Monday, 29 October 2012

Turbulence

My flight from Rome to Osaka back in March was not all dozing, chomping away reheated meals and teetering inside a minuscule toilet, because I also managed to watch a couple of really interesting flicks. The first one was ‘Il Mundial Dimenticato a.k.a. The Lost World Cup’, a documentary on that overlooked, delightfully melodramatic football tournament that took place in Patagonia in 1942 and has subsequently been forgotten by everyone. More on that some other time.

Today I want to tell you about the impossibly titled Riusciranno i nostri eroi a ritrovare l'amico misteriosamente scomparso in Africa?, a.k.a. ‘Will Our Heroes Succeed in Finding Their Friend Who Has Mysteriously Disappeared in Africa?’ (Ettore Scola, 1968). How this little gem of a movie ended up on the airbus movie list is beyond me, and boy am I glad that it did. Because it really is a gem of a commedia all’italiana sort: not only did it ironically ‘inaugurate in Italy a brief vogue of kilometric titles’ but the film is a rare winner with its imaginative editing, vibrant script, and as a worthy dip into the philosophical waters concerning various aspects of the modern human condition. Plus it is beguilingly funny. Plus its decidedly Conrad-esque closing scene has to be one of the most poignant in European movie history.

On the side of mediocre civility stands Fausto (Alberto Sordi), a successful and bored magazine editor who embarks on a voyage to Africa in order to seek out his mysteriously long-lost brother-in-law, a Kurz-like character Titino (Nino Manfredi). Titino is everything Fausto is not, or possibly yearns to be: courageous, cunning, rebellious, charismatic, enigmatic, and therefore free. But something more organic, more fundamental is at stake here. Fausto for his part, is not without qualities, and yet he is so conditioned by his predicament in this increasingly complex modernity that in the end he can only sigh and helplessly exclaim: I don’t know. I’m not thinking clearly. Rarely has the familiar statement carried such weight as at the end of this movie. Have a look at the ultimate scene in which our heroes are about to catch a boat that would take them back to civilization. But all is not as it seems. Note the smart intercutting between the aborigines and the urban chant: the identical arm movements, albeit one exuding vigour the other vacuity. 

                          I don’t know. I’m not thinking clearly.

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Kyoto Postcards from the Edge (p.1)

This tree at Nijo castle. I regularly pass this spot on pushbike, and today noticed something was different. Mysteriously broken.   


Kyoto local elections. This photo was actually taken earlier this year, and today I saw another canvassing van, only much larger. Homo politicus never sleeps.



Train delays attributed to jishin-jikko (an accident involving humans) are rather commonplace in Japan, especially on JR line - the suicide favourite. Sometimes it is a drunk or someone careless ending up on the railway tracks. The official English explanation manages to sound both odd and rather disturbing. Taken last week.


Friday, 14 September 2012

Now and Then


Quintus Curtius Rufus, a Roman historian (1st c. AD) wrote on Alexander the Great and his troubled, at least initially, founding of the city of Alexandria in Egypt: ‘There is a report, that after the king had completed the Macedonian custom of marking out the circular boundary for the future city-walls with barley-meal, flocks of birds flew down and fed on the barley’. Driving through the Republic of Macedonia this summer I wondered if the road builders of the recently-fledged country followed in the great man’s footsteps. Because the long stretches along the ‘Aleksandar Makedonski’ motorway are completely unmarked: no lines of any kind or colour. Have the birds gobbled up the barley?

Driving along the ‘motorway’, dotted with bumps and holes of all shape and size, can be a pretty scary experience, especially at night, the road being unlit save for your car’s headlights and, if lucky, moonlight. That was on the way to Greece, north-south direction. On the way back some nine days later, south-to-north, we knew better and drove in broad daylight. But the persistence of bumps and holes proved too much and eventually steered us off the main highway and onto the local ‘E-roads’, which proved to be – surprise, surprise – in no better state. Only when we got on the very local, virtually vehicle-less 125a, leading through beautiful landscapes along the Pčinja river, only then did we finally open all four windows and let in the warm summer air, scented by sundry wild flowers.

On the Macedonia-Serbian border crossing we were the only customers. Which must be why it took ages both for the Macedonian and the Serbian boys in blue to let us through after giving our passports some seriously close scrutiny. The Pelince border crossing must be one of the most romantic (if that is a suitable word for a border crossing): right in the gully, surrounded by lush forests and so, so quiet, only birdsong and the humming of river is heard.

A ten-minute drive past the border takes you to the St Prohor Pčinjski Orthodox monastery, it being the real clincher behind our original detour. The monastic complex is beautifully arranged, comprised of the St Prohor Church and the magnificent konak, the imposing residential building, sporting a unique architectural style. The place was abuzz with workers, busy with all sorts of repairs and adjustments – you could see something positive was taking place. A further proof for the care and concern for its surroundings was this wooden notice board (see if you can figure out what all the symbols stand for). Click to enlarge.


St Prohor’s life story is a story of a devout and a dedicated anchorite. According to the apparently extensive and well-preserved hagiography, Prohor was born in the first half of the 11th century, into a wealthy and educated family. One day, elated upon hearing Matthew’s ‘He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me’, Prohor abandoned what remaining shreds of secularity were still fettering him, and left for the high hills, never to return. The next thirty two years (some sources say much longer) he spent living in a small cave with the mountain beasts, sleeping on the bare rock, feeding on wild fruits and grass, drinking water from the mountain spring, never setting eyes on a living human soul.

Well, almost never. The legend goes that one day a hunter hard on the heels of an injured doe, which has just found a shelter with Prohor, comes across the old man, is immediately startled and starts backing off. Prohor calls out to him and the two begin conversing. The hunter turns out to be a Byzantine military aristocrat Diogenes (which Prohor somehow already knew) and eventually Prohor prophesies Diogenes is to become the future emperor of Byzantium. Prohor also pledges Diogenes that once he becomes a king, he should duly remember the old hermit’s prophesy.
 
Decades later, Romanos IV Diogenes (1068-1071) has a dream in which the old prophet admonishes him with words: ‘Why, great Diogenes, have you forgotten your old garb and me the old hermit? Make an effort and build me at least a small temple where I could pray to God until my final days’. The Emperor, frightened, immediately sets off to the north Macedonian mountains to try and find Prohor. After many days of fruitless search, Prohor reappears in Diogenes’ dream and tells him to go to Mount Kozjak and look for a cave above which a white eagle soars, after which Diogenes finally finds the cave and in it the old man’s remains, lying intact and quite unspoiled. On the spot Diogenes builds a small church dedicated to St Luke and further down, at the Pčinja riverbank, another, a more imposing one, where St Prohor’s relics remain to this day.

                             From left to right: Diogenes IV, St Prohor, King Milutin (click to enlarge)
 
Incidentally, Diogenes’ own fate as an emperor turned out to be a sort of royal martyrdom in its own right. This from Wikipedia:

During his reign [Diogenes] was determined to halt the decline of the Byzantine military and stop Turkish incursions into the Byzantine Empire, but in 1071 he was captured and his army routed at the Battle of Manzikert, lead by the Sultan Alp Arslan.
[…] According to a number of Byzantine historians… Arslan at first had difficulty believing the dusty and tattered warrior brought before him was the Roman Emperor. He then stepped down from his seat and placed his foot on Romanos' neck. But after this sign of ritual humiliation, Arslan raised Romanos from the ground, and ordered him to be treated like a king. From then on he treated him with extreme kindness, never saying a cruel word to him in the Emperor's eight-day stay in his camp, and then released him in exchange for a treaty and the promise of a hefty ransom.
[…]In the meantime, the opposition faction scheming against Romanos IV decided to exploit the situation. While still captive [Romanos] was overthrown in a palace coup, and when released he was quickly defeated by the army led by one Andronikos Doukas. Pursued by Andronikos, [Romanos IV] was eventually forced to surrender by the garrison at Adana upon receiving assurances of his personal safety. Before leaving the fortress, he collected all the money he could lay his hands on and sent it to the Sultan as proof of his good faith, along with a message: "As emperor, I promised you a ransom of a million and a half. Dethroned, and about to become dependent upon others, I send you all I possess as proof of my gratitude".
Andronikos stipulated that Diogenes’ life would be spared if he resigned the purple and retired into a monastery. Romanos agreed, and this agreement was ratified at Constantinople. However, John Doukas reneged on the agreement, and sent men to have Romanos cruelly blinded on June 29, 1072, before sending him into exile to Prote in the Sea of Marmara. Without medical assistance, his wound became infected, and he soon endured a painfully lingering death. The final insult was given a few days before his death, when Romanos received a letter from Michael Psellos, congratulating him on the loss of his eyes. He finally died, praying for the forgiveness of his sins, and his wife Eudokia was permitted to honour his remains with a magnificent funeral.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romanos_IV_Diogenes

Now, all these machinations have a familiar ring to it. Have the successive governments on the Balkan peninsula in recent history not been their own worst enemies? Have they not been vying for power under any excuse and at any price? Have they not been pursuing their own fat interests instead of ensuring the prosperity of their own citizens? Has this blatant disregard not led many Balkan countries to an economic as well as spiritual cesspit?

As for the spirituality and the church, well, look at Prohor’s shining example and then look at the Orthodox elite in Greece, Serbia, Russia today. In Russia, the Church has acted as Putin’s bodyguard, to paraphrase Hitchens. The highly privileged orders of Greek and Serbian monks are exempt from tax, drive expensive cars, talk on mobiles, and bicker over property and funds. One recent example:

The around 2,600 monks residing at the Vatopaidi monastery in Mount Athos defied the Greek Ministry of Finance last year when it required the so-called autonomous territory pay property taxes on its commercial property.
Mount Athos, a 300 km2 peninsula in Greece, is off limits to women and is exempt from paying VAT. Its mandate prohibits “heterodox or schismatics to live on the Holy Mountain” and states its elected Abbot “must not have been convicted of malversation of monastic property.”
Its chief operator, Abbot Ephraim, is charged with money laundering and embezzlement in a land swap that saw valuable state land traded for less valuable property held by Vatopaidi.
The Hellenic court handed him a six-month suspended sentence in February 2012.
Another monk also took the blame, as well as a former judge from the area in northern Greece where the land swaps took place.
Ephraim, who posted €300,000 bail, was released after four months of detention in Korydallos prison. The former abbot is now residing at the monastery and is not allowed to leave Mount Athos.
The Greek edition of the International Herald Tribune reported that Ephraim called his conditional release "a miracle of the Virgin."
 http://euobserver.com/economic/116962

 Talk about dignity and sainthood.

Places, Destinations


 
   

         
  1. Spello, Italy

  2.      
  3. Kyoto, Japan

  4.      
  5. Cancun, Mexico

  6.    

 



Friday, 20 July 2012

Summertime in Kinki



Summertime in Kinki –
skin slack carcass-like,
head dislodged from spine.
Wee bugs gnaw
at our better judgement.
A yellow cat pasted
to a leather chair
like a WW2 egg
fried atop a tank.

Summertime in Kinki –
sunrays, winds, showers.
Yet it is money talks:
wind farms axed, panels
sparse, river dams on hold.
Summertime in Kinki
when the initiative balks.























from last night's gig at Urban Guild, Kyoto

Friday, 8 June 2012

Transit of Venus


The Transit of Venus

The Earth is one
as it sits to look up
into Space.
Heads tilt. A smirk a squint
unites us. We
the earth people
behind filmstrips
behind welding masks
waiting in rain
waiting in vain for a hole
in clouds.

One of us
several orbits old
saw the sun and said
the sun had a mole
on its face.
By quarter to three
most decamped
the high plateau
disheartened to see
the dark mole go.

June 6th, 2012















  
news.nationalpost.com


Monday, 4 June 2012

Eurotrip p.3


Castelluccio

We did not go to the hills. The hills came to us.
                                Anon., XI c.

From St Benedict’s provenance
up the hairpin roads
dotted with landslide rock
and cow pies of gentle Chianina
idling inside a sharp U-turn,
then a descent as the foot taps
the brake like Morse code
onto the flat Piano Grande
leaving a trail of oil dust,
observed from the nonporous
backdrop by sheep, birds
of prey and haystacks alike,
the way a stagecoach
might have been watched over
by the Apache extras.

By the moonless window
old Benedict had a vision
of God’s inconceivable universe.
For all we know he never
set foot in Castelluccio.
Not many have. Having made
it this far, you’d take a long look
at yourself as the meltwater
rushes down the Apennines,
as the fog ascends – the karst
sinkholes being blocked –
smothering the village.
Away from the world’s
prying eyes, the stage
set for iniquity.

















Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Teeth and Gravity

Today K. and I come to a conclusion that dental floss is an amazing invention. She made this excellent Chinese soup with veggies and scallop, the latter of which has shredded itself during the cooking process, and many of the said shreds eventually found new home between my teeth. K. asks who invented dental floss. How the heck should I know? So I google it of course.

Did you know that first dental floss goes as far back as early 19th century? In 1815 a dentist from New Orleans recommended his patients should clean teeth with silk floss. It took some 60 years for it to be patented. We’ve come a long way from silk floss, haven’t we.

Q: Which character in Ulysses used the dental floss?
A: Not clear. It’s a toss between the editor and Myles Crawford.

“He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth.” (p. 107)

Must stop singing arias in the loo while brushing teeth. This evening my bass shook up the windows upstairs, apparently ('His voice is so deep it provided the lining for his shoes' - Matthew Caley) . Upstairs, K. couldn’t hear the TV. No big deal, with the Sex & the City banalities on. She could have sex in this city instead I told her. If only she wanted to.


Nighty-night all… and don’t forget to floss!

A wee bedtime poem for your healthy teeth.

Zero Gravity

Zero gravity. Rice floats on the way in
to a cavity. Floss won’t do. Still, a safe touchdown
with twenty seconds of fuel to spare. Armstrong
does the right thing by doing the wrong thing,
picks up a few odd rocks, off-camera.

Decades later some long-sufferer
puts two and two stones together.
The world finally gets it, for what it’s worth:
the less lucky Moon had once been Earth. 




















A view of Earth from the Lunar Orbiter, 1966

Monday, 28 May 2012

The Annular Eclipse P.S.


I
The annular eclipse weighed
in a microwave (730 Watts)
is a little metal disc
with your dog’s name on it.

No, that would blow up —
is Big Dan Teague’s eye-patch
suspended over an egg
cooked sunny side up.

II
The last time the sun yawned
its slow eclipse yawn, right to left,
was many many years ago which
the sun forgot like yesterday.

The last time I saw my son was
at a karate dojo. His neck stretched
right to left, and back, toes splayed out
like a baby bat’s wing.

That was Saturday. This is Monday.
I have a headache. I find it hard
to follow a cursor hopping right to left.
This morning I watched the sun yawn.

I must have watched too long.
My eyes clank like a shut blind.
I can see now a dusty-white kimono
dancing, fading in the sun.


Saturday, 19 May 2012

The Annular Eclipse

is just around the corner. It is a sort of eclipse whereby the moon completely blocks out the sun save for the outer ring of light. In Japan it is scheduled for the morning hours of May 21st, Eastern Time (detailed info with huge maps here). Folks, do make an effort and get off your bums, draw those bedroom curtains and let the sunshine in. The last such event apparently occurred 173 years ago!

Despite the gloomy weather forecast which predicts massive clouds, I am readying myself for the event. As you can gather from fig.1, I procured me the requisite equipment, which consists of a dark plastic (?) eye-patch supposedly designed to protect the retina. This was no mean feat since Japan has been in a grip of eclipse-mania for the past week and goggles, or whatever they are, are exceptionally hard to come by (got mine at a local 7-Eleven of all places).

The contraption has been tested in my kitchen. It has an effect of a blindfold except that once you face a direct source of light – say a 60 watt light bulb – you suddenly notice a tiny shimmery dot in the corner of your eye, like a sole Pole star in the black firmament.

NB: Since the ‘thing’ would not sit on my nose by itself, I had to improvise with a piece of string. Now I am all set for my first eclipse ever – and most likely the last. 

                                                                                  Fig. 1