MOURNING OVER
BENOIST MANDELBROT'S
DEATH
BENOIST MANDELBROT'S
DEATH
MAY HE REPOSE IN PEACE
AMONG ENDLESSLY
REPEATING DELIGHTS.
MERCI
AMONG ENDLESSLY
REPEATING DELIGHTS.
MERCI
Paris, October 2010
mercoledì 27 ottobre 2010
venerdì 24 settembre 2010
Music before reason
I do not know any of the opus number of classical scores: I can of course tell you that a Bach is a Bach, and that a Beethoven is what it is, and so on. But do not tell me a number, hoping to hear me singing; and do not interrupt my song, asking what it is!
Still, there are some mysterious moments in which I hear a music, and I have always had it inside me. I find it again as I would find a towel that I know, a home towel, on a foreign table. I have it as the odour of your own apartment. It springs out of me and we never left.
This happened tonight
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrumQ7upLSM&feature=related
It is a weird sensation; I do not know it formally, but it is a part of my person. It is like an ancient memory after an accident.
Indeed, the accident is time.
Never did I hear so much music as when I were an unconscious child. Children are immobilised, they have nothing to do, they have a strong perception and a voracious memory - if you wash them with music, it will never go away - it will stay and impress into the memory and the phantasy and in habit and tastes. It will be clandestin in a meadow of her brain, an occult, profound, forgotten memory: Until when.
This child will find again life, mother and house, when listening to that.
I belong to this group of children, and as often find myself back, as often those scores surprise me. I do not know how many or which one are they, either. I can only recognise those musical parents when I cross them on the street.
But then an arcane force of the brain calls me to life.
And I am home.
God be blessed for the depth of the brain.
Now my tonight's forgotten discourse has a name: Beethoven piano concerto 3 in C minor.
This is the first movement, well played by the old Arthur
http://www.youtube.com/user/MarcInStereo#p/u/5/FetACZlj0_0
Second part
http://www.youtube.com/user/MarcInStereo#p/u/4/9KmaJwBOqW8
Still, there are some mysterious moments in which I hear a music, and I have always had it inside me. I find it again as I would find a towel that I know, a home towel, on a foreign table. I have it as the odour of your own apartment. It springs out of me and we never left.
This happened tonight
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrumQ7upLSM&feature=related
It is a weird sensation; I do not know it formally, but it is a part of my person. It is like an ancient memory after an accident.
Indeed, the accident is time.
Never did I hear so much music as when I were an unconscious child. Children are immobilised, they have nothing to do, they have a strong perception and a voracious memory - if you wash them with music, it will never go away - it will stay and impress into the memory and the phantasy and in habit and tastes. It will be clandestin in a meadow of her brain, an occult, profound, forgotten memory: Until when.
This child will find again life, mother and house, when listening to that.
I belong to this group of children, and as often find myself back, as often those scores surprise me. I do not know how many or which one are they, either. I can only recognise those musical parents when I cross them on the street.
But then an arcane force of the brain calls me to life.
And I am home.
God be blessed for the depth of the brain.
Now my tonight's forgotten discourse has a name: Beethoven piano concerto 3 in C minor.
This is the first movement, well played by the old Arthur
http://www.youtube.com/user/MarcInStereo#p/u/5/FetACZlj0_0
Second part
http://www.youtube.com/user/MarcInStereo#p/u/4/9KmaJwBOqW8
Paris, 24 September 2010
mercoledì 8 settembre 2010
Vampires - a Belgian film
This film may have well have been produced by a Frenchman, and smuggled as Belgian, just for a French to make another joke on the rudeness of their neughbours.
You see it and you think: well, French are not so wrong about Belgians after all, thos film is just gross!
"Vampires" means nothing. The idea is pretty cool and promising: a Belgian TV makes a documentary on the Belgian Vampire community. Cool! Imagine, you spectator, the modern vampires reduced to live in Belgium, and to be perhaps beaten by large blonde men full of beer and boast. Nobody shall thake them too seriously down there!
Or, cool, imagine the fun of getting to know the everyday's troubles of a vampire in modern society - how to get breakfast, how to go to lunch with human colleagues...or, again, how the contact with humans if possible, or, how really threatening they are, or, what they want...
Nothing of al that. Nor a technical expanation, or a moral of the story, or a meaning or a subtle comparison of vampires, with, say, immigrants, Jewish or whatever ethnic group, gays, ...
The story ends where it begins, with a secluded pathriarcal community of vampires, with black humour often misplaced (vampires ridiculising and killing an handicapped), with truculent scenes, with sadistic pieces. For example, an ex-prostitutes being kept as flesh in a fridge, and having an heart attack when sucked at dinner - or a young men terrorized and then beaten up. Or, a mass attack on a villa of humans.
The only trace of plot is the daugther of the vampire family who wants to become human, so will, because she has been only "half-biten" (mal mordue).
All that leaves the spectator with a sense of void, of lost opportunity, and an envy to go vomiting in the closest suitable place.
Paris, 7 September 2010
mercoledì 21 luglio 2010
sabato 1 maggio 2010
Maison de Poupée
Laura (Tautou) est hysterique au début, on s'ennuie un peu de la voir toujour si irréelle et avec une voi toujours acidulée, répeter les memes bétises sans convinction. Mais à la fin, on assiste au réveil du personnage, et au réveil de l'actrice aussi. Elle devienne maitre sur scène, maitre de ce moment de réveil psychologique, elle le reinterprète chaque fois de telle façon qu'on croirait que c'est elle meme, Audrey, qui crée la suite de la pièce, qui arrive à convaincre les personnages, avec sa propre interpretation en ce moment, que ce qu'elle fait est vrai, irrévocable, substantiel.
Il le decouvre petit, mechant, mesquine. Con.
Elle le regarde dans les yeux et se voie dégoutée, maltraitée, abusée. Elle le cloue dans la situation et le quitte immédiatement. La maison croule sur le mari, c'est à lui le vide qui était autrefoi dans l'ame de la petite.
C'est surprenant de voir comme c'est la femme, avec son intention, à rendre réel et possible son propre départ. Le mari le lui "interdit", mais seulement à quelques lignes de distance, il a laisse faire et se conforme à sa volonté. Rien d'argumentatif ne s'est passé entretemps, mais Ibsen laisse seulement le tamp pour faire briller devant le spectateur le pouvoir de l'intention d'une femme. Elle est ferme, trop ferme parfois - devant la supplique d'un mari-patron et la promesse de changer, je n'aurais pas resisté, personne peut-etre ne l'aurait fait. Le plus surprenant reste le spectacle d'un réveil, d'une prise de coscience, comme un foudre qui nous élance vers l'idée du monde et nous fait apercevoir l'horreur du temps passé sans reflechir, dans l'assujetissement brutal aux consuetudes, à la routines, aux soi-disants supérieurs.
Remarquable aussi que le dèpart de la famme écrase le mari: la vieille histoire du serf-patron: le patron n'est rien de plus que l'opinion du serf.
On ne saurait pas quelle partie de toute cette beauté est due à la pièce ou à l'interpretation: signe qu'il s'agit d'une très bonne production.
Theatre de la Madeleine, Paris, jusqu'au 22 mai, 20 Euros bien depensés.
If you want to hear the opposite opinion in English, please read out loud here:
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/d6035938-261f-11df-aff3-00144feabdc0.html
They are not wrong, there is no three-dimensional stuff. They are right. The first part is boring. But guys, I liked it. Hot.
Audrey is anorexic, she plays as an anorexic, but the good point is that also Nora is an anorexic character, so there is good chances that Audrey gets along well with the job, therefore, that the job is good.
It is also true that her dress is a bit too complicated, but frankly I do not give a shit
lunedì 1 marzo 2010
Differenz
The main difference between philosophy and sociology is that sociology has as its highest objective the description or explanation of the organization of the human crowd, whereas philosophy may (or not) produce an image of human assembly as one consequence, among many others, of the explication of a unique first principle which informs the whole reality.
Therefore sociology may be more "vraisemblable", but is paradoxically more myop.
Sociology looks more appealing and popular - it can explain you why you would better gift your nighbour with a box of chocolate rather than with a fridge (A.O. Hirschman, Felicità privata, Felicità pubblica), or why you tend to refer to your family rather than your boss to adress a problem if you are a conservative. Sociology gives you the feeling to catch the complexity of the mud you are into, in the social mess. To me, it has always secretely looked like the test results of a feminine magazine - it appeals to senses and curiosity, and sits between psychology and economics.
Therefore sociology may be more "vraisemblable", but is paradoxically more myop.
Sociology looks more appealing and popular - it can explain you why you would better gift your nighbour with a box of chocolate rather than with a fridge (A.O. Hirschman, Felicità privata, Felicità pubblica), or why you tend to refer to your family rather than your boss to adress a problem if you are a conservative. Sociology gives you the feeling to catch the complexity of the mud you are into, in the social mess. To me, it has always secretely looked like the test results of a feminine magazine - it appeals to senses and curiosity, and sits between psychology and economics.
martedì 9 febbraio 2010
Over PW's death
so.
Because we are fed up of mourning over nothing.
Because people die, grandfathers die, and the real mystery is to see a strong personality, which represented a wall in the whole mansion of your life, pass away, suddenly disappear, come back to nothing.
People grow and root themselves in this world, and then suddenly leave.
We are not eternal, and this conscience and awareness which accompany us in the world, is to be swept soon.
Consequently, thought about giving oneself death, or the feeling of absurdity facing the desappearing of someone, is a sympthom that we are out of place.
Because we are fed up of mourning over nothing.
Because people die, grandfathers die, and the real mystery is to see a strong personality, which represented a wall in the whole mansion of your life, pass away, suddenly disappear, come back to nothing.
People grow and root themselves in this world, and then suddenly leave.
We are not eternal, and this conscience and awareness which accompany us in the world, is to be swept soon.
Consequently, thought about giving oneself death, or the feeling of absurdity facing the desappearing of someone, is a sympthom that we are out of place.
sabato 5 dicembre 2009
Nightmare [draft]
if you want to stop your nightmares
Just drink and sleep, or try not to fall asleep
Once you have fallen
you're in the dark tunnel
where you can't move, where you can't say
"you, dark obsessions, I'll now sweep you away"
The fixed thought you couldn't move
at daylight, is there now, under his grave
survived, was nourished and grew up
fed of your effort to throw him away
Now it is his empire - when your guard is loose
he will come at night and make you his
he will flourish on your brain and corpse
and make you his
Colour voices dark and eyesights
everything it will take and turn against you
after many hours of despair
morning'd come again and find him pale
Just for a while - he's rooted on your mind
and waits for you again
to fall asleep at night
to suck your veins.
Don't sleep and make you weaker
or sleep and take some poison for your brain
kill your mind and try cover your awareness
of benzene, deathlike blanket, but in vain.
Paris 5 december 2009
mercoledì 25 novembre 2009
I saw Paradise
I have been to Paradise tonight.
I have rejoiced like a Walhalla generating Gods. Really. I have listened to Aldo Ciccolini at the Salle Pleyel, Saint-Saens Concerto number Four for Piano and Orchestra.
Listening to that has been like flying - like a dream of a deep deep sllep, bur colored, peaceful and clear.
This man has conceived and performed with such a masculine attitude and a formidable control . everything was clearest and sliding like oil in the mayonnaise. He was like swinging on the notes...
Ho ascoltato Aldo Ciccolini alla Salle Pleyel stasera. Non mi era mai successo di ascoltare un concerto così, tanto più che io conosco bene Aldo, il suo modo di prendere la musica, come pensa le cose prima e mentre le suona, e quindi potevo solo intuire, dal muto prodotto finito, il pensiero e la vita che vi era maturata dietro.
Il Quarto Concerto di Saint Saens è di una difficoltà tecnica spaventosa, ma nulla era rimasto dello sforzo tecnico. Lo sforzo tecnico era stato sciacquato via, ed è rimasto solamente la chiarità e il controllo. Ha suonato in modo molto maschio, virile, su uno Stainway che aveva un suono dolcissimo, e i due insieme cantavano. Non ha paura di appoggiare le note dove bisogna, di marcare con fermezza il tema, di cantare lui setsso come un'orchestra intera, di avere voci ben superiori e voci subordinate allo stesso tempo.
La cosa più notevole di tutto il concerto è stata questa assenza di paura, questa calma profonda, questa compiutezza, ma vivente in sommo grado. Tutto era di colore caldo, dal bianco al beige al nocciola. è stato tuto un succedersi di contenuti di significato (senso Sinn), di Ragione, di chiarezza universale espletata, al ritmo del calmo respiro interiore dell'universo. è questo il motivo per cui ascoltando questa sera Aldo si aveva l'impressione di volare.
Da notare che glissava sulle scale e sugli arpeggi come se pattinasse sul ghiaccio, e quasi senza che si sentisse l'uso del pedale sotto, lo Steinway cantava come un cigno, più che pulito, come un cristallo colorato. Quando interveniva con l'orchestra, faceva come una spuma di note, come la spuma del mare, come il bianco montato a neve delle uova - tutto è perfetto, lo sforzo non è più sforzo, è quello che è rimasto dopo decenni di meditazione, di abitudine, di lavoro, quando ormai non ci si pensa più. è la sublimazione di tutto. non resta che la schiuma del cappuccino, di tutto il dolore delle piantagioni di caffè, ed è tutto chiaro, limpido, significativo, ordinato, colorato e bello nella forma.
Quel concerto di Saent-Saens ha una forma atipica, aperta, malleabile, è un'apertura polmonare, è una sera fresca d'estate con l'aria che circola - e questo suo effetto naturale dovuto alla costruzione architettonica, insieme a questo suonare spumeggiante - ma docilissimo! - del pianoforte dell'esecuzione, lo rende una manifestazione della Ragione particolarmente attraente. è di gradevolissimo ascolto.
Aldo dopo 15 minuti dalla fine era ancora paonazzo, esausto, ricaduto nell'umanità, semincosciente dalla fatica. Io stessa me ne sono sorpresa, io che pure so quanto sia faticoso suonare, con la luce calda del palco, e in più l'orchestra, e la fatica fisica, e la concentrazione, e il vestito - eppure mi sono sorpresa tanto era ordinato e controllato il tutto.
Ho avuto dei sobbalzi, mentre sentivo, e degli effetti fisici e mentali strani, pelle d'oca, tic incontrollati, come quando si è immersi in un sonno profondissimo. è stato come sognare, durante quei sonni profondi che si hanno in montagna o dopo l'amore fisico, ma con la differenza che qui ogni filo di nebbia era dissipato e tutto si stagliava chiaro.
Questo genere di cose, questa cosa, questo concerto, ci mostra che la vita umana sulla Terra, e l'azione propriamente umana sulla Terra, ha un senso suo proprio e una verità sua propria. Ci mostra atresì la portata ela verità di ciò che non è scientifico e di ciò che non è "logica naturale" o suo derivato.
Ci eleva e ci richiama al nostro sgnificato di uomini, così come lo fanno i santi, i grandissimi generali, i veri amanti, Dante Alighieri.
Parigi, 25 Novembre 2009
You can hear the concert here,
1. Allegro moderato - Andante
2. Allegro vivace - Andante - Allegro
Incipit and first movement
I have rejoiced like a Walhalla generating Gods. Really. I have listened to Aldo Ciccolini at the Salle Pleyel, Saint-Saens Concerto number Four for Piano and Orchestra.
Listening to that has been like flying - like a dream of a deep deep sllep, bur colored, peaceful and clear.
This man has conceived and performed with such a masculine attitude and a formidable control . everything was clearest and sliding like oil in the mayonnaise. He was like swinging on the notes...
Il Quarto Concerto di Saint Saens è di una difficoltà tecnica spaventosa, ma nulla era rimasto dello sforzo tecnico. Lo sforzo tecnico era stato sciacquato via, ed è rimasto solamente la chiarità e il controllo. Ha suonato in modo molto maschio, virile, su uno Stainway che aveva un suono dolcissimo, e i due insieme cantavano. Non ha paura di appoggiare le note dove bisogna, di marcare con fermezza il tema, di cantare lui setsso come un'orchestra intera, di avere voci ben superiori e voci subordinate allo stesso tempo.
La cosa più notevole di tutto il concerto è stata questa assenza di paura, questa calma profonda, questa compiutezza, ma vivente in sommo grado. Tutto era di colore caldo, dal bianco al beige al nocciola. è stato tuto un succedersi di contenuti di significato (senso Sinn), di Ragione, di chiarezza universale espletata, al ritmo del calmo respiro interiore dell'universo. è questo il motivo per cui ascoltando questa sera Aldo si aveva l'impressione di volare.
Da notare che glissava sulle scale e sugli arpeggi come se pattinasse sul ghiaccio, e quasi senza che si sentisse l'uso del pedale sotto, lo Steinway cantava come un cigno, più che pulito, come un cristallo colorato. Quando interveniva con l'orchestra, faceva come una spuma di note, come la spuma del mare, come il bianco montato a neve delle uova - tutto è perfetto, lo sforzo non è più sforzo, è quello che è rimasto dopo decenni di meditazione, di abitudine, di lavoro, quando ormai non ci si pensa più. è la sublimazione di tutto. non resta che la schiuma del cappuccino, di tutto il dolore delle piantagioni di caffè, ed è tutto chiaro, limpido, significativo, ordinato, colorato e bello nella forma.
Quel concerto di Saent-Saens ha una forma atipica, aperta, malleabile, è un'apertura polmonare, è una sera fresca d'estate con l'aria che circola - e questo suo effetto naturale dovuto alla costruzione architettonica, insieme a questo suonare spumeggiante - ma docilissimo! - del pianoforte dell'esecuzione, lo rende una manifestazione della Ragione particolarmente attraente. è di gradevolissimo ascolto.
Aldo dopo 15 minuti dalla fine era ancora paonazzo, esausto, ricaduto nell'umanità, semincosciente dalla fatica. Io stessa me ne sono sorpresa, io che pure so quanto sia faticoso suonare, con la luce calda del palco, e in più l'orchestra, e la fatica fisica, e la concentrazione, e il vestito - eppure mi sono sorpresa tanto era ordinato e controllato il tutto.
Ho avuto dei sobbalzi, mentre sentivo, e degli effetti fisici e mentali strani, pelle d'oca, tic incontrollati, come quando si è immersi in un sonno profondissimo. è stato come sognare, durante quei sonni profondi che si hanno in montagna o dopo l'amore fisico, ma con la differenza che qui ogni filo di nebbia era dissipato e tutto si stagliava chiaro.
Questo genere di cose, questa cosa, questo concerto, ci mostra che la vita umana sulla Terra, e l'azione propriamente umana sulla Terra, ha un senso suo proprio e una verità sua propria. Ci mostra atresì la portata ela verità di ciò che non è scientifico e di ciò che non è "logica naturale" o suo derivato.
Ci eleva e ci richiama al nostro sgnificato di uomini, così come lo fanno i santi, i grandissimi generali, i veri amanti, Dante Alighieri.
You can hear the concert here,
1. Allegro moderato - Andante
2. Allegro vivace - Andante - Allegro
Incipit and first movement
Second part of first movement (too slow)
First part of second movement - Cortot 1935
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RjP52u4Y218&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RjP52u4Y218&feature=related
sabato 21 novembre 2009
Night of music at the Louvre
That night, I wanted have myself a real good time... so I bought for 5.5 Eur a ticket for the concert in the Auditorium of the Louvre Museum, in the framework of the so-called Vendredi du Louvre.
The Hungarian Quatuor Takash was playing, in a minimalistic, wrapped auditorium.
The deconcerting point of this concert was that this people, when they play, they really bacome a sole animal with four legs, and they have an extraordinary coordination. They began with a contemporary music piece, by Rihm, something too uniform and uninventive to be as long as 40 minutes. But the very amazing part of it was seeing this quartet not missing a beat, and staying all glued-up together. They were puppets in the hand of a sole big player, they were as together as the seaweed under the water, independent but all moved by the very same and invisible exterior force, uniformly, at the same moment and in the same way. This force acting in the material void, which seemed to animate them, was the starking point of the whole piece.
Someone was snoring near me - I could not feel I was too warm for forgetting to take my jacket off, I did not feel the great hunger I had after 11 hours of work, I forgot to be tired.
And this, especially when they went on with a quartet by Beethoven 
The fourteenth quartet by Beethoven is a very interesting thing, because there Beethoven informally experimented whatever he could. It is like, when you cook and try to invent a totally new dish. A lot of things are there, in this kind of "musical atelier": dynamics are all stretched (Adagios are in fact Allegros, and vice-versa), poliphonic construction, of course encouraged by the fact of having four musical lines to bring forward at any time, gives place to manierism, and then again, after a minutes, the lines are broken and decorticated anew. And it begins with a new theme built on one or two voices in dialogue with other two lines, and so on.
The fourteenth quartet by Beethoven is a very interesting thing, because there Beethoven informally experimented whatever he could. It is like, when you cook and try to invent a totally new dish. A lot of things are there, in this kind of "musical atelier": dynamics are all stretched (Adagios are in fact Allegros, and vice-versa), poliphonic construction, of course encouraged by the fact of having four musical lines to bring forward at any time, gives place to manierism, and then again, after a minutes, the lines are broken and decorticated anew. And it begins with a new theme built on one or two voices in dialogue with other two lines, and so on. There are like six or seven movements in this quartet, all linked together seamlessly, and at some point an artificial echo of pizzicatos takes place shared by the four musicians, which require an extreme sense of rythm and coordination amongst them.
This music sounds so scadalistic and modern, almost like Rihm, but without losing the depth that Beethoven is capable of (especially at the very beginning, where the dynamic is a Very espressivo).
I noticed that in Takash Quartet, the cello wants always to dominate the scene, which creates at the end a certain umbalance and boredom in the quartet. It is true, that having well-marked bass is a plus, but having a drama queen at the cello is a bit different, indeed. I also noticed that the second violin would never never come out, and I thought what a weird life is it, to be a second violin alone, destined to anonimity and gregariousness for the rest of your life, with no line ever that you (or your fellows at least if you are in an orchestra) could never bring out.
What this quartet leaves you is a sense of clarity, efficiency, transparency and awareness. I got out at 9:20 (they ended 5 minutes ahead of schedule, like a Swiss train) feeling extremely awake, warm, vigilant, proactive and sure.
This is what good music, good rythm and perfect coordination may profond in a compassionate listener.
giovedì 12 novembre 2009
Mic macs à Tire-Larigot
C'est le premier film par Jean Pierre Jeunet qui parle de mort, c'est un film mort, substentiellement, où la poésie est réduite en frivolité, les philtres colorés de la machine à prise ne produisent que de monochromes et des hyper-foncés, où il n'y a plus de paix, mais seulement hysterisme.
La seule chose qui nous rappèle le bon Jeunet balancé de Delicatessen et Amélie sont les reprises de la ville, Paris, et de la Seine en particulier, avec ses beaux quais. Ainsi, je crois que certains parties ont été travaillés près du siège du parti communiste (et Pont de Crimée, Pont de l'Ourcq, Quai de la Marne).
Il y a bien des clichés, et beaucoup d'auto-reférences: un mec qui échappe dans une maison en se cachant dans la corbeille (comme en Delicatessen), la reminiscence du cirque avec la contorsioniste, une auto-reference de Pinon dans Delicatessen, qui joue l'ancien artiste les larmes aux yeux, (une grande partie du cast est celle de Un long dimanche de fiançaille), des longue parties se deroulantes sur les toits des maisons (etrangements, très similes à ceux de Delicatessen), la réference claire à Delicatessen à travers le duo violon-couteau, ....
Mais, si on avait eu un peu plus de Dominique Pinon (le bon acteur à Jeunet, qui parait dans tous ses films) et un peu moins des effets spéciaux Warner Bros (producteur), il aurait eté beaucoup mieux. Le film touche plein de thèmes "hots" sans reussir vraiment à etre incisif sur aucun d'eux: on ne sent pas l'indignation avec le protagoniste, quand il entend le marchand d'armes qui ont tué son père plaisanter sur sa profession; il ne nous fait pas réflechir quand il touche le thème de l'importance des média et des réseaux partagés comme YouTube, il ne nous émoit pas quand il montre une jeune noire obligées à saboter une usine par un riche blanc, par crainte d'etre renvoyée en Afrique.
Il ne nous fait pas rire quand il décide de montrer l'humiliation et la derision des marchands d'armes, qui ne sont réduits qu'à des guignoles.
Tout ça rend le film emotivement silencieux - par contre, les émotions négatives sont là: l'explosion d'une usine, et la crainte pour les vies innocentes, la facilité de voler des armes et de s'approvisionner de drogue, la force du crime organisé, la perseverance dans la vengeance, la violence d'un homme qui détruit un ordinateur car il est embeté.
C'est trop peu de se dire, que les délits commis par le protagoniste sont une très petite vengeance par rapport au meurtre d'un père et quasi-meurtre d'un fils perpetrés par ses ennemis. Mais ce qu'on ressent à la fin est toujours un sense d'injustice, de guerre, d'irresolu.
Et en plus, on peu reprocher au petit Jeunet d'avoir fait du marketing dans le film: Citroen, supermarchés Ed, Moulin Rouge. Masse.
For an enthousiast review, please access http://www.bfi.org.uk/lff/node/445
sabato 10 ottobre 2009
What Amelie stands for
Two films by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, the creator of the well-known Amelie Poulenc, has existed even before the film popped out, and namely produced two main works, of which I will talk tonight: La Cité des enfants perdus (The city of lost children), 1995, and Delicatessen, 1991.
Albeit la Cité is more recent than Delicatessen, Delicatessen is so very much better, since it reaches an equilibrium that is later only aggravated, broken, stigmatized.
The two films mirror each other, albeit Cité is about children and dreams, and Delicatessen about selfish adultness. But, apart from this, everything returns: the grotesque, the little flourishing in a disintegrated, post-apocalyptic world of innocence and freshness, unconsciousness, and a final destruction triggered by the divine, unconcious operating of the sinergy of two innocent human beings.
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Recurrent themes in the two films are the circus, the underground living, the isolation of the setting, some sense of totalitarian order, the presence of infimous, sometimed disgusting animals, the sight limitation, the interconnectedness of events which lets an individual save himself unconsciusly thanks to a material unwanted effect of its desperation which triggers a series of mechanical events, and finally the solution to its pain. It always begins with some established order of things which is bluntly unharmonious and distorted, and then the upsurge of something that switches on the reactions, wakes up the dead and kills the unconscious. A sight on sacrality of life as such and of the benignity of nature is always there, as well as of the strong power of arts such as music or dance. Nobody who is not a machine really dies. Who dies is a machine, or someone who wants to die. From this point of view, we can say that Jeunet's films have a happy end.
What marks them is however this idea of grotesque, disgust and violence which is probably given by his co-author Marc Caro, which is always ther in films.
I reviewed the City of Lost children and I found it a nightmare tonight. There is all the psychotic deformation, all the very evil masquerade dressed up in fairy tale, all the eluded sex and love, and moreover, it is so psychotic which is concentrated on dreams - which is so frightening to sleep after having seen it.
This sense of alarm does not arise in a little Jeunet's jewel: Foutaises.
This is Paris - this is what I like most, with its very sensual charme - "J'aime le Bois de Boulogne les jours feriés" - the actors are always the same: Dominique Pinon, a fascist, a woman - and always, a very appropriate use of music and colours.
domenica 4 ottobre 2009
Metablog - open letter
Dear all,
since layout is hardly achievable from these column, this blog may possibly emigrate to another provider, like, after all, his owner - which has migrated to food providers across Europe since 2007.
This unless some conservative thoughts knock to my head, some heart-affairs with Google does break into, or any of my readers suggests me how to achieve an acceoptable layout (i.e. ...having the paragraph actually being there, how they are in the draft!).
Walls do not make good to anybody - walls of words, neither.
And I am all for the good, so...
Margui
sabato 3 ottobre 2009
Review: Horvath, Figaro divorces
I am again about the idea of death. this is just phantasizing for the moment, but the dark thought that there is no real place for me in this realm is coming to knock to my brain again. And I am finding it somehow seductive.
And it was in an attempt to divert my attention from this circle that I invited myself to the Comedie Française tonight, havung a nice ticket for 5.50 Eur.
A real deal.
Someone told they are good at traditional French theatre, such as Molière, and very bad at the rest. This is a lie. I saw tonight "Figaro divorces" by Odon von Horvath, a Hungarian Jew dead at 37 in Paris in 1938. It is a pièce about a couple of aristocrats forced to fleed when French revolution irrupts in their town. Their respective personal servants, Figaro and Susanna, drive them out of trouble and lead their journey.
The story is delicate and sharp enough to give you the sense of a disapted life, the one of the fleed noble, who lets his wife die because he is not capable to adapt to a "bourgeoise"; who, being abroad and drunkard, when coming back to his country, loses the hope in a new life, after having lost every goods and tries to die on his land, on his bare dark land, under a nightly forest rain.
It also gives you the sense of what it means to be a foreigner, an immigrant, in a place where you are (almost) the only one - what I am also somewhat experiencing here.
The best role is played by the male aristocrat, not by the opportunistic Figaro - and the interpretation of the actor at the Comedie Française was very good - it transmitted the paradigmatic idea of an obsolete beauty, and let the public smell the honour of a remote ethic and world.
The staging is excellent, with a rotating machine acting as scene-setter, as the only machine of the theatre and as the fulcrum of scenic effects - a very effective device, used since Greek tragedy times.
The end is spectacular, with actors receiving the plause of the public while standing on the borders of the rotating base of the machine - like a chinese plate in the middle of the table.
sabato 12 settembre 2009
My Saturday in Paris - experimental
The last thing I did today was to get some dirt in order to cover up a geranium branch that I found fallen from a windiw in avenue de Choisy yesyerday. A burial, indeed, but one which gives life and new dignity to this fallen geranium. I will call him Jon or Edmond, or Egmont. I am happy we are two in this room, now. He is happy and red, and promising.
Before that I was at the Panthéon, and precisely in rue de la Montaigne de Sainte Geneviève, where I spotted a Tibetan restaurant - well, we think a lot on Tibetans, but not that they eat something that they are used to prepare themselves - this is why I got surprised to find that restaurant, probably. Before that I was in a record-shop, open at 10 pm, full of dear old stuff, especially classical and jazz. The owner was dressed as cyclist and just come back from a 210 km tour until the (northern French) sea. He was making jokes at me, a bit blutantly, so that I was happier before, when I discovered a café called La Méthode just in rue Descartes and I saw a young lady making jokes with her friends. It emanated a sense of enthousiasm and life, and I felt part of all that, part of the young ladies smiling and of the love and tenderness of couples in the underground, who kiss themselves while waiting for the station to come.
Why was I there at that time? Well, because I headed off for the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève,
in search of some notions. Well, it is a very wonderful place, with insertions of green leather at the walls, with fresques, statues, old woodden tables and green lamps - I found it touching that they did that just beside the Panthéon, so that this place stays living and full of thoughts and studies, albeit turistic and institutional, too. Most wonderfully, libraries in Paris tend to stay open late at noght, expressely to permit to those who work to read if they wish. This is a sign of great civilization. Still, you might not borrow books. Imagine a British library which closes at 10 pm, indeed. On the other hand, some libraries are not that "democratic" i.e. you need to belong to some schools in order to be admitted (to read books!), or, as an alternative, you do not belong to the school but someone swears you need that library for your studies, so a derogation is made.
The library Sainte Genévève derives from the collections af the Abbé of Sainte Geneviève, whose chourch is there, still, white, wonderfully intricated and happily medieval. On Sundays, there is something else open: the library on the Centre Pompidou, whose conception, modern and efficient (close to the conception of Sormani library in Milan, whereas S. Geneviève would be more like the Brera library) is suits the average student better.
There, it is all open-shelf, but what is most remarkable is the shifting of point of view in the creation of the idea of "public". In fact, ther eyou have a collection of French literature translated in other languages ( a very smart way to give diffusion to French literature indeed!), a very large platform for language-learning (including French for foreigners!) and a space where you cann see television from all over the world: CNN, CCTV (China), RaiUno, BBC, BBCworld and so on.
All that because the National Library is closed until 20th September for holiday. ZUT!
Before that I was at the Panthéon, and precisely in rue de la Montaigne de Sainte Geneviève, where I spotted a Tibetan restaurant - well, we think a lot on Tibetans, but not that they eat something that they are used to prepare themselves - this is why I got surprised to find that restaurant, probably. Before that I was in a record-shop, open at 10 pm, full of dear old stuff, especially classical and jazz. The owner was dressed as cyclist and just come back from a 210 km tour until the (northern French) sea. He was making jokes at me, a bit blutantly, so that I was happier before, when I discovered a café called La Méthode just in rue Descartes and I saw a young lady making jokes with her friends. It emanated a sense of enthousiasm and life, and I felt part of all that, part of the young ladies smiling and of the love and tenderness of couples in the underground, who kiss themselves while waiting for the station to come.
Why was I there at that time? Well, because I headed off for the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève,
in search of some notions. Well, it is a very wonderful place, with insertions of green leather at the walls, with fresques, statues, old woodden tables and green lamps - I found it touching that they did that just beside the Panthéon, so that this place stays living and full of thoughts and studies, albeit turistic and institutional, too. Most wonderfully, libraries in Paris tend to stay open late at noght, expressely to permit to those who work to read if they wish. This is a sign of great civilization. Still, you might not borrow books. Imagine a British library which closes at 10 pm, indeed. On the other hand, some libraries are not that "democratic" i.e. you need to belong to some schools in order to be admitted (to read books!), or, as an alternative, you do not belong to the school but someone swears you need that library for your studies, so a derogation is made.
The library Sainte Genévève derives from the collections af the Abbé of Sainte Geneviève, whose chourch is there, still, white, wonderfully intricated and happily medieval. On Sundays, there is something else open: the library on the Centre Pompidou, whose conception, modern and efficient (close to the conception of Sormani library in Milan, whereas S. Geneviève would be more like the Brera library) is suits the average student better.
There, it is all open-shelf, but what is most remarkable is the shifting of point of view in the creation of the idea of "public". In fact, ther eyou have a collection of French literature translated in other languages ( a very smart way to give diffusion to French literature indeed!), a very large platform for language-learning (including French for foreigners!) and a space where you cann see television from all over the world: CNN, CCTV (China), RaiUno, BBC, BBCworld and so on.
All that because the National Library is closed until 20th September for holiday. ZUT!
lunedì 31 agosto 2009
So, Paris
Paris - full of irony and sensuality. One good reason for which I accepted to move here is that I found an ironic eye on my would-be colleagues, and people I encounter. A sort of badly conceived gaiety, which puts what you are actually doing in a broader context of light life.
I do live next to the Liberty Statue - the original. It seems small and nobody cares, everyone is looking to the other side, to the lights of the Tour Eiffel.
I admired the Tour Eiffel from a bridge on the green and silent Seine tonight, The tower was golden yellow in the blue-black sky at 9 pm, and seemed an A hanged from above. 
Women in Paris go and co-habit with fiancés at the age of 20 - which lets me speechless. Inhabitant women are statuarious, with straight strong legs and think hair, they speak of good wealth and fertility and their skin is bronzed - they seem like young reliable horses and you are afraid they might walk on you on the street if you do not watch out.^p
My neighborhood was full of electric lightin apartments, banquets in houses, brasseries filled with people. I went to a Vietnamese brasserie and then for a small walk. My heart has been empty, like the empty heart of the immigrant the first day he lands, alone. Not empty with terror, just empty with nothing. Horrible to remember, imperceptible to live.
In these cases - when this happen, the best thing to do is being receptive and admiring smth.
First impressions of cities are always wrong.
Women in Paris go and co-habit with fiancés at the age of 20 - which lets me speechless. Inhabitant women are statuarious, with straight strong legs and think hair, they speak of good wealth and fertility and their skin is bronzed - they seem like young reliable horses and you are afraid they might walk on you on the street if you do not watch out.^p
My neighborhood was full of electric lightin apartments, banquets in houses, brasseries filled with people. I went to a Vietnamese brasserie and then for a small walk. My heart has been empty, like the empty heart of the immigrant the first day he lands, alone. Not empty with terror, just empty with nothing. Horrible to remember, imperceptible to live.
In these cases - when this happen, the best thing to do is being receptive and admiring smth.
First impressions of cities are always wrong.
giovedì 9 luglio 2009
Berlusconianism and the Modern State
By Clara Schulze Italian TV news failed to adequately report on the latest scandal surrounding Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi – namely, the alleged attempt by a real estate manager to bribe the premier using women instead of money. The newspaper “La Repubblica”, which has instead extensively covered the story, also pointed out that 4 Italians out of 5 do not read newspapers, but rely entirely on TV news. This may be a common international trend, but in Italy it is a reason for worry since 85% of major Italian TV news are owned by Silvio Berlusconi himself. It is part of Italian culture to take an anti-scandalistic perspective on happenings, especially if they are unrelated to political performance. Still, it is true that the non-existence of a decent political opposition in Italy has helped the deterioration of political accountability and transparency and this has been reflected in the quality of information available to citizens. The character that media communication has taken in Italy is not consistent with the model of democratic government - it holds more resemblance to the propaganda commonly used in developing countries or in former European regimes. But this is not yet the worst that Italy can expect from media communication. English press, always keen on scandals and rumours about private life of public figures, confesses its astonishment for the fact that Berlusconi will not resign. The mere fact that the personal behaviour of a politician might or might not constitute a ground for his dismissal is central to the question. In fact, from a Berluscon-ian point of view, there is no ground for resigning. Berlusconi owes his popularity to extending his personal-style managerial ideas to public functions. People like him because he is a “smart guy”, because he knew how to make money and because he can be alien to the boring, useless State ceremonial. He is smarter, uses common sense to waive bureaucratic burdensome procedures and achieves new results, namely obtaining an unprecedented amount of funding from the European Institutions to help solving domestic issues. But, above all, he is “fun”. This is the rationale behind the jokes he is famous for during diplomatic gatherings. This is also explains some of his claims, like the pledge to reduce the number of Parliamentarians and the fact that any scandal or objection he encounters is rebuked as a manifestation of personal envy from the poorer, less successful and disorganized Italian Leftist. But, by doing so – through his anti-bureaucratic, anti-ceremonialist, private-sector approach to politics - Berlusconi is eroding the structures which are essential to modern State, and which in Italy may be already weaker than in other European countries, due to the historical fragmentation of the country and to the survival of anti-state organization within its territory (read: Mafia). When the Parliament is dismissed as boring, and too expensive, the judges are mocked, and, on the other side, Berlusconi surrounds himself with an inexistent party and insignificant or flattering co-operators, and proposes himself as a candidate not because of this program, but because of this person, then there is no point in being too surprised that he proceeds to the appointment of personal friends to public position, or that he behaves unconventionally with respect to his public role. Italians have called exactly for this, and his consensus relies on his ability to “win” external negotiation and to be “the smart guy of the group”. This pattern has a very dangerous side-effect in the long run, which is, the lack of support of Italian to their own State, which paradoxically makes the very game of Berlusconi. If you talk of politics with an Italian, most times he will encourage some form of blame on Berlusconi, he will confirm you the decline of the nation and his distrust in the State. Such attitude is unfortunately far away from humour and badly hides a growing shame for being Italian. Beware: not for having this or those premier behaving in a certain way during particular occasions, but for belonging to the Italian nation itself. The concepts of Berlusconi and Italy are now becoming blurred, in the mind of Italians even more than in the mind of foreigners. This leads to a vicious circle. The more Modern State in Italy is despised as such by citizens, the more they are likely to see its institutions from a Berlusconian, managerial point of view and accept to see them bypassed by the “strong man” initiative. What should be made clear is that the germ of the problem relies in Italian citizens themselves, who continue to choose to despise their country by voting the one who is happy to make it ridiculous. Instead of blaming circumstances and cry for secessions, they would need instead to re-think their approach and become more clear about what they want from politics. Of course, Berlusconi’s TV news will not help this process to develop.
lunedì 6 luglio 2009
Farewell at the Serpentine
I took some white bread and went say my goodbyes to all the grey ducks of the lake Serpentine But someone had fed them, so they'd went away thus turning that party into'a lonely stay The heat was just fading, the day almost gone the day was reflexing the mirroring sun In such pond of light was my mind then all stuck beginning to think to my old yellow duck That love which was crossing the Channel and Alps had now become weaker and come to a halt The bread that once fed all his shuddering soul now seems to this duck distasteful and cold The passion of senses will fade with the time I sit now lonely at the Serpentine The threats and the whispers now, man, come in vain The party is over, it's now time for pain Apollon and Venus had paid for this play rewarding us both with sucj wonderful days The drama is now over, the curtains now close The Serpentine rocks me, the sky smiles, all rose.
sabato 4 luglio 2009
Drunkenness and truth
Drunkenness. Withdrawal of awareness. Lowering barriers.
I have seen him dealing with drunk people, and he is outstanding in doing this. He is rough, speak loud and detached, as a nurse would do with an elderly patient in the hospital. Exactly like that. He keeps distance, and imposes authority. I instinctively tried the co-operative approach, instead, also because he always led in the couple- and I was not used to command him. I also wrongly assumed that he was still the same person, with the same set of feelings. No. No. He was in another state of mind - like dreaming.
We got off the third bus. "Get the fucking out!" He cried. Suddenly he felt the need to rush. I stayed calm and tried to resist, and also tried to distract him and it worked, for like 10 seconds. He took my wrist and tried to drag me. While I did not want to loose him on the street, at that moment I felt I had enough and I let him run ahead. He stopped and waited for me. This probably tells he was somehow acting, with me, and the more you are tolerant, the more a drunk man feels he has space for manoeuvre. Just like an elderly patient on the bed of a hospital.
Suddenly, just in front of home. "Fuck!" he said, and sit legs crossed in the middle of the street. But he was wise enough to sit in a not dangerous road, where cars were slow and he did not risk to be ran over at all. I was not scared, I just wanted all that to finish quickly. He threw me the keys "open the door, I will stand up when you open the door" I did that. I took care to make him shout so the cars would have noticed him.
This happened, a taxi slowed down and then all the other cars understood something was in the middle of the street, and slowed down. Inside! Inside! We were inside.
Inside the elevator now. "You know, this is a FLAT! There are different people who rent it..." "I know" I replied. "Thank you". He now tried to open the fridge and eat, and again called her friend. He acted much more respectfully with his friend at home, they had a normal conversation.
From which I now reckon that he was probably just acting, with me. He is a wonderful actor. Too good to me to understand that on the spur of the moment last night.
He is nasty when he thinks he can afford. This is why, probably, you have yourself to be authoritative like a doctor, when you face a drunk man. Very simple, loud and authoritative.
He could not stand while phoning to her friend, I sustained him and this just prolonged my agony. He told her "yeah...I try to eat....now...what have you been up to.....oh, reading?[silence] Do you need some sort of...motivation?...How can I help...." he was sliding on the floor, I tried to sustain him, he grabbed by breast and then pushed me away. The phone fell down and the battery came out. He was down as well now. "Stand up!" He told me. "When I will see you?...Well....I suggest...I will see you...very far away....cheers...".
I had enough and finally I realised he was just bright enough and used enough to help himself, "I am now on the couch, if you need me you know where to find me" I said. I wanted to sleep. He immediately came to be and hugged me on his bed and fall asleep heavily in 10 seconds, breathing very fast and noisily.
Yesterday night, a Friday night of course, in a warm Northern city full of ghosts, I wandered on buses and buses together with a drunk man. We were heading home.
His colleague had tried to put hands on my hips, unsuccessfully - I had seen flows of coppery spirit flow in their throats - they smelled of strawberry as there was red bull in them. Strawberry and liquorice: Jaegermeister.
He was already a bit high, but in control - he lost awareness in 11 minutes by drinking extremely fast and taking others' drinks. I guess that you compensate the tolerance of alcohol with the heightened ability to swallow fast - so you can get drunk anyway. I could not swallow a pint of water in 15 seconds, as he did with beer, shots and spirits. The volume of the music was high, he tried to get two pints of beer after the bar closed. He pissed on the street, graciously, while I was throwing away one of them. His irides were a bit higher than normal, and became totally inexpressive. But the fun part was still to begin.
He could not walk straight, but was not heavy on my arm, which I used as a base for his. He was holding my hand with a pressure slightly higher than normal, as to say "thank you, happy to walk with you". He wanted a cab, crossed streets regardless of traffic lights, but never in a very dangerous fashion. The guy was smart.
He waived at bus and cars and whatever just hoping that one of them would be a free cab heading towards home. There were none.
Then, the bus.
He could not walk straight but had a very clear picture of the London overground network in mind. He dragged me on a bus, and started calling a female friend on the phone. It was weird, the scenario he depicted her was about him being alone on a bus a trying to head home, and "being fucked". "I am fucked...I am... ridiculously...Yeah... Hey guys, what number is this buuus??... Yeah... Please call me in 20 minutes... I will be at the flat...Are you OK..."
He got off. and then on another bus. And then off. and then on another bus. Now all buses went exactly in the same direction. He called her again "Yeah... I am fucked... [silent]... will be home...OK... [whispers]". It began to be a little nightmare for me to go on and off buses, I tried to deal with that but as soon as I began to object he got wood-head and would not comply. I just tried to express tenderness and care, and to follow his thoughts, but it was probably not the best approach.
I have seen him dealing with drunk people, and he is outstanding in doing this. He is rough, speak loud and detached, as a nurse would do with an elderly patient in the hospital. Exactly like that. He keeps distance, and imposes authority. I instinctively tried the co-operative approach, instead, also because he always led in the couple- and I was not used to command him. I also wrongly assumed that he was still the same person, with the same set of feelings. No. No. He was in another state of mind - like dreaming.
We got off the third bus. "Get the fucking out!" He cried. Suddenly he felt the need to rush. I stayed calm and tried to resist, and also tried to distract him and it worked, for like 10 seconds. He took my wrist and tried to drag me. While I did not want to loose him on the street, at that moment I felt I had enough and I let him run ahead. He stopped and waited for me. This probably tells he was somehow acting, with me, and the more you are tolerant, the more a drunk man feels he has space for manoeuvre. Just like an elderly patient on the bed of a hospital.
Suddenly, just in front of home. "Fuck!" he said, and sit legs crossed in the middle of the street. But he was wise enough to sit in a not dangerous road, where cars were slow and he did not risk to be ran over at all. I was not scared, I just wanted all that to finish quickly. He threw me the keys "open the door, I will stand up when you open the door" I did that. I took care to make him shout so the cars would have noticed him.
This happened, a taxi slowed down and then all the other cars understood something was in the middle of the street, and slowed down. Inside! Inside! We were inside.
Inside the elevator now. "You know, this is a FLAT! There are different people who rent it..." "I know" I replied. "Thank you". He now tried to open the fridge and eat, and again called her friend. He acted much more respectfully with his friend at home, they had a normal conversation.
From which I now reckon that he was probably just acting, with me. He is a wonderful actor. Too good to me to understand that on the spur of the moment last night.
He is nasty when he thinks he can afford. This is why, probably, you have yourself to be authoritative like a doctor, when you face a drunk man. Very simple, loud and authoritative.
He could not stand while phoning to her friend, I sustained him and this just prolonged my agony. He told her "yeah...I try to eat....now...what have you been up to.....oh, reading?[silence] Do you need some sort of...motivation?...How can I help...." he was sliding on the floor, I tried to sustain him, he grabbed by breast and then pushed me away. The phone fell down and the battery came out. He was down as well now. "Stand up!" He told me. "When I will see you?...Well....I suggest...I will see you...very far away....cheers...".
I had enough and finally I realised he was just bright enough and used enough to help himself, "I am now on the couch, if you need me you know where to find me" I said. I wanted to sleep. He immediately came to be and hugged me on his bed and fall asleep heavily in 10 seconds, breathing very fast and noisily.
I freed myself up and went on the couch. I slept, badly, but cleanly. I though I did not want to carry on a life like that - that this was detrimental to my time and ability to be light and independent, that I was a daylight, tidy person and had no time to waste on this shit, with a person who fundamentally disrespected me. I thought I did not want to bear this for long hours, maybe in a marriage. No. I am made for delight and mornings. I thought the circumstances had revealed his tender friendship and trust in the other woman, and his conflicting relationship with me. He had a very discriminatory behaviour with people he respected and people he didn't - his tone of voice, his arguments, his attitude and the logic he put in his words were very different in the two cases. And I was seen as belonging to the second category. I was not prepared to. I woke up at 5, 7 and 9, every time I went to visit him and he was getting slightly better each time, a bit more aware, sleep gradually lighter, always trying to hug me or happy to hold my hand, always egoistic like a cranky child. At 9:30 I felt the shiny day was mine. I got up, had a bowl of cereals, closed his doors, washed my face and trimmed my nails and got ready to go to the British Library. I got a nice message from a friend. It evoked like, day, action, delight again. On the door, I felt sorry and attracted by him and went to give him a kiss. Still snoring, half-unconscious "I have to be.....!". I left. Hyde Park had burnt, golden grass, the breeze was warm and whispering, I felt wasted and went home and I am writing.
Peace.
sabato 27 giugno 2009
"Un ballo in maschera" and me
So today began with a weird story: a guy advising me to seek occasional sex, at 8am. It let me deeply shocked - because it seems that, if you push something inside the bottom of a woman, then what is on the top of his head will come out - i.e. she will forget of her obsessive love.
It's not like that, I suppose.
The music is humorous, and full of the rose side of life - a sort of "la vie en rose" in opera. Is also filled with irony, light irony which breaches into tragic irony as the character begin and continue not communicate effectively, not to trust each other any more.
Anger, mistrust, bad communication are the roots of all tragedy. I know that tragedy is more "interesting" than peace, but this is valid whilst we are at the theaterm and not in our own private, emotion life. I cried because I saw myself - miscommunicating and at best seeing the trouth when it is far too late. Goodnight.
But instead of laughing I let myself being caught in the trap of obsession and pain and, albeit handling it decently, I could not be free until 12 o'clock.
Then I took a bath, had some trickpeas pasta with fresh tomato sauce and get ready for an informational interview with an officer of the UK's Ministry of Finance. Very nice chat, the guy seemed a full-of-humour gangster and nearly offered me a job - I had fun. I also got some watercolor to add colour to my drawings. I felt like liberated, I had wished colours for so long.
Art is the best expression of suffering and is therapeutic - this is also why (and for cathartic reasons, too) I went and watched Un Ballo in Maschera by Verdi at the Royal Opera House in London tonight.
The plot is very very easy to anticipate, and this is the main fault of the whole work, which is instead meant to be a tragic-irony display. The music is joyful, cheerful, never really dramatic - the real hero is the woman, who operates deeds and foresee or guess the future, but bound herself to non-action due o societal-imposed boudaries or restrictions (or example, Amelia refuses to reveal his husband's intention to murder for reason of "marital loyalty",albeit the designated victim is her own lover and the rler of the country). Ad men take the part of the coward ones (Riccardo abandons Amelia in troubles face to her husband after having seduced her, thus acting as a real jerk; he again opts for love over friendship and then changes his mind; Amelia's husband wants to revenge his scorn for their adultery against her, then against him, then repents when it is too late; --- gulp!) - but men command.
They can dispose of women's life, and can shout them to obey.
The music is humorous, and full of the rose side of life - a sort of "la vie en rose" in opera. Is also filled with irony, light irony which breaches into tragic irony as the character begin and continue not communicate effectively, not to trust each other any more.
Anger, mistrust, bad communication are the roots of all tragedy. I know that tragedy is more "interesting" than peace, but this is valid whilst we are at the theaterm and not in our own private, emotion life. I cried because I saw myself - miscommunicating and at best seeing the trouth when it is far too late. Goodnight.
mercoledì 10 giugno 2009
domenica 7 giugno 2009
Sunday's pray
"Dieu, conduis-moi a celui qui je ferai heureux, qui me ferait heureuse."
May peace descend as a balm on me, on him, cure our wounds, balm our souls. Bring him happiness and strength, and the pleasure to understand others. Bring me strength, peace and resilience. May I be your living sanctuary, God, be able to pardon and make justice. May my body and my soul be an hymn to beauty and powerful peace. Help me remove pain and fragility, blood and irritation. May my tears be pearls and my hands be swans. Bless him, God, and borrow him your strength and your powerful sight. Pose your hand on your daughter, and let her be your messenger of happiness. Sia fatta la tua volontà, Amen
sabato 30 maggio 2009
The jewels of the Princess
Eastern people have managed to reduce the problem of scarcity not by creating abundance (sell-side approach), but by reducing the need of materiality (buy-side approach), i.e. minimizing the inanimated projections and tools for their material existence. This is wonderful to an European, as it sounds like the baricentrum of an individual's life has been shofted towards the non-appearing, spiritual life.
I was observing this morning my Indian friend, a princess emigrated to the West.
I noted the following:
- Eating habits: she is not constrained by the notion of "portion". She does not care of a packaging, uses to eat like a little mouse, just scraping what she needs in little quantities, and as soon she feels this is sufficient, she stops and stores the rest. She substituted the quantity with the flavour, thus fucking a million-year genetic inclination to store grease and sugar for future famines - which is nowadays the reason for which half of the planet is overweight. She eat spicy things, fenel, salt, ayurvedic, herbal-based Indian tricky foods.
- Clothing habits: she has no more of what she needs. She always uses a pair of sandals which does not harm her feet, although of no particularly high-quality. She has one pc cover which suits her two laptops (did she do this on purpose, of buying two same-sized laptops?). Her house has no garments in excess - but everything is covered by a full-coloured, lavishly indian piece of clothe - another way of substituting abundance with flavour.
- Storing habits: she has plenty of things, which occupy all the space available for them. No interstices. All things are amassed in a rationale way - her way of finding things is deducting where they are, rather that having them visible because of the plenty of room which surround them. Another way to avoid resource scarcity. She never leaves her space without putting things in order - "it drives me nuts to come back in a messy room". She puts little things (needles, coind, medals) in little boxes, she uses plastic containers which are orderly filled until the rim with logically connected objects. Not to speak of her computer desktop, of course.
- Thinking habits: I feel in her brain there is no that much space for distraction. No pain. No divagation. No phantasies. Never blue, never grey. She has been intelligent enough to make silence within her and recognize what she loves to do - and to detect also the "spy" which reassures you that what you recognize is actually what you were looking for. She said: "you know what you love because it brings you to a different state" - "I do not want to do anything else while I am doing that (=my favourite activity)... If you do not know what you like, you are lost".
lunedì 25 maggio 2009
Xxxx the Poet
I have a virtual friend called as follows:
...just, with another spelling.
He used to be the best friend of my boyfriend - then we split up, but they did not. Why am I telling you about that? Well, first because he is a poet. Argh! A Poet! How can you dare to say that?
I suppose that, if you insist in calling yourself a poet, you actually have much better chance to become one (i.e. to be publicly recognized as one, then to believe you actually are one yourself because of that), thank if you don't.
This guy happily writes and does anything with paper, colors and fiber, and pots, including keeping a cultivated garden (I mean -plotted - not a garden of poets of course!) and cooking whatever they grow in America. This guy has probably a soft heart and some sensibility, a very high opinion of himself nor he is immune from the playful, naive attitude which is the greatest asset of Americans vis-à-vis average Europeans, and their major pitfall if they compare with the best among us. Here a practical example in form of a quote:
...Today my name is Reginald. Why Reginald? I've always wanted to be a Reginald. Goodbye.
I find myself elaborating upon this guy much further than I would be normally expected to. Warum? Because I would like to be a writer, but I have - among other factors, always been dragged back by the idea that, if you are not very very good, you shan't dare to call yourself an artist. I have been very far from the idea "Uh? An artist? Here I am!". Doing that, I have just lived in fear, and withdrawn myself from what I am born for. I mean, having a job which is not too bad and brings bread on the table, is one thing; restraining from your most acute - and innocent pleasure - is another, and has a name: it is a crime
I find in this guy an example of what I could have done - and could be now, well-connected with other soi-disants poets, teaching creative writing in a University! Well, who is going to declare me a laureate if I am not overtly ready for the step?
Second, I find shocking that this guy has not settled-down yet, despite he is in his thirties. Good news - he can stand it, and this is possible. I am very open to the influence of what I think he is, as I reckon in him many feature that I think I know very well, some patterns that I already isolated in a boyfriend. It is surprising by the way, how many US people share such patterns, so that they might be an anthropological character: a sense of adventure, a sense of empowerment (even if not very well justified), a stubbord denial of cultural desolation of some environments, loneliness-proof, and so on.
Third, I dreamt of him last night, in a very playful mood. We were in the US attending parties and speaking and beeing good friends, as in Dead Poets Society, being amidst the snow, and looking for my boyfriend, without hurry. I felt respected.
martedì 19 maggio 2009
Hosting Aurora, who loves life
Here's my friend Aurora Dalma statment
"...What can I write? I love going to salsa classes, you forget about everything else in your life, all the little troubles, the stress from work, all you see is the teacher and the steps, all you hear is the music, all you feel is joy...every time I step out from my salsa class, I feel like I can take on the world, I smile for no reason on the street and I don't care if people see me. And thanks to this, I realise that life is worth living, because no matter how many problems there are in your life, there are always things you can do to make yourself happy, without depending on the others...like taking salsa classes!"
May God bless her.
Somethig senseful to say? Ask me to be hosted! If you subscribe to this blog, and your little face appears on the right hand side of this page, you will be entitled to author a post on this blog. Think about it!
lunedì 4 maggio 2009
Love. Full stop.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love
As an abstract concept, love usually refers to a deep, ineffable feeling of tenderly caring for another person.
I left today a person that I cherished, for which I felt something, and which I felt, felt something for me. But. This person is not free.
I read about two lovers who are re-joining again in America after one year of separation. But. I have nothing like that.
I have a person who just do not care. I feel ready for loving and being loved, but I am here, alone.
I am frustrated about that. This is gloomy.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love
Love is any of a number of emotions and experiences related to a sense of strong affection[1] and attachment. The word love can refer to a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes, ranging from generic pleasure ("I loved that meal") to intense interpersonal attraction ("I love my boyfriend").
lunedì 27 aprile 2009
Arms against depression
Hi everybody, here is a list of tools I use for combating depression from unemployment.
- A swimming pool season ticket, the most useful thing you can bring with you when you wake up
- "What colour is your parachute?" a book by Mr Bolle on how to find your dram job, if any.
- "Mental Training", a book my prof. Tupperware, the inventor of plastic cans, on how to suppress thinkings which tend to bog us down
- alcohol and friends
More Gray than Dorian.
Here a picture of the first days being unemployed.
The issue is whether this time has to be spent in the effort to grab a new temporary job, whatever it may be, or needs to be taken as an opportunity to rethink my mission in life.
My answer is: the second you said.
These past days have actually begun very well, and full of human touches.
I went out with a friend for a beer and, having realized that I was desperately unemployed and she seemed much stronger than I was, when she asked: "so, what is your battle plan?", I quietly talked a bit a then left. Then, on the train home, I started to feel dizzy and wishing to vomit.
I rushed out and kneeled on the trottoir. I was with my head declined, my mouth open and rivers of saliva going down to the floor. I was waiting for the acid-sour vomit to occupy all my aesophagus and rush out irresistible like a volcano. I was there quietly waiting as a sheep in the slaughterhouse. Then, a person gave me a napkin and asked me if I wanted an ambulance
Noo! I said, as I am not covered by social security - meaning that I cannot never take an ambulance if I do not want to spend 500 Eur for that. The lady went away. No no I am fine, I repeated while spitting on the floor.
Then a while, another came and I saw a brownish hand and another napkin in my visual field "Take take it for later". I heightened my sight, I say a veiled woman. She was African, apparently aged 40, with 3 children. I asked her to walk me towards home, after having known that she was going in that direction and that it was a walkable distance.
She told me that she was from Somalia, she was political refugiée in Belgium. She had lost her husband on the civil war. "The killed him in front of me", she lost her house that day, so she took her three children, the oldest one aged 5, and come to Belgium. Then she worked as a personal assistant of elderly people, staying with them from the morning till the evening. Boring job, and hard. But that day was her free day and she had a big smile on her face.
She told, never stop to fight, we have to fight, and never stop. God gives us the strength.
Other would say: Pray as everything depended on God, work as everythig depended on you.
She said: "this is fine, everything will be ok, do not stop fighting.
YOU, WHO ARE SO YOUNG."
Thanks woman. May God bless you for your act of charity and for the admiration you have inspired me.
Peace.
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