Based on a True Story

Jean moved to Metz, in France, and got a job. Nothing too spectacular, just to get him a small apartment and some cash to keep going. All alone, with no other human to talk to, to communicate with, he started communicating with himself, in his mind. He would go back home and have long conversations, ask himself how was work, what was there for dinner, no, I'm too tired, I'll just have a sandwich, ok, we'll do that then. The first months he thought he was going a bit mad, but after a while, he felt much better, not so lonely, and decided that he was not harming anybody. He would look in the mirror and smile, because there it was: the person he spoke to. It wasn't nobody, it was that man over there, good looking, polite, always smiling. He kept him company.

But the brain is a very interesting thing, and once it's finding ways out from loneliness, it's not going to stop. Once Jean was on the edge between reality and going bananas, he shouldn't have trusted his brain to go along, because brains, like any organ, will tell you when something's not right. And if you're losing grasp of reality, your brain will take you to extremes to let you know that no, it's not normal to be all alone and find company in your mirror. Somewhere in your brain there is a little neuron saying: yeah, man, you might think it's alright, but it's not. As much as Jean wanted to repress that neuron and go along with his nice existence, his brain foresaw the danger, and acted. And when Jean's neighbour decided to go on holiday, and Jean could not hear the TV anymore, he decided that, if the man in the mirror was his friend, the TV nextdoor might as well be his. Actually, it was this little neuron that suggested the idea, wanting Jean to take one more step into madness, because he was obviously not realising the danger, obviously not grasping the reality of things.

So Jean bought a hammer and made a hole on the wall, cleaned up everything, built a frame around the hole (because he was no messy man, and once you're beyond reality, you don't need to make a mess, you do it right, you take your time and finish what you started). For the whole summer, Jean sat in the neighbour's living room watching TV, and nothing there seemed to tell him that was not right. Reality didn't strike, he didn't find it weird, and his neuron, well, his neuron down there in the unconscious was quite calm, cause it knew, it knew that the neighbour would come back. And now it didn't have to make Jean do anything, because the neighbour would return, and bring reality back into Jean's mind.

Jean was not mad, you see... Jean was only looking for someone to stop him from going mad. His brain told him to make the hole on the wall, because he was not aware of his growing madness, and someone had to realise. Unconsciously, Jean knew, but he only had that street to follow.

This funny farm where he lives now is a wonderful place: everybody's beyond the edge of reality, and they give them these candy for those rebel-neurons so that nobody's aware that they are not well, and they don't have to go to extremes to let others know. No, in this farm, everybody's gone.

The Olympics: Drama, Balance, and Empathy

I write today's blog by request. How nice is that? :) :)

In this house, we watch the Olympics like everyone else, but I guess our comments are not the same as in every other house. For example, the other day, watching the athletes, the whole conversation going on in our living room was whether the term apparatus was pluralised into apparati (following the second declination Lupus, -i in Latin. Was it the second one?) or whether it would be left as apparatus. Probably nobody else on Earth was having that type of reaction to the Olympics. But there you go, aliens do exist, they do postgrad studies.

I get the feeling this year that the Olympics are where they should be: in Greece. There is something that feels right about the Olympics being in Greece, and I think they should always be in Greece.

I also think the Olympics should be a bit more theatrical. Watching the athletes yesterday, I was thinking that probably it's very special for them that it's in Greece, because that's where this thing started, isn't it? As Richard Schechner says, we don't give a damn about origins. Well, he doesn't say that, he puts it like this: "Origin theories are irrelevant to understanding theater." (Performance Theory, p. 7) And no, origins are not that important, but the space is. This is a repetition of the games, on the same spot, and I am sure the gods are watching, above the athletes, above the apparati/apparatus/apparatuses/whatever, above the judges, and above the non-existant roof. And I would like to see a bit more drama, which is what Greece is about. If you don't believe me, go meet Greek people ;)

So, for example, in artistic gymnastics, they should look at the film "Flashdance", which we watched last night, and incorporate drama to the performance. In fighting, judo, and all the contact-sports, they should make a little presentation and create an atmosphere of "Karate Kid", for instance, or some Jean-Claude Van-Damme film. Or, better than that, a fight scene from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon". Or "Kill Bill". I miss some artistic element in the Olympics, because, well, because I couldn't be less competitive. I watch it merely for the sheer visual fascination of watching people taking their bodies to extremes, and striving not to lose balance and control. That, I guess, is part of the essence of the Olympics for me.
And it's fascinating to watch because of the empathy factor: you watch them do that, and you experience some of it just by watching. The same as when you watch "Flashdance", and you end up wanting to become a dancer, you dance your way upstairs to your room, you download the soundtrack from the internet, and the next morning you start the day with "What a Feeling!" and "She's a Maniac" at full volume. Or in the same way as the prince of Spain gets married to a woman called Letizia who is a journalist, and in 10 years you have millions of journalist-women called Letizia. A rush of empathy that people should be able to control sometimes, like athletes do with their strength.

So, I guess, my opinion on the Olympics does not factor in the element of competition. I hear comments from British people in the house, some saying things like "we don't win medals because we don't want to", and others saying "where did we f...-up again?". Both comments boil down to: are we better? are we worse? But a British athlete yesterday turned things around when he got a medal, a bronze medal, in some swimming competition, I think, and was interviewed by a journalist. Asked why he was so happy when he was expected to get gold, he said something like: hey, this is the olympics, people here are the best, you come here just to test yourself and perform against yourself. With an enormous smile on his face. I guess the gods are around there, and not here today...

Our Friend the Dolphin

Apparently, and any loose biologist might be able to give more information on the matter, dolphin meat is not that good for humans. It contains certain toxins that can cause an increase in estrogen levels in women, and can lower the level of sperm in men. It doesn't surprise me... If I were an animal, I would try by all means to concentrate and develop some trait that would make my meat unpleasant to their palate, poison to their systems. Like animals do: don't eat me, I'm bad for you.

But Man is a stubborn spoilt child, and this is the Extravagant Era. People travel to uncommon destinations, practice weird sports, and eat really odd things. Ants, grasshoppers, dogs, ostriches, sharks, etc. No problem with that, every region has its own natural balance. The problem comes when people in the middle of the continent wish to eat shark (fresh, please), people in Northern Europe decide they want to prepare some ostrich, and the Japanese come sweeping the whole of the Cantabric Sea because they're running out of fish for their sushi. Yes, it is the global era for the gourmet too. The natural elegant harmony of eating according to the geography you inhabit is no more.

There is a festival in San Sebastian, the 20th of January (Saint Sebastian), where we eat baby eels (a little olive oil, garlic, parsley and a local type of spicy pepper). Now, that is the only time when it's eaten (it's too precious, too scarce, too limited to a certain time of year). And not everybody can afford it. Then came the Japanese, for whom baby eels are the ultimate sushi, apparently, and listen to this: the price of baby eels now is never less than 240 pounds per Kg. Result: the Japanese take it all, because they are big companies, against a bunch of Basques flocking together to cook for a festival. Luckily, someone thought of a way out: fake baby eels. And that's what we eat now. Fake baby eels: all year long, with their eyes painted and all, at a democratic price that allows for everybody to celebrate, with the added bonus that you are not exhausting nature. Not the same flavour? Well, most of us could not get to taste it before either...

I remember when the kiwi did not exist. Apparently it existed in China as the "gooseberry", where it was used as a tonic for children and women after childbirth. It was exported as an ornamental vine, and got to USA and New Zealand. New Zealand saw its potential as a common fruit, and it invented the popular Hayward variety. And now we all eat kiwis. There were no kiwis before. I guess there were no potatoes, coffee, or chocolate before either... But there was no global market then either, not to the extent of today's, and we were not aware of the exhaustion of Mother Nature...

All of this is to say that I find it gross to make a market of eating extravagantly, I find it elegant to know what products are local, what products belong to each season, and act accordingly. Ecological eating is not only about GMP-avoidance.

And talking about GMP, if I were that dolphin with the toxins, I would not trust my luck. With a little gene modification in the pot, I'm sure in a couple of years we will be eating our friend the dolphin. It's obviously in someone's mind, if they are testing the meat for human consumption...

The Old Dictator and the Sea

Today is a B.E.A.U.T.I.F.U.L. day in Leamington. Beach day.

Ever read "The Old Man and The Sea", by Hemingway? Well, change the Old Man for a neurotic dictator, the Sea for the Bay of Biscay, add a whole crew to the boat, several rifles, and you've got a scene that was apparently quite common to watch during the dictatorship in Spain.

The papers used to exaggerate his fishing deeds. Today's paper gives an account of one of the paper articles of the time. It sounds like a script for a Spanish version of Chaplin's "The Great Dictator".
August 6th, 1959, they found a sperm whale, and the dictator decided that they couldn't miss that hunt. 38 tons, 16 metres long, and it took them 10 hours to capture. The paper says that the Head of State stood on the bow of the boat, directing the whole operation. They caught him with the harpoon, and then basically they had to make him lose strength, without letting him go: "the battle between the man and the beast had started", says the paper (one is not sure who Franco is, the man or the beast...) Just like the Old Man and the Sea, except that the old man was poor, he had no weapons, and it was his last capture.
Well, Franco stood without moving, giving orders without pause. What a heroic vision. They injured the poor thing with four more harpoons, until the dictator lost his patience, took a rifle, and shot the whale 130 times. The paper of course gives the account as if it were a heroic battle deed. Today's paper adds: No, they did not call the Military Police to help out...

The final difference between Franco and Hemingway's Old Man is that Franco's animal was taken to the port and was sold and made into different products.
The Old Man's big capture was eaten on the way back by sharks, and the reader feels it's the old man that's being scavenged.
In the end, he arrives with a gigantic, enormous skeleton.

Franco must be a very very small and tiny skeleton now...

Down Memory Lane: Eric Spencer

I am borrowing Phil's blog-structure for a day.

Five years ago I arrived, 23, in Bloomington, Indiana. I was an ignorant, careless, quite happy young woman. People would ask: are you not scared? And I used to think: mmmm....maybe they know something I don't....why should I be scared? I was going with a teaching assistantship, which meant I was going to have enough money, I had a place to stay, I had a department to back me up, and I would be studying and working with a group of people who were doing the same as me.
Indeed, there was nothing to be afraid of.

Anyway, one of the things I enjoyed the most was teaching. I used to teach 18-30 year-olds. At 8 AM, everyday. Then go to class for the MA. Happy hectic times. Giovanna and I would go out of the building to smoke a cigarrette, in the snow.
My first class was a group of around 25 youngsters, who were my first students (I had only taught really small kids until then). They were a wonderful group, very few of them wanted to learn spanish, really, but they were funny, and there was a wonderful group atmosphere.

I remember one day I got to class and I sang my "Buenos Días", for them to answer. I got to the front of the class, and nobody had answered. It was not really that weird, being 8am. I started erasing the blackboard, and then I sensed something was really wrong. Nobody was chatting. I turned around, and saw that everybody was really serious and stern, and one girl was crying and another one was holding her. I asked what happened, and they gave me the uni paper. I read. One of my students had died in a car crash. A deer crossed the road, they turned and crashed onto a tree. He was the only one wearing a safety belt. I remember standing there, and suddenly seeing the empty space where Eric Spencer used to sit. I could not speak. I then went nextdoor, where another girl from my department was teaching. She had been there for longer than me, and I asked her if it would be OK to cancel the class. (Our department was really really strict with these things). She told me to go upstairs and ask. I did, and neither my supervisor nor my boss were there to ask. So I went downstairs. By this time, I was crying non-stop. I was very impressed. I got to class, and said that there was no way I was going to start talking about tomatoes and vegetables in Spanish, so I cancelled the class, and we chatted for a little while before everybody went home.
I then had to see my supervisor. I was very nervous, very impressed. He asked me what had happened, and I started to explain about the deer and the tree, and he said: no, no. what happened to the class? did you cancel it? I stopped and looked at this monster. I said: yes, I cancelled it. I could not teach. He then told me he thought there would be no problem if I did a make-up class for my group. Then asked whether they were drunk in the car, and then I left.

I arranged a make-up class, and told my students that they were not obliged to go. I would be there, but they did not have to come. These were students that always went to make-up classes. This time none of them came, which I thought was the right thing to do.
We sent flowers to the family, and got a really sweet card from Eric's mother.

At the end of the semester, we had the final exam. I arrived with the exams, and everybody was kind of giggling and chatting. They had a gift for me. It was wrapped in homework paper....:) They had bought marsh-mellows, buiscuits and chocolate, and they wanted me to do the thing you do when you go camping with the boy-scouts. So before the final exam in the university, I had to take out my lighter, burn the marshmellows, put them with the chocolate inside the buiscuits, and eat that horrible thing.... The headache lasted for hours.....

Eric Spencer used to come to class with a cap, sit at the back, and look from underneath his cap. He was very shy, but cool at the same time. He used to answer with the minimum amount of words, but in a funny way, so he had made really good friends in the class. By mid-semester, he was sitting on the second row, looking a bit more confident, and enjoying the class, laughing and doing very well in his homework. He was polite, funny, and very very very handsome. The type of silent, but cool and very noticeable friendly guy. Nervous smile on his face everytime you asked him something.