This is Pearl Jam’s (Eddie Vedder’s) view of fame:-

The waiting drove me mad, you’re finally here and I’m a mess
I take your entrance back, can’t let you roam inside my head

I don’t want to take what you can give,
I would rather starve than eat your bread,
I would rather run but I can’t walk,
Guess I’ll lie alone just like before.

I’ll take the varmint’s path, oh, and I must refuse your test
Push me and I will resist, this behavior’s not unique

I don’t want to hear from those who know,
They can buy, but can’t put on my clothes,
I don’t want to limp for them to walk,
Never would have known of me before.

I don’t want to be held in your debt,
I’ll pay it off in blood, let I be wed,
I’m already cut up and half dead,
I’ll end up alone like I began.

Everything has chains, absolutely nothing’s changed
Take my hand, not my picture, spilled my tincture

I don’t want to take what you can give,
I would rather starve than eat your bread,
All the things that others want for me,
Can’t buy what I want because it’s free…
Can’t buy what I want because it’s free…
Can’t be what you want because I’m…

Why ain’t it supposed to be just fun, to live and die, let it be done
I figure I’ll be damned, all alone like I began

It’s your move now…
I thought you were a friend, but I guess I, I guess I hate you..

-Written after a $12 corduroy jacket of Eddie’s was sold for $650

One of the more unusual plots for a book I’ve ever read, it reads more like a screenplay and indeed Guillermo del Toro is planning to make a film out of it. Really beautiful, mesmerising, oddly captivating; it’s a tale of self-imprisonment and exile, the pain of so-near-yet-so-far.

Argentinian builder Jose Maria murders his foreman and resorts to hiding in the four-storey mansion of a wealthy Senor where his beloved works as a maid. But she is unaware of his presence. As their lives continue things get more and more complicated betwen them, with Jose Maria gradually turning into a phantasm, flitting around unobserved and eavesdropping on secrets.

The title seems slightly out of place, it’s called Rabia in the original Spanish version (2004), and described by Le Temps as a “Vitriolic portrait of Buenos Aires society…” and yet I see a rather metaphorical detachment to much of the violence portrayed by the author. I certainly see not much by way of “… a portrait etched in acid of a Buenos Aires society menaced by economic and political crisis…” (ibid). Perhaps I’m missing some subtext here.

I was instead rather charmed by the prose descriptive style, which vividly brings to life all the characters and scenes as seen from the viewer/reader’s eyes, and the dialogues (both real and internal) are very naturalistic.

An excerpt follows:

One evening he heard “new” voices inside the house. Leaning over the second-floor banister, he could catch intermittent glimpses of a man in a dark suit and a woman who, from his vantage point, seemed to consist in little else but a bright yellow wig balanced on the points of two stiletto shoes which came and went almost hysterically beneath full white skirts, and which made her appear like an energetic fried egg.

For people unaware of Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931), the Lebanese philospher and third best-selling poet of all time, here is a sample of his writings. The following passage was selected by Paulo Coelho in his book ‘Inspirations – Selections from Classical literature.’ (Penguin Classics, 2010)

The original passage appears in Kahlil Gibran’s book ‘The Prophet’, in the first chapter ‘The coming of the ship’-

…

And she hailed him, saying: Prophet of God, in quest for the uttermost,
long have you searched the distances for your ship.

And now your ship has come, and you must needs go.

Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold you.

Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. And we will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it shall not perish.

In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.

Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been known you of that which is between birth and death.

And he answered,

People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving your souls?

Then said Almitra, “Speak to us of Love.”

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, I am in the heart of God.”

And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, it directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and
a song of praise upon your lips.

…

(copied from RepatAfterUs.com)

I unexpectedly found myself reading three economics books recently, so a comparison is in order.

> Alan Beattie’s (2010) ‘False Economy – A surprising economic history of the world’.

> Robert Peston’s (2008) ‘Who Runs Britain? ..and who’s to blame for the economic mess we’re in’.

> Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner’s (2009) ‘Superfreakonomics – Global cooling, patriotic prostitutes and why suicide bombers should buy life insurance’.

My favourite? Alan Beattie’s book I found by far the most engaging as it examines economic policy and trade from a historical point of view, using his understanding of trade to examine the developmental history of the world. What at first glance of the contents page seems to be a loose assemblage of chapters is actually quite well arranged and his story-telling is clear and riveting.

Peston’s account focuses on the recent climate as the title suggests, but he gives a very good account of the build-up of practices in the preceeding two decades that have contributed to the current mess. However Preston’s constant name-dropping becomes quite tedious at times!

Superfreakonomics is the follow-on to Freakonomics, the book that arguably defined the new genre of ‘behavioural economics’, or the use of economic theory to rationalise human beahaviour (eg. Tim Harford’s ‘Undercover Economist’). Like its predecessor, it is packed with unusual case studies and makes for very interesting reading. It should help the casual reader familiarise him/herself with broad economic theories.

Yes.

There was Superman, Spiderman, and now Rodent-Penis-Bite-Man.

The BBC webpage reports that ” ‘Rodent penis bite’ man may sue.”. What has he done to earn the title, I wonder. But I’m scared to look further, surely it can’t get better?

Here’s one line –

“The parties dispute whether the rodent was a mouse or a rat, whether Solomon was bitten or scratched, and the nature and extent of his injuries,” US District Judge Arthur Spatt wrote.

I’ve been trying to locate this graphic for sometime now; ever since I saw it on the BBC programme Q.I. (Quite Interesting) I’ve been meaning to blog about it.

It is a comparison by volume, where the small blue sphere on the left is all the water on Earth, and the pink sphere on the right is all the air on Earth.

The guy who designed this computer image, Adam Nieman, has really hit the spot in showing how finite resources both the Earth’s water and atmosphere are.

The Science Photo Library has this to say:- “The water sphere measures 1390 kilometres across and has a volume of 1.4 billion cubic kilometres. This includes all the water in the oceans, seas, ice caps, lakes and rivers as well as ground water, and that in the atmosphere. The air sphere measures 1999 kilometres across and weighs 5140 trillion tonnes. ”

a poem for the dreariness of short days and long nights.

Mean Time

The clocks slid back an hour
and stole light from my life
as I walked through the wrong part of town,
mourning our love.

And, of course, unmendable rain
fell to the bleak streets
where I felt my heart gnaw
at all our mistakes.

If the darkening sky could lift
more than one hour from this day
there are words I would never have said
nor have heard you say.

But we will be dead, as we know,
beyond all light.
These are the shortened days
and the endless nights.

-Carol Ann Duffy, Poet Laureate.

I have been terribly remiss about updating my blog, so here’s an attempt at setting things right.

Lots of stuff happening; I’ll talk about the hols though.

Spain.
Objective: Run with the bulls at the San Fermin festival, Pamplona
Present: Ioan, Jessy, Adam, Hannah, and me
We flew to Barcelona, drove to our apartment in San Sebastian.

France.
Objective: Laze around Hannah’s infinity pool. And practice French.
Present: Ioan, Jessy, Hannah, Lexi, and me
We flew to Nice, and drove to Seillance in the mountains.

—-work in progress—-

Went to see this Woody Allen (directing, not acting) and Scarlett Johansson (acting, not directing) movie yesterday at Spinningfields. They’ve put up a large screen in the open plaza and are showing free movies every Thursday from 8:30pm. Petra was up for the experience, and I expected to bump into some of the badminton group as well.

The BBC had predicted an onset of rain at around 10-ish, so we were prepared to abandon at first signs of precipitation. It turned out we both had seen the movie anyway, and the ‘British-Upper-Class’ acting was annoying to say the least (except you, dear Scarlett. As ever, you were fab!).

I had brought a sleeping bag as well as a picnic blanket to keep snug, so all was going well, lying against a grass knoll with dusk slowly descending. There was something very charming about being there that time of the evening, with good company, the smell of kebabs in the air, and the happy chatter of people around. And then the rain came down. Petra had a brolly, and there were Spinningfield staff handing out plastic macintoshes. To the credit of all the Mancunians, almost everybody braved it through to the end. It was quite a unique experience to sit huddled under a brolly under seige from the winds and rain, sitting through a movie we both knew the conclusion of.

So it begins, this story, like everything else – with a woman, and a city, and a little bit of luck.

-“Everything is allow no problem here. Except the fighting. Fighting is not good manners at India Guest House”.
-“You see? No problem”.
-“And dying”, Prabaker added, with a thoughtful wag of his round head. “Mr. Anand is not liking it, if the people are dying here”.

The past reflects eternally between two mirrors – the bright mirror of words and deeds, and the dark one, full of things we didn’t do or say.

I was tough, which is probably the saddest thing to say about a man.

“… You‘re a good listener. That‘s dangerous, because it’s so hard to resist. Being listened to – really listened to – is the second-best thing in the world”.

Leopold’s was a place to see, a place to be seen, and a place to see themselves in the act of being seen.

“Ah. This is a Bombay gold dealer‘s no. It is a no that means maybe, and the more passionate the no, the more definite the maybe”.

“I make ends meet, as they say, and when they meet I get a payment from both of the ends”.

“When you judge the power that is in a person, you must judge their capacities as both friend and as enemy”.

The truth is a bully we all pretend to like.

What we call cowardice is just another name for being taken by surprise, and courage is seldom any better than simply being well prepared.

Gradually, I realised that the wiggle of the head was a signal to others that carried an amiable and disarming message: I’m a peaceful man. I don’t mean any harm.

“And make sure he doesn‘t learn any bad words. Don‘t teach him any swearing. There are plenty of arseholes and bastards around who will teach him the wrong sisterfucking words. Keep him away from motherfuckers like that”.

It was a wild speech that called them cowards and invoked Mahatma Gandhi, Buddha, the god Krishna, Mother Teresa, and the Bollywood film star Amitabh Bachchan in the same sentence.

Life on the run puts a lie in the echo of every laugh, and at least a little larceny in every act of love.

Raju’s task was to determine whether I could live with them. Johnny’s task was to make sure they could live with me.

Didier once told me, in a rambling, midnight dissertation, that a dream is the place where a wish and a fear meet. When the wish and the fear are exactly the same, he said, we call the dream a nightmare.

It’s a fact of life on the run that you often love more people than you trust. For people in the safe world, of course, exactly the opposite is true.

If fate doesn’t make you laugh, Karla said, in one of my first conversations with her, then you just don’t get the joke.