aberdeen beach putting off a bit of time before the James Bond film. Airbrushed sky (bright orange again, through green, to dark blue.) I can see the impossibly thin neo-gothic spires of Marischal College, the tower blocks winking at Bridge of Don, and a couple of cranes which must be at the harbour. It is all - and I'm not kidding - a keener pleasure, a more sumptuous memorable thing, than the film itself. Or is it only me? We should rate sky scenes and window scenes higher than we do.
Happy Solstice to all light lovers. Tomorrow the sun returns to the cold fields.
On this season's much anticipated journey home, I had to take at least three photographs in my mind. This is because I forgot to bring my camera. In fact hardly any of my best photographs have made it on to a format which can be publicly viewed. Come to think of it, it's true of my best music, which is often lost in waking up, and the best thoughts I come across, which spring up in a conversation but are never recorded for later.
First picture. I woke up, hours ahead of everyone else, on Sunday morning at a friend's house in Kilburn. It was just beginning to get light. The window looks on to an area of greenery, but from my sofa-bed I can only see twigs, branches and part of a tree trunk, bare for December. The sun, starting to rise, makes the tree look pale blue with green shadows against the palely lit (cloudless) sky behind. Then, at once, the branches are touched with bright coppery light. It's all framed by the window and looks like a perfect cover for a wintry song collection. But not mine, this time.
Second picture (sequence of films). Seen from a train window. On Monday, the countryside north of London was shrouded in freezing fog. (Still is.) The lines of trees across the fields look like a two-dimensional scene made with (does it still exist?) tracing paper. Each strip of scenery is covered with a layer so that the trees receding into the distance are greying into white and out of view altogether while the ones close to the train are quite distinct. Suddenly as we career past Morpeth, the sun shows, ghostly behind the mist at first. It's teasing, peering, gone again - then suddenly, and this is just as my first glass of wine kicks in, the clouds are gone as we emerge from the fog, and the scene is suffused with golden light, the white layer of frost on the fields accentuating the blueness of the shadows. Later as the sun sinks, it is all Christmas card silhouettes. The smoke and other vapours have turned dark blue against the sky which is still alight, its orangeness reflected by the pools of water (or ice?) on the ground. Now the freezing dark mist is low on the fields and as high as a person, or perhaps a house.
Third picture. Walking along Aberdeen beach putting off a bit of time before the James Bond film. Airbrushed sky (bright orange again, through green, to dark blue.) I can see the impossibly thin neo-gothic spires of Marischal College, the tower blocks winking at Bridge of Don, and a couple of cranes which must be at the harbour. It is all - and I'm not kidding - a keener pleasure, a more sumptuous memorable thing, than the film itself. Or is it only me? We should rate sky scenes and window scenes higher than we do.
Happy Solstice to all light lovers. Tomorrow the sun returns to the cold fields.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
CHRISTMAS RUSH
Last weekend I went to Vienna on what's become a bit of an annual pilgrimage. I've always loved the pre-Christmas atmosphere anywhere - well, anywhere cold! It must be to do with childhood, an apprehension of magic that never quite materialises. Anyway, I went round the Christmas markets and took so many pictures of stalls that I could give you a virtual tour - but bought very little. There's something about a Christmas bauble that makes it look good in company, but throwaway on its own. Judging by the heaving crowd, it will have proved worth the stallholders' while taking all those hours to set up. In the - very - gentle haze brought on by some mulled wine, it was a perfect winter's day. The only disappointment was that there wasn't the least trace of frost in the air.
Last weekend I went to Vienna on what's become a bit of an annual pilgrimage. I've always loved the pre-Christmas atmosphere anywhere - well, anywhere cold! It must be to do with childhood, an apprehension of magic that never quite materialises. Anyway, I went round the Christmas markets and took so many pictures of stalls that I could give you a virtual tour - but bought very little. There's something about a Christmas bauble that makes it look good in company, but throwaway on its own. Judging by the heaving crowd, it will have proved worth the stallholders' while taking all those hours to set up. In the - very - gentle haze brought on by some mulled wine, it was a perfect winter's day. The only disappointment was that there wasn't the least trace of frost in the air.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
MORE STREET TROUBLE IN BUDAPEST
I knew that something would erupt yesterday on the anniversary of the 1956 uprising in Hungary. The first signs of this were when I was recording some music in my flat and I could hear a lot of shouting - with additional reverb - coming through the headphones. I stuck the microphone out of the window to record some of what was going on. The crowd - or elements of it - were very angry, chanting "You fucked it up!" (presumably a comment on the governing party's handling of the post-1989 era). I could see people carrying, as well as lots of normal Hungarian flags, the version of the flag adopted by the wartime Nazi-supporting Arrow Cross.
Later, I assumed it had all blown over and thought nothing of it when my friend invited me out for a drink. Of course, the streets were still full with the commemorations. I heard the sound of an orchestra and saw people laying candles on the pavements as tributes to the dead. Some of the main junctions were impassable, so I had to make a big circle in order to meet my friend, trying to arrange everything on a jammed phone network. The first I knew of trouble was when he phoned to suggest a different bar after having run into the middle of a riot and having had a tear gas canister going off nearby him.
We met in a central bar which is usually packed but yesterday almost deserted. I was born in 1968 and, being a true child of the 60s, have been waiting all my life for some sort of Green revolution, so I felt guiltily like an armchair (non-)activist, not being in the thick of things, but reading about it on Reuters and BBC News instead, and sipping beer! But it's not my cause and I have no reason to object to the government here. We were told it would be safer not to leave the bar.
Of course, we did leave. It was like walking into a scene from Nineteen Eighty-Four. To begin with, there was the tear gas that made my friend's eyes stream. Drifting clouds of it were picked out by the orange/pink of the street-lighting. It smells acrid like the waterproofing spray for shoes. The exits from the area where I was and the route back to my flat were blocked by ranks of helmeted riot police. People were wandering about aimlessly, trying to get away from the rioters and avoid the police. You could hear loud bangs going off (rubber bullets, I later learned) and helicopters were circling overhead. Again I went a circuitous route, and ended up going right past the stand-off at Ferenciek Tere, where a few minutes later the barricades went up and all hell broke loose. I noticed that a lot of the paving stones had been ripped up, a sure sign that people had come equipped for trouble.
Got home, watched the rest on TV. Phoned my friend whose flat overlooks one of the flashpoints. It's his photo that's attached. As he described the battle below, the call was interrupted by the report of a gun going off, and he saw someone collapse. Amazing to think all these incredible scenes were just streets away.
This morning, looking from the tram at Nyugati (West) Station, the street seemed immaculate; no sign that there had been any trouble there at all. The atmosphere is still highly charged, but I have a sense that the organisers who wanted to unseat the government have lost their big opportunity and that things will settle down as everyone returns to work.
Pestiside's leading article on Monday's events
Riots in Hungary blog
I knew that something would erupt yesterday on the anniversary of the 1956 uprising in Hungary. The first signs of this were when I was recording some music in my flat and I could hear a lot of shouting - with additional reverb - coming through the headphones. I stuck the microphone out of the window to record some of what was going on. The crowd - or elements of it - were very angry, chanting "You fucked it up!" (presumably a comment on the governing party's handling of the post-1989 era). I could see people carrying, as well as lots of normal Hungarian flags, the version of the flag adopted by the wartime Nazi-supporting Arrow Cross.
Later, I assumed it had all blown over and thought nothing of it when my friend invited me out for a drink. Of course, the streets were still full with the commemorations. I heard the sound of an orchestra and saw people laying candles on the pavements as tributes to the dead. Some of the main junctions were impassable, so I had to make a big circle in order to meet my friend, trying to arrange everything on a jammed phone network. The first I knew of trouble was when he phoned to suggest a different bar after having run into the middle of a riot and having had a tear gas canister going off nearby him.
We met in a central bar which is usually packed but yesterday almost deserted. I was born in 1968 and, being a true child of the 60s, have been waiting all my life for some sort of Green revolution, so I felt guiltily like an armchair (non-)activist, not being in the thick of things, but reading about it on Reuters and BBC News instead, and sipping beer! But it's not my cause and I have no reason to object to the government here. We were told it would be safer not to leave the bar.
Of course, we did leave. It was like walking into a scene from Nineteen Eighty-Four. To begin with, there was the tear gas that made my friend's eyes stream. Drifting clouds of it were picked out by the orange/pink of the street-lighting. It smells acrid like the waterproofing spray for shoes. The exits from the area where I was and the route back to my flat were blocked by ranks of helmeted riot police. People were wandering about aimlessly, trying to get away from the rioters and avoid the police. You could hear loud bangs going off (rubber bullets, I later learned) and helicopters were circling overhead. Again I went a circuitous route, and ended up going right past the stand-off at Ferenciek Tere, where a few minutes later the barricades went up and all hell broke loose. I noticed that a lot of the paving stones had been ripped up, a sure sign that people had come equipped for trouble.
Got home, watched the rest on TV. Phoned my friend whose flat overlooks one of the flashpoints. It's his photo that's attached. As he described the battle below, the call was interrupted by the report of a gun going off, and he saw someone collapse. Amazing to think all these incredible scenes were just streets away.This morning, looking from the tram at Nyugati (West) Station, the street seemed immaculate; no sign that there had been any trouble there at all. The atmosphere is still highly charged, but I have a sense that the organisers who wanted to unseat the government have lost their big opportunity and that things will settle down as everyone returns to work.
Pestiside's leading article on Monday's events
Riots in Hungary blog
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
I was sent this poem by email. The warmth in the air is just starting to decay here in Budapest, so it's been on my mind.
THE SEVEN SORROWS TED HUGHES
The first sorrow of autumn
Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.
The second sorrow
Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
Ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow
Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of water-
The beetle’s palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it’s gone.
It has only left litter-
Firewood, tentpoles.
And the sixth sorrow
Is the fox’s sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
Till earth closes her ear
To the fox’s prayer.
And the seventh sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.
THE SEVEN SORROWS TED HUGHES
The first sorrow of autumn
Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.
The second sorrow
Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
Ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow
Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of water-
The beetle’s palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it’s gone.
It has only left litter-
Firewood, tentpoles.
And the sixth sorrow
Is the fox’s sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
Till earth closes her ear
To the fox’s prayer.
And the seventh sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
STILL DELUSIONAL AFTER ALL THESE YEARS
“I am with you always, even till the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20) Jesus's farewell to his disciples.
“Whatever you do, I'm always with you.” Tony Blair’s farewell speech. He can't have missed the reference. This is a better joke than the one about Cherie and the bloke next door.
You read it here first.
“I am with you always, even till the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20) Jesus's farewell to his disciples.
“Whatever you do, I'm always with you.” Tony Blair’s farewell speech. He can't have missed the reference. This is a better joke than the one about Cherie and the bloke next door.
You read it here first.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
ECONOMY OF STYLE
I was talking to my friend, a Graham Greene expert, who said that his style is noted for its economy. The following excerpt, from The End Of The Affair, is a wonderful example of this. It’s about the amateur rationalist philosopher Richard Bridges, who has a deformed face, and seen through the eyes of one of the major protagonists.
“I had an idea that he was a man who really loved the truth, but there was that word love again, and it was only too obvious into how many desires his love of truth could be split. A compensation for the injury of his birth, the desire for power, the wish to be admired all the more because the poor haunted face would never cause physical desire.”
The ironic comment on rationalism is insightful, and nothing new, but you have to admire that GG is able to sum up in one paragraph what it took Freud (on sublimation) and Nietzsche (on Will To Power) whole books to say!
I was talking to my friend, a Graham Greene expert, who said that his style is noted for its economy. The following excerpt, from The End Of The Affair, is a wonderful example of this. It’s about the amateur rationalist philosopher Richard Bridges, who has a deformed face, and seen through the eyes of one of the major protagonists.
“I had an idea that he was a man who really loved the truth, but there was that word love again, and it was only too obvious into how many desires his love of truth could be split. A compensation for the injury of his birth, the desire for power, the wish to be admired all the more because the poor haunted face would never cause physical desire.”
The ironic comment on rationalism is insightful, and nothing new, but you have to admire that GG is able to sum up in one paragraph what it took Freud (on sublimation) and Nietzsche (on Will To Power) whole books to say!
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
POLITICIAN COMES CLEAN, PROVOKES RIOT
I can’t pretend to know a lot about Hungarian politics. Even in my ignorance, however, I knew that both main parties lied about their future plans in order to win the General Election in April. And the government talked up the economic situation pre-election, while the opposition rubbished all their achievements. Big deal.
The irony is that there are riots now because Mr Gyurcsany, the PM, was inept enough actually to tell the truth about the political process! Which everyone knows anyway. I have a sneaking liking for the PM, just because he is such a maverick. Ever the politician most likely to slip on a banana skin, he actually loses patience with his party, upbraids them all for lying to the public, and publishes the whole transcript on his website. It's so blatantly the wrong thing to do, people here are hinting at some kind of conspiracy.
I'm all for less slick politicians and an end to tacit consent. If people were consistent, there’d be riots every day. Until the whole house comes crashing down.
I can’t pretend to know a lot about Hungarian politics. Even in my ignorance, however, I knew that both main parties lied about their future plans in order to win the General Election in April. And the government talked up the economic situation pre-election, while the opposition rubbished all their achievements. Big deal.
The irony is that there are riots now because Mr Gyurcsany, the PM, was inept enough actually to tell the truth about the political process! Which everyone knows anyway. I have a sneaking liking for the PM, just because he is such a maverick. Ever the politician most likely to slip on a banana skin, he actually loses patience with his party, upbraids them all for lying to the public, and publishes the whole transcript on his website. It's so blatantly the wrong thing to do, people here are hinting at some kind of conspiracy.
I'm all for less slick politicians and an end to tacit consent. If people were consistent, there’d be riots every day. Until the whole house comes crashing down.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
UPDATE ON MY LIFE IN BUDAPEST, AND THOUGHTS ON WHY GROWING UP IS HARD TO DO
Last year, a close friend visiting from the UK told me I’m living an “alternative lifestyle”. Anyway, I’ve just returned to it – for a third year, and in a new (rented) flat. I don’t know why I feel I have to justify this to myself, but I suppose living here could be considered an irresponsible choice, failing somehow to grow up and grasp the nettle.
The flat is all high ceilings, double doors, large mirrors: the feeling of 19C opulence for less than £200 a month! The previous tenant, a friend and colleague, also left her entire video and CD collection behind, for the moment at least. This weekend, I’ve been finishing off a song on my laptop, and Brindle & I have started a new instrumental piece. It’s the same feeling a child gets when playing – pure, unconstrained fun. We also took the tram to Margit Island, for a burst of colour and to take digital pictures of flower beds and each other.
This afternoon I wandered down a narrow, deserted street where the only sound was the dull beat of my trainers on a dappled pavement, and past an old church into Raday utca, where I’m writing this blog. It’s a tree-lined old world style street, with wrought iron copper-topped lampposts and a parade of cafes. It’s also a perfect early autumn day and the sun is angling in spaces between the high facades. This is pretty normal for Budapest, but basically picture postcard stuff.
Tomorrow, I am back to work. It’s the most fun job I’ve had, and in some ways the least demanding. Not that I don’t have to focus on the work during office hours, but for the first time in my life I don’t often have to take it home with me, and I am not burdened by piles of meaningless paperwork.
Well, I have the nagging feeling that I should be making pension contributions and that I should be a property owner. But I hope this blog goes some way towards explaining why I’m loath to give up life in this beautiful city for a £200,000 mortgage in Bedford or somewhere, and the stale pleasures of trailing round HMV on a Saturday, or doing up the kitchen before settling down for another instalment of Changing Rooms. There is a painless alternative. I’m living it.
Last year, a close friend visiting from the UK told me I’m living an “alternative lifestyle”. Anyway, I’ve just returned to it – for a third year, and in a new (rented) flat. I don’t know why I feel I have to justify this to myself, but I suppose living here could be considered an irresponsible choice, failing somehow to grow up and grasp the nettle.
The flat is all high ceilings, double doors, large mirrors: the feeling of 19C opulence for less than £200 a month! The previous tenant, a friend and colleague, also left her entire video and CD collection behind, for the moment at least. This weekend, I’ve been finishing off a song on my laptop, and Brindle & I have started a new instrumental piece. It’s the same feeling a child gets when playing – pure, unconstrained fun. We also took the tram to Margit Island, for a burst of colour and to take digital pictures of flower beds and each other.
This afternoon I wandered down a narrow, deserted street where the only sound was the dull beat of my trainers on a dappled pavement, and past an old church into Raday utca, where I’m writing this blog. It’s a tree-lined old world style street, with wrought iron copper-topped lampposts and a parade of cafes. It’s also a perfect early autumn day and the sun is angling in spaces between the high facades. This is pretty normal for Budapest, but basically picture postcard stuff.
Tomorrow, I am back to work. It’s the most fun job I’ve had, and in some ways the least demanding. Not that I don’t have to focus on the work during office hours, but for the first time in my life I don’t often have to take it home with me, and I am not burdened by piles of meaningless paperwork.
Well, I have the nagging feeling that I should be making pension contributions and that I should be a property owner. But I hope this blog goes some way towards explaining why I’m loath to give up life in this beautiful city for a £200,000 mortgage in Bedford or somewhere, and the stale pleasures of trailing round HMV on a Saturday, or doing up the kitchen before settling down for another instalment of Changing Rooms. There is a painless alternative. I’m living it.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
“AS IF PEOPLE MATTERED”
E.F. Schumacher’s ideas in Small is Beautiful have come as a revelation to me. I honestly believe that if the political will existed to apply these ideas, the problems associated with climate change, poverty and social breakdown would be ameliorated. It is not a case of not being able afford to do these things - "economically." We can't afford NOT to.
Schumacher exposes the craziness of narrowly-defined economic thinking, and criticises progress viewed merely as a “forward stampede”. I couldn’t help thinking of Tony Blair when he characterises people who hold this view, but it would be equally true of all politicians in the post-Thatcher mould. That's all of the major parties, isn't it? “You cannot stand still, they say; standing still means going down… we must take our fight forward and not be fainthearted… if there is trouble with the environment, we shall need more stringent laws against pollution, and faster economic growth to pay for anti-pollution measures… if there are problems about fossil fuels, we shall move from slow reactors to fast breeders.” etc.
By contrast, Schumacher’s humanistic economics wants to give the idea of growth “a qualitative dimension”. We need to take stock and see that we are destroying the very basis of our existence. Then, using the courage of our convictions, decide which things we want to help grow, and which we'd like to see less of.
BUDDHIST ECONOMICS
Here are his ideas on labour (from Wikipedia):
1. “From the point of view of the employer, it (labour) is in any case simply an item of cost, to be reduced to a minimum if it cannot be eliminated altogether, say, by automation. From the point of view of the workman, it is a 'disutility'; to work is to make a sacrifice of one's leisure and comfort, and wages are a kind of compensation for the sacrifice.”
2. “From a Buddhist point of view, this is standing the truth on its head by considering goods as more important than people and consumption as more important than creative activity. It means shifting the emphasis from the worker to the product of work, that is, from the human to the sub-human, surrender to the forces of evil.”
3. The Buddhist view, “takes the function of work to be at least threefold”: “to give a man a chance to utilize and develop his faculties; to enable him to overcome his egocentredness by joining with other people in a common task; and to bring forth the goods and services needed for a becoming existence.”
4. “to organize work in such a manner that it becomes meaningless, boring, stultifying, or nerve-racking for the worker would be little short of criminal; it would indicate a greater concern with goods than with people, an evil lack of compassion and a soul-destroying degree of attachment to the most primitive side of this worldly existence”.
TECHNOLOGY WITH A HUMAN FACE
“Modern technology has deprived man of the kind of work that he enjoys most, creative useful work with hands and brains, and given him plenty of work of a fragmented kind, most of which he does not enjoy at all.”
Schumacher suggested superimposing on large-area states a cantonal structure of modest size so that vast industrial concentration (with all this entails in imbalance, ineptitude, and diseconomies of scale) becomes not only unnecessary but also impractical and inefficient. Once the development district is 'appropriately' reduced, it becomes possible to fulfill a society's material requirements by means of less expensive and simpler equipment than computerized, labour-saving machinery. This is the famous “intermediate technology”.
The reduced efficiency of intermediate technology provides the same amount of goods, but at a higher cost in labour. However, since this can be achieved only by full rather than partial employment of the available labour force, it represents no additional cost at all, socially. It is, in fact, a benefit. (adapted from Wikipedia)
Well, does it sound hopelessly idealistic, or just idealistic? As for a concrete plan for how to get from here to Schumacher’s kind of social, agricultural and industrial organisation, I’m not sure. (I’ll have to answer Neb’s points on Pol Pot! To be continued...) Meanwhile, it would help if the Department For International Development started prioritising people rather than mere productivity.
Here are some short videos of the Schumacher approach in action. Small is Working
E.F. Schumacher’s ideas in Small is Beautiful have come as a revelation to me. I honestly believe that if the political will existed to apply these ideas, the problems associated with climate change, poverty and social breakdown would be ameliorated. It is not a case of not being able afford to do these things - "economically." We can't afford NOT to.
Schumacher exposes the craziness of narrowly-defined economic thinking, and criticises progress viewed merely as a “forward stampede”. I couldn’t help thinking of Tony Blair when he characterises people who hold this view, but it would be equally true of all politicians in the post-Thatcher mould. That's all of the major parties, isn't it? “You cannot stand still, they say; standing still means going down… we must take our fight forward and not be fainthearted… if there is trouble with the environment, we shall need more stringent laws against pollution, and faster economic growth to pay for anti-pollution measures… if there are problems about fossil fuels, we shall move from slow reactors to fast breeders.” etc.
By contrast, Schumacher’s humanistic economics wants to give the idea of growth “a qualitative dimension”. We need to take stock and see that we are destroying the very basis of our existence. Then, using the courage of our convictions, decide which things we want to help grow, and which we'd like to see less of.
BUDDHIST ECONOMICS
Here are his ideas on labour (from Wikipedia):
1. “From the point of view of the employer, it (labour) is in any case simply an item of cost, to be reduced to a minimum if it cannot be eliminated altogether, say, by automation. From the point of view of the workman, it is a 'disutility'; to work is to make a sacrifice of one's leisure and comfort, and wages are a kind of compensation for the sacrifice.”
2. “From a Buddhist point of view, this is standing the truth on its head by considering goods as more important than people and consumption as more important than creative activity. It means shifting the emphasis from the worker to the product of work, that is, from the human to the sub-human, surrender to the forces of evil.”
3. The Buddhist view, “takes the function of work to be at least threefold”: “to give a man a chance to utilize and develop his faculties; to enable him to overcome his egocentredness by joining with other people in a common task; and to bring forth the goods and services needed for a becoming existence.”
4. “to organize work in such a manner that it becomes meaningless, boring, stultifying, or nerve-racking for the worker would be little short of criminal; it would indicate a greater concern with goods than with people, an evil lack of compassion and a soul-destroying degree of attachment to the most primitive side of this worldly existence”.
TECHNOLOGY WITH A HUMAN FACE
“Modern technology has deprived man of the kind of work that he enjoys most, creative useful work with hands and brains, and given him plenty of work of a fragmented kind, most of which he does not enjoy at all.”
Schumacher suggested superimposing on large-area states a cantonal structure of modest size so that vast industrial concentration (with all this entails in imbalance, ineptitude, and diseconomies of scale) becomes not only unnecessary but also impractical and inefficient. Once the development district is 'appropriately' reduced, it becomes possible to fulfill a society's material requirements by means of less expensive and simpler equipment than computerized, labour-saving machinery. This is the famous “intermediate technology”.
The reduced efficiency of intermediate technology provides the same amount of goods, but at a higher cost in labour. However, since this can be achieved only by full rather than partial employment of the available labour force, it represents no additional cost at all, socially. It is, in fact, a benefit. (adapted from Wikipedia)
Well, does it sound hopelessly idealistic, or just idealistic? As for a concrete plan for how to get from here to Schumacher’s kind of social, agricultural and industrial organisation, I’m not sure. (I’ll have to answer Neb’s points on Pol Pot! To be continued...) Meanwhile, it would help if the Department For International Development started prioritising people rather than mere productivity.
Here are some short videos of the Schumacher approach in action. Small is Working
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
SYD BARRETT (1946 – 2006)
Syd Barrett, of (The) Pink Floyd, died on July 7. As soon as the news was announced, tributes flooded into the BBC’s entertainment website. It’s fascinating that someone who probably recorded no more than ten outstanding songs, nearly all of which are featured on one album, should have such an enduring appeal. What is it about these songs that distinguishes them?
In the mid-1960s, the Beatles were the real innovators, leading the way into the territory of childhood as a storehouse for the imagery with which to communicate the psychedelic experience. Other musicians dutifully adopted this template, creating a very British style of psychedelic music utterly different from what American bands were doing at the time. For a short time, attachment to childhood was cool and the underground was awash with nursery-rhyme songs from the likes of Donovan, Kaleidoscope, The Idle Race and Tomorrow. Syd Barrett was – for the brief time when he sang for Pink Floyd – the unacknowledged master of the genre. He, more than anyone else, created the flawed, but often brilliant, psychedelic album The Piper At The Gates of Dawn.
Because he had never really severed connection with his childhood, Syd’s songs are both more playful and more genuinely affecting than anything that his contemporaries were able to produce - perhaps with the exception of Strawberry Fields Forever. The Pink Floyd, produced by Norman Smith, brought the songs to life with sparse experimental arrangements featuring moments of Syd’s jagged tinny guitar and liberal use of reverb. Bass lines meander, scamper around and often disappear altogether; the most startling effect is brought about, for example in the Scarecrow, by omitting the low frequency sounds and then introducing them unexpectedly. (This almost never happens in modern music, which uses bass more or less formulaically, dead-centre and constant, until the listener tunes it out.)
The album opens with Syd, like a child fascinated with a new book on astronomy, stringing together the names of astral bodies into a seamless incantation in Astronomy Domine; it is perhaps the first, and certainly the most evocative, piece of “space rock” ever produced. In Matilda Mother, there are obvious psychedelic parallels in his description of being read a fairy story: “You only have to read the lines of scribbly black and everything shines…” (Vocal harmonies suddenly drench the last word here, creating an unforgettably synaesthetic effect.) In the nonsense song Flaming, where he is “lying on an eiderdown” and “travelling by telephone” there is something euphoric in the way these vocal lines are delivered. It’s typical of his best vocals: artless, sometimes a bit flat, but sung with such teasing knowingness that the listener cannot help being transported to the enchanted space where the lyrics were captured.
One of his songs, Effervescing Elephant, was so obviously a children's song that I managed to get away with teaching it to my class of 8-year-olds to sing at assembly. One of the girls subsequently learned the words by heart and went around singing them to impress her classmates. I wonder if she ever found out its origin.
Syd’s obvious yearning for a more innocent time, amplified by copious LSD use, probably contributed towards his mental breakdown. Sadly, none of his later work after Piper At The Gates of Dawn come from the same land as these early songs. You can only hear the hollow voice of someone completely losing their bearings, as the other musicians struggle to keep to his erratic time signatures. The sound of this lonely encounter with madness is one reason why he has such a cult following, but it is in these few short pieces of English whimsy where his genius lies: See Emily Play, Astronomy Domine, Lucifer Sam, Matilda Mother, Flaming, Bike, the Scarecrow.
Pink Floyd, with a new guitarist who briefly tried to write and sing in Syd Barrett's style, went on to conquer the world as arguably the most artistic of all rock bands, but in a completely different vein, and without any of the lightness of touch that characterised their founder.
Obituary on Pink Floyd fan site
Syd Barrett, of (The) Pink Floyd, died on July 7. As soon as the news was announced, tributes flooded into the BBC’s entertainment website. It’s fascinating that someone who probably recorded no more than ten outstanding songs, nearly all of which are featured on one album, should have such an enduring appeal. What is it about these songs that distinguishes them?
In the mid-1960s, the Beatles were the real innovators, leading the way into the territory of childhood as a storehouse for the imagery with which to communicate the psychedelic experience. Other musicians dutifully adopted this template, creating a very British style of psychedelic music utterly different from what American bands were doing at the time. For a short time, attachment to childhood was cool and the underground was awash with nursery-rhyme songs from the likes of Donovan, Kaleidoscope, The Idle Race and Tomorrow. Syd Barrett was – for the brief time when he sang for Pink Floyd – the unacknowledged master of the genre. He, more than anyone else, created the flawed, but often brilliant, psychedelic album The Piper At The Gates of Dawn.
Because he had never really severed connection with his childhood, Syd’s songs are both more playful and more genuinely affecting than anything that his contemporaries were able to produce - perhaps with the exception of Strawberry Fields Forever. The Pink Floyd, produced by Norman Smith, brought the songs to life with sparse experimental arrangements featuring moments of Syd’s jagged tinny guitar and liberal use of reverb. Bass lines meander, scamper around and often disappear altogether; the most startling effect is brought about, for example in the Scarecrow, by omitting the low frequency sounds and then introducing them unexpectedly. (This almost never happens in modern music, which uses bass more or less formulaically, dead-centre and constant, until the listener tunes it out.)
The album opens with Syd, like a child fascinated with a new book on astronomy, stringing together the names of astral bodies into a seamless incantation in Astronomy Domine; it is perhaps the first, and certainly the most evocative, piece of “space rock” ever produced. In Matilda Mother, there are obvious psychedelic parallels in his description of being read a fairy story: “You only have to read the lines of scribbly black and everything shines…” (Vocal harmonies suddenly drench the last word here, creating an unforgettably synaesthetic effect.) In the nonsense song Flaming, where he is “lying on an eiderdown” and “travelling by telephone” there is something euphoric in the way these vocal lines are delivered. It’s typical of his best vocals: artless, sometimes a bit flat, but sung with such teasing knowingness that the listener cannot help being transported to the enchanted space where the lyrics were captured.
One of his songs, Effervescing Elephant, was so obviously a children's song that I managed to get away with teaching it to my class of 8-year-olds to sing at assembly. One of the girls subsequently learned the words by heart and went around singing them to impress her classmates. I wonder if she ever found out its origin.
Syd’s obvious yearning for a more innocent time, amplified by copious LSD use, probably contributed towards his mental breakdown. Sadly, none of his later work after Piper At The Gates of Dawn come from the same land as these early songs. You can only hear the hollow voice of someone completely losing their bearings, as the other musicians struggle to keep to his erratic time signatures. The sound of this lonely encounter with madness is one reason why he has such a cult following, but it is in these few short pieces of English whimsy where his genius lies: See Emily Play, Astronomy Domine, Lucifer Sam, Matilda Mother, Flaming, Bike, the Scarecrow.
Pink Floyd, with a new guitarist who briefly tried to write and sing in Syd Barrett's style, went on to conquer the world as arguably the most artistic of all rock bands, but in a completely different vein, and without any of the lightness of touch that characterised their founder.
Obituary on Pink Floyd fan site
Saturday, July 08, 2006
TRUE GREEN
According to The Observer, Mr David Cameron is courting the "muesli vote" or something. Well, here's something which may surprise him: green voters can see through this kind of cynicism.
Here is another quotation from E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful, which remains startlingly relevant more than thirty years since its publication around the time of the 1970s oil crisis. His critique of Keynesian economics is based on our treating irreplaceable natural capital as mere income; he argues that countries’ pursuit of growth has necessarily institutionalised greed and envy as a basic mechanisms, resulting in instability and conflict worldwide. All other values have been subordinated to the economic one. Drawing on ideas from Gandhi, he comments here on the dehumanisation of work.
“It is only necessary to assert that something would reduce the ‘standard of living’, and every debate is instantly closed. That soul-destroying, meaningless, mechanical, monotonous, moronic work is an insult to human nature which must necessarily and inevitably produce either escapism or aggression, and that no amount of ‘bread and circuses’ can compensate for the damage done – these are facts which are neither denied nor acknowledged but are met with an unbreakable conspiracy of silence – because to deny them would condemn the central preoccupation of society as a crime against humanity.”
Schumacher was a true visionary. It’s incredible to think that, had his ideas been taken seriously at the time, all the foolishness of “Thatcherism” – in whose shadow we still live – might have been avoided. That her successsor is attempting to mask hardline industrial capitalism with a few "green" gimmicks is shameful. It's time that the "muesli voters" took to the streets.
According to The Observer, Mr David Cameron is courting the "muesli vote" or something. Well, here's something which may surprise him: green voters can see through this kind of cynicism.
Here is another quotation from E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful, which remains startlingly relevant more than thirty years since its publication around the time of the 1970s oil crisis. His critique of Keynesian economics is based on our treating irreplaceable natural capital as mere income; he argues that countries’ pursuit of growth has necessarily institutionalised greed and envy as a basic mechanisms, resulting in instability and conflict worldwide. All other values have been subordinated to the economic one. Drawing on ideas from Gandhi, he comments here on the dehumanisation of work.
“It is only necessary to assert that something would reduce the ‘standard of living’, and every debate is instantly closed. That soul-destroying, meaningless, mechanical, monotonous, moronic work is an insult to human nature which must necessarily and inevitably produce either escapism or aggression, and that no amount of ‘bread and circuses’ can compensate for the damage done – these are facts which are neither denied nor acknowledged but are met with an unbreakable conspiracy of silence – because to deny them would condemn the central preoccupation of society as a crime against humanity.”
Schumacher was a true visionary. It’s incredible to think that, had his ideas been taken seriously at the time, all the foolishness of “Thatcherism” – in whose shadow we still live – might have been avoided. That her successsor is attempting to mask hardline industrial capitalism with a few "green" gimmicks is shameful. It's time that the "muesli voters" took to the streets.
Friday, June 30, 2006
ВПЕЧАТЛЕНИЕ О МИНСКЕ
At the end of 2005, when I opted to come here to Minsk to run a course, little did I know that similar assignments in Zurich, Paris, Palma and Palermo would end up being given to colleagues. I felt I’d drawn the short straw. As I was being driven into the city under an overcast sky, I saw nothing in the endless concrete blocks to change my mind. The Director of the school here told me that the architecture was “Stalin-style” and that people loved the city despite the lack of historic buildings – it was completely flattened at the end of WW2, which is known here as the Great Patriotic War, a period in which every fourth citizen died. I struggled for something cheerful to say about the look of the place, and failed.
I stepped out of the car into a clearing in the forest of tower blocks, like in a scene from Eraserhead. They have patchwork surfaces with damp stains. Between them is untended, overgrown grass and dandelions, criss-crossed by broken paths. My heart sank, and a rook squawked as if to mock my discomfort. I was determined not to show any sign of well-heeled squeamishness at the chipped walls, smelly lift and dark old-fashioned decoration of the flat I was ushered into. But all these things rolled together into one thought: Belarus is grim. Then it rained for three days straight.
This is the land the USSR never left – well, except for a 4-year sniff of freedom in the early ‘90s. Travelling round the city, I feel as if in I’m in a looking-glass alternative reality. This is the world I left a few days ago, but everything is a bit different. Women are sweeping the streets spotlessly clean. There’s a distinct lack of bars, and advertising. Billboards have patriotic propaganda posters. There is no graffiti, except “Eminem” scrawled tentatively in a lift. Service in state-run shops is reluctant at best. And every fourth man – surely it can’t be true – is a policeman. The cops, bastard-looking in those huge circular Soviet caps, are everywhere. They throw their weight around, for example by stopping their cars by jaywalkers and yelling four-(Cyrillic)-letter words at them through loudspeakers.
As a foreigner, you feel that people will suspect you of something, though they turn out to be – mostly – very friendly, apart from one instance where I got abuse from a drunk guy on a tram. (My Russian didn’t allow me to interpret his exact words, thankfully.)
I never mention politics, then discover to my surprise that people do it quite freely. Just like at home in “my” world, everyone hates the President. Here, it’s a crime. Yet people are not completely unhappy with the status quo – they certainly prefer this to being overrun by Russian gangsters. My friend asks me what is the difference, anyway, between Mr Lukashenko wielding his might in this restricted sphere, and Bush & Blair doing it globally. You can watch Euro News and access the internet freely (although there are rumours that the government has approached China about buying technology that would prevent this). In the parliament canteen, apparently, members sit round drinking gallons of vodka before going to provide their rubber stamps. And below the main building are nine subterranean levels…
If there was no sex in the USSR, it’s unstoppable in this remnant of the old Empire. Or maybe it was just me, in the heatwave that began a few days later, feeling all charged up with the sun high, high in June. I just couldn’t help noticing that this city is full of great looking women – everywhere. And I couldn’t help looking at them, squeezed together on the trams, hanging out by the fountains in the park during the long summer evenings, waiting in the marble halls of the metro, click-clacking up and down corridors in their thin high heels – which are de rigeur here. Typically, thery’re dyed blondes in tight white trousers that show everything, or tight denim skirts. I guess it’s enjoyable, and makes a clear break with the past, because the regime hasn’t banned this kind of self-expression. All these women are unavailable, though; it’s in the culture here to get married at 17 or 18, certainly before 25. I was told the women make themselves look stunning so that they can keep their men.
“Why do you eat so many vegetables?” asked one of the pretty adminsirators at the language school as she pored over my salad. “Because they’re good.” Probably getting rid of free radicals and all that. On second thoughts, these ones probably won’t! Since my arrival, I’ve learned that Belarus was the worst affected country following Chernobyl, 20 years ago. A whole area of the southern part is off-limits as far as agricultural produce is concerned, and there are villages where after forced evacuation, only the very old have returned to live out their last years. Tragically, young people who grew up in the affected area develop not-so-mysterious cancers; there are thousands of deaths every year, still. Vegetable stalls can be visited by radiation inspectors, and you normally take your Geiger counter with you if you go to pick mushrooms in the forest. I was told I should cut tomatoes and mushrooms in a special way to remove potentially radioactive bits, and not eat the insides of carrots.
Waking up on another sunny morning, I watched a woman cutting the edges of the green areas in front of my block – she is attentive and keeps at it. She doesn’t look ashamed or impatient. I get the feeling – just sentimental, perhaps - that this kind of work is still valued here, by everyone. Money has not (yet) become the sole arbiter of value, except among the young.
There’s no copyright law. So you can pick up MP3 disks with hundreds of songs for $3 each. One stall-owner found it hard to believe that it would be an offence in the West to sell them, and that the police have the power to get information from ISPs and arrest people for downloading music. “And it’s supposed to be a democracy!” he laughed.
There are more obvious good things about a planned society– everyone has a flat or, at least, each family has access to one or two, which doesn’t amount to the same thing. Maybe people don’t take the same pride in them, but this has its benefits: People do not find endless fascination in talking about property prices and doing up property. There are no makeover shows! There is no homelessness at all, although young couples very often have to live with their parents. Everyone, it seems, has a little dacha in the country that they go to every weekend – rather than going shopping – to dig the allotment and swim in a lake. Babushkas return to the city with bundles of spring onions and other produce to sell on the streets.
Last weekend, I went into the country with a few of my trainees. We visited a rural life museum, which was once a real village, with pre-industrial wooden houses and barns full of old butter churns, sleighs, and handlooms. I’m told things are still like this in some places. I would like to say that I plunged into the lake nearby, but it was actually much more tentative because of the muddy bottom and alien podded underwater reeds to negotiate. Lots of young people were out doing the same thing – and I noticed there were a lot of nice cars parked nearby, and some very expensive-looking dachas being built too. (Formerly, there had been a size-limit.) It won’t be too long before aspirations to conspicuous wealth get the upper hand here, as everywhere else. Meanwhile, it’s been a privilege to have a glimpse of a different way of life.
At the end of 2005, when I opted to come here to Minsk to run a course, little did I know that similar assignments in Zurich, Paris, Palma and Palermo would end up being given to colleagues. I felt I’d drawn the short straw. As I was being driven into the city under an overcast sky, I saw nothing in the endless concrete blocks to change my mind. The Director of the school here told me that the architecture was “Stalin-style” and that people loved the city despite the lack of historic buildings – it was completely flattened at the end of WW2, which is known here as the Great Patriotic War, a period in which every fourth citizen died. I struggled for something cheerful to say about the look of the place, and failed.
I stepped out of the car into a clearing in the forest of tower blocks, like in a scene from Eraserhead. They have patchwork surfaces with damp stains. Between them is untended, overgrown grass and dandelions, criss-crossed by broken paths. My heart sank, and a rook squawked as if to mock my discomfort. I was determined not to show any sign of well-heeled squeamishness at the chipped walls, smelly lift and dark old-fashioned decoration of the flat I was ushered into. But all these things rolled together into one thought: Belarus is grim. Then it rained for three days straight.
This is the land the USSR never left – well, except for a 4-year sniff of freedom in the early ‘90s. Travelling round the city, I feel as if in I’m in a looking-glass alternative reality. This is the world I left a few days ago, but everything is a bit different. Women are sweeping the streets spotlessly clean. There’s a distinct lack of bars, and advertising. Billboards have patriotic propaganda posters. There is no graffiti, except “Eminem” scrawled tentatively in a lift. Service in state-run shops is reluctant at best. And every fourth man – surely it can’t be true – is a policeman. The cops, bastard-looking in those huge circular Soviet caps, are everywhere. They throw their weight around, for example by stopping their cars by jaywalkers and yelling four-(Cyrillic)-letter words at them through loudspeakers.
As a foreigner, you feel that people will suspect you of something, though they turn out to be – mostly – very friendly, apart from one instance where I got abuse from a drunk guy on a tram. (My Russian didn’t allow me to interpret his exact words, thankfully.)
I never mention politics, then discover to my surprise that people do it quite freely. Just like at home in “my” world, everyone hates the President. Here, it’s a crime. Yet people are not completely unhappy with the status quo – they certainly prefer this to being overrun by Russian gangsters. My friend asks me what is the difference, anyway, between Mr Lukashenko wielding his might in this restricted sphere, and Bush & Blair doing it globally. You can watch Euro News and access the internet freely (although there are rumours that the government has approached China about buying technology that would prevent this). In the parliament canteen, apparently, members sit round drinking gallons of vodka before going to provide their rubber stamps. And below the main building are nine subterranean levels…
If there was no sex in the USSR, it’s unstoppable in this remnant of the old Empire. Or maybe it was just me, in the heatwave that began a few days later, feeling all charged up with the sun high, high in June. I just couldn’t help noticing that this city is full of great looking women – everywhere. And I couldn’t help looking at them, squeezed together on the trams, hanging out by the fountains in the park during the long summer evenings, waiting in the marble halls of the metro, click-clacking up and down corridors in their thin high heels – which are de rigeur here. Typically, thery’re dyed blondes in tight white trousers that show everything, or tight denim skirts. I guess it’s enjoyable, and makes a clear break with the past, because the regime hasn’t banned this kind of self-expression. All these women are unavailable, though; it’s in the culture here to get married at 17 or 18, certainly before 25. I was told the women make themselves look stunning so that they can keep their men.
“Why do you eat so many vegetables?” asked one of the pretty adminsirators at the language school as she pored over my salad. “Because they’re good.” Probably getting rid of free radicals and all that. On second thoughts, these ones probably won’t! Since my arrival, I’ve learned that Belarus was the worst affected country following Chernobyl, 20 years ago. A whole area of the southern part is off-limits as far as agricultural produce is concerned, and there are villages where after forced evacuation, only the very old have returned to live out their last years. Tragically, young people who grew up in the affected area develop not-so-mysterious cancers; there are thousands of deaths every year, still. Vegetable stalls can be visited by radiation inspectors, and you normally take your Geiger counter with you if you go to pick mushrooms in the forest. I was told I should cut tomatoes and mushrooms in a special way to remove potentially radioactive bits, and not eat the insides of carrots.
Waking up on another sunny morning, I watched a woman cutting the edges of the green areas in front of my block – she is attentive and keeps at it. She doesn’t look ashamed or impatient. I get the feeling – just sentimental, perhaps - that this kind of work is still valued here, by everyone. Money has not (yet) become the sole arbiter of value, except among the young.
There’s no copyright law. So you can pick up MP3 disks with hundreds of songs for $3 each. One stall-owner found it hard to believe that it would be an offence in the West to sell them, and that the police have the power to get information from ISPs and arrest people for downloading music. “And it’s supposed to be a democracy!” he laughed.
There are more obvious good things about a planned society– everyone has a flat or, at least, each family has access to one or two, which doesn’t amount to the same thing. Maybe people don’t take the same pride in them, but this has its benefits: People do not find endless fascination in talking about property prices and doing up property. There are no makeover shows! There is no homelessness at all, although young couples very often have to live with their parents. Everyone, it seems, has a little dacha in the country that they go to every weekend – rather than going shopping – to dig the allotment and swim in a lake. Babushkas return to the city with bundles of spring onions and other produce to sell on the streets.
Last weekend, I went into the country with a few of my trainees. We visited a rural life museum, which was once a real village, with pre-industrial wooden houses and barns full of old butter churns, sleighs, and handlooms. I’m told things are still like this in some places. I would like to say that I plunged into the lake nearby, but it was actually much more tentative because of the muddy bottom and alien podded underwater reeds to negotiate. Lots of young people were out doing the same thing – and I noticed there were a lot of nice cars parked nearby, and some very expensive-looking dachas being built too. (Formerly, there had been a size-limit.) It won’t be too long before aspirations to conspicuous wealth get the upper hand here, as everywhere else. Meanwhile, it’s been a privilege to have a glimpse of a different way of life.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
EARTH DAY 2006: FUN, AND FUTURE POLITICS
Imagine your city without any cars just for a day, or even an afternoon. This is the idea behind Critical Mass, when thousands of cyclists take to the streets in a carnival atmosphere, and often with scant regard for the rules of the road. My earliest memory of this event was making wide arcs in the middle of Tottenham Court Road in London, reclaiming a street from its usual association with slavish Saturday shopping, for the delighted amazement of childhood. You could hear birds sing and a distant faint rushing sound was the only reminder of cars.
The Budapest Critical Mass is an annual event, which makes it more of a crowd-puller than its London equivalent. Imagine a procession of bikes, almost unbroken for a mile or so on the banks of the Danube on both sides and right across two of the bridges. Policemen bargain with the crowd to keep order and the good-natured participants agree to let a tram pass. Every so often the procession halts and cyclists hold their bikes aloft triumphantly, whooping with unrestrained glee. As we head through the tunnel beneath the castle, it’s almost deafening. It’s the sound of a spontaneous, albeit pre-arranged discovery of ‘people power’, a rare enough thing. People smile easily at each other; some have rigged-up sound systems; people of all ages take part. A toddler in a child’s seat gazes round himself mutely; a dreadlocked adolescent experiments with a series of wheelies. Somehow, everyone manages to respect everyone else’s space, gracefully coordinated like birds in flight.
Close to the end of the route, there’s a Brazilian style drum-out, a well-practised band whose thumping music matches exactly the enthusiasm of the crowd, which must be at least fifty thousand, if not twice that.
There’s no real agenda to Critical Mass. There’s probably a vague green leaning here, but nothing resembles a focussed political programme. And so much the better. The contrast between the joy of today’s crowd and the carefully staged pre-election political rallies of two weeks ago (on behalf of both major parties) is marked. Today was the free expression of the human spirit; the former events the result of manipulation. The electorate are far from apathetic - the politics of the future can emerge from such a self-aware, vibrant and non-institutional movement as Critical Mass.
Imagine your city without any cars just for a day, or even an afternoon. This is the idea behind Critical Mass, when thousands of cyclists take to the streets in a carnival atmosphere, and often with scant regard for the rules of the road. My earliest memory of this event was making wide arcs in the middle of Tottenham Court Road in London, reclaiming a street from its usual association with slavish Saturday shopping, for the delighted amazement of childhood. You could hear birds sing and a distant faint rushing sound was the only reminder of cars. The Budapest Critical Mass is an annual event, which makes it more of a crowd-puller than its London equivalent. Imagine a procession of bikes, almost unbroken for a mile or so on the banks of the Danube on both sides and right across two of the bridges. Policemen bargain with the crowd to keep order and the good-natured participants agree to let a tram pass. Every so often the procession halts and cyclists hold their bikes aloft triumphantly, whooping with unrestrained glee. As we head through the tunnel beneath the castle, it’s almost deafening. It’s the sound of a spontaneous, albeit pre-arranged discovery of ‘people power’, a rare enough thing. People smile easily at each other; some have rigged-up sound systems; people of all ages take part. A toddler in a child’s seat gazes round himself mutely; a dreadlocked adolescent experiments with a series of wheelies. Somehow, everyone manages to respect everyone else’s space, gracefully coordinated like birds in flight.
Close to the end of the route, there’s a Brazilian style drum-out, a well-practised band whose thumping music matches exactly the enthusiasm of the crowd, which must be at least fifty thousand, if not twice that.
There’s no real agenda to Critical Mass. There’s probably a vague green leaning here, but nothing resembles a focussed political programme. And so much the better. The contrast between the joy of today’s crowd and the carefully staged pre-election political rallies of two weeks ago (on behalf of both major parties) is marked. Today was the free expression of the human spirit; the former events the result of manipulation. The electorate are far from apathetic - the politics of the future can emerge from such a self-aware, vibrant and non-institutional movement as Critical Mass.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
How is it possible that this beautiful poem was nowhere to be found online? Let's change that. (Potential update: "pressing button A" would now be scrolling and clicking.)
THE INVADING SPRING - Phoebe Hesketh
Man has fenced the wilderness back in the hills;
Tamed in the town he walks on concrete blocks;
And in the park his heart with pleasure fills -
But not at Wordsworth’s school-book daffodils.
No, his delight is catching up with clocks
And turning knobs and pressing button A -
The train is due; there’s half a minute to go
But the lift’s gone down and the escalator’s slow -
Praise God for the Underground this lark-song day!
Breathing, yet dead, his life is caged with steel -
Wire, wheel, and cable - automatic aids
To living - he exists but cannot feel
The slow barbaric beauty that invades
A world at Spring. He moves in crowds and queues
And reads the Morning Star and the Evening News
But cannot read the sky though April beats
A golden fanfare down the dusty streets
And breathes a green breath through the petrol fumes.
Yet a third-floor room is powerless to deny
The feel of leaves, the pollen-smell behind
New flowered cretonnes where a rebel wind
Is strong and blue with ranging through the sky.
And though the files of his mind are entered up
Like office ledgers, unknowing he holds the cup
Brimmed with the light of moons beyond his reach.
The street is thronged with more than he can know -
The Invisibles who know him; without speech
They call him; without form they come and go
And catch him by the sleeve until the slow
Unwilling flesh is beckoned from its task.
Released, he finds the vital stream that spills
A primrose light on sullen window-sills.
THE INVADING SPRING - Phoebe Hesketh
Man has fenced the wilderness back in the hills;
Tamed in the town he walks on concrete blocks;
And in the park his heart with pleasure fills -
But not at Wordsworth’s school-book daffodils.
No, his delight is catching up with clocks
And turning knobs and pressing button A -
The train is due; there’s half a minute to go
But the lift’s gone down and the escalator’s slow -
Praise God for the Underground this lark-song day!
Breathing, yet dead, his life is caged with steel -
Wire, wheel, and cable - automatic aids
To living - he exists but cannot feel
The slow barbaric beauty that invades
A world at Spring. He moves in crowds and queues
And reads the Morning Star and the Evening News
But cannot read the sky though April beats
A golden fanfare down the dusty streets
And breathes a green breath through the petrol fumes.
Yet a third-floor room is powerless to deny
The feel of leaves, the pollen-smell behind
New flowered cretonnes where a rebel wind
Is strong and blue with ranging through the sky.
And though the files of his mind are entered up
Like office ledgers, unknowing he holds the cup
Brimmed with the light of moons beyond his reach.
The street is thronged with more than he can know -
The Invisibles who know him; without speech
They call him; without form they come and go
And catch him by the sleeve until the slow
Unwilling flesh is beckoned from its task.
Released, he finds the vital stream that spills
A primrose light on sullen window-sills.
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