Lapping waves

The fascinating attraction of Numbers extends from the Pythagorean "Music of Spheres" to the Tau Manifesto, which D. mentioned to me yesterday. I have not gone through it, but I find rather pretentious titles such as "Pi is wrong". I guess the title goes further than the contents and, thus, it is misleading.

In a Western society where everyone gets crazy about democracy -everything is democracy: in Spain, a head of the gay lobby patronized the democratic orgasm (sic)-, I find more interesting to portrait the eradication of Pythagoras and his followers away from Crotona by the democracy advocates. I guess, democracy needs definition back in those old times, but the fact that Pythagoras -as Plato afterwards- was inclined to authoritarian intervention and against individual judgement, is widely ignored. Schools should teach that, I reckon.

The myth is even more interesting. The tradition acknowledges that irrational numbers constituted a chasm between the illusion of reducing Reality to the beauty of Numbers and Reality itself _the genuine termination of Pythagoras and his school. And I can imagine selected tribunals to keep the secret guarded _the secret that will jeopardize the appeal of the new religion. And imagine those selected tribunals persecuting the disaffected initiates who knew about it and wanted to make it public, and get them drown in the sea.

What a nice novel or movie about it?

**

My dear M., who always look and see more things and deeper than I do, naturally realizes how the wet sand after a lapping wave gets dried around your foot as you step on it. And she asked why, blessed word, why... And I don't know the answer but I try a guess. My guess is plausible, but incomplete and unfocused as, by mere chance, I came up today with the answer.

It was Osborne Reynolds (from Belfast) who realized that a lapping wave creates the most packed arrangement of sand granules when goes over it. As we step on a portion of sand, we disturb the arrangement, increasing the void volume, which is taken over in a rush by the surrounding water: water moves from the surface to underneath our foot and the sand around the foot gets dry.

Ain't that beautiful?

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Surrealist

Finally, I won't comment any further on the events of Spain, at least, at the moment. I have the feeling that I am missing all the important points. I am getting behind, new names unknown and, more interesting than things happening to the country are, perhaps, things happening within the socialist party.

So, let's get back to the origins.

There is this guy, C., in the Department. Almost every contact I have with him is surrealistic. Yesterday, we had a cup of coffee in a pretentious room for staff, and told me his difficult -and morbid, I would say- situation with his girlfriend back in his country, 12 years younger, mainly because her older brothers. I mean, in a sense I was flattered, like this kind of stuff, anyway. Hope I did not say anything wrong and I wish him luck.

Today, it was funny... . In the main hall of Engineering there was a large, huge display of trays with food, sandwiches all arranged in long trays. (There are always people up to something. Last weekend, the rooms in the ground floor served as movie theaters for the open-city, international documentary contest). So, C. and another guy I had never seen before where eating in the office one of these trays with, let's say, twenty or twenty-five sandwiches, in full silence and full smell. "Alberto", he says as I enter the room, "pleaz, eat. Otherwise, tomorrow it will go off".

Surrealistic, don't you think? A Cosmo Kramer type of scene with his friend Bob Sacamano... . Ha, ha, ha. It's just funny.

God, please, give me the patience to see around me, to learn and to understand... And, if possible, grant me the gift of being around the normal people as well.

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Rebellion without music

I've been trying to comment on the events in Spain for the last days. Honestly, I cannot give a general opinion because I don't see a general picture and I don't know what will happen in the end or what will become of all this. Indeed, I am very skeptical and dubious about the backstage of the so-called 15M movement, even a little scared_ the most hideous and anti-democratic extremism are always in control, one way or another, and that's the real danger. Of course, all kinds of peoples, with a variety of interests are, drawn to the whirlpool. Many, I am sure, are of a great heart. And some of their actions are moving interesting resorts among the politicians, somehow. However, it is not a matter of consigns -the old consigns and myths, same old, same old-, but of the war on ideas. I have read the proposals approved in Puerta del Sol -by an illegal settlement, by the way- and I think most are wrong. I mean, such proposals are not the solution, but part of the problem. I will comment them in a different post.

In fact, some other political movements -curiously enough, the right-wing politicians seizing power after the regional elections- seem to be more solid, and really promising.

**

Dylan turned 70 a few weeks back. He was an icon of revolution and still he is, as many others. Vietnam, May 68, Germany after the Wall, had their music for times of change and even the battle against HIV and natural disaster have their music. Now, where is the music of the change today? Where is the music of Egypt? Libya? Greece? Spain? Look what I found: too much emotional, a true tear-jerker, but it is all wizened, all gone, all too much into the past.

I really don't know where the music of the future is. Really. Show me if you know it.

**

In Spain, you have Russian Red declaring herself to be on the right-wing and leftists turning against her like wild animals? Oh, my! Why?

And this is very good. It is the answer to a powerful PSOE politician (he will run for President next year) who used the name of the band and one of his songs in Parliament to reply to another politician. I subscribe 100 % the insights about power. It is beautiful to hear it from someone like him; it sounds from experience. Like Cosmo Kramer says in one of Seinfeld's episodes: "Oh, Jerry, you are not gonna come baaack, it is a hole, it is a whore, it is L.A....". Power is exactly this.

Several times I have watched interviews of Amaral on TV and always noticed that the boy who speaks on the video -Juan Aguirre- remained aside. Very quiet, very shy, perhaps, obviously he does not like to talk to much in public. I got surprised he spoke up now. I like what he says: "don't fuck with me... I don't have a faithful (sic?) way to say it". I think he means "a better way". I like that.

It takes a good deal of character to speak up like him, I think. It might look like he is using the moment to go against all politicians, but I don't think so: he does not say the typical, easy, kind of crap, bullshit... . His speech sounds very personal.

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TEyP

I guess I have to post this here.

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Galileo

I did not specially enjoy my trip to Rome about two years ago. Years ago, I was told that Rome make whether a deep impression or a profound disappointment in the viewer, with no middle term. In my case, Rome left me indifferent. I guess I have to come back.

Around that time I recall thinking of some reflections by Popper in Conjectures and Refutations, which started with the story of Galileo. It was portrayed away, far away from the norm and the official discourse. Out of Popper's sharp and solid argumentation I can only remember scattered patches of simplistic data: a) Galileo was a believer, a deep Catholic; b) Galileo was very good friends with the Pope for all his life; c) the Catholic Church accepted Galileo's point of view as a system of representation, but not as an actual fact.

I run into a hard-covered book a couple of days back (at 4.99 pounds in Waterstones) by Wade Rowland, Galileo's mistake, which captivated my attention:

"There is a modest historical marker in Rome, outside the magnificent Villa Medici where Galileo stayed during his visits to that city, (that) sums up what might be called the authorized version of the story (...): 'It was here that Galileo was kept prisoner by the Holy Office, when he was on trial for having seen that the Earth moves and the Sun stands still'. (...) It was the Galileo scholar Maurice Finocchiaro who led me to the marker, in an article in which he asserts that since 'to condemn a person for such a reason [that is, for having discovered the truth] can only be the result of ignorance and narrow-mindedness, this is also the myth which is used to justify the incompatibility between science and religion'. For Finocchiaro and most other current historians and philosophers of science, the myth is erroneous, simplistic and misleading". (Wade Rowland, 2001).

Well, I'll let you know how it goes.

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Make them laugh

It is too late... I was to go to bed NOW without saying good night here. I won't post during the weekend, I'll try to load myself with good things to say on Sunday... .

I can pour one reflection tonight, though, something about which I have though sometimes. You know, when everything fails and vanishes, like your conscience, where else human-like is to remain within you? Some people think we are not people, but I think just the opposite. Human dispossession makes as more human, and you shall sanctify what makes you more human!! If you don't recognize this, you are too selfish, too ungrateful.

Only men and women, apart from some superior animals can laugh, can't they? For those who are ill, with their minds elsewhere, astray, lost, but retain their conscience, there is something you can do to bring life into their eyes. It is something that Reason cannot do.Make them laugh and you will make them happy for an instant.

What do you think? Will it work?

Oh, when you see or hear the sufferer laughing, nothing else really matters.

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A poetry workshop

Yesterday I attended the Ruth Padel's workshop in the afternoon. Did not have any idea what it was for; learned it was a workshop for writing poetry. Got interesting points, really, have them written down in a notebook on my desk (I shall put them here so I won't forget). Arrived the last and got the chair next, very next to her. Has the eyes of H., careless dressing -as common in artists, I guess- and, at some point, she took off mechanically her shoes_ a hole, big hole, a billion light-years across in her sock. And so, her toes were wriggling happily. A peep-sock, instead of a peep-shoe.

Padel's hands were neat for a woman of her age, slightly bulged in the fingerjoints and had thick blue veins crossing over. She has naughty nails, mine are of the kind, as well. Like the mischievous one in a pair of twins, you have the nails clean, but they, themselves, come back home at night in a mess. I guess, the nails of an artist.

She asked us to write a poem under the following conditions: verses 1-4: you are in a kitchen (your mother kitchen, I was free about it), there is something green and something dead; verses 5-6: describe what you see through the window; 7-8: someone/something comes in; 9-10: someone says something; 11-12: something physical happens; 13-14: free ending.

And this is what I came up with, twenty minutes later:

1. The night is out hunting, I know.
2. But inside, the clock is ticking silence [she corrected something here].
3. [something about eating salad that I don't remember now]
4. Beside the sink, above the counter, away from the window-door [or something like that]
5. Just now -I don't mind- allow myself to sit blind,
6. and even the dark dawn is too dark to be seen.
7. If only she came to me now,
8. came and walked one, two, three little steps,
9. I could try to say what I should have [said, correction here].
10. But she, oh, she! Shhh, would keep me quiet and hypnotized.
11. The Universe would at once heave in two,
12. And the inner worlds would part with a tremendous sound.
13. [something I don't remember at all here]
14. Silence and time could take us away.

**

There were curious, different people out there. For example, this guy, with a hair-do like in the 60s, very dark hair, very well-gelled, combed very neatly _George McFly. He wore this black-framed lenses, and had a couple of small eyes retreated behind the glasses, but restless -although not anxious- when looking for the right word to say. His whole left arm wore a titanic tattoo, from wrist to shoulder. And spoke in well-tempered, baritone voice, probably somehow imposted. At first sight, he got me very interested in his presence and himself.

And I remember I wondered, and I wrote down: how the hell these people behave, speak, do when they buy a kilo of bananas in the super? How do they look like? How is their voice? Wouldn't they think what is the cashier thinking of me? Or... How do they argue with their wives? When all magic, all mystery, all truce is gone...? What a pity, what a disappointment if this paraphernalia is only a pose!

Maybe, we are all alike, in different clothing and skin.

What I should do is talk to this people... . And learn whatever is to be learned.

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A handmade Sebastian

G. asked for photographs of the heat exchanger. Here it is one. I  built it with my own hands; I have not used my hands for many things in my life apart from holding a pen or a ball, warm up the pockets and... Well, you know. So I am proud of my heat exchanger... If it works, I'll be prouder: 7.5 meters of copper tube, 15-mm diameter, to remove 3.5 kW by means of water flowing at 10 L/min, if its inner temperature is 15 Celsius. Oil temperature must remain still at 21 Celsius. His name is Sebastian. Unfortunately, in summer temperature can go up to 18 or 19. Flow rate must be up to 20 - 22 L/min, but it can be done: pressure drop is not an issue and I have that flow available.

Your hands are an attribute of capital importance. Have you realize how much you can do with your hands? Take a hand-shake, for instance: you could speak out the Bible by doing hand-shakes. It is a prodigy, a marvel of Evolution.

Do you want to know what I am doing now with my hands?... Well, knitting! But I can only "do" cast-it-on, I think it is called, and not very well, look here!

It could be a jacket for Sebastian, hm?

What a feeling, man! Do things with your hands!... .

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E. coli: chaos and creation

The University of Alabama in Huntsville, despite being a regional, small school, has -or used to have, I guess it does still- a wonderful general library. I recall it as the place where you could find basically everything, from any kind of rare editions to a rich Spanish and Spanish-American collection; from excellent books in Unit Operations from the 50s to Cabrera Infante's Tres Tristes Tigres or an appealing, black, hard-covered edition of Johnson's Intellectuals.

There was this yellow book written in a nice typo style, quite attractive. It was one of those which exerts a mysterious sort of undeniable magnetism, a hidden force of unique attraction, from just the way its pages arranged themselves when opened or the beautiful, poetic shape it had when closed. That book _It was a biography on Franz Haber (1868-1934).

For a while I got fascinated with the story of this man. His life, his end; the end of his family or his first wife. Most of all, it enraged me the paradoxical idea of the same mind providing benefits for the whole humankind -fertilizers, Haber-Bosch process to ammonia- and, at the same time, being a notorious catalyst for human annihilation -a notorious head on the Chemical Warfare of the 1st World War and of the Weapon factories in the pre-2nd World War Germany.

Today, I got the the same recurrent reflection.

E. coli now is in fashion because of the cucumbers... . But it is a very old thing. E. coli is indeed a very old acquaintance of the scientific community, as old as the river Thames, so to speak. It caused fatal diseases in children by the end of the 19th century when discovered and, as we see, it still does in the 21st century. Here is my guess (not knowing anything about strains or mutations, nor much about the case): the crisis looks like a matter of poor control and deficient procedures. In FDA terminology, a negligence, a mix-up, a cross-contamination, something like that. That's my guess. Let's wait and see, what do you think?

But my point today is:

I crossed a few words in the hall with a girl in BioChe department who is doing PhD and learned that her research is in biosynthesis of human insulin from E. coli. Literally: the old-friend, Gram-negative bacteria, E. coli, is genetically modified to produce insulin as treatment for diabetes. And even more: just learn now that the technique is not new at all!!

Good and evil, death and life, chaos and creation... Faces of the same coin, isn't it?

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The winding road

I would drop one more comment on The Wizard of Oz, although I have the feeling of being all comments incomplete. My reflection is this: Dorothy has the power to come back to Kansas since the first moment, once she wears the dead Witch's silver shoes. She only does not know about it. If she would have known, the whole story had been void _the wicked witch would be alive, no brains for the Scarecrow (bran tucked in by pins), no heart for the Tin Woodman (sawdust in a silk wrap), no kingdom for the Lion (killed the big spider when she was asleep), etc.

And so is life: a non-conservative field. It does matter, it really does, the way we go from one point to another. Life is a winding road full of hidden sense.

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Wicked

It was the perfect moment and day to go for Wicked, the musical, in the huge Apollo Victoria Theatre (capacity: 2,348).

To me the story is weak, too twisted. Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West, happens to be the daughter of the Wizard; also, the lover of a handsome brainless brat or not that brainless at the end-which is turned into the Scarecrow later in the show-, sister of the Wicked Witch of the East, who is wicked, wicked, and who was in a wheel chair and end up with a faithful but too good boy, named Boq, who is almost killed by her -luckily, Elphaba will save his life by turning him into the heartless Tin Woodman later; Elphaba is also best friends with with G(a)-linda, the Good Witch of the North, who is not that, that good, but posh and shallow. Etc.

So on, it sounds too much, right? However, it does not really matter. Everything else is great, anyhow. The light, the sound, the dancing, the singing, the set, the interpretation, the dressing. Although the second act starts weak, the first one ends with an amazing performance, visually impressive: Defying Gravity. (The lift worked perfectly...). There are many elements and details that I enjoyed very much.

The big discovery has been Rachel Tucker, Elphaba. Excellent. Beautiful. Her accent in the show is very different from her accent in the video linked here; it is more standard and tempered and warm. Lovely speaking voice. Like it.

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Stories of people

Let's write this quickly and do some work for a bit.

Eggs Benedict Royal, a couple of brown toast and a cup of black coffee in a lively cafeteria feels like a redemption on Saturday morning. Sometimes I do it. Got The Guardian, place the newspaper in the plastic cover, take a look at the adverts and read the magazine. Always remember the Seinfeld's gig: napkins should be available with the paper -you get your hands all dirty from carrying the newspaper.

The stories of the magazine are nice and interesting. Perhaps, it is also because the combination of a good sleep and the food.

I take a look at Bettina von Kameke's photographs from the Wormwood Scrubs -no longer in exhibition in London, I am afraid-, capturing the rooms of some inmates. Got quite surprised of how much neat and tidy they look like, how much colorful, lively, cozy, if you please. A proof that evil is an array of colors, contradictory and shocking. The rooms show men striving to fly in as much high sky as they can, a short one, in any way. The barriers shall only be pushed away into the open space by a woman's company.

I take a look then at the mature words of Rebecca Adlington and the story of her parent's sacrifice, told in a very brief, Q&A section. Then, the unbelievable story -literally- of Dipendra Rathore when working as a naval officer in training and being kidnapped by pirates off the coast of Oman, and kept in captivity for 238 days in Somalia.

Finally, the weekly interview by Simon Hattenstone: Danny Baker. Indeed, a terrible, great story.

Now that movies do not tell stories anymore, I am sure that times are ripen for stories. People would love a good, true tale... It is a business, I am positive about it, if you can just find the way. And the lives of people around flows as an undepleting source of inspiration.

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The coffee swindle

Did not post anything last night, got all dried-off, and did not want to make up any filling... Not last night. In the morning, however, I can see clearer. Briefly, I will explain what I mean by "the religion of coffee". Indeed, what coffee does it is not a religion -at least, a true religion-; it is more like a swindle, a trick.

More precisely, I refer to the morning coffee. A great traitor, a deceiver, it blinds your senses and shows hope to the hopeless_ switches on a light in the dark cave. It is a feeling of warmness dripping down your pipes into the stomach, which gives you relaxation for your nerves, comfort and embracement for your fears. But, alas! How much will this ploy it last?

Yve Lomax started her lecture last day with a cup of hot -let's suppose- coffee by her side. The hot beverage smoked mysteriously, powerfully next to her. She took a couple of sips and started the lessons. She read a couple of pages and sipped again from it. And that was the end. She did not drink anymore, and the half-fulled cup cooled down progressively, going off in senses and optimism, setting the surroundings, I imagine, in great distraught. I could hear the minor harmonies of a sad tune coming in from the distance.

Is there anything more unwelcome, dreadful, inhospitable than a cup of coffee dying out cold and dark in a forgotten spot?

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Against Revolution

The June Postgraduate Association Bulletin (PGA, UCL) advertise a very "exciting" event:

"Quoted:
End of year campaigners' general meeting6 months after the Jeremy Bentham Room was occupied, supporters of the UCL Occupation have organised a big meeting to round off the academic year and work out what we can do to keep fighting cuts, privatisation and marketisation over the summer and into the next academic year. This meeting is open to everyone, from the most involved activists to those who have been meaning to get involved but haven't found the time.

WHERE: Haldane Room, in the UCL Main Cloisters
WHEN: Friday 10th June, from 3pm - then a social.
End of quote".

To me this is crap and a shame that an illegal act -such as the occupation of a public building- is being so tamed, so domesticated, so exploited and so funded. The worst part is this _it is funded, supported, encouraged by the College itself -Faculty? Staff?

You can say: c'mon, you are too radical, what's the problem? You don't know anything and you are judging. You are becoming a grumpy oldie.

Pure crap, I insist.

Of course, the event is advertised in facebook. I took a look and got a bit of the spirit of this comradeship. Apart from the typical "great, great, ooooohhhh, agggggg... I am sooo sorryyyy I will misssss it because...." kind of thing, and here, I have to feed my cat, or my boyfriend is in town or such, and a big kiss and here love you guys, or i'll miss you, I don't know.

Got so tired of this... Today, got so tired of this.

A couple of guys will be late because they have to attend the Whose Uni conference. And what is the Whose Uni Conference? You wonder as I did. Well, it is this _ "and interdisciplinary event that will foster debate on the current crisis in higher education", and it is labeled resistance. Not bad, hm? I am not sure what kind of crisis they talk about. That of students being shit, professors -so to speak- being shit, publications being shit? That of campus brewing terrorists and thieves? That of colleges perverting true and pure knowledge? That of rich professors in Education hiding drugs and narcotics at their mansions for the joy of "under-agers"? That of everybody being cool for smoking marijuana and experiencing new things? If so, certainly, a CRISIS, in plain capitals. So, please, cut the money now!

If I was to attend this "wonderful" conference, Resistance: Crisis - Creation - Action - Critique, I would certainly listen eagerly to Louise Purbick's "Researching Students Demonstrations and Resisting the Police: A Brighton Case Study"...

Resisting the Police?? What are you talking about??

Would it be interesting to know how much money are in this? How much presenters get paid for this? Where is the money coming from? During these week there are brochures available on campus advertising a big, multi-day event on Marxism coming soon... And the look of the brochure is great! I mean, not the miserable one-sheet, black and white leaflet that a little man gives out at the entrance of my Sainsbury on Saturday morning... How much money was it? Who paid for this? Who is behind? There is a student paper, isn't there? Would not be nice to know the answers to these questions?

North, South, East, West: pure crap.
**

Ok, that's it. The night is a desert now. And deserts are cold as ice at night.
Oh, God, hear my payer.

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Stuffed men

When you thought you had taken enough of desolation and sickness, Marlon Brando -Colonel Kurtz- showed up beyond the grave as the hollow man. The scene is fearsome.

Simple as I sometimes am, I reflect that the poem by T.S. Eliot -1925- was not the first exploration in the stuffed man. Indeed, Frank Baum did it before, in a marvellous and straightforward tale for children, The Wizard of Oz -1900-.

Despite the raging call of S. Sontag to avoid interpretation in art -and though I think it is a sensible advice-, I will do it this time. Upon the rescue of the Tin Woodman, he and the Scarecrow argue whether is more convenient to have a brain or a heart. The latter says: "I shall ask for brains instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had one"; the former says: "I shall take the heart, for brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world".

What do you think? Brains or heart?

The report on illiteracy in London has yielded a number of utterances about the vital importance of reading and writing for the future of children. Crime, unhappiness, moral weakness, perversion have been related to the lack of education. I get the whole picture, but the connection is not a real fact. Perhaps, it is what we would like to believe. My mum could not study much, but she is the best in the world. Now, the motherfuckers killing dozens in streets, hotels or markets and killing themselves at the same time, come to London and other Western capitals to study and normally have high-education profiles. (I always pose the same example, I am getting exhausted from myself).

I shall prefer the heart. Further down with my unauthorized interpretation, I think Baum also did prefer to have a heart instead of brains. Later on in the story, when the party of four is considering how to overcome a profound ditch breaking deep the yellow path in two, the Scarecrow got the answer and the Lion retorts: "That is a first-rate idea. One would almost suspect you had brains in your head, instead of straw". Alas! Indeed, for I can see that common sense -the least common of all the senses- often rests far away from the brains and the thoughtful insights.

**

Any time I pass by the mummy of Jeremy Bentham in the Cloister of UCL, I get a turbulent vibe, a weird and displeasing feeling. It gives me a cold-feet sensation. I picture myself showing a visitor the image and saying "this is the mummy of the founder... I mean it is like a real mummy in a way". And I can see the eyes of the other wide opened, "what? Was he crazy?".

The story is narrated by Steve Roud. The very same year Bentham died, the Parliament passed the Anatomy Act (1832) which regularized the availability of dead bodies for surgeons and anatomists to dissect and learn from, and intended to stop the illegal snatching and trafficking. Bentham's own will was to gift a colleague and friend of his with his own body. This friend, Southwood Smith, delivered a lecture upon it while cutting into pieces the Bentham's remainings... That was the flame of utilitarians.

After it, the skeleton of the founder of UCL "was wired back together and a 'body' (was) made with straw and other materials, and dressed in Bentham's best clothes. The head proved a bit of a problem, as they could not preserve it in a presentable state, so a wax likeness was made. The original skull was at first placed within the ribcage, then in a box at his feet, and it is now in the vaults of the University College". (London Lore, Steve Roud, 2010).

**

I slid by Bentham side as I walked out from a... different, interesting talk by Yve Lomax on creative writing or, well, these concepts, propositions and thoughts she writes and pounds about. I just felt curious, it was advertised for PhD students and wanted to take a peep. Different people, different universes, different lights. The corridor of the Art History department looks as much untidy as that of Engineering, but with a feminine touch. Cans of paint, a girl in tattered jeans sewing in the middle of the hall... . I came also to reflect upon the religion of the coffee latte, of which I shall talk some other time.

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Photography

Right to my right a group of 5 is eating a superb pizza, the largest pizza I have ever seen. The senior man of the two at the table takes out his camera and start taking photographs of the pizza. The scene is unusual because a young woman in the table behind asks for permission and takes then photographs as well; the three people in the table ahead laugh in joy and make comments about it.

Both cameras are splendid... Anytime I see one, I wonder, "how much it would cost?". The man, in fact, laughs as crazy and shows his teeth in clear disarray. "Would the camera cost him more than getting his teeth fixed?", I can't stop asking myself. Well... I guess, it is a question demode.

Bertold Bretch used to dress up like a beggar, but in fact his tatters were specifically tailored for him. Much of the so-called alternative dressing and alternative culture -or subculture- of today follows the same principle: rag looking-like clothing, careless manners, but all made on purpose for the sake of fashion. The thing for photography -an expensive hobby- belongs to that culture... A week ago, a couple of couples drink a beer in this interesting dive in Candem Town. Their looks and outfits are just too casual; their cameras are just splendid.

**

PhotoEspana is already opened for visitors until July the 24th at different venues and centers in Madrid. If I have a chance, I'd love to see something, something that I just learned: Lartigue, Ron Galella ("papparazzi man"), Fernel Franco, Dulce Pinzon, Emilio Morenatti, etc., etc. I am such an ignoramus, really, but I like portrait photography.

**

A mighty discovery this weekend has been the name and life of Ouka Leele, the Spanish photographer.

There is a politician in Spain now very much hated and loved by polarized groups: Esperanza Aguirre. I say that she should run for President. Her name carries the hope for our country. She is cut of the material all brave politicians are made of: she is an explosive and cunning woman on her own. I guess, she would not show her other face's side after being slapping first, but would try to make it even. She offers something nice for a politician, though: she has been always in the same place. She is a liberal, an anti-socialist, she joined the Liberal Party in Spain as early as 1983 -she was 31. She studied with Pedro Schwartz (yes, Fernando's brother), a disciple of Popper in the London School of Economics. And she has not moved since then.

Of how many politicians can you say the same?

But, alas! She is married to the Count -or the Marquis, I am really not sure- of Murillo; she herself is a consort countess. Her sons are, as well, counts or marquis. She belongs to aristocracy... . Not many people like that. The positive side for me is that she has never said she has fought against the police of Franco as many others -who indeed were the sons and daughters of bosses of the regime, if they were not too young for that- actually claim. She is not afraid of her past nor of her ideas. And that counts a lot for me.

Perhaps, she has been granted opportunities that many other, as much talented as her, never had. This is the reflection of the shear unfairness this world is made of and the thriving of successful families. (I mean, she belongs to a good family, was the niece of Gil Biedma -a Spanish poet reference for the young in the 50s and 60s, actually, born in Barcelona, in a family of the bourgeoisie-, for example).

But, alas! The surprising discovery of this weekend is that the photographer Ouka Leele is actually a cousin of Esperanza. Esperanza -the first women being elected as President of a Region (since 2003) and of the Senate (1999 - 2002), tied to right-wing positions- and Barbara -reference in the 80s for the so-called "movida madrilena"- have showed to be bounded by a common knot: both are committed in favor of women, each in her own style... I think both, Espe and Ouka, are genuine and truly deserve my appreciation.

Photography of Ouka Leele's performance in Cibeles, against domestic violence (2007, I think).
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The spark of history

Part of Seinfeld's performance at the O2 Arena in London yesterday is already here. He is the same as usual; perhaps, he made himself a little more of a "screamer". I don't think it is anything new at all, but the yelling can make the audience's skin softer and level their prickly corners for the joke to penetrate it easier; the young seems to use the tool. Seinfeld is the same as always; perhaps, as far as I've watched, pretty bold with the gags on cremation vs burial and the suicide terrorists.

**

The process by which a breakthrough milestone in popular culture is established seems to be capricious and its causes completely uncertain. Large scores of talented people swarm in small and big towns, but their works span only up to a reduced circle of interests and people -they, at most, manage to cut a notch in the sideline of history. It's needed, further, the fire of a magic spark to operate a fully-developed deformation. But, alas! Such spark is naturally uncertain and out of control.

The spark is not only uncertain, but unfair, in times. It might be untrue, as well. There is nothing written in the skies, nor in our history or in our genes that could guarantee the spark showing up in the right direction, at the right time. I believe in the total absence of necessity; disbelieve in net forces pointing humans into the right direction. What is the right direction, anyhow? We humans never follow the right direction. The ways are many and, inasmuch as we follow one or another with some non-predefined reason or without any reason whatsoever -certainly, in regards to a gregarious motion-, what works now won't necessarily work later on: the effect is not reproducible.

**

Seinfeld already was. The spark happened once; once it crossed his path.

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I contradict myself

The Soul of Man takes in millions of pixels of contrast. From the breathtaking to the ugliest nastiness, all sort of combinations are possible. The heart of a human is the stock from where contradiction sprouts _"I contradict myself", in W. Whitman's words.

And thus, painful and discouraging as it can be, the flowers of evil find always a way in every heart. Shoots and stems, leaves and knots of pure madness push their way out in a net of entangled shrubbery. The structure of the human heart is not crystal, but amorphous and anisotropic; its poundings, whimsical and obstinate when have to be. Heart and soul are pieces of the same unbridled machine that time ago turned against the hatched egg, against the human host. The seed of Prometheus lays still and mindful within the very heart of the Zeus-man.

Do not get deluded. It is not any surprise that criminals turn very well to be shocking and sensitive traps. Social schemes have sufficiently proved themselves misleading when identifying or, at least, searching for a lead in the quest and capture of Evil. Normal guys and friendly girls are indeed, in times, the perfect incubus or succubus, respectively. And who could tell?

John Ford: a genius in the art of movie pictures. However, he suffered from the illness of those who despised, abused and wrong people whom love them more. John Ford: a likely lacker of empathy, and a heavy drinker.

If you fight against your contradictions, what will it remain left of you? You shall be better guy, a good-er, but shall you be more human as well? I mean, if keeping and accepting your contradictions, can you still grow and improve?

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Impressions from the sideline

At this time in the night, tired as I am, and with a belated headache as a background, I won't find the proper words, nor even the topic. For the last days, my Self is departed from the main course and runs along a parallel; I am lucky enough to get it back in the house around midnight... Bertie, the cat, does the same. Tonight I waited on him for an hour to lock the trapdoor... Call me crazy! That's me, just me.

And now that I came back from the sideline to the center of my routines, shall I drop my impressions?

Not much really. I keep listening over an over to Johnny Cash's That Lucky Old Sun, in a version for piano. Simple, too simple, but hypnotizing. That song is marvellous; the lyrics, pure humanity. Magnificent interpretations: Aretha and Louis Armstrong, Jerry Lee and Elvis, Ray Charles and Willie Nelson.

Talking about hard-working people, little Dorothy's uncle was one of them, from dawn to sunset, did not know joy. Grey is his color, as the eyes of his wife, though were not like that at the beginning. The first two paragraphs from The Wizard of Oz surprised me today for their directness. Indeed, it looks like a story for children, plainly, but for pundits and the savvy lettered, a meaning must always being stuck somewhere, conscious or unconsciously... There is also a trapdoor ready to spin with the cyclone, a larger trapdoor than that Bertie creeps out through.

And all through Highgate Wood, as I walked this evening in a whirlpool of thoughts, I reflected for a couple of minutes -and, again, I was swept away within the vortex- how big a pity is to recall Peter Pan as well as probably The Wizard of Oz from their endless movies and musicals. I will read the latter and see how I feel about, but the former is a master piece of literature, a tremendous arsenal of creativeness; its writing is sensational.

**

Why is that the "Human Zoo" of London loves EastEnders and Coronation Street?
Why is that I have not watched a single minute of any of them?

Is it, perhaps, I spend too much time swirling inconclusive thoughts and talking, talking, talking...?

Why is that the UK loves Cheryl Cole? Is she leaving ITV for American TV? The Fox?... I would understand: better pay. "Cheryl, come back!", I read in the tube somewhere, last week, and did not know who, what, why, where or when.
Is her from Newcastle, isn't she? Kind of like her accent... .

**

Silence is dense and speaks loudly in tube trains and lifts. Thirty-four people, varied and colorful, in just a few enclosed yards, packed randomly, ears clogged, heads pointing astray, away from each other, and Silence, majestatic, like the Ether watching fearfully upon the Space.

In silence, people read the same free-of-charge newspapers, in shear uniformism. The routine is itself uniform.

Eddies of uniformism in the tidal of a cosmopolitan city... Cosmopolitan city: true or mirage?

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Anno 70 after Dylan: illiteracy

My dear cousin I. reminded me today of the 70th birthday of Bob Dylan (born Robert Zimmerman, on the 24th of May). I wondered whether the world is better or not after him? Blowin' in the Wind was released when he was only 21, and that corroborates to me one of Leonard Bernstein's sentences on pop music: done by and for kids. Dylan influence in such universe is undeniable, but what about everything else?

I wanted to comment as well on the unfolding piece of news about the notorious cases of illiteracy among children in London. Actually, I did comment on it, and wrote a somehow long column. Unfortunately, the whole thing failed and now I would have to write it again. Sometimes, it happened and I re-did everything up, but today I am tired and I don't feel like doing it, with links and such.

To put things in a nutshell, I did bet you a pint that behind the vast majority of failures you can find parents who actually don't read. Everybody is pointing malignantly to teachers and to allegedly defects of teaching, but it is kind of hard to believe that the reason is so complex, isn't it?

I did talk to you about a couple of modern, well-known poets in England, Jehane Markham -whom I listened to her London Series poems today in the Keats House- and Benjamin Zephanaiah. The latter I have just discovered twice within the very same day.

I will tell you more about it some other time... Or not. Ok?

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Chit-chat on my own

In the universe of human existence, spaces and times are collected in our memories fully loaded of human humors and noise and humming. The most enrapturing and mesmerizing town becomes nerveless and inanimate with no people to write its history. Such is the call of Humans that expands to that of Life, in general. What would become of an ants' nest without the swarming of ants? What of a splendorous river without flocks of chirping birds flying by?

The brutal exchange of routines sometimes brings up the sharp shock between the alive and the lifeless. A thin, darkening veil fells on the stage of affairs - as the Windows operating system darkens the screen if the pressing on "shut down" icon is delayed - an obscure layer of drizzle in the dusk sunset.

The stately raven of the days of York -Poe's raven- might be a shade acting in the company of a disgraceful man for ever, evermore. But it is only the shade of the dead, which happens whenever someone steps aside from the paths of Life. Common thing, though. On the contrary, however, others might feel at some point that Life dodges them and departures from them, as if they were obstacles in its way. Painfully enough, they find themselves as unrecognized bulges in the flow of the Worlds; no more than suspended, plain rounded particles in the midst of a steady state stream. That hurts even more.

**

A man, my father's acquaintance years ago, was born on Jan 1st, 1947 in Caceres, Spain. His name, Luis Garcia-Camino Burgos and he was a poet. His younger son, a couple of years my senior, is a friend of mine. Before I knew this, I fell in love with his Los Versos Bajo Tierra, an earthy, soft and lovable edition of 1971, my father's book, of course. It was a pleasant surprise to find out the connection between father and son, between, indeed, two generations of lovable Spaniards.

" (...) Y lo que más me aflige es no poder volver
e iluminar los más hermosos ojos
con un beso muy largo
capaz de despertar aquel cariño cierto
que no sentías entonces.
Esa mirada; un mundo
lleno de sombras, árboles, un bosque umbrío,
una lágrima, mi risa, tu mirada,
esa triste mirada que me acusa terrible
como un dedo enhiesto". (Esa Mirada. L. G.-C. Burgos, 2001. Revista Atril).

The man's look and the man itself is fading away now in the clasp of sickness, consciousness and soul, all together, being flooded astray... His son told me, months ago, here in London. I almost got tears to my eyes upon hearing -impressionable, yes, I am-, in a whirlpool of noises, pints and chaos... . Oh, how pregnant the places of the young are with the portraits and sounds of the disgraced and the dead. Would it be that beer and pubs have the seed of the closing time yet?

**

At 8 pm, my self sip smoothly what in other times, in other places, would not, nor even in wanting desire. Oh, it is so deep, so nice... Listen to this:

"O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy".
(The Sick Rose. William Blake)

**

If ever,

A thread of light is 'entreating entrance at my chamber door'.

Be not afraid,

Come in, please, I know the light! I shall let you in and so the shadows past shall be vanished... It's like... I read the other day, somewhere... Please, come, break through my tired window panes!

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