Greetings people of Earth,
Your attention please:
This is Gettoblastfrizzlebumpoo speaking,
I will be away from July the 27th and will not be returning till next year. Yes, that's 2009. I will have intermittent access to my blog and will be updating it with interesting and funny stuff where and whenever I can surf. The lands of the hairy bushes are not reknowned for their surfing. But this shouldn't be a problem as the internet seems to have conquered some of the most scurviest fleapits that dot this lovely planet of ours. I will be updating my blog with articles and foto-gafs of varying guises: from horrendously funny to mournful elegies, from downright offensive to those of questionable moral character. But most of them will simply be me ranting about what an absolute horrid and miserable time I am having. And that I am (still) very much alive.
So, I will not be back till next year as I will be away conquering the hairy bushes (have I mentioned that already, the hairy bushes?). I have? Apologies. Yes, so apart from the hairy bushes they'll be plenty of other wild things. Like er...yaks.
If you do need to contact me in an emergency, assuming there is an event that deserves to be called an emergency in my rather simple life, then you will have to use your imagination. Think: How did they contact people in the old days without todays mobiles? How did they send messages before technology came in and ruined it for everyone? And in-case your thinking; No, I won't be carrying a mobile with me so don't even think of trying to call me. Not only will there be no reception but I am hoping to 'light out' as they say and go underground and disappear...for a while. And sleep rough and hang out with homeless people and stuff... But I will be back, sometime next year, hopefully in one piece. Or several pieces, and smelling very bad. Very stinky indeed.
Take care and be good.
encrustedwithfilth.com
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
****Falling in Love****
I fall * I fall
That is what
That is what
I do
Hopelessly fall * From dizzy
Hopelessly fall * From dizzy
Highs
To salt-flat
To salt-flat
Lows
Released * From the tips
Of the spidery firmament
How I wish
I could fall
Forever
And never stop
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
****
Forever falling * I embrace
All that is * My Truth
That there is
Emancipation
In falling
Released * From the tips
Of the spidery firmament
How I wish
I could fall
Forever
And never stop
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
****
Forever falling * I embrace
All that is * My Truth
That there is
Emancipation
In falling
And
A hopeless beauty
Too
****
I fall
Drunkenly * Madly * Deeply
With grace
A hopeless beauty
Too
****
I fall
Drunkenly * Madly * Deeply
With grace
Arms splayed
Like Airplane wings
Gulping happy Lungful's
Peering * At the slipstream
Of past
Fallings
With a heart * Sprouting
Wings
****
Effortlessly
I fall
Into * The depths * Of a zone
I know
Too well
With the rainbow * As friend
And the Moon * As guide
****
Like a drunken captain
Of a drunken boat
I fall
And keep falling
And maybe
Just maybe
If I am * Blessed
Like Airplane wings
Gulping happy Lungful's
Peering * At the slipstream
Of past
Fallings
With a heart * Sprouting
Wings
****
Effortlessly
I fall
Into * The depths * Of a zone
I know
Too well
With the rainbow * As friend
And the Moon * As guide
****
Like a drunken captain
Of a drunken boat
I fall
And keep falling
And maybe
Just maybe
If I am * Blessed
In falling
I may also
Soar
I may also
Soar
****
Saturday, June 28, 2008
One Planet/Reign of love
Reign of love
I can’t let go
To the sea I offer
This heavy load
Locusts will
Lift me up
I’m just a prisoner
In a Reign of Love
Locusts will
Let us stop
I wish I’d spoken
To the Reign of Love
Reign of Love 
By the church, we’rewaiting
Reign of love
My knees go praying
How I wish
I’d spoken up
Or we’d be carried
In the Reign of Love
(Coldplay)
Friday, June 27, 2008
My belly-button fluff and me
There is a hole
above my belt
where, like a mole
it has dwelt
for many years
and a coupla months
a little tease
my belly-button fluff
thru soapy showers
a-scrub-a-scrub scrub
survived many scours
has my belly-button fluff
I tried to squeeze
and drag it out
man the f***er screamed!
tired the bugger out
it turns pink
and sometimes blue
than like a rainbow
smiles at you
with anger hard
and sadness soft
jus' leave it out
it's all i've got
like toxic lovers
we'll never be free
my belly button fluff;
so glorious
and me!
above my belt
where, like a mole
it has dwelt
for many years
and a coupla months
a little tease
my belly-button fluff
thru soapy showers
a-scrub-a-scrub scrub
survived many scours
has my belly-button fluff
I tried to squeeze
and drag it out
man the f***er screamed!
tired the bugger out
it turns pink
and sometimes blue
than like a rainbow
smiles at you
with anger hard
and sadness soft
jus' leave it out
it's all i've got
like toxic lovers
we'll never be free
my belly button fluff;
so glorious
and me!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I feel whimsical
filthy mouth
filthy tongue
and flowing poetry
like the runs
dirty mind
dirty heart
and filthy verse
like a fart
super twat
super git
and smelly breath
like a fish
scanky soul
stingy pockets
fancy a drink?
ahh f**k it!
who am i?
what is this?
a little poem
a loada sh**t
if you look
if you hear
there is poetry
air - very - wer!
filthy tongue
and flowing poetry
like the runs
dirty mind
dirty heart
and filthy verse
like a fart
super twat
super git
and smelly breath
like a fish
scanky soul
stingy pockets
fancy a drink?
ahh f**k it!
who am i?
what is this?
a little poem
a loada sh**t
if you look
if you hear
there is poetry
air - very - wer!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The art of travel (part VI) -Arthur Rimbaud: a design for life
‘Perhaps he has secrets for changing life?’
(‘Delires I’, Une saison en Enfer’)
‘Man hopes to spend three quarters of his life suffering in order to spend the last quarter taking his ease. Usually, he dies of poverty without knowing how far along he is with his plan!’
Since aloneness is the human condition, a fascinating example of this is the lone celebrated poet, a white man living amongst blacks, in obscurity, within a walled city, in a far flung outpost, in deepest Africa. A poet living amongst black illiterates, philistines, who don’t trust him, whose respect he has to earn to be a man. He is a solitary entrepreneur in a society of organised slavers. In a previous life he had been a genius poet; his head teeming with surreal imagery. A decadent prodigy who had kick started a new poetic movement, who had amassed a growing fan club in the dissolute dens of Paris where his teenage poems were now being seen as revolutionary. Cast away from home on foreign shores little did he know that his early poems had endowed him with cult figure status, but no one knew where he was. Was he dead?
‘From all sides we receive letters craving information on the poet; we are bombarded with questions. Indeed, several of our honourable correspondents are indignant to note that Rimbaud does not yet have a statue in Paris’
‘I is somebody else’
was now almost thirty, going prematurely gray, and noting accounting debits and credits in a thick company ledger; noting with thick stabs of the pen the weight and cost of elephant tusks and coffee sacks to be taken down to the coast by caravan. But his peculiarities set him apart; he’d learnt the local language, he’d become skilled in Arabic and held audiences in which he’d interpret the Koran. He hated the people. He found them stupid and indolent and full of treachery. Yet despite all this he stayed. No one knew what was in his heart, his ironies, his mutterings, and the fact that he was an expert in concealment. He denied his wealth; claiming to be poor and destitute; yet he stacked dollars and chinks of chunky coins. He always claimed that he was being cheated. He claimed he hated the weather, the stifling heat, the thieving locals who couldn’t be trusted. In one of his jeering letters home he paints a portrait of his life in Harar:
‘I still get very bored. In fact, I’ve never known anyone who gets as bored as I do. It’s a wretched life anyway, don’t you think? – no family, no intellectual activity, lost amongst negroes who try to exploit you and make it impossible to settle business quickly. Forced to speak their gibberish, to eat their filthy food and suffer a thousand aggravations…and there’s something even sadder than that – it’s the fear of gradually turning into an idiot oneself, stranded as one is, far from intelligent company’
But these self -portraits are tainted with the unmistakeable hue of someone happy with their life. The life of a contented misanthrope. He made a meal of his suffering (like all of us) – he complained even though he was rather enjoying it!
In Harar it seems he could be himself and not have to bow to the vagaries of life. Speak if he wanted to, ignore when he wanted to, be loud if he wanted, or a hermit if he wanted. In life we are trapped by responsibilities that stifle our creativity and potential. What Rimbaud had discovered was nothing other than a new Design for Life.
‘Man hopes to spend three quarters of his life suffering in order to spend the last quarter taking his ease. Usually, he dies of poverty without knowing how far along he is with his plan!’
(Arthur Rimbaud, to his mother and sister, 6 Jan 1886)
Since aloneness is the human condition, a fascinating example of this is the lone celebrated poet, a white man living amongst blacks, in obscurity, within a walled city, in a far flung outpost, in deepest Africa. A poet living amongst black illiterates, philistines, who don’t trust him, whose respect he has to earn to be a man. He is a solitary entrepreneur in a society of organised slavers. In a previous life he had been a genius poet; his head teeming with surreal imagery. A decadent prodigy who had kick started a new poetic movement, who had amassed a growing fan club in the dissolute dens of Paris where his teenage poems were now being seen as revolutionary. Cast away from home on foreign shores little did he know that his early poems had endowed him with cult figure status, but no one knew where he was. Was he dead?
‘From all sides we receive letters craving information on the poet; we are bombarded with questions. Indeed, several of our honourable correspondents are indignant to note that Rimbaud does not yet have a statue in Paris’
(Le Decadent 1-15, March 1889)
No he wasn’t dead. Though to his acolytes he might as well have been. The same poems they were hailing as masterpieces; with their dizzying visions and heady drunken verses were now the backdrops of his life. He was living and drinking from the the landscapes of his poetry:
No he wasn’t dead. Though to his acolytes he might as well have been. The same poems they were hailing as masterpieces; with their dizzying visions and heady drunken verses were now the backdrops of his life. He was living and drinking from the the landscapes of his poetry:
'I drifted on a river I could not control' he had written in his poem 'The Drunken Boat'
and: 'I have seen what men have only dreamed they saw'
But to the Africans this original was just another feranji in a shabby white suit, who barely spoke his own language except under his breath clouded in twitchy whispers. Who spent his time wandering the reeking market, watching the lepers importuning for alms besides the mosque, enquiring about the fly blown camel haunches hanging in the butchery. He even had a mistress in Harar, a local black women who was later to note his maps, his silences, his stash of coins, the letters he wrote home, his passion for photography, his secrets, his books, how he hated interruption and any talk of his past. She had no idea where he was from. She said he loved the desert. The poet who had once written:
‘I is somebody else’
was now almost thirty, going prematurely gray, and noting accounting debits and credits in a thick company ledger; noting with thick stabs of the pen the weight and cost of elephant tusks and coffee sacks to be taken down to the coast by caravan. But his peculiarities set him apart; he’d learnt the local language, he’d become skilled in Arabic and held audiences in which he’d interpret the Koran. He hated the people. He found them stupid and indolent and full of treachery. Yet despite all this he stayed. No one knew what was in his heart, his ironies, his mutterings, and the fact that he was an expert in concealment. He denied his wealth; claiming to be poor and destitute; yet he stacked dollars and chinks of chunky coins. He always claimed that he was being cheated. He claimed he hated the weather, the stifling heat, the thieving locals who couldn’t be trusted. In one of his jeering letters home he paints a portrait of his life in Harar:
‘I still get very bored. In fact, I’ve never known anyone who gets as bored as I do. It’s a wretched life anyway, don’t you think? – no family, no intellectual activity, lost amongst negroes who try to exploit you and make it impossible to settle business quickly. Forced to speak their gibberish, to eat their filthy food and suffer a thousand aggravations…and there’s something even sadder than that – it’s the fear of gradually turning into an idiot oneself, stranded as one is, far from intelligent company’
But these self -portraits are tainted with the unmistakeable hue of someone happy with their life. The life of a contented misanthrope. He made a meal of his suffering (like all of us) – he complained even though he was rather enjoying it!
In Harar it seems he could be himself and not have to bow to the vagaries of life. Speak if he wanted to, ignore when he wanted to, be loud if he wanted, or a hermit if he wanted. In life we are trapped by responsibilities that stifle our creativity and potential. What Rimbaud had discovered was nothing other than a new Design for Life.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
The art of travel (part V) - I want to break free
The soundtrack you choose is important. It will set the pace and the mood and the emotional landscape of your wanderings.
This is a particularly beautiful rendition of this classic by Queen. Enjoy
This is a particularly beautiful rendition of this classic by Queen. Enjoy
The art of travel (part IV) - Arthur Rimbaud in Harar
'And I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth’
(Genesis 4:14)A traveller in a hostile desert allows the monotony of the landscape, the pallor and shimmerings of phantasmal mirages and the glare of the orb of the sun, to evacuate his mind of all but the essentials. So that what remains of a travellers description of a caravan into Africa is a bone picked clean by vultures:
‘Twenty days on horse-back across the Somali desert’
And so we have Arthur Rimbaud in Africa - Abyssinia. The mountains opened up to a grassy plateau grazed by herds of Zebu wild beast. A semi-arid cornucopia compared to the dispiriting sulphurous desert from which they’d barely emerged. The ochre soil permitted the growth of vegetables, bananas, coffee, tobacco, saffron and the mildly intoxicating leaves of the Qat plant, which when chewed, left one in the arms of a pleasant torpor. The staple food was ‘durra’ a variety of sorghum that resembled and had the consistency of a modern day bath mat.
When the caravan passed through villages the local women, after spying the white man at the head of the phalanx would shuffle forth to inspect him. They'd tug at his clothes and touch his face to see whether he was white all over. You can imagine the affect this must have had. The appearance of a white man was as if a ghost from the netherworld had crossed the divide. Many believed white men to be dead ancestors.
Harar appeared suddenly at the summit of a slope; a reddish clump on a hillock. Two stumpy minarets surrounded by scraggy cultivated fields outlined the silhouette of the Forbidden City. The city was surrounded by pasty red-ochre walls; unrepaired since the Middle Ages. Rimbaud showed his papers to the city guards and was led in. Harar was a pandemonium of market traders, craftsmen, beggars, lepers and young slaves – many of who were still recovering from castration. He passed through the curious importuning crowd, catching whiffs of unknown languages, buffeted by the smells of an African market – the sickly stench of sugar cane, shit and putrefying flesh. Harar's 30,000 residents lived under squat, terraced houses of mud and stone. The streets were simply the spaces between the houses, rutted by torrents from the surrounding hills. Street cleaning was left to the hyenas. A traveller would have to constantly dodge and walk around the mounds of turds left on the streets by squatting humanity and wild dogs.
Rimbaud settled down in the ‘House of Raouf Pasha’ – a rudimentary building in the centre of town. The shutters in his room were constructed from the bits and pieces of wooden packing crates and his room looked over the main square. Rimbaud was the only employee of the ‘Company from Aden’ – and as their representative in Harar he was to oversee the trading in coffee, hides, ivory, gold, scents, incense, musk etc. His constant caravans to the coast 240 miles away laden with goods were giving him a comfortable income but he took pains to write in his letters home to France:
‘If you think that I’m living like a prince, I am quite certain that I’m living in a very stupid and irritating fashion. Anyway let’ hope we can enjoy a few years of true repose in this life; and it’s a good thing that this life is the only one and that it’s obvious it is, since it’s impossible to imagine another life more tedious than this!’
These self-deprecating and desolate letters to home are our only source of information on his state of mind. He was pessimistic as always but business was brisk and new horizons were dawning. There were new languages to be learnt, new markets to develop, and some feisty traders to be driven out of business by efficient competition. As well as his trading Rimbaud also made excursions into surrounding unexplored territory. These were timid affairs at first but gradually became more confident and daring. His motives for these ‘trafficking in the unknown’ were not purely mercantile:
‘I am intending to leave Harar soon to go trafficking or exploring on my own account in the unknown. There is great lake a few days from here, and it’s in ivory country…just in case things turn out badly and I don’t come back, please note that I have a sum of 715 rupees deposited at the Aden branch. You can ask for it if you think it’s worth the bother’
There is this account of Rimbaud about to head off:
‘Just as he was about to set off at the head of his little procession, Rimbaud wrapped a towel around his head as a turban and draped a red blanket over his usual garbs. He was intending to pass himself off as a Muslim…Sharing our amusement at his fancy dress; Rimbaud agreed that the red blanket, which orientalised his European costume, might attract robbers. But he wanted to be seen as a rich Mohammedan merchant for the sake of company prestige’
Rimbaud’s smile breaks through at this moment. He was taking a holiday from himself. A well deserved holiday. He rode out through the pulverised south gate of Harar, past the grovelling lepers, the wandering Ostrich’s and the stench of humanity, into the unmapped landscape before him. After a few days the terrain turned into open woodland. This is the furthest point south any European had ever ventured. The creature in the red cape and the white skin caused quite a stir amongst the natives. He won the protection of the ‘boko’ the local chief and set up two stalls on either side of the market in Babussa. For a week Rimbaud traded in the open market doing brisk business with traders many of whom came from distant regions. At night he slept on a pile of sweaty stinking hides. Then, having revolutionized the local economy he returned to Harar, surprised to be still alive, and spent the next two weeks recovering in bed from a severe fever. Rimbaud had glimpsed the edges of the mysterious ‘Ogaden’ – a region as yet unexplored and the size of both France and Belgium put together. Still recovering he wrote another letter home describing his ordeal:
‘What could I say about the things I’ve attempted with such extraordinary exertions and which have brought me nothing but fever. But it can’t be helped. I’m used to everything now. I fear nothing...’
(To be continued...)
On the pleasures of being made to feel small
The poet Wordsworth had urged us to travel through landscapes to feel emotions that would benefit our souls. It is usually unpleasant to be made to feel small. But imagine you are a solitary traveller who walking though the desert, suddenly emerges from a craggy overhang, and before you lies the unimaginable emptiness that is the Ogaden. Reams and reams of undulating landscape reeling before you. The horizon dissolving into the sky. What do you feel? What do you feel when you are confronted with the sheer majesty of the Nanga Parbat massif or mighty K2, as they loom over you – just there, in front of you, impenetrable, scaling the firmament, caressing the clouds with their tips?
You feel a sense of the sublime.
But why the pleasure? Why seek out this feeling of smallness – to positively delight and waddle in it even? Why stand naked before this mountain and feel exhilaration rather then despair at your titchyness?
Not everything that is more powerful then us is hateful to us. Such things also arouse awe and respect. It also depends on whether the thing that defies us appears noble in its defiance or squalid and insolent. Compare the cocky assurance of a hotel doorman with the defiance of a bearded mountain. Sublime places teach us that the universe is mightier than we are, that we are frail and tepid and temporary and that we have no alternative but to accept our limitations. Some people experience this awe as God, others surmise that the planet was built by forces powerful, forces greater than what out hands could achieve. Forces that have continued from the the veil of the pass and will continue, long after we are gone, into the veil of the distant future.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Coming soon...The art of travel - Part IV - Arthur Rimbaud in Harar
The true story of the very first Swashbuckling Vagabond.
"It has been found again! What? Eternity.
It is the sea mingled with the sun"
('Une Saison en Enfer' : A season in Hell, Arthur Rimbaud)
"It has been found again! What? Eternity.
It is the sea mingled with the sun"
('Une Saison en Enfer' : A season in Hell, Arthur Rimbaud)
The art of travel (Part III)
In Part I we discussed the gulf that exists between our expectations and the realities of travel. We know for example that there exists a vacuum between the airport and the hotel, and that this vacuum is gradually filled up after we touch down by an assortment of images: a looming cigarette advertisement in the arrivals hall, the boorish lady in immigration, the louche looking taxi drivers, the saccharine smiled hotel employee, the bus-stand resembling an IKEA flat-pack, and so forth. These are all images the guidebook never mentioned and they surprise us in their ordinariness and everydayness. How dare they encroach upon our holiday! We spot troops of children heading for school, factory workers queueing with us at the bus stand, we witness a workers demonstration, we spot the café employee relaxing on her day off – but the guidebook never mentioned that these people have lives! That they have other things to do besides making us comfortable!
And this brings me nicely to the next topic that’s been bothering me: Why is it that when one visits one of these countries one is made to feel like an Imperialist?
‘Come Sir! Please take a seat Sir! First class for you Sir!’
‘This is bestest quality especially for you Sir! Raja quality. Best quality!’
‘Where are you from Sir? London?! London is best Sir! Queen Victoria, Buckingham Palace, Lord of the Manor, Mr Holmes, Righty-ho old chap…’
What strikes you about this quaint patter is the fact that it seems to be stuck in a time warp. Little do they realise that times have changed. Gone are the days of the Victorian English sensibility. England has moved on. The patter requires an update to bring it to contemporary standards. A boost of modernity. Can you imagine this:
'Woh, London Sir! I think London is wicked man Sir! Chicken Tikka Masala rocks my chuddies dude sir, Ali G is booyakasha and Posh Spice is so minging Sir! Fancy some fish and chips Sir? I love David Beckham, Mr Bean, and Freddy Sir! Bismillah will you let me go…’
‘Er, yeah sure I will let you go. F**k off and leave me alone!’ - Hahaha
Why do the locals stoop so low to please us? It’s the economy stupid and the mighty pound. Yes I know, but when was the last time you spotted a hoard of Pan-chewing phlegm spitting Bengali tourists in London? Exactly. But even so isn’t there something unfair about the whole travel enterprise? Let’s look at it stripped down shall we: We Westerners with our superior airs and noses in the clouds, visit these exotic lands where we are treated as royalty. Where everyone does there mawkish best to please us. I always smell the stink of desperation in the way they feign friendships in the hope of making a quick buck (a ‘Western’ friend is no mean thing). They lie, deceive, develop skills of extraordinary guile, they sweet-talk and they suck on our sweet milky money of the West.
We in turn remain immured in luxurious hotels with Sky News and English breakfasts for company. We barely interact except with the token Thai tour-guide in those hideously kitschy tours with the fat Americans (all bumptious and smiley smiley), and then we return home after putatively ‘visiting Thailand’ and proudly boast:
‘Thailand was cool. Bloody cheap and the fake stuff is top notch. And the Thai Curry’s are good. But I still prefer me local Thai restaurant in Basildon’
You call that travel?
But what affect does this have on the locals? Yes, the travel industry brings in huge revenues, but it is a business that is subject to the whims of the global economic climate and the competition of other locations. But ultimately it does nothing (and this is the point I’m driving at) it does nothing to develop the skills of the local people. It is an economy that manufactures nothing except the crap kitsch that goes on sale in the tourist stores but apart from that?
Nothing.
In Costa Rica I remember seeing legions of wan urchins patrolling the streets whining the same patter to tourists. The desperation in their eyes evident. All looking for a way out. Any way out of this miserable existence – like a dog with mange kept in a zoo. It’s a pathetic life. Wouldn’t it be better if that Costa Rican didn’t have to suffer the ritualised ignominy of begging for his lively-hood? If only he could earn a decent living by dint of his own hands? Perhaps by working in a solid job making something that will be sold abroad and that will shore up the economy and that will not remind him; every waking hour of his life, that he is a second-class human being. For that's how these people must feel, surely? Especially when they see the fat rotund Westerners with their pallid complexions and fancy 12 megapixel cameras and burgeoning wallets. ‘Why can’t we do that?’ They must wonder. ‘Why can’t we visit 'their' countries?’
And if they did visit London would they get the same happy-go-lucky welcome? Would they be treated with the same amount of deference and Royal Highness?
You know the answer to that!
On the pleasures of watching shitting donkeys
Gustave Flaubert (author of Madame Bovary) was French. And he was a little strange too. But strange is good because at that time the French were a bunch of prudent, snobbish, pompous and racist xenophobes whose bourgeoisie elite liked nothing better than to wallow in their own superiority complex. He found French life stifling and not a logical fit to his creative and impulsive temperament. Luckily for him he did find a place that did fit with his ideas and values: Egypt (or the East to be more general)
When Flaubert disembarked in Alexandria he instantly fell in love. Not with a women mind you but with something more potent then the love of a women (really? Is there such a thing?). Yes, he fell in love with the swirling chaos around him. Visual, auditory and nasal: Nubian hawkers, bargaining merchants, chickens being slaughtered, donkeys being flayed, groaning foaming camels, guttural Arabs, thick negro lips, white robes and flashes of ivory that tainted the eyes. He felt as if he had finally arrived home.
Why did the chaos and the richness of Egyptian colours so touch Flaubert? Because he believed that life is fundamentally chaotic. That in the West we may live in a consciously imposed world of order (with rules and laws and courtesies and how to say thank you's and goodbyes and how to eat with a knife and fork) but underneath all this, underneath this self imposed order, there is always lurking a teeming layer of chaos. And in Egypt he found this teeming organic chaos. This lack of prudery where people were forthright and unpretentious. He believed that to live otherwise was a denial of our human condition.
‘Yesterday we were at a café which is one of the best in Cairo’, wrote Flaubert a few months after his arrival, ‘and inside this café were at the same time as ourselves, a donkey shitting and a gentlemen pissing in the corner. No one finds that odd here! No one says anything’.
And in Flaubert’s eyes they were right not to.
A key feature of Flaubert’s philosophy was the belief that man is not simply a spiritual creature, but also a pissing and shitting one, and that we should integrate this into our world-view. He wrote:
‘I can’t believe that our body, composed as it is of mud and shit and equipped with instincts lower than those of a pig or a louse, contains anything pure and immaterial’.
This doesn’t mean that we don’t have any higher dimensions. It was just that the prudery and self-righteousness of the age aroused in Flaubert a desire to remind people of mankind’s impurities. In Egypt Flaubert welcomed the duality of life that was on display: shit-mind, death-life, sexuality-purity, and madness-sanity. People belched during and after meals to their hearts’ content and a boy of six passing Flaubert in a street in Cairo, cried out in greeting:
‘Sir I wish you all kinds of prosperity, especially a long prick’
To be continued…
And this brings me nicely to the next topic that’s been bothering me: Why is it that when one visits one of these countries one is made to feel like an Imperialist?
‘Come Sir! Please take a seat Sir! First class for you Sir!’
‘This is bestest quality especially for you Sir! Raja quality. Best quality!’
‘Where are you from Sir? London?! London is best Sir! Queen Victoria, Buckingham Palace, Lord of the Manor, Mr Holmes, Righty-ho old chap…’
What strikes you about this quaint patter is the fact that it seems to be stuck in a time warp. Little do they realise that times have changed. Gone are the days of the Victorian English sensibility. England has moved on. The patter requires an update to bring it to contemporary standards. A boost of modernity. Can you imagine this:
'Woh, London Sir! I think London is wicked man Sir! Chicken Tikka Masala rocks my chuddies dude sir, Ali G is booyakasha and Posh Spice is so minging Sir! Fancy some fish and chips Sir? I love David Beckham, Mr Bean, and Freddy Sir! Bismillah will you let me go…’
‘Er, yeah sure I will let you go. F**k off and leave me alone!’ - Hahaha
Why do the locals stoop so low to please us? It’s the economy stupid and the mighty pound. Yes I know, but when was the last time you spotted a hoard of Pan-chewing phlegm spitting Bengali tourists in London? Exactly. But even so isn’t there something unfair about the whole travel enterprise? Let’s look at it stripped down shall we: We Westerners with our superior airs and noses in the clouds, visit these exotic lands where we are treated as royalty. Where everyone does there mawkish best to please us. I always smell the stink of desperation in the way they feign friendships in the hope of making a quick buck (a ‘Western’ friend is no mean thing). They lie, deceive, develop skills of extraordinary guile, they sweet-talk and they suck on our sweet milky money of the West.
We in turn remain immured in luxurious hotels with Sky News and English breakfasts for company. We barely interact except with the token Thai tour-guide in those hideously kitschy tours with the fat Americans (all bumptious and smiley smiley), and then we return home after putatively ‘visiting Thailand’ and proudly boast:
‘Thailand was cool. Bloody cheap and the fake stuff is top notch. And the Thai Curry’s are good. But I still prefer me local Thai restaurant in Basildon’
You call that travel?
But what affect does this have on the locals? Yes, the travel industry brings in huge revenues, but it is a business that is subject to the whims of the global economic climate and the competition of other locations. But ultimately it does nothing (and this is the point I’m driving at) it does nothing to develop the skills of the local people. It is an economy that manufactures nothing except the crap kitsch that goes on sale in the tourist stores but apart from that?
Nothing.
In Costa Rica I remember seeing legions of wan urchins patrolling the streets whining the same patter to tourists. The desperation in their eyes evident. All looking for a way out. Any way out of this miserable existence – like a dog with mange kept in a zoo. It’s a pathetic life. Wouldn’t it be better if that Costa Rican didn’t have to suffer the ritualised ignominy of begging for his lively-hood? If only he could earn a decent living by dint of his own hands? Perhaps by working in a solid job making something that will be sold abroad and that will shore up the economy and that will not remind him; every waking hour of his life, that he is a second-class human being. For that's how these people must feel, surely? Especially when they see the fat rotund Westerners with their pallid complexions and fancy 12 megapixel cameras and burgeoning wallets. ‘Why can’t we do that?’ They must wonder. ‘Why can’t we visit 'their' countries?’
And if they did visit London would they get the same happy-go-lucky welcome? Would they be treated with the same amount of deference and Royal Highness?
You know the answer to that!
On the pleasures of watching shitting donkeys
Gustave Flaubert (author of Madame Bovary) was French. And he was a little strange too. But strange is good because at that time the French were a bunch of prudent, snobbish, pompous and racist xenophobes whose bourgeoisie elite liked nothing better than to wallow in their own superiority complex. He found French life stifling and not a logical fit to his creative and impulsive temperament. Luckily for him he did find a place that did fit with his ideas and values: Egypt (or the East to be more general)
When Flaubert disembarked in Alexandria he instantly fell in love. Not with a women mind you but with something more potent then the love of a women (really? Is there such a thing?). Yes, he fell in love with the swirling chaos around him. Visual, auditory and nasal: Nubian hawkers, bargaining merchants, chickens being slaughtered, donkeys being flayed, groaning foaming camels, guttural Arabs, thick negro lips, white robes and flashes of ivory that tainted the eyes. He felt as if he had finally arrived home.
Why did the chaos and the richness of Egyptian colours so touch Flaubert? Because he believed that life is fundamentally chaotic. That in the West we may live in a consciously imposed world of order (with rules and laws and courtesies and how to say thank you's and goodbyes and how to eat with a knife and fork) but underneath all this, underneath this self imposed order, there is always lurking a teeming layer of chaos. And in Egypt he found this teeming organic chaos. This lack of prudery where people were forthright and unpretentious. He believed that to live otherwise was a denial of our human condition.
‘Yesterday we were at a café which is one of the best in Cairo’, wrote Flaubert a few months after his arrival, ‘and inside this café were at the same time as ourselves, a donkey shitting and a gentlemen pissing in the corner. No one finds that odd here! No one says anything’.
And in Flaubert’s eyes they were right not to.
A key feature of Flaubert’s philosophy was the belief that man is not simply a spiritual creature, but also a pissing and shitting one, and that we should integrate this into our world-view. He wrote:
‘I can’t believe that our body, composed as it is of mud and shit and equipped with instincts lower than those of a pig or a louse, contains anything pure and immaterial’.
This doesn’t mean that we don’t have any higher dimensions. It was just that the prudery and self-righteousness of the age aroused in Flaubert a desire to remind people of mankind’s impurities. In Egypt Flaubert welcomed the duality of life that was on display: shit-mind, death-life, sexuality-purity, and madness-sanity. People belched during and after meals to their hearts’ content and a boy of six passing Flaubert in a street in Cairo, cried out in greeting:
‘Sir I wish you all kinds of prosperity, especially a long prick’
To be continued…
Saturday, June 14, 2008
The art of travel - (Part II)
One of the major decisions facing any intrepid traveller with adventure and a healthy dose of vagabondage in mind is not whether one has subscribed to the necessary insurance policies (insurance is for wimps), nor is it the small matter of ensuring one is immunized against all foreign infectious agents (including the customary 'bull-shit detector jabs') but it is the question of how many and more importantly which books to pack into one's backpack. Yes, which books.
The decision is further complicated by practical matters such as how many books one can physically fit into one's backpack, and how much weight one can carry on one's back without breaking it. That is breaking one's back not the backpack. It is not advisable to carry a portable library around with you on some of the most gruelling mountain terrain in the world - even if you do have literary aspirations. But let's face the problem head on: The fact of the matter is that there is a distinct lack of night-time entertainment in those wee parts where one may roam (unless one considers the popular past-time of 'spit in the spittoon' which involves the transfer of huge gobs of spit from one's mouth to a spittoon some feet away - very popular with the older country folk I might add).
The only entertainment I can think of to help while away those lazy, languorous hours (except a new sport I have just invented called 'dodge the spit in the spittoon') is the written page. So deciding which books to pack is a most important decision. A decision that has dogged me incessantly like a dose of tropical Dengue fever. I have suffered nightmares of being stuck in some dinghy hell hole without anything to read except 'Chinese Communist Party pamphlets' and extracts from 'Mrs Maawings recipe for fried dumplings' - in Mandarin. The decision is not helped by the foreknowledge of my lecherous reading habits. So what to do? what to do?
Kathmandu? Kathmandu? (no that doesn't help)
...But thanks to modern technology it is a decision I no longer have to make. Ladies and Gentlemen please allow me the pleasure of introducing to you the 'Iliad Reader' - the worlds first anti-strain, anti-glare, 'real pages', electronic book. This baby can store over 10,000 book titles, all in a small cute device the size of a book that fits neatly into your rucksack. It has 18 hours battery life and you can store all your books on it - problem solved.
God I'm a genius.
Oh yeah and it comes with a handy socket-adaptor travellers pack to ensure one can use it even in medieval Mongolia - where they do have electricity I have been reliably informed (in the cities at least)
i'mdefinitelygettimgmeoneofthose.com
youknowyouwantone.com
myprrrrecious.com
The decision is further complicated by practical matters such as how many books one can physically fit into one's backpack, and how much weight one can carry on one's back without breaking it. That is breaking one's back not the backpack. It is not advisable to carry a portable library around with you on some of the most gruelling mountain terrain in the world - even if you do have literary aspirations. But let's face the problem head on: The fact of the matter is that there is a distinct lack of night-time entertainment in those wee parts where one may roam (unless one considers the popular past-time of 'spit in the spittoon' which involves the transfer of huge gobs of spit from one's mouth to a spittoon some feet away - very popular with the older country folk I might add).
The only entertainment I can think of to help while away those lazy, languorous hours (except a new sport I have just invented called 'dodge the spit in the spittoon') is the written page. So deciding which books to pack is a most important decision. A decision that has dogged me incessantly like a dose of tropical Dengue fever. I have suffered nightmares of being stuck in some dinghy hell hole without anything to read except 'Chinese Communist Party pamphlets' and extracts from 'Mrs Maawings recipe for fried dumplings' - in Mandarin. The decision is not helped by the foreknowledge of my lecherous reading habits. So what to do? what to do?
Kathmandu? Kathmandu? (no that doesn't help)
...But thanks to modern technology it is a decision I no longer have to make. Ladies and Gentlemen please allow me the pleasure of introducing to you the 'Iliad Reader' - the worlds first anti-strain, anti-glare, 'real pages', electronic book. This baby can store over 10,000 book titles, all in a small cute device the size of a book that fits neatly into your rucksack. It has 18 hours battery life and you can store all your books on it - problem solved.
God I'm a genius.
Oh yeah and it comes with a handy socket-adaptor travellers pack to ensure one can use it even in medieval Mongolia - where they do have electricity I have been reliably informed (in the cities at least)
i'mdefinitelygettimgmeoneofthose.com
youknowyouwantone.com
myprrrrecious.com
The art of travel (Part 1)
Part of a series of articles, reveries, vignettes on all things travel related.
If we accept that our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then nothing better exemplifies this search than our travels. By looking at the way we travel; the dynamics and pitfalls we fall into, the fallacies we imbibe, we can reveal much about that eternal quest for bliss and happiness. Hence, the art of travel is as much about travelling as it is about the human condition and the search for Elysium on earth. We are given much advice on where to travel to but none whatsoever on why and more importantly how we should go about it.
We are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate. As I sit here writing this, in a cafe in Islington, I have a copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Pakistan open on my left. On the first few pages there are a series of glossy colour photographs of the verdant Hunza Valley with emerald streams studded with diamonds and a backdrop of the majestic Karakoram; their blanched-platinum peaks touching the gates of the firmament. The scenery is perfect. The guidebook goes onto to describe this in purple lilting prose interspersed with sound practical advice on how to get there, where to stay and how much you should expect to pay. So you imagine. You imagine getting on a fulminating rickety bus at Rawalpindi bus stand, and after a few hours pleasant journey northwards, checking into a hotel that has been described by the guidebook as ‘pleasant’ and ‘with hot running water’– but none of this tells you of the reality of your journey.
If we accept that our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then nothing better exemplifies this search than our travels. By looking at the way we travel; the dynamics and pitfalls we fall into, the fallacies we imbibe, we can reveal much about that eternal quest for bliss and happiness. Hence, the art of travel is as much about travelling as it is about the human condition and the search for Elysium on earth. We are given much advice on where to travel to but none whatsoever on why and more importantly how we should go about it.
We are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate. As I sit here writing this, in a cafe in Islington, I have a copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Pakistan open on my left. On the first few pages there are a series of glossy colour photographs of the verdant Hunza Valley with emerald streams studded with diamonds and a backdrop of the majestic Karakoram; their blanched-platinum peaks touching the gates of the firmament. The scenery is perfect. The guidebook goes onto to describe this in purple lilting prose interspersed with sound practical advice on how to get there, where to stay and how much you should expect to pay. So you imagine. You imagine getting on a fulminating rickety bus at Rawalpindi bus stand, and after a few hours pleasant journey northwards, checking into a hotel that has been described by the guidebook as ‘pleasant’ and ‘with hot running water’– but none of this tells you of the reality of your journey.
The guidebook it seems fails to mention that you’ll have to jostle with fellow passengers to secure your seat, that you’ll be sitting on the left-hand side where the scorching sun blazes through the windows, that the bus will stop regularly to pick up itinerant passengers, that they’ll be a musky smelling old woman sitting next to you; her jaundiced teeth splitting pine nuts (and depositing their shells all over you), and that once you alight you’ll have difficulty finding the hotel, and that on the way there you’ll spy a series of newish looking one’s not mentioned in the guide at all. And finally when you check in to your room your vision of ‘pleasant rooms’ it seems is different to the vision of the guide writers. You imagined a room with a view and what did you get? A view of someone’s stewing rubbish heap (with a lingering smell of rotting cabbages). But never mind - at least the window can be closed.
The Guide recommends certain attractions in the surrounding area and so you imagine feverishly booking yourself on a tour of these. And as you sit in the front next to the driver you imagine (as the guidebook promises) that you’ll be treated to jaw dropping vertical cliff overhangs thousands of metres deep and you imagine being thrilled by the danger and the steely chutzpah of the engineers who carved this rutted path through the mountainside - inch by inch. blast by blast. life by life. And you imagine yourself marvelling at the genius of the human species. And your heart is filled with a heady and stout proudness; an imperious human-centred chauvinism.
This is what you imagine from what the guidebook tells you. But what of the reality? You may indeed be wowed and throttled into submission by the eye boggling vistas and views but that is not the most prominent thing on your mind. What is more prominent is a nagging thought (that won’t go away) that you have been over-charged for your room, that perhaps you should have asked for a better view. You also worry about how much to tip the tour guide and whether your passport and valuables are safe with the hotel manager; he did have a shifty look about him didn’t he? And then you worry about using the toilet – well there is none and you don’t particularly fancy jumping behind a boulder, dropping your pants and squatting. And to make things worse you’re beginning to suffer the onset of traveller’s diarrhoea. It seems all these things conspire to ruin the postcard perfect picture the guidebook so earnestly promised you. So what is the problem? Well 'you' are the problem! It seems that reality and more to the point 'you' (you being your physical and emotional self) have decided to turn up to the trip as well! And this was something you had not anticipated. You thought that you would not be taking 'yourself' with you on this trip - that you would be experiencing this trip behind a set of eyes attached to nothing! What sillyness!
It seems that for all it’s useful information, for all it’s jam packed tidbits, the guidebook neglected to mention one important fact: that on this trip you’ll be taking 'yourself' along with you. As you sit writing this, in the comfortable environs of a café in Islington, you never for once thought that the eyes that would see all the wonderful sights mentioned in the guidebook are in fact attached to a body. Yes a body. A body with a stomach (that is prone to upsets), a mind (that scorns at being overcharged and wanders fitfully), a covering of skin (whose pores snap open in hot climes), legs (that are not trained for carrying a backpack) and haunches not yet accustomed to squatting for the bathroom.
And so here lies the central paradox:
It seems that the guidebook and your imagination offer you a distilled view, a concentrated broth or impression that consists of nothing but individual disconnected visual images; a valley here, a mountain pass there, a shepherd with mountain goats here, and dusty faced blue-eyed blond children over there. And this disjointed impression, this series of visual stanzas is what we take with us, only for the pieces in-between to be filled up once we get there. And despite our rational brains and smart intellects, despite the fact that in our professional every day lives (as accountants, teachers, doctors) we would never be led like this (by such displays of make believe), we somehow allow ourselves to be seduced by these childish offerings, we hardly resist them! We allow the tendrils of these fanciful imaginings to take us and wrap themselves around us and feed us on a contrived diet of wishful thinking and wishful places.
The Guide recommends certain attractions in the surrounding area and so you imagine feverishly booking yourself on a tour of these. And as you sit in the front next to the driver you imagine (as the guidebook promises) that you’ll be treated to jaw dropping vertical cliff overhangs thousands of metres deep and you imagine being thrilled by the danger and the steely chutzpah of the engineers who carved this rutted path through the mountainside - inch by inch. blast by blast. life by life. And you imagine yourself marvelling at the genius of the human species. And your heart is filled with a heady and stout proudness; an imperious human-centred chauvinism.
This is what you imagine from what the guidebook tells you. But what of the reality? You may indeed be wowed and throttled into submission by the eye boggling vistas and views but that is not the most prominent thing on your mind. What is more prominent is a nagging thought (that won’t go away) that you have been over-charged for your room, that perhaps you should have asked for a better view. You also worry about how much to tip the tour guide and whether your passport and valuables are safe with the hotel manager; he did have a shifty look about him didn’t he? And then you worry about using the toilet – well there is none and you don’t particularly fancy jumping behind a boulder, dropping your pants and squatting. And to make things worse you’re beginning to suffer the onset of traveller’s diarrhoea. It seems all these things conspire to ruin the postcard perfect picture the guidebook so earnestly promised you. So what is the problem? Well 'you' are the problem! It seems that reality and more to the point 'you' (you being your physical and emotional self) have decided to turn up to the trip as well! And this was something you had not anticipated. You thought that you would not be taking 'yourself' with you on this trip - that you would be experiencing this trip behind a set of eyes attached to nothing! What sillyness!
It seems that for all it’s useful information, for all it’s jam packed tidbits, the guidebook neglected to mention one important fact: that on this trip you’ll be taking 'yourself' along with you. As you sit writing this, in the comfortable environs of a café in Islington, you never for once thought that the eyes that would see all the wonderful sights mentioned in the guidebook are in fact attached to a body. Yes a body. A body with a stomach (that is prone to upsets), a mind (that scorns at being overcharged and wanders fitfully), a covering of skin (whose pores snap open in hot climes), legs (that are not trained for carrying a backpack) and haunches not yet accustomed to squatting for the bathroom.
And so here lies the central paradox:
It seems that the guidebook and your imagination offer you a distilled view, a concentrated broth or impression that consists of nothing but individual disconnected visual images; a valley here, a mountain pass there, a shepherd with mountain goats here, and dusty faced blue-eyed blond children over there. And this disjointed impression, this series of visual stanzas is what we take with us, only for the pieces in-between to be filled up once we get there. And despite our rational brains and smart intellects, despite the fact that in our professional every day lives (as accountants, teachers, doctors) we would never be led like this (by such displays of make believe), we somehow allow ourselves to be seduced by these childish offerings, we hardly resist them! We allow the tendrils of these fanciful imaginings to take us and wrap themselves around us and feed us on a contrived diet of wishful thinking and wishful places.
To be continued…
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Morning's Rhapsody
When you sat down in the café outside Durbar Square in Kathmandu, in the early morning, you were the only one there. It was still dark when you had sat, the city was still tucked up in bed in dreams and blankets, but outside the wind was lashing away, the night still weighed heavily and the few lights were groggy and squinting. The sky was a darkblue-purple patch that filled the gap between the buildings, and the stars winked at you though this gap; yes, they were positively winking at you: on-off, on-off; throbbing to some celestial rhythm - like airplane lights. As you sit there, so far from what you can call home, so far from what you recognise as your own, your hands clasped around your coffee cup – it’s warmth peeling away the layers of your morning torpor and the stars winking away as they have been for millions and millions since the days of the Dinosaurs; your heart can not help but jump in joy. Oh yes in joy! A joy that whispers to you: ‘Hey Wasim, you understand so much! you know so much! but in the frenzy of life you forget what it means to know these things’ - What things?
Let's take one thing. Like the Dinosaurs for example; the fact that you 'know' that they once roared 120 million years ago underneath these same winking stars and now it is your turn. Your turn to roar. So you roar: ‘Rrrrrrrrrwwwwww!’ and what a roar it is! The cook in the kitchen sticks his head up, his eyes frantically searching for the lion that has no doubt escaped from Kathmandu zoo, or for the madman that roars in sleepy café’s, on early mornings. You are a blip in the orchestra of the stars, the game of life, the trials of love, the medley of life.
The early morning air and chemicals in this coffee are making you feel lightheaded; but it is all-good. So you roar some more: Rrrrrrrrwwww! And you laugh. And the cook sticks his head up again like a Giraffe looking out for the lion that will eat it.
Your roar roars with the stars in a synchrony. Each trying to out-do the other. Outshine the other. You feel you are one with all; the night has wrapped itself around you in a velvety cloak, the coffee molecules are dancing on the tip of your tongue, the stars are buzzing away above you like electric lights, and the memory of the dinosaurs lingers on in the collective memory of all of life. Inside your cells - it is all there. In the DNA. You ask yourself whether any of this is real. You feel the table. It seems solid enough. You pinch your skin: Ouch! But you still feel (have always felt?), as if you were an actor on a stage with all of humanity as extras. And the physical world; mountains, jungles, desert, cities are all props. Props in a blockbuster. Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide? There’s no escape from reality. Open your eyes. Look up to the eyes and see…
And the immortal refrain of Bohemian Rhapsody parts the darkness; its choir like orchestras are everywhere. You can hear them. If you listen it’s everywhere…Come on Freddy Mercury let's show em':
'Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the sky and see…'
And you look up to the sky. And you see. As slabs of sunbeams, that have plied millions of miles through inky Space, plough into the shadows and fill them up till they are shadows no more; but scabs of lightworld! The saturation levels rise and the colours come alive like flowers blooming in spring, you can hear life all around you unfurl itself. Awake from its nocturnal reverie. The colours of the sky move steadily down the electromagnetic spectrum: Purple-Blue-Green-Yellow-Red. It’s a new day. You put on your shades and head off. It’s going to be a good day today. It's going to be a sunny day today.
Let's take one thing. Like the Dinosaurs for example; the fact that you 'know' that they once roared 120 million years ago underneath these same winking stars and now it is your turn. Your turn to roar. So you roar: ‘Rrrrrrrrrwwwwww!’ and what a roar it is! The cook in the kitchen sticks his head up, his eyes frantically searching for the lion that has no doubt escaped from Kathmandu zoo, or for the madman that roars in sleepy café’s, on early mornings. You are a blip in the orchestra of the stars, the game of life, the trials of love, the medley of life.
The early morning air and chemicals in this coffee are making you feel lightheaded; but it is all-good. So you roar some more: Rrrrrrrrwwww! And you laugh. And the cook sticks his head up again like a Giraffe looking out for the lion that will eat it.
Your roar roars with the stars in a synchrony. Each trying to out-do the other. Outshine the other. You feel you are one with all; the night has wrapped itself around you in a velvety cloak, the coffee molecules are dancing on the tip of your tongue, the stars are buzzing away above you like electric lights, and the memory of the dinosaurs lingers on in the collective memory of all of life. Inside your cells - it is all there. In the DNA. You ask yourself whether any of this is real. You feel the table. It seems solid enough. You pinch your skin: Ouch! But you still feel (have always felt?), as if you were an actor on a stage with all of humanity as extras. And the physical world; mountains, jungles, desert, cities are all props. Props in a blockbuster. Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide? There’s no escape from reality. Open your eyes. Look up to the eyes and see…
And the immortal refrain of Bohemian Rhapsody parts the darkness; its choir like orchestras are everywhere. You can hear them. If you listen it’s everywhere…Come on Freddy Mercury let's show em':
'Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the sky and see…'
And you look up to the sky. And you see. As slabs of sunbeams, that have plied millions of miles through inky Space, plough into the shadows and fill them up till they are shadows no more; but scabs of lightworld! The saturation levels rise and the colours come alive like flowers blooming in spring, you can hear life all around you unfurl itself. Awake from its nocturnal reverie. The colours of the sky move steadily down the electromagnetic spectrum: Purple-Blue-Green-Yellow-Red. It’s a new day. You put on your shades and head off. It’s going to be a good day today. It's going to be a sunny day today.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Currently reading...The Book of Disquiet (Fernando Pessoa)
"I created myself, echo and abyss, by thinking. I multiplied myself by going deeply into myself...""Limpid, aphoristic, gorgeous, sometimes maddening and utterly original. This compendium of dull days and transfiguring epiphanies is so distilled it should be dipped into in small doses over a lifetime"
"A fractured assemblage of quasi-symbolist reveries, cynical epigrams, musings on quotidian torpor, and gorgeously wrought depressive fits, the book is probably as close as Pessoa could ever come to writing an autobiography."
Short, aphoristic paragraphs, ranging in size from a few sentences to a few pages, comprise the "autobiography" of Bernardo Soares, one of Fernando Pessoa's many devastatingly captivating literary alter egos. THE BOOK OF DISQUIET was found after Pessoa's death, on disordered scraps of paper in a trunk, and was finally published nearly 50 years later. If genius consists of complicated and heartfelt musings, delightful and incisive use of language (not to mention magnificent translation), and brilliance of mind and expression, then certainly this book is an act (or perpetration?) of genius.
The Karakoram Highway - Coming Late July..
(Wikipedia): The Karakoram Highway (KKH) is the highest paved international road in the world. It connects China and Pakistan across the Karakoram mountain range, through the Khunjerab Pass, at an altitude of 4,877 metres (16,002 feet). It connects China's Xinjiang region with Pakistan's Northern Areas and also serves as a popular tourist attraction. Due to it's high elevation and the difficult conditions in which it was constructed, it is also referred to as the "Ninth Wonder of the World"
The Karakoram Highway will form the first stage of a 9-12 month wandering arc across Central and South Asia. After getting off the train from Rawalpindi to Havelian (the official start of the KKH), I plan to head conspicously and assidiously northwards into Mansehra and the Hunza Valley, with digressions to the Nanga Parbat massif (9th highest mountain in the world), across the Gilgit area, chill out in Karimabad and thence across the Khunjerab Pass into China and so to Kashgar. This will complete stage 1 - which may last anywhere between 1-2 months
Stage 2 begins in Kashgar and will either end in Ulanbator in Mongolia or Lhasa in Tibet (depending on my mood at the time)
Stage 3 involves crossing Nepal, by Stage 4 we should be in Utter Pradesh in India (where the sordid street life of Calcutta await my lens and my ears and the refreshing teas of quaint Darjeeling), Stage 5 is a ramble down the eastern flank of India down through the southern Tamil states toooooo... the very tip of India, where Stage 6 starts upon a chugging short ferry hop across the Palk Straits into Sri-Lanka.
Yes, this trip is pretty much powered by the whimsies of mood and caprice and a desire to see some of the most disgusting and filthy hotels in existence (only kidding). With no itinerary, no deadlines, no timetable, minimal belongings and a faint and distant desire to be in Sri Lanka by the end, this trip promises to morph into quite an adventure and most likely a hugely unpleasant experience for my stomach. And my ears. And my nose. And my eyes. And my mind. For which I will now apologise to my body for the ravages that will no doubt beset it. There will be no aeroplanes, no luxury hotels, no taxis, no expensive restaurants, only public transport and cheap and cheerful lodgings with equally cheap and cheerful hotel owners and the complimentary bed bugs (with cold scolding showers and squat toilets for added comfort)...
...alright, alright, occasionally I may splurge on a little luxury (but only cos I deserve it!)
But plans may change though. Who knows? Life has a tendency to do that. Bite you up the ass. I may like Northern Pakistan and Gilgit soooooooooo much that I may stay there, in a room, with a view, for a whole year...with nothing but my pad, pen and those bearded mountains to keep me company...
Ilovebeardedmountains.com
pleasejoinme.com
Ipromisetopostfunnytraveloguesonmyblogg.com
iloveyou.com
eronlyjoking.com
noidoseriouslyloveyou.com
(KKH Pictures: Alfred Molon)
The Karakoram Highway will form the first stage of a 9-12 month wandering arc across Central and South Asia. After getting off the train from Rawalpindi to Havelian (the official start of the KKH), I plan to head conspicously and assidiously northwards into Mansehra and the Hunza Valley, with digressions to the Nanga Parbat massif (9th highest mountain in the world), across the Gilgit area, chill out in Karimabad and thence across the Khunjerab Pass into China and so to Kashgar. This will complete stage 1 - which may last anywhere between 1-2 months
Stage 2 begins in Kashgar and will either end in Ulanbator in Mongolia or Lhasa in Tibet (depending on my mood at the time)
Stage 3 involves crossing Nepal, by Stage 4 we should be in Utter Pradesh in India (where the sordid street life of Calcutta await my lens and my ears and the refreshing teas of quaint Darjeeling), Stage 5 is a ramble down the eastern flank of India down through the southern Tamil states toooooo... the very tip of India, where Stage 6 starts upon a chugging short ferry hop across the Palk Straits into Sri-Lanka.
Yes, this trip is pretty much powered by the whimsies of mood and caprice and a desire to see some of the most disgusting and filthy hotels in existence (only kidding). With no itinerary, no deadlines, no timetable, minimal belongings and a faint and distant desire to be in Sri Lanka by the end, this trip promises to morph into quite an adventure and most likely a hugely unpleasant experience for my stomach. And my ears. And my nose. And my eyes. And my mind. For which I will now apologise to my body for the ravages that will no doubt beset it. There will be no aeroplanes, no luxury hotels, no taxis, no expensive restaurants, only public transport and cheap and cheerful lodgings with equally cheap and cheerful hotel owners and the complimentary bed bugs (with cold scolding showers and squat toilets for added comfort)...
...alright, alright, occasionally I may splurge on a little luxury (but only cos I deserve it!)
But plans may change though. Who knows? Life has a tendency to do that. Bite you up the ass. I may like Northern Pakistan and Gilgit soooooooooo much that I may stay there, in a room, with a view, for a whole year...with nothing but my pad, pen and those bearded mountains to keep me company...
Ilovebeardedmountains.com
pleasejoinme.com
Ipromisetopostfunnytraveloguesonmyblogg.com
iloveyou.com
eronlyjoking.com
noidoseriouslyloveyou.com
(KKH Pictures: Alfred Molon)
Monday, May 26, 2008
Kathmandu - Kathmandu - whattodo - whattodo
Arriving in Kathmandu was like entering the drug-addled dream of a schizoid dope fiend. Staring at you at the station we’re a dozen or so blood thirsty urchins-eyeing you in anticipation. You can smell the hunt, prey and predator watch each other anticipating, calculating. As soon as you step beyond the airport arrival barriers, almost as if an invisible force field is switched off – the hunt begins. Heading in your direction is a motley crew of rapscallions, there eyes bulging, their neck veins dilated, their nostrils extended, their fingers and arms like raptors. They cling to your rucksack, as if a baton in a relay. As if the first to touch, is the winner of your fare. So begins a lengthy battle of ‘pass me back my rucksack’ – the rucksack is manhandled from one urchin to another, each trying to pull it towards their vehicle
‘Please Sir, come with me, I take you to Shangri La Hotel!’
‘No, please come with me Sir’
‘Where do you want to go sir?’
‘What would you like? Coffee, Tea, Apple pie, Hashish, smack, dope, she girl, sex, brown sugar?’
Brown Sugar?!
Anyway, I stare helplessly on and watch my rucksack disappear in a sea of limbs. The airport officials look on impishly (giggling under their breaths). I see other tourists being greeted by hotel officials from hotels that had been booked ‘before’ landing.
Me? I like to do thing the hard way you see.
Eventually, by some process of osmosis or divine Providence, my bag ends up in some beaten up taxi, with me in the back clutching onto my bag, and the driver sitting at the front, with another man to the right and two men sitting in the back with me.
Stop. Wait a second. Just picture this:
Beaten up Taxi. Driver, drivers associate, me in the back with two guys; one on my left and other on the right. Five of us in the taxi, like sardines, and from what I can tell I’m the only tourist here. Still, I don’t ask questions. This is Kathmandu and I am suffering cultural shock. I close my eyes and repeat:
“Don’t worry, this will pass. You’re just adjusting. You need to adapt. You’ve just arrived and it takes time to adapt”
I open my eyes and look out of the window.
Adapt! Adapt! I see us trammelling though a well-rutted path (road?), I spot a cow spurting out brown shit on the side (did I just see that?) I turn my head to confirm. Little box huts line both sides of the road, their occupants sitting on the steps watching, twiddling their balls. The taxi bumps and tumbles its way through a mesh of fumes, traffic, blaring horns, bikes, pretty girls on bicycles, rickshaws, 4 WDs, donkeys, asses and my retina registers the occasional bust of chicken feathers and a squawk as we play chicken with the er chickens. Children line the roads with dirt caked faces and wolverine eyes. There’s an impish kid being washed on the roadside by its mother, his dark skin covered in foam. Scrawny pariah dog’s loaf around nudging scraps of dirt and orange peel with their noses. Another burst of red-orange feathers hits my retina as another chicken is 'chickened'.
Does this taxi have breaks I wonder? No, we use horns instead. Others use breaks.
‘We show you heavenly pagodas and temples sir, we show you gardens of Babylon, we show you trekking, you want to see Annapurna mountain range? Everest? You want to go trekking sir?!’
We drive into town and past ‘Freak Street’ – Freak Street! Correct, that is the name of the street. This is 'Thamel' the home of hippie Dom and chilled out hippy dudes; escapees from the western world, looking for a little enlightenment in the East. The stores lining the road are a litany of tourist inspired services:
‘Himalaya tours, Everest Base Camp Tours, Professional Trekking company tours, Palmist-Marishi Yogi whatitsname, Soothsayer – 10 dollars – find your future destiny, Tibetan Tours – we arrange guide, travel and sleeping quarters no problem!’
The restaurants seem to have caught the global bug and have adapted well:
'Kathmandu Chinese Restaurant - we serve Chinese, Burgers, Pizzas, Omelettes, Egg Fried Rice, Chips, Steaks, Italina, Tapas, and Haute Cuisine...at your service!'
Blimey.
and
'The Monk Bar - Espressos, Cappuchinos, English and American coffees, finest cakes and apple pies'
The hip bars are bursting with western music. Bob Marley and Bob Dylan – crooning in a haze of hashish. Women walk around in gypsy attired outfits, orange pyjamas, tops with hanging beads, a shower of reds and greens.
You spy Mongol faces, Indian faces, Chinese, western, Kazakhstani, smooth burnished Mongolian types, small noses, large hooked one’s, odd racial mixes, mongrel mixtures of the genes that this melting pot has inspired. The locals are very pretty. The women are charming with high cheekbones and thin waists. The whole place feels like a medieval town, people dressed in all manner of theatrical costumes, large green hats like those pointed ones worn by magicians (but these are for real), colourful waistcoats adorned with little glass mirrors and baubles that twinkle in the sunshine, some of the men wear highly adorned semi-circular daggers with ornate handles and curved tips. Monks sprawl across the roads on non-stop pilgrimages to Lhasa. The buildings are rickety lean too's, like cardboard cut outs, every so often you notice the golden head of a temple stupa sprouting from behind the roofs. Kathmandu has more temples per square area then anywhere in the world. Monks importuning for alms, itinerant street hawkers, roadside street sellers. If there’s a market for something somebody’s selling it.
For many years, when Tibet was closed to foreigners, the Himalayan Kingdom of Nepal has served as a kind of second hand or poor brother of Tibet. It’s done well. 75% of the GDP now depends on foreigners. But at what cost? Lost of innocence and a form of modern imperialism; not as brutish a face as the previous incarnation but imperialism nonetheless.
For now, I enter my 8 dollar a day guesthouse, with en-suite luke warm shower no less, unflushible toilet bowl, and a musty smelling room and bed sheets that smell of soap. I take off my shoes, socks and fall into blissful sleep. I wake up before dawn when the sky is dark blue and the spectral outlines of the buildings stand out from the sky. I head out for an early morning walk. It’s quiet. No squawking hustlers. Rickshaws asleep. Shop fronts asleep. Its an eery to the carnage of the day. Little children with starched clean outfits heading for the temple to make offerings to the gods; old women walking sagely; the patter of early morning domestic life; children getting ready for school; a mother combing her daughter; the aroma of breakfast. A different world now. Less touristy and you feel the Nepalese are more themselves carrying out their chores while the tourists sleep…this is the real Nepal you never see in the hustle and pungent noise and din of the day when the bright light removes shadows and bleeds colours and illuminates only a harsh unreality.
‘Please Sir, come with me, I take you to Shangri La Hotel!’
‘No, please come with me Sir’
‘Where do you want to go sir?’
‘What would you like? Coffee, Tea, Apple pie, Hashish, smack, dope, she girl, sex, brown sugar?’
Brown Sugar?!
Anyway, I stare helplessly on and watch my rucksack disappear in a sea of limbs. The airport officials look on impishly (giggling under their breaths). I see other tourists being greeted by hotel officials from hotels that had been booked ‘before’ landing.
Me? I like to do thing the hard way you see.
Eventually, by some process of osmosis or divine Providence, my bag ends up in some beaten up taxi, with me in the back clutching onto my bag, and the driver sitting at the front, with another man to the right and two men sitting in the back with me.
Stop. Wait a second. Just picture this:
Beaten up Taxi. Driver, drivers associate, me in the back with two guys; one on my left and other on the right. Five of us in the taxi, like sardines, and from what I can tell I’m the only tourist here. Still, I don’t ask questions. This is Kathmandu and I am suffering cultural shock. I close my eyes and repeat:
“Don’t worry, this will pass. You’re just adjusting. You need to adapt. You’ve just arrived and it takes time to adapt”
I open my eyes and look out of the window.
Adapt! Adapt! I see us trammelling though a well-rutted path (road?), I spot a cow spurting out brown shit on the side (did I just see that?) I turn my head to confirm. Little box huts line both sides of the road, their occupants sitting on the steps watching, twiddling their balls. The taxi bumps and tumbles its way through a mesh of fumes, traffic, blaring horns, bikes, pretty girls on bicycles, rickshaws, 4 WDs, donkeys, asses and my retina registers the occasional bust of chicken feathers and a squawk as we play chicken with the er chickens. Children line the roads with dirt caked faces and wolverine eyes. There’s an impish kid being washed on the roadside by its mother, his dark skin covered in foam. Scrawny pariah dog’s loaf around nudging scraps of dirt and orange peel with their noses. Another burst of red-orange feathers hits my retina as another chicken is 'chickened'.
Does this taxi have breaks I wonder? No, we use horns instead. Others use breaks.
‘We show you heavenly pagodas and temples sir, we show you gardens of Babylon, we show you trekking, you want to see Annapurna mountain range? Everest? You want to go trekking sir?!’
We drive into town and past ‘Freak Street’ – Freak Street! Correct, that is the name of the street. This is 'Thamel' the home of hippie Dom and chilled out hippy dudes; escapees from the western world, looking for a little enlightenment in the East. The stores lining the road are a litany of tourist inspired services:
‘Himalaya tours, Everest Base Camp Tours, Professional Trekking company tours, Palmist-Marishi Yogi whatitsname, Soothsayer – 10 dollars – find your future destiny, Tibetan Tours – we arrange guide, travel and sleeping quarters no problem!’
The restaurants seem to have caught the global bug and have adapted well:
'Kathmandu Chinese Restaurant - we serve Chinese, Burgers, Pizzas, Omelettes, Egg Fried Rice, Chips, Steaks, Italina, Tapas, and Haute Cuisine...at your service!'
Blimey.
and
'The Monk Bar - Espressos, Cappuchinos, English and American coffees, finest cakes and apple pies'
The hip bars are bursting with western music. Bob Marley and Bob Dylan – crooning in a haze of hashish. Women walk around in gypsy attired outfits, orange pyjamas, tops with hanging beads, a shower of reds and greens.
You spy Mongol faces, Indian faces, Chinese, western, Kazakhstani, smooth burnished Mongolian types, small noses, large hooked one’s, odd racial mixes, mongrel mixtures of the genes that this melting pot has inspired. The locals are very pretty. The women are charming with high cheekbones and thin waists. The whole place feels like a medieval town, people dressed in all manner of theatrical costumes, large green hats like those pointed ones worn by magicians (but these are for real), colourful waistcoats adorned with little glass mirrors and baubles that twinkle in the sunshine, some of the men wear highly adorned semi-circular daggers with ornate handles and curved tips. Monks sprawl across the roads on non-stop pilgrimages to Lhasa. The buildings are rickety lean too's, like cardboard cut outs, every so often you notice the golden head of a temple stupa sprouting from behind the roofs. Kathmandu has more temples per square area then anywhere in the world. Monks importuning for alms, itinerant street hawkers, roadside street sellers. If there’s a market for something somebody’s selling it.
For many years, when Tibet was closed to foreigners, the Himalayan Kingdom of Nepal has served as a kind of second hand or poor brother of Tibet. It’s done well. 75% of the GDP now depends on foreigners. But at what cost? Lost of innocence and a form of modern imperialism; not as brutish a face as the previous incarnation but imperialism nonetheless.
For now, I enter my 8 dollar a day guesthouse, with en-suite luke warm shower no less, unflushible toilet bowl, and a musty smelling room and bed sheets that smell of soap. I take off my shoes, socks and fall into blissful sleep. I wake up before dawn when the sky is dark blue and the spectral outlines of the buildings stand out from the sky. I head out for an early morning walk. It’s quiet. No squawking hustlers. Rickshaws asleep. Shop fronts asleep. Its an eery to the carnage of the day. Little children with starched clean outfits heading for the temple to make offerings to the gods; old women walking sagely; the patter of early morning domestic life; children getting ready for school; a mother combing her daughter; the aroma of breakfast. A different world now. Less touristy and you feel the Nepalese are more themselves carrying out their chores while the tourists sleep…this is the real Nepal you never see in the hustle and pungent noise and din of the day when the bright light removes shadows and bleeds colours and illuminates only a harsh unreality.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Imagine
Imagine a room
A room with a view
Of white bearded mountains and sparkling streams.
Imagine a room, square, smallish, single bed, bedside lamp, whirring fan, wooden desk for writing, some picture frames: ‘Kashmir, the home of paradise’ and ‘Paradise on earth - northern Pakistan’.
Imagine a cold tiled floor, a simple bathroom, cold showers, the noise of braying donkeys, the squawk of hawkers, the smoke of the kebab seller. Imagine a room, with a view.
Imagine a table, a desk; wooden, rectangular with no draws, just a simple desk, with four legs and a varnished work top, not smooth but slightly rough with smooth curved edges, looking out over the window, at the bearded mountains. The cedar trees.
Imagine a pad. A pad of paper, A4, lined, thin, lying in the middle of the table, waiting. Imagine a pen. An ink pen, smooth nib, made in China, cheap but reliable with piston filler and blue ink. Like the early evening sky. Lying beside the paper. Waiting.
Imagine a chair. Wooden with wooden seat. Not cushioned, so hard for prolonged periods. But imagine a pillow placed on it, much better now!
Imagine the lamp. Grimy yellow light buzzing with flies at night, but useless when load-shedding, but a lamp nonetheless; important for night time – what is one supposed to do at night? Trudge the darkened streets? Nothing stays open at night here – the occasional weak balls of light strum weakly through crepuscular shop fronts. Throbbing to the din of cicadas. And the wink of the stars.
Imagine the books. A dozen. Lying on the floor against the wall: Broken backs, yellowed, crinkly - Dictionary, Thesaurus, V.S Naipaul, Theroux, Steinbeck, Naguib Mahfouz, Rimbaud in Harare, and Douglas. Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker of the Galaxy – rest in peace Douglas.
Imagine the walls. Grey, cold, prickly with heat and damp with brocaded patterns that you stare at and that you will never forget. Imagine a pad, a paper and a pen. Imagine a view.
Imagine time. Still. Like the lake in Srinagar. Stretching into the future for as long as you wish. For you are master now. Master of time. Imagine the clock. On the wall. Useless and defunct. How to measure time? Number of days? Number of weeks? Months? No, number of pages. Yes. Number of pages.
Imagine your slippers - rubbery like a Dolphin. Imagine your clothes – simple Salwar Kameez - comfortable. Imagine your life – basic. Imagine the landlady’s cat- your only friend – she crawls around your leg. And the dirty little boy who stares at you through the crack in the door. Watching you. Strange man you are! Imagine a window. With a view. Imagine the mountains taking you to lofty places. Imagine your thoughts. Here. Now. Imagine inspiration, with wings like a butterfly, fluttering in through the window, landing on the pad.
Imagine yourself.
In the future.
Imagine,
imagine her…
Is she still with you?
Yes.
As always.
Just imagine.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
The apple of me (aka The Fly)
You shine like a burning star
that's fallen from the sky
A man will rise
A man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from a wall
It's no secret at all
that's fallen from the sky
A man will rise
A man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from a wall
It's no secret at all
Monday, May 05, 2008
The apple of my eyes
what do you see through those starburst eyes?
can you see the pixels jump out alive?
a chromatic - w i d e s c r e e n - technicolor life
a ready-made Dulux®
for us to find
can you see the pixels jump out alive?
a chromatic - w i d e s c r e e n - technicolor life
a ready-made Dulux®
for us to find
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Lost Amongst Feranjis
(Feranjis : Amharic for foreigners)
It's no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
its no secret that our world is in darkness tonight
they say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon
you know I don't see you when you walk in the room
So imagine this:
To go seamlessly, like air, unnoticed, invincible, floating, across borders and crashing into lives. With only Nietzsche, John Steinbeck, Paul Theroux and your blank journals to keep you company. Not skulk on the surface and merely scratch it. To sneak in, take off your shoes, and your socks, hey have an ice-cold drink, play at peek-a-boo with the littluns (Lord of the Flies), and then to sit there. For as long as it takes. Days - Weeks - Months. Who knows? To watch, smell, taste and feel and touch. To prod, to question, to provoke, and to listen - Attentively. To imbibe, to jot down, to put to paper, in those blank journals; for blank spaces, to render visceral landscapes not in waterpaints but in wordpaints. To hear words. Spoken. They're sounds you know. Have you ever listened? Timbres? Nuances? Subtleties in meaning? To record dialogue. With wordpaint. Using a fine wordbrush. The chatter of the night. Can you hear it? Precisely. Scribble-scribble. To transport, to transport you my darling, my sweetheart, as if by magic carpet to where I sit; the choking dust, the toxic sun, the verdant bitter harvests; to where I am, to what I feel, what I am thinking, the taste of my fears and the bitterness etched on my tongue. To hold your hand and to take you gently, to take you by your dove white wrists, to take you to partake in me, in being me, at that moment, in time, somewhere. Scribble-scribble. To render a person - to describe the 'essence' of a thing without wallowing in cliche or affectation or pretension to artistic merit. To quite simply see the world through my eyes fogged by my tears and the stink of my sweat. Scribble-scribble.
To feel. To feel the oneness of being alone, in a forest of foreign signs, foreign words and feranji faces. To feel at one with Betelgeuse; up there struggling to be heard through the din of a galaxy of faces, bad faces, unscrutable, malicious faces, burnished and regal; they're all evil-doers you know. Have you ever felt that? That aloneness? Just you. That feeling of primitive man. Ancient cave man. Course you haven't. Nothing but you and the stars. Scribble-scribble.
Love...we shine like a burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight.
To feel the listless torpor of waiting. That 'in-between' place weighing heavy on your temples and squeezing your brain through your ears. Waiting. Waiting for the moment of departure at bus depots, at the airport, at the train station. At the airport - where neon is blinding and scratches. You scratch yourself red in boredom. All of life is here. Not going anywhere. Where all is still and nothing much happens and time is on vacation and fear is king; and then the sigh and release of final departure. Your shackles slither away. Is it the journey or the destination I wonder? What matters? Journey or destination?Here's a thought: Can one travel without destination thus emancipating oneself from the banality of travel? Deep stuff. That'e me. That's my experiment. Yes. How so?
Freedom from destination. When there's no destination the mythical destination becomes everything. Here - now - then. The present is everything. No worries. Scribble-scribble
Freedom from time. There! There goes my watch, in the river, down the ravine, down the latrine. Fuck off watch! Hope you drown shitty little watch!
Freedom from luggage. What luggage?
It's no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
its no secret that our world is in darkness tonight
they say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon
you know I don't see you when you walk in the room
So imagine this:
To go seamlessly, like air, unnoticed, invincible, floating, across borders and crashing into lives. With only Nietzsche, John Steinbeck, Paul Theroux and your blank journals to keep you company. Not skulk on the surface and merely scratch it. To sneak in, take off your shoes, and your socks, hey have an ice-cold drink, play at peek-a-boo with the littluns (Lord of the Flies), and then to sit there. For as long as it takes. Days - Weeks - Months. Who knows? To watch, smell, taste and feel and touch. To prod, to question, to provoke, and to listen - Attentively. To imbibe, to jot down, to put to paper, in those blank journals; for blank spaces, to render visceral landscapes not in waterpaints but in wordpaints. To hear words. Spoken. They're sounds you know. Have you ever listened? Timbres? Nuances? Subtleties in meaning? To record dialogue. With wordpaint. Using a fine wordbrush. The chatter of the night. Can you hear it? Precisely. Scribble-scribble. To transport, to transport you my darling, my sweetheart, as if by magic carpet to where I sit; the choking dust, the toxic sun, the verdant bitter harvests; to where I am, to what I feel, what I am thinking, the taste of my fears and the bitterness etched on my tongue. To hold your hand and to take you gently, to take you by your dove white wrists, to take you to partake in me, in being me, at that moment, in time, somewhere. Scribble-scribble. To render a person - to describe the 'essence' of a thing without wallowing in cliche or affectation or pretension to artistic merit. To quite simply see the world through my eyes fogged by my tears and the stink of my sweat. Scribble-scribble.
To feel. To feel the oneness of being alone, in a forest of foreign signs, foreign words and feranji faces. To feel at one with Betelgeuse; up there struggling to be heard through the din of a galaxy of faces, bad faces, unscrutable, malicious faces, burnished and regal; they're all evil-doers you know. Have you ever felt that? That aloneness? Just you. That feeling of primitive man. Ancient cave man. Course you haven't. Nothing but you and the stars. Scribble-scribble.
Love...we shine like a burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight.
To feel the listless torpor of waiting. That 'in-between' place weighing heavy on your temples and squeezing your brain through your ears. Waiting. Waiting for the moment of departure at bus depots, at the airport, at the train station. At the airport - where neon is blinding and scratches. You scratch yourself red in boredom. All of life is here. Not going anywhere. Where all is still and nothing much happens and time is on vacation and fear is king; and then the sigh and release of final departure. Your shackles slither away. Is it the journey or the destination I wonder? What matters? Journey or destination?Here's a thought: Can one travel without destination thus emancipating oneself from the banality of travel? Deep stuff. That'e me. That's my experiment. Yes. How so?
Freedom from destination. When there's no destination the mythical destination becomes everything. Here - now - then. The present is everything. No worries. Scribble-scribble
Freedom from time. There! There goes my watch, in the river, down the ravine, down the latrine. Fuck off watch! Hope you drown shitty little watch!
Freedom from luggage. What luggage?
pair of jeans
couple of t-shirtsa poncho
a years supply of contact lensescompass ;-)
detailed maps (but not so detailed to raise eyebrows with the military authorities)2-3 books (travel lit. incl 'Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck - who could make the surface of the moon sound mesmerising)
Journals for jotting. For rendering landscapes. For wordpaint. For wordart. My art (excuse the pretension)passport
funds
cameraDeparture date: July 27th.
You ready?
Sure?
Do join me. It's free. Just like life!
Love...we shine like a
burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight
A man will rise
A man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from a wall
It's no secret at all
Yes the sheer face of love
There's no secret to life at all...
Monday, April 14, 2008
Coming soon...Asian trip Itinerary
The plan is to begin with er pukka-style in Mirpur, Azad Kashmir. Why? Well, I spent 2 years there in the mid 1990's and seem to have developed an unfathomable desire to see how much this charmless city, built from British Asian wealth (that I cruelly detested at the time and was really miserable in; as if in purgatory) has changed with the tide of time. It's not a huge city by any means and I'm looking forward to exploring the chowks. A couple of days should do it. I actually went to a school here for about a year 'Chinnar Public School' where I learnt the importance of 'rote' learning, severe discipline, the ignorance of the science teachers and was introduced to the ignoble pleasures of 'Urdu for 4 year olds'. From there I'll be heading into deepest Himalaya; with base camp being in 'Gilgit', where I plan to acquire lodgings with a 'desi' (local) family and their litter of animals, root vegetables and wobbly-toothed grand Daddies. Again, family life affords you a more rewarding experience and a chance to get to know people more intimately. Gilgit will be a good base from which to make forays into the Himalayan heartlands. Later there's the Karakoram Highway into China to look forward to and then farther on, Mongolia, Tibet et al. But more on that later.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Currently reading...The Enchantress of Florence
A sumptuous feast of a book. I spent two whole days devouring this treat and feel pretty full up. The bibliography at the back alludes to the extensive research the author conducted, and as you flick through the rich tapestry between the pages, it shows. It takes some chutzpah to create an Akbar who intones: 'is there a god?' 'are we not members of the religion of our forebears passed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom?' - God forbid an atheistic Akbar?! - Moghul King gone haywire; but you can see Salman had huge fun creating this larger than life personality and giving him a totally unexpected quirk; imbibing him with his own sense of whimsy and the absurdity of creation. To the chagrin of the other female princesses Akbar even goes as far as to magically 'create' an imaginary princess of princesses. Most beautiful, most sexed, and not at all sycophantic like the others; this perfect female creation of his mind is disdainful and rebukes him for his puppy love sickness, teasing him with vicious sex games and clawing at his skin with finger nails. The novel traipses between the Indian city of Sikri and the Florence of Machiavelli (who even manages to make an entrance) - the two cities connected by the magical filigrees of a dainty story about a beautiful princess and a yellow haired charlatan. There is much here to like. Such as the sexual habits of the Moghul court replete with scheming concubines, lecherous wenches, love potions, performance enhancing 'horse testes' rubs, sodomy, sado-masochistic sex, debauchery, and Akbars retinue of advisers; all characters themselves. One thing you come out of this book appreciating, if anything, is how sexed the Moghuls were. No wonder Akbar is believed to have sired hundreds if not thousands of spawns. A virtuoso performance indeed. No, not Akbar, I meant Salman.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Part V - Slipstream Divine
'To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour'
(William Blake)
Madness Divine
Let me just say that I am not mad. I've thought about it, as one inadvertently does during such long journeys, and I have reached the conclusion that I am thoroughly sane. So with that I'd like to begin: It is only when you really truly understand what lies between suns that you become a god.
It’s the distances; those epic, unforgiving, and magisterial stretches that forge memory blankness that do it you know. How can a mortal mind take it?
Equations you say? But that is not comprehension. That is management. That is you attempting to manage, to fit the unassailable into a little box marked ‘mystery’, so that you don’t have to think about it. But comprehension, comprehension is something well, something else.
When I was little my father used to play a game. We’d be cruising above the desert of our home planet and suddenly he’d throw open the hatch and deposit us (gently) onto the sand dunes (me and my sister). Two seconds flight-time later he’d cut the engines and then it would begin. The idea of the game was that we were to make our way to him - on foot. Two seconds – we couldn’t even see him! It’d take us the best part of the day to travel the distance and even then we could only make out the fuzzy blip on the horizon. What he was giving us was a vital lesson in cosmic empathy.
But that was many years gone past,
Many years have eluded me as I traipse between suns. I can now say that I really truly understand cosmic empathy. I wonder sometimes, sometimes aloud how time tastes to you? Does it taste the same as it does to me? For me time feels like something that accumulates, something that is constantly depositing a fine layer on me. And as we move farther and farther through time this layer thickens and thickens. And the same applies to distance too because time and distance are brother and sister. I understand from others that you probably see time as something different; something that is lost and never to be recovered. That the passing of time is something not good?
Do you not think that how we feel time colours how we see? I think so. I can’t go back. Not because I feel terror at the enormity of the task but because I have no desire to shed the layers of time and distance I have accumulated in my journey. These are precious. And also, there’s the psychological impact of the interminability of the return journey. That would be bad, not good. But full steam ahead as they say; who knows the same interminability may greet me but it will be a different interminability. Not the same.
But where was I?
Yes, I was talking about distances and time – the mere fact of having traversed them leaves a mark on you. Like a visit to a place of poverty, a brush with death or a meet with someone you admire. It leaves an indelible mark.
What kind of a mark you ask?
Well, an intimate empathy of the scale of nothingness, and an even greater empathy for the nothingness of everything.
Everything and nothing
Life and death
Infinity,
I can see it you know. I really do understand it. It sits there in my mind looking at me; smiling. Sneering at me with its black rotten teeth. The realisation.
The moment of realisation – ha!
It creeps up on you at first, insinuates its way through you and then without warning the realisation strikes you between the temples. Whack! Stunned.
Then follows a sort of giddy excitement. Your mind races around. You want to tell someone what you realise. But, why are you so excited? You have nobody to tell. It’s only you here and your toys in the cargo hold! Why then the excitement? Just imagine you’re the only one in the world. Just imagine. What would excite you? Would anything excite you at all? Exactly.
After the excitement there’s a deep understanding. Yes, that becomes part of you; permeates you, until it soaks through your bones and you become this understanding and realisation.
You realise what it means to hold infinity,
Touch it, and in your hand look at it,
Like a god.
Slipstream Divine
The object (for that is what the inhabitants of the planet would have thought if they could see it) hung motionless above the atmosphere. It was a gross violation of nature the way it just hung there, as below it churned the verdant blue planet swathed in white shawls. The curvature of the planet was gilded; it defined itself against the starry void beyond. The sun carved a huge arc across it; slicing it in half – night and day.
I want to kill them people on the planet
Why?
Because I can…And because nobody will know about it. Nobody will find out because they’ll all be dead and there’s nobody to watch me do it.
But why?
I don’t know. Because I don’t know any of them so I won’t be paying a currency of grief.
What do you mean?
I have not seen them. My eyes have not touched them. My heart has not reached out to them. I don’t know them so I have no emotional attachment to them. So I can kill them.
But just say if I had spent even five minutes with them. Watching their children running around and playing games (which I’m sure they do), watching the mothers doting after them and bossing over them, then I would perhaps think differently. But I am 20 miles above and I don’t have these feelings.
But you could?
Yes, I could but I don’t. That is a fact.
Isn’t that evil?
I don’t know. I suppose it is. But I don’t feel like it is evil. Ok admittedly it’s a bad thing to do, but that is outweighed by the fact that it will make me feel good.
Why?
Because it is act of doing something that most people would say is wrong or evil. And knowing that you will never be found out gives it a thrill like taking a sly shit in somebody's garden or in a field when there’s no one around to watch you. Or deliberately smacking a little kid knowing you won't be caught – because the kids too small to speak and to have a memory.
That’s sick?
Is it?
Yes.
Look, you can’t kill them.
Why?
Because it is not your right to take life. You didn’t give them life so why should you take it?
But who gave them life?
I don’t know. That’s beside the point. The point is you should give them a chance to live. They’ll only get one chance at living. They’ll die eventually anyway. Let them experience it.
Experience what? Life or death?
Life!
Doesn’t the nothingness you have travelled though make them seem amazing or special? Like brilliant crystals in a dull solution?
No. It makes them look pathetic and puny in the shadow of the vastness of everything. And I am that vastness. It has absorbed me into it. I understand true distance, true vastness, true scale – these people are, you can’t imagine. They’re just nothings.
Look, don’t kill them there’s no fun in that. Interfere a little,
play with them…
You’re mad! And you are supposed to be me my conscience?
And you are I?
And we are one.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Coming soon...Part V - Slipstream Divine
'To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour'
(William Blake)
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour'
(William Blake)
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Part IV - The Enchantment of Father Eduardo Conspiratorez
'I am enchanted,
By the light you bring to me
I listen to your ears,
Through your eyes I can see'
By the light you bring to me
I listen to your ears,
Through your eyes I can see'
(Scene 1)
On Tuesday, 27th November AD 1095, Pope Urban II made a speech that would change the course of history. He’d summoned a great Council to Clermont in France to make a major announcement. There was tremendous excitement, the air was buzzing and the cathedral that was to host the event was not nearly big enough. Hence the papal throne had to be moved to a nearby boggy field where atop the pulpit looking every bit the regal viceroy he was, the Pope revealed what was on his mind: He had received an embassy from the emperor of Byzantium seeking help in driving back the Moslems; to protect the righteous Christians from the barbarian Moslem Seljuk Turks who were advancing towards the Bosporus to Byzantium. Thus under the banner of the Cross the Pope’s speech was a call to arms. He summoned all Christian warriors to aid their brothers in the East. This was to fire the imagination of Europe for the next 400 years. Thus the Crusades were born.
But like all such endeavours there was a hidden agenda that the Pope failed to mention that day. Historians today acknowledge that there was another kind of fire burning at the heart of this revolutionary papacy; by summoning an army under the banner of the Cross the Pope was extending the Church’s mantle over the whole of Christendom. Pope Urban’s army would rescue Jerusalem, the physical and spiritual centre of the universe, and the Pope would in turn become ruler of Jerusalem and de-facto Arch Monarch of the World. And what did the Pope offer in return to would be Crusaders? Paradise. Those who took part had all their sins forgiven. Thus a purely political enterprise was cleverly worked into a righteous religious endeavour. For the believers the Crusades were a religious and moral obligation.
That is the official origin of the Crusades believed by many scholars to be true.
But this too is spurious and not totally accurate…
‘There is no greater fear for the Papal elite, then the fear of becoming at one with God’s heaving masses’
(21st century poet)
(Scene 2)
The candle caught a draught and flickered tremulously in the corner. Its halo hemmed in by the walls of the cloistered rectangular side chapel. It was a smallish chamber, situated to the left of the main vessel. It had a domed ribbed-roof decorated with arches of formeret beams that began at shoulder height from semicircular decorative corbels. The tiny opaque windows at the front were set in triangular liernes and foliated motifs. A solitary shape sat scribbling away under the single candle flame. The hunched shadow was wearing the habit and cowl of a monk with a long bony hand that thrust out from it and from whose end dangled a quill. The sound of furious scribbling parted the darkness. The bony hand finally grabbed the wax and christened the note with the papal seal of Pope Urban II. The shadow gestured to the darkness and the darkness responded; a messenger who had been hiding in the shadow all along approached the sinewy hand, and upon receipt of the letter, bowed, stepped backwards and headed out in solemn but assured hurriedness.
The letter he was carrying was bound for Venice, under personnel protection of the Pope’s personal courier system. The couriers were hand picked and amongst the most trusted. They were trained in warfare, deception, hand to hand combat and protected by Papal decree to boot. They travelled alone, under cover of darkness, in disguise and were instructed to do whatever necessary to ensure delivery. Pope Urban II had just dictated the letter.
It read as follows:
From the office of Pope Pious Urban II
To: Father Montezuma Obispo
Venetian Seminary of Priesthood.
Casa Combrecci,
Venice.
Friday 30th, November AD 1095
Dearest brother,
How is Ma? Please convey her my blessings.
These are difficult times. A tempest brews in the East bringing tidings of woe. The Holy lands are besieged by heathen Moslems who dare to desecrate the Holy Chapel in Jerusalem – such insolence! The Temple Mount is stricken by their filthy type. They laugh at us! They jeer at our impotence and celebrate our bickering and quarrelling. And now to add fat to their already ripe bellies they dare to shame us further. Yes, our ears have received tidings that a band of Moslem brigands have conspired to exhume the tomb of Saint Mark, Venice’s patron Saint, who as you know is buried in Alexandria, and are carrying it to the East as we speak! Such daring!
To where?
Who knows? But word has reached us of a possible final resting place beyond Mesopotamia and across the Euphrates in the land of the Dravidians (a brutish people who practice idolatry). But information from these parts being so scarce and poor we have no further tidings. Hence, I come to you my brother for assistance. Can you dispatch one of your most trusted companions on a fact-finding mission? I enclose a Papal Passport that obliges all citizens of our lands to assist the bearer in whatever form necessary – a personnel guarantee from me. And instructions. This must be kept secret. If news of this were leaked I fear the whole of Venice would become a mob baying for blood.
Pope Pious Urban II
Official Seal
[Encl]
(Scene 3)
‘Has the letter been dispatched?’
‘It has your most Holiness’
‘Good, Good’
‘And your brother your Holiness?’
‘Montezuma has always been faithful. He is too trusting and that is his weakness. I dare he will not raise suspicion. As God’s vessel on earth one is entitled to take liberties, for His exaltation. If this means lying to my own brother then He understands. We must protect His authority. Without His guidance there will be nothing but chaos and infirmary’
‘Yes, of course your Holiness’
‘Any further news from the prisoner?’
‘No your Holiness. I fear we have squeezed this one dry’
‘I see. I think it is time we prayed for his soul departed’
‘Yes – your Holiness’
‘And what of the rumours you’re Holiness?’
‘If they do bare fruit then dark times lay ahead. But pray we will be prepared’
‘How so your Holiness?’
‘As we speak thousands of good Christians have dropped their hoes and are marching towards the Holy Land. The sacking of Jerusalem from the Moslems is a mere pretext for what is to come. The Lord works in mysterious ways’
‘Yes your holiness. The Lords omniscience knows no bounds’
‘Indeed. The Lord is all knowing and all powerful’
And so the two retired to their chambers, one bowing as he left.
‘Has the letter been dispatched?’
‘It has your most Holiness’
‘Good, Good’
‘And your brother your Holiness?’
‘Montezuma has always been faithful. He is too trusting and that is his weakness. I dare he will not raise suspicion. As God’s vessel on earth one is entitled to take liberties, for His exaltation. If this means lying to my own brother then He understands. We must protect His authority. Without His guidance there will be nothing but chaos and infirmary’
‘Yes, of course your Holiness’
‘Any further news from the prisoner?’
‘No your Holiness. I fear we have squeezed this one dry’
‘I see. I think it is time we prayed for his soul departed’
‘Yes – your Holiness’
‘And what of the rumours you’re Holiness?’
‘If they do bare fruit then dark times lay ahead. But pray we will be prepared’
‘How so your Holiness?’
‘As we speak thousands of good Christians have dropped their hoes and are marching towards the Holy Land. The sacking of Jerusalem from the Moslems is a mere pretext for what is to come. The Lord works in mysterious ways’
‘Yes your holiness. The Lords omniscience knows no bounds’
‘Indeed. The Lord is all knowing and all powerful’
And so the two retired to their chambers, one bowing as he left.
(Scene 4)
There were two loves in the life of Eduardo Conspiratorez:
The Holy Church and the Madonna Countessa – languorous eyes, sensuous smile. Seductively alluring. He still hadn’t decided which one he’d choose. They’d meet in secret. Venice seemed perfect for such amorous adventures. Damp, dark, cloistered, and crowded Venice perched. She was secretive, opaque and rife with superstitions and blind alleys and sinister inhabitants. The narrow streets barely wide enough for a person were twisted with bewildering turns. You’d crawl though one of these only at the end to be greeted by the expanse of the Grand Canal, and beyond the Adriatic Sea – enchanting you. Cobwebs of mist rose from the canals, veiling the lanterns. Rats were in abundance – disembarking off the ships, scurrying along the wharves, gnawing off the wood-beams, and bringing with them the dreaded plague.
Throughout Europe travel was supremely hazardous and not to be taken lightly. But in Venice, small in size, compact, with a merchant aristocracy, fiercely independent, commercial, with a global outlook; travel was the norm. Everyone in Venice was either a traveller or a merchant. The variety of goods that poured in from the ports where a veritable feast for the senses. Minerals, sandalwood, cinnamon, nutmeg, figs, pomegranates, hides, ostrich feathers, pearls, ivory, copper, silk, gums and Asian slaves. But underneath this cupola of a global bazaar, Venice could be cruel. Women were treated as chattel. Slavery was common and abuse rampant. A popular piece of advice to prospective Venetian husbands urged:
‘The wife, who has not sound judgement, must not guide the husband. Her weak constitution borne by the excess of bile humours propensities her to capricious rumbustiousness’
Yet, amidst this chauvinism Father Eduardo Conspiratorez was more enlightened then most. Blessed with a strong mother he had developed a deep respect for the female kind. Which was why the beautiful Madonna Countessa loved him so.
They’d meet secretly under the roof of the Casa Barone, a building belonging to one of Eduardo’s merchant uncles who was away. His heart would soar like a bird in anticipation. His joy knew no bounds. A little bird would start flitting in his heart and would not stop until he’d held her tightly in his arms and nibbled on her ears and devoured her lips. Those were frivolous times. But more then anything it was the way she looked at him that did it. A look of brilliant, radiant and carefree happiness – a look that said anything is possible with you darling.
But Eduardo also wanted to love Him. A women’s love was for now but God’s love was forever and what better way to show that love then to give up this frail carnal love, a love of the flesh, for an immutable love of the infinite soul.
For the love of God is something real to the 11th century mind. In-fact, there is no question of its existence; it is taken as real, has form as substantial as the things you see with your own eyes.
Thus the tempest raged in Eduardo’s heart. But for the meantime as he lay in Madonna Countessa’s arms, it was becalmed. Bestricken by shame:
‘I love you’
‘I know’
‘But what do you know of my love?’
‘I know it exists’
‘Exists. What a funny word that is eh? Exists. My love exists. But it says nothing of what it means to exist. What it involves. What it feels like. Does it say anything of the knots in my stomach? The joy of the heart? The dissolving away of my troubles. How it feels when I touch your skin. To feel your sweet breath on my breastbone. The smell of your hair. The warmth of your body. Exists. Hah! What an impoverished word it is!’
‘What would you have me say then darling?’
‘It breathes. It soars and it swoops. It gets angry and it gets jealous. It rages. It belittles. It hates. It…
‘Exists?’
‘Ha ha ha!’ and so they kissed
There were two loves in the life of Eduardo Conspiratorez:
The Holy Church and the Madonna Countessa – languorous eyes, sensuous smile. Seductively alluring. He still hadn’t decided which one he’d choose. They’d meet in secret. Venice seemed perfect for such amorous adventures. Damp, dark, cloistered, and crowded Venice perched. She was secretive, opaque and rife with superstitions and blind alleys and sinister inhabitants. The narrow streets barely wide enough for a person were twisted with bewildering turns. You’d crawl though one of these only at the end to be greeted by the expanse of the Grand Canal, and beyond the Adriatic Sea – enchanting you. Cobwebs of mist rose from the canals, veiling the lanterns. Rats were in abundance – disembarking off the ships, scurrying along the wharves, gnawing off the wood-beams, and bringing with them the dreaded plague.
Throughout Europe travel was supremely hazardous and not to be taken lightly. But in Venice, small in size, compact, with a merchant aristocracy, fiercely independent, commercial, with a global outlook; travel was the norm. Everyone in Venice was either a traveller or a merchant. The variety of goods that poured in from the ports where a veritable feast for the senses. Minerals, sandalwood, cinnamon, nutmeg, figs, pomegranates, hides, ostrich feathers, pearls, ivory, copper, silk, gums and Asian slaves. But underneath this cupola of a global bazaar, Venice could be cruel. Women were treated as chattel. Slavery was common and abuse rampant. A popular piece of advice to prospective Venetian husbands urged:
‘The wife, who has not sound judgement, must not guide the husband. Her weak constitution borne by the excess of bile humours propensities her to capricious rumbustiousness’
Yet, amidst this chauvinism Father Eduardo Conspiratorez was more enlightened then most. Blessed with a strong mother he had developed a deep respect for the female kind. Which was why the beautiful Madonna Countessa loved him so.
They’d meet secretly under the roof of the Casa Barone, a building belonging to one of Eduardo’s merchant uncles who was away. His heart would soar like a bird in anticipation. His joy knew no bounds. A little bird would start flitting in his heart and would not stop until he’d held her tightly in his arms and nibbled on her ears and devoured her lips. Those were frivolous times. But more then anything it was the way she looked at him that did it. A look of brilliant, radiant and carefree happiness – a look that said anything is possible with you darling.
But Eduardo also wanted to love Him. A women’s love was for now but God’s love was forever and what better way to show that love then to give up this frail carnal love, a love of the flesh, for an immutable love of the infinite soul.
For the love of God is something real to the 11th century mind. In-fact, there is no question of its existence; it is taken as real, has form as substantial as the things you see with your own eyes.
Thus the tempest raged in Eduardo’s heart. But for the meantime as he lay in Madonna Countessa’s arms, it was becalmed. Bestricken by shame:
‘I love you’
‘I know’
‘But what do you know of my love?’
‘I know it exists’
‘Exists. What a funny word that is eh? Exists. My love exists. But it says nothing of what it means to exist. What it involves. What it feels like. Does it say anything of the knots in my stomach? The joy of the heart? The dissolving away of my troubles. How it feels when I touch your skin. To feel your sweet breath on my breastbone. The smell of your hair. The warmth of your body. Exists. Hah! What an impoverished word it is!’
‘What would you have me say then darling?’
‘It breathes. It soars and it swoops. It gets angry and it gets jealous. It rages. It belittles. It hates. It…
‘Exists?’
‘Ha ha ha!’ and so they kissed
(Scene 5)
The Venetian Seminary of Priesthood is situated on the eastern flanks of Venice. It is the oldest and most respected seminary in the land and specialises in the training of priests. Many of its members would one day be ordained as cardinals, acolytes in the courts of the Holy Roman Emperor and ambassadors to countless others. It was like a modern day university and taught many subjects that nowadays would be called scientific disciplines all under the guise of ‘Natural Philosophies’. One of its many trainees was Eduardo Conspiratorez.
‘Eduardo we must talk’ said Montezuma
‘As you wish’
‘Perhaps you’d care to come to my chamber?’ Montezuma said holding out his hand gesturing the way in. This gesture was more an acknowledgment of the rarity of this event. For none of the trainees had ever seen Father Montezuma’s office before. Eduardo senses this was a portent for what was to come.
The chamber was large and smelled of sandalwood mingled with incense. It had a high ceiling with a cornice but was otherwise, in keeping with tradition, rather austere. The shelves were lined with little niches that held scrolls and on one side the entire wall was devoted to books. The look was finished off with a large painting of Pope Urban II with the Papal emblem affixed to the wall above it. He was after all his brother. This was another reason why this was such a good seminary; it had connections right to the top. Montezuma gestured towards a chair but he himself remained standing with his back towards Eduardo staring at his brothers portrait.
‘Eduardo, allow me to be frank. But none of this leaves this room. I feel comfortable that I can speak to you like this, with candidness. We’re a training college. We, as you are aware, train priests who will one day be awarded desirable positions in the greatest cities and monasteries throughout Christendom. But lets be clear on one thing: We may preach the word of God but as people of flesh and blood we are subject to the vagaries of the flesh. Look, many here are here because of who they are. We are a coterie. That is the way the world works and one must be pragmatic about such matters. We require funding, and as you know, the fees we get from the Venetian treasury are trifling. It is the alumni, our powerful alumni that really support us. But that is another matter. My point is, and I will make it in the form of a rhetorical question – how many of your colleagues are here for the right reasons?’
Eduardo sat silently not wanting to answer
‘I’d hazard a guess and say not many. Look I’m sure they will make great priests and cardinals but, but what is in the deepest recesses of their hearts – who knows. Apart from Him. But your heart Eduardo! Your heart Eduardo I can see. You wear your heart on your face, not hide it like the others. Look, the Pope has sought my help in a certain matter of utmost exigency. Take a look at this letter. Take your time. Read it here. There is no hurry. But remember everything you have heard and are about to read stays in these four walls.
The Venetian Seminary of Priesthood is situated on the eastern flanks of Venice. It is the oldest and most respected seminary in the land and specialises in the training of priests. Many of its members would one day be ordained as cardinals, acolytes in the courts of the Holy Roman Emperor and ambassadors to countless others. It was like a modern day university and taught many subjects that nowadays would be called scientific disciplines all under the guise of ‘Natural Philosophies’. One of its many trainees was Eduardo Conspiratorez.
‘Eduardo we must talk’ said Montezuma
‘As you wish’
‘Perhaps you’d care to come to my chamber?’ Montezuma said holding out his hand gesturing the way in. This gesture was more an acknowledgment of the rarity of this event. For none of the trainees had ever seen Father Montezuma’s office before. Eduardo senses this was a portent for what was to come.
The chamber was large and smelled of sandalwood mingled with incense. It had a high ceiling with a cornice but was otherwise, in keeping with tradition, rather austere. The shelves were lined with little niches that held scrolls and on one side the entire wall was devoted to books. The look was finished off with a large painting of Pope Urban II with the Papal emblem affixed to the wall above it. He was after all his brother. This was another reason why this was such a good seminary; it had connections right to the top. Montezuma gestured towards a chair but he himself remained standing with his back towards Eduardo staring at his brothers portrait.
‘Eduardo, allow me to be frank. But none of this leaves this room. I feel comfortable that I can speak to you like this, with candidness. We’re a training college. We, as you are aware, train priests who will one day be awarded desirable positions in the greatest cities and monasteries throughout Christendom. But lets be clear on one thing: We may preach the word of God but as people of flesh and blood we are subject to the vagaries of the flesh. Look, many here are here because of who they are. We are a coterie. That is the way the world works and one must be pragmatic about such matters. We require funding, and as you know, the fees we get from the Venetian treasury are trifling. It is the alumni, our powerful alumni that really support us. But that is another matter. My point is, and I will make it in the form of a rhetorical question – how many of your colleagues are here for the right reasons?’
Eduardo sat silently not wanting to answer
‘I’d hazard a guess and say not many. Look I’m sure they will make great priests and cardinals but, but what is in the deepest recesses of their hearts – who knows. Apart from Him. But your heart Eduardo! Your heart Eduardo I can see. You wear your heart on your face, not hide it like the others. Look, the Pope has sought my help in a certain matter of utmost exigency. Take a look at this letter. Take your time. Read it here. There is no hurry. But remember everything you have heard and are about to read stays in these four walls.
(Scene 6)
Father Eduardo Conspiratorez watched from the deck as the ship sailed out from the Venetian morning. It was too-ing and fro-ing from the swell and the wind was lashing at the stern and flecking the sapphire sea with white. He watched this city that had been his home with a curious detachment that gave it an otherworldly spectre. Viewed from a distance, this bustling centre of the universe now looked strangely dethroned and debunked of all its mystery. The spires shrunk until they were no more then rude interruptions in the monotonous horizon. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Not because he needed to but rather to draw a line under a new beginning. This would be an arduous journey. He was heading for the Levant and from there it had been arranged that he would join an overland camel train to take him into the interior of Asia Minor. He’d be travelling under the guise of a lunatic monk, the only Christian in a sea of churning Heathens. Instinctively he felt for the Passport in his inner pocket. There it was snugly resting against his breast. His breast. And then he remembered the Madonna Countessa and began to cry.
Father Eduardo Conspiratorez watched from the deck as the ship sailed out from the Venetian morning. It was too-ing and fro-ing from the swell and the wind was lashing at the stern and flecking the sapphire sea with white. He watched this city that had been his home with a curious detachment that gave it an otherworldly spectre. Viewed from a distance, this bustling centre of the universe now looked strangely dethroned and debunked of all its mystery. The spires shrunk until they were no more then rude interruptions in the monotonous horizon. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Not because he needed to but rather to draw a line under a new beginning. This would be an arduous journey. He was heading for the Levant and from there it had been arranged that he would join an overland camel train to take him into the interior of Asia Minor. He’d be travelling under the guise of a lunatic monk, the only Christian in a sea of churning Heathens. Instinctively he felt for the Passport in his inner pocket. There it was snugly resting against his breast. His breast. And then he remembered the Madonna Countessa and began to cry.
(Scene 7)
‘Have we received tidings from my brother?’
‘Yes, your Holiness’
‘And?’
‘A certain Father Eduardo Conspiratorez has been despatched your Holiness’
‘I see. Is he any good?’
‘My people say he is a good man. Honest. Steady. A rock. The type who would do anything for His holiness’
‘Anything? those are exactly the type I should fear'
‘Anyway, any news from the source?’
‘There is much rumour and speculation your Holiness and if…’
‘Spare me the details. What at least can we be sure of?’
‘The Turks too are getting nervous and jittery - that we are sure of. We’ve intercepted some of their emissaries and they speak of a great power in the East your Holiness’
‘This is a portent. I see dark clouds ahead. We must not let such intrigues beset us. Tread carefully’
‘Yes, your holiness’
‘Have we received tidings from my brother?’
‘Yes, your Holiness’
‘And?’
‘A certain Father Eduardo Conspiratorez has been despatched your Holiness’
‘I see. Is he any good?’
‘My people say he is a good man. Honest. Steady. A rock. The type who would do anything for His holiness’
‘Anything? those are exactly the type I should fear'
‘Anyway, any news from the source?’
‘There is much rumour and speculation your Holiness and if…’
‘Spare me the details. What at least can we be sure of?’
‘The Turks too are getting nervous and jittery - that we are sure of. We’ve intercepted some of their emissaries and they speak of a great power in the East your Holiness’
‘This is a portent. I see dark clouds ahead. We must not let such intrigues beset us. Tread carefully’
‘Yes, your holiness’
And so the master and his acolyte, the latter bowing in deference, retired to their chambers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)