Mespilus germanica

This awkward fruit has become a fav of mine, ever since I first tried it in England a few yrs ago, for many reasons.

Obviously its taste is the first, most important reason. Getting over its appearance was not an easy task, though. It looks like a rotten apple -- when it's ready to be eaten. A fruit that's rotten before it is ripe, and is supposed to be eaten like this! I thought it'd be more than I could handle but in the end I managed.

Good, too, because it proved to be a singular experience. Something that tastes like a fruit and a nut at the same time has to be an efficient food...

Intriguing texture, unappealing appearance... and talked about in literature.

Can a fruit be more perfect and aberrant at the same time?

I often wondered why everyone and his brother go On and On Anon about peaches. OK, peaches are delicious, and juicy, and pretty, and fragrant, and cute, round, soft, velvety-- but that's easy! Like finding a kitten playing with a ball of yarn oh so cute.

Find merit in a jackfruit, like Roy. I like to think of it as Nature's chewing gum.

Or in a medlar, like Shakespeare:

MERCUTIO. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit

As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.

O Romeo! that she were, O! that she were

An open et cœtera, thou a poperin pear.

OK, perhaps not the single most beautiful euphemism there ever existed-- not even Shakespeare's most subtle one, but still. The medlar is underrated, not as well-known as it should be considering how good it is, AND it has rude Elizabethan euphemisms to go with it. What more can one ask from a humble fruit?

Felix dies Nativitatis

antanaclasis

The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

Your argument is sound...all sound. —Benjamin Franklin

Epizeuxis: repetition of one word (for emphasis):

• The best way to describe this portion of South America is lush, lush, lush.
• What do you see? Wires, wires, everywhere wires.
• Polonius: "What are you reading?" Hamlet: "Words, words, words."

Internetless

Going without an internet connection for a week is horrible. We finally got it back today. During this week much reading and listening to music (as well as wailing and gnashing of teeth) was done - walking, tidying up (no excuse to procrastinate without the internet...), visiting with friends etc

So among other things, I spent the week reading (sort of) Arundhati Roy and listening to a record I got Monday...

One piece reflects well the mixed feelings internetlessness brought me. On the one hand I had all this time to dedicate to Culturally Valid Endeavors, or at least those approved by polite society; on the other, I couldn't even check cinema listings or bus routes/schedule... Not only that, it was one of the coldest weeks this yr.

Hence today's entry. Sad euphoria. I wonder if it's possible to be actively sad? "If I'm going to be sad, I'll do it properly, damnit!" If so, Piazzolla manages in my opinion. Purposeful sadness, he does! It's like he enjoys it as much as joy. I like this very much. So...

Share, shear hares, etc.

Um. If it's rilly like this, perhaps I need to rethink a few things...

2Nite

I didn't go see Harry Potter because he doesn't put the otter in Potter.

La Beauté

Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,

Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,

Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour

Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.

Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris;

J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;

Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,

Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,

Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,

Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études;

Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,

De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:

Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!

— Charles Baudelaire

Possible translations:

Beauty

I'm fair, O mortals, as a dream of stone;

My breasts whereon, in turn, your wrecks you shatter,

Were made to wake in poets' hearts alone

A love as indestructible as matter.

A sky-throned sphinx, unknown yet, I combine

The cygnet's whiteness with a heart of snow.

I loathe all movement that displaces line,

And neither tears nor laughter do I know.

Poets before my postures, which I seem

To learn from masterpieces, love to dream

And there in austere thought consume their days.

I have, these docile lovers to subject,

Mirrors that glorify all they reflect —

These eyes, great eyes, eternal in their blaze!

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

La Beauté

fair as a dream in stone I loom afar

— mortals! — with dazzling breast where, bruised in turn

all poets fall in silence, doomed to burn

with love eternal as the atoms are.

white as a swan I throne with heart of snow

in azure space, a sphynx that none divine,

no hateful motion mars my lovely line,

nor tears nor laughter shall I ever know.

and poets, lured by this magnificence

— this grandeur proud as Parian monuments —

toil all their days like martyrs in a spell;

lovers bewitched are they, for I possess

pure mirrors harbouring worlds of loveliness:

my wide, wide eyes where fires eternal dwell!

— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

Goya, Time or Viejas

Friday Music

Madrid

Had I started writing about this week I spent in Madrid as soon as I'd come back I'm sure the account would have been more accurate and perhaps more interesting. However, since I didn't really have time to do it--after a week off less enjoyable tasks had to be done--I'll have to rely on my memory about those things which made a lasting impression.

I didn't do ANY sightseeing. I saw whatever happened to be around me when I was on my way to the Prado and the Reina Sofia museum. This means I got to walk in the Retiro park rather a lot (an excellent park in a "French garden" style, with a substantial number of "avenues" and statues sprinkled about). There are a number of cafés in it, and one which I particularly enjoyed in front of the Alphonso XII fountain/monument/lake. I thought about renting a wee boat and rowing for a bit here

but decided against it, since I was alone and if I got tired of rowing I'd have to either carry on anyway.

The first two days were spent walking around a lot, looking at old buildings in tiny side streets, buildings which have for the most part been painted but not redone, so they look very old despite the "shiny" coats of paint, an interesting contrast.

The San Miguel market is where I chose to go in order to see how Madrileños live, where they go to have fun, what the atmosphere is like in a place where people gather to have fun during the day. It was a delicious market to spend half an hour in; one walks around, looks at the stalls, then decides what to eat, standing up at the counter, looking at the busy waitresses placing small chunks of bread with the inevitable slice of ham on a plate and saying un Euro con vinte por favor. I thought that was a very cheap way to taste different things without having to spend three hours sitting in a restaurant. One hiccup: it felt like an anthill. Hundreds of people trying to get a place at the counter does not make for a very relaxing experience. Still, I didn't want to spend too long there so it worked fine for me.

I will probably write a whole entry about the Prado and another one about the Sofia museum, but I'll say here that just being around those places can be a lot of fun. I spent some time sitting outside the Prado, by the Goya monument-- very fortunate depiction of the man, I thought

-- reading and looking around. The Botanical Garden is right next to the Prado, too, so I went there a few hours before my first visit to the museum. I thought it would be good to spend some time outdoors, around flowers and plants, before going inside.

Madrid is a city that welcomes one, I felt. People are very patient with foreigners; they smile and laugh, are approachable, helpful, and if you ask for directions, it is quite probable they'll walk a ways with you in the right direction, to make sure you don't get it wrong! I found that lovely. They take their time with people. It took a while to get used to how slow the pace can be, but once one gets into that frame of mind it can be fun.

The other side of the coin is nothing works before 10AM or thereabouts. Waking up early is a waste of time. Sure, you can have a coffee somewhere but that's as far as it goes. Shops open later, and 'having lunch' doesn't really happen before 2PM or so.

More later.

Yves Tanguy, Belomancia I

I saw this in the Reina Sofia museum of modern art in Madrid. Might write about the trip soon. This place impressed me a lot and I'll remember it fondly.

A bigger version of this painting can be found on Google images; I picked the smaller one otherwise half of it would have disappeared on the screen.

Today I woke up wanting to be a dolphin. What about you? You can choose one I haven't posted, even. I'm so generous.

They're back

What a weekend by Ivan Donn Carswell

What a weekend, it certainly defied all the pundits’ trends,

the ‘World Game’ French were trashed by Versace and petulance,

the Wallabies by a graphic haka, while Wimbledon saw the Amazon’s

revenge and Switzerland’s answer was Roger Federer in eminence.

It is now good news that the Socceroos are an ascending star,

how far they can go is anyone’s guess but the best is yet (if Harry

Kewell, Mark Viduca, Lucas Neill and the rest manage to resurrect

themselves for the next stoush) to come. We’ll put our money in

our mouths that they’ll command more respect the next time round,

our only fear is that FIFA again will fall on their faces and the disgraces

they appoint as referees uniquely decide who wins or loses a game

without the players necessarily needing to be in attendance.

That was the shame of the weekend,

it really defined the trend…

What Really Counts

Music.

And it'll always be there. No matter what. Before our births, after we're gone. And no one can do anything about it. So worry not, music is eternal, infinite. I know. This is what happens -- we get buried in problems sometimes, but music WILLL always be there. I know.

Listening to Martinu's 4th Symphony conducted by Turnovsky. Superb. Simply exquisite. Just like the concept of eternity.

Polonius:

What is the matter, my lord?

Hamlet:

Between who?

Polonius:

I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Hamlet:

Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men

have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging

thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful

lack of wit, together with most weak hams; all which, sir, though

I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty

to have it thus set down, for yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am, if

like a crab you could go backward.

Polonius:

[Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.

*****

Thinking vs. Feeling

Is it possible to be perfectly reasonable, logical, coherent, and yet make no sense?

I'm going to Madrid tonight. The main reason for this trip is to see Goya's paintings in the Museo del Prado where I will go everyday except on Monday, when it is closed. But it is open on Sunday all day, and free, so... that's where I'll be, not Mass. (Btw, are these two things really so different? This is really an aside from the main points in this post but for future comment-- is art the only religion which can now be practiced without any 'shame' among the intelligentsia?--)

Goya: because his paintings give me, in a v quick though deep way, in a flash, the sensation that there might be something in what I said above (about logic and senselessness, not museum opening days...) To me, Goya knew that no matter how well-argued a point can be, if it doesn't make sense in one's gut, it doesn't make sense at all. Of course, it can make intellectual sense, moral sense, personal sense, but what is all that without belief? Faith in one's own point? Not much. Feel free to disagree but isn't it the case that having the courage of one's conviction is a v important element in any debate or contention but, as Saint Paul said:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become [as] sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. Corinthians 13:1

And how can one even have convictions solely through endless rationalizations? For example, the "trickle-down" theory may even make sense if explained by someone who's apt enough at that sort of sophistry. I know plenty of people who are. Any argument, position, opinion, can make sense, provided it's well-reasoned. Where does the conviction that one is right and another is wrong come from in that case?

My opinion is that it comes from one's gut, one's core. This is not to say that one's gut ought to be the only lighthouse guiding one through a storm at sea. A compass clearly helps.

However, in a v real sense, there are no two ways about it: we either feel it to be true. It is how we have come to evolve from Neanderthals all the way through to Homo sapiens sapiens. Perhaps we should stop adding 'sapiens' to the end of another sapiens ad queaseum and consider how we can remain beings who feel and create, which is I think the only thing that makes us different from a cow or a flea, while also thinking and trying to make sense of the world around us.

Luìs de Camões, arguably the greatest Portuguese poet of all time, said, in intertextual communion (as opposed to cheap, common plagiarism which, btw, is an idea that didn't even exist in the XV century...) with St Paul's sentiment:

"Ainda que falasse a lìngua dos homens, e falasse a lìngua dos anjos, sem amor eu nada seria."

When have feelings ever made a lot of sense? Perhaps in poetry, in good poetry, they can. Even in novels they don't always resemble anything we might understand intellectually, so why should one expect to make any sense of them with one's mind even while one sees they're often in direct contradiction with one's 'sensible' considerations?

This is then where Goya comes in. When I first saw this drawing sometime in the past two years, this idea struck me at once. It is possible to understand the "message" of the painting-- insofar as there is one and provided I have in fact been able to grasp it correctly-- once one stops to consider the implications of the caption. Goya, embodiment of true avant-gardism, knew even then the power of a good phrase that makes one think combined with a powerful image. Marxists and fundie materialists: are we really automatons?

Think about the reasons why the Cuban Revolution is still far more popular (and still in place) than the Red October Revolution. Could it be because the Cubans did not attempt to deny humans their humanity?

"The Sleep of Reason produces monsters."