The cunning heart of the night pulses life, cunningly, amidst the chilly darkness of a moonless dusk. Time for remembrance... Or... Rather, remembrance for the time, as memories lead their way up to the surface... Relentless and hard-hearted. Unstoppable. Pitiless.
This and this... Oh!
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The time of your life
On a corner of the pub, there is this piece of advice stuck in a piece of wall: "May you always live while you want and never what while you live". A mighty wish... A mighty one, largely betrayed.
I came to remember today this song and this lyrics:
"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road;
Time grabs you by the wrist; directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test and don't ask why.
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.
It's something unpredictable, but in the end
It's right. I hope you've had the time of your life
So take the photographs and still frames in your mind;
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time,
Tattoos and memories and dead skin on trial,
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while".
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT)
I came to remember today this song and this lyrics:
"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road;
Time grabs you by the wrist; directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test and don't ask why.
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time.
It's something unpredictable, but in the end
It's right. I hope you've had the time of your life
So take the photographs and still frames in your mind;
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time,
Tattoos and memories and dead skin on trial,
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while".
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT)
Sunday, January 22, 2012
A sigh in peace
The winter afternoon is beautifully dying in silence; a gray face crossed by timid golden threads of sun. The peace comes all along in solitude and calmness and in all the sounds the little dwellers of the kitchen make in quite content... The trees dance happily in the wind, humming wind. The universe of sins and memories past bestows a moment of truce. A potato becomes potatoes and one would hope to live this peace for ages to come.
Ten, fifteen years ago I could pray in the night the songs of Glenda. Today I basically contradict the principle and substitute the sacred questioning by the truth I have been baking during all these years. Gross mistake? Perhaps. I intend to get this world straight, but ain't feeling good... .
Ah!
Ten, fifteen years ago I could pray in the night the songs of Glenda. Today I basically contradict the principle and substitute the sacred questioning by the truth I have been baking during all these years. Gross mistake? Perhaps. I intend to get this world straight, but ain't feeling good... .
Ah!
Friday, January 13, 2012
Olympics (1)
It's true. Every morning I see the huge advert while waiting for the convoy in the tube: a massive aerial view of London above the Tower Bridge (on first plane) towards the west without the HMS battleship Belfast. Compliments of photoshop. On top of that, it is currently closed: Baron de Coubertin's legacy.
**
Lately, every evening, I see the huge advert while waiting for the convoy in the tube: a large poster with an athlete announcing a deodorant. Faster. Stronger. For Longer. A clear wink to the motto of Olympics, altius, citius, fortius, a Coubertin's contribution, as well, as I heard.
Wouldn't it be contradictory with peace and solidarity, anyhow?
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
**
Lately, every evening, I see the huge advert while waiting for the convoy in the tube: a large poster with an athlete announcing a deodorant. Faster. Stronger. For Longer. A clear wink to the motto of Olympics, altius, citius, fortius, a Coubertin's contribution, as well, as I heard.
Wouldn't it be contradictory with peace and solidarity, anyhow?
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Unamuno 75
Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo died all of a sudden on December 31st, 1936. He died -not quite peacefully, as I read- in the afternoon of that day during a regular evening-meeting with friends at his house. Every year, the town council of Salamanca pays homage to the man outside his former residence in Bordadores street. This year, a couple of days ago, the 75th anniversary of Unamuno´s decease has been called to remembrance.
My knowledge of the philosopher and writer is like a little and shallow mirage in the midst of a vast desert of ignorance. My recollections of the intellectual are scattered and meaningless, and are attached to personal reminiscences.
A placard hanging down the wall of his house carries these verses of the man: "Del corazón en las honduras guardo / tu alma robusta; cuando yo me muera / guarda, dorada Salamanca mía, / tú mi recuerdo. / Y cuando el sol al acostarse encienda / el oro secular que te recama, / con tu lenguaje, de lo eterno heraldo, / di tú que he sido". These are the final verses of a long, beautiful poem Unamuno wrote to Salamanca we had to learn by heart at school. The initial verses, "Alto soto de torres que al ponerse / tras las encinas que el celaje esmaltan", etc.- certainly come to my mind whenever I see the tower of the Cathedral, the immense frontispiece of San Esteban or the fine, refined and marvellous facade of the University lightened up with gold at sunset.
But my knowledge is meagre and my memories insufficient. I visited the North of Italy when I was 16 -or so I say- and I remember an old guide -an Italian woman- in Florence, who spoke perfect Spanish, talking about Unamuno and telling: a group of Spaniards did not know a thing about Unamuno the other day: they thought Unamuno was the name of an ice cream.
I did not like Niebla when I read it (should try again) and I have not had the guts to read anything else. Unamuno was just the thinker whose name came too late in the course at school; a too-specific, localized name as to be unlikely to show up in final examinations.
His verbal confrontation against the military (Millan-Astray), politicians and other intellectuals in the Paraninfo of the University in October of 1936 is most famous. It is an example of the mode his mind operated, as far as I can see: always counter-current, always opposing, always a tune in counter-point. "Me opongo" ("I object"), he used to say as he walked in the Cafe Novelty and joined his friends, before knowing what the conversation was about. He was caught saying "Shakespeare" in thick, rough Spanish during a lecture, and was laughed about; his reaction consisted in resuming his address in English intently (thus, no one could follow him).
Unamuno seems to me an aristocrat of the mind, a self-nominated intellectual of the privilege chosen, one of the "we few, happy few" of Aggincourt, a lucky initiated who has been granted the sweets of wisdom, generally denied to the average fellows. Of course, he is largely misunderstood and fails to appreciate the popularity he indeed had. As a consequence, he feels himself a steppenwolf and, indeed, he is a self-indicted sufferer: "Me duele España", he said. He chose -or was pushed down- the path of loneliness, or solitude with pain. Always against.
I have briefly reviewed the episode with Millan Astray and I can see a different interpretation (from the usual one) in the light of this hypothesis. I can understand Unamuno reaction. He was happy when Franco tried to hold the reins against the chaos of Socialists, Anarchists, Communists and soldiers, against the terror, the absence of lawfulness and the falling-apart of a country. But he could not stand the blind power of the mindless and treacherous mass once Salamanca was gained (quite early), in a moment Franco´s side was advancing fast and efficiently, deaf and careless to his advice. The point of Millan Astray makes sense to me, nevertheless. I guess a big deal of fascists were tired of too much appeasement and little action. The cry of Millan was against the bad intellectuals, (a relevant cry today!), and "¡Viva la Muerte!" seems to be a cheerful hurrah to the honor of La Legion, an extraordinary army force created in the 20s by the king Alfonso XIII against the moors in Morocco, which brought back brief prestige and victory to the Spanish nation, after centuries of downfall.
I feel the episode has been manipulated openly in the years after under the pretension of condemning fascism and Franco´s dictatorship. I was singing in the Choir of the University of Salamanca when the war in Irak broke out in 2003. Different groups and organizations within the University prepared a little demonstration against the war: the Choir recalled the episode of Unamuno claiming against Millan, "venceréis, pero no convenceréis", and sang La Paloma, with lyrics by Rafael Alberti. Unamuno and Alberti! They could not be more far away from each other at the time of the Civil War! (Apart from being the former a much bigger intellectual and writer than the second).
The personality of Unamuno seems to have been complex, perhaps contradictory, as I read, not at all peaceful nor calm nor conformist, quite individual and controversial. His merit consisted in living life by suffering it, without understanding it. He was honored, deceived, lured by life and surprised by death. His mind, his heart, velut Luna... O Fortuna! He was a man.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
My knowledge of the philosopher and writer is like a little and shallow mirage in the midst of a vast desert of ignorance. My recollections of the intellectual are scattered and meaningless, and are attached to personal reminiscences.
A placard hanging down the wall of his house carries these verses of the man: "Del corazón en las honduras guardo / tu alma robusta; cuando yo me muera / guarda, dorada Salamanca mía, / tú mi recuerdo. / Y cuando el sol al acostarse encienda / el oro secular que te recama, / con tu lenguaje, de lo eterno heraldo, / di tú que he sido". These are the final verses of a long, beautiful poem Unamuno wrote to Salamanca we had to learn by heart at school. The initial verses, "Alto soto de torres que al ponerse / tras las encinas que el celaje esmaltan", etc.- certainly come to my mind whenever I see the tower of the Cathedral, the immense frontispiece of San Esteban or the fine, refined and marvellous facade of the University lightened up with gold at sunset.
But my knowledge is meagre and my memories insufficient. I visited the North of Italy when I was 16 -or so I say- and I remember an old guide -an Italian woman- in Florence, who spoke perfect Spanish, talking about Unamuno and telling: a group of Spaniards did not know a thing about Unamuno the other day: they thought Unamuno was the name of an ice cream.
I did not like Niebla when I read it (should try again) and I have not had the guts to read anything else. Unamuno was just the thinker whose name came too late in the course at school; a too-specific, localized name as to be unlikely to show up in final examinations.
His verbal confrontation against the military (Millan-Astray), politicians and other intellectuals in the Paraninfo of the University in October of 1936 is most famous. It is an example of the mode his mind operated, as far as I can see: always counter-current, always opposing, always a tune in counter-point. "Me opongo" ("I object"), he used to say as he walked in the Cafe Novelty and joined his friends, before knowing what the conversation was about. He was caught saying "Shakespeare" in thick, rough Spanish during a lecture, and was laughed about; his reaction consisted in resuming his address in English intently (thus, no one could follow him).
Unamuno seems to me an aristocrat of the mind, a self-nominated intellectual of the privilege chosen, one of the "we few, happy few" of Aggincourt, a lucky initiated who has been granted the sweets of wisdom, generally denied to the average fellows. Of course, he is largely misunderstood and fails to appreciate the popularity he indeed had. As a consequence, he feels himself a steppenwolf and, indeed, he is a self-indicted sufferer: "Me duele España", he said. He chose -or was pushed down- the path of loneliness, or solitude with pain. Always against.
I have briefly reviewed the episode with Millan Astray and I can see a different interpretation (from the usual one) in the light of this hypothesis. I can understand Unamuno reaction. He was happy when Franco tried to hold the reins against the chaos of Socialists, Anarchists, Communists and soldiers, against the terror, the absence of lawfulness and the falling-apart of a country. But he could not stand the blind power of the mindless and treacherous mass once Salamanca was gained (quite early), in a moment Franco´s side was advancing fast and efficiently, deaf and careless to his advice. The point of Millan Astray makes sense to me, nevertheless. I guess a big deal of fascists were tired of too much appeasement and little action. The cry of Millan was against the bad intellectuals, (a relevant cry today!), and "¡Viva la Muerte!" seems to be a cheerful hurrah to the honor of La Legion, an extraordinary army force created in the 20s by the king Alfonso XIII against the moors in Morocco, which brought back brief prestige and victory to the Spanish nation, after centuries of downfall.
I feel the episode has been manipulated openly in the years after under the pretension of condemning fascism and Franco´s dictatorship. I was singing in the Choir of the University of Salamanca when the war in Irak broke out in 2003. Different groups and organizations within the University prepared a little demonstration against the war: the Choir recalled the episode of Unamuno claiming against Millan, "venceréis, pero no convenceréis", and sang La Paloma, with lyrics by Rafael Alberti. Unamuno and Alberti! They could not be more far away from each other at the time of the Civil War! (Apart from being the former a much bigger intellectual and writer than the second).
The personality of Unamuno seems to have been complex, perhaps contradictory, as I read, not at all peaceful nor calm nor conformist, quite individual and controversial. His merit consisted in living life by suffering it, without understanding it. He was honored, deceived, lured by life and surprised by death. His mind, his heart, velut Luna... O Fortuna! He was a man.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Age-ing
The disposal of an old year and turn into a new one is a process I recall as ageing. Some people might see it as an open window deluged with the fresh air of a new beginning, a yearning future. I rather recall it as ageing.
On Christmas time one comes back home. One comes back home to lick out the pain of wounds and banishment. And each corner of the old house lightens up alive. Each corner starts up the mechanisms of old memories. Each corner comes up to life. The clock ticks on and on ahead; time becomes a little more mature, but still glazing with the varnish of the past. One feels at ease. Peace. A recommendable peace. A peace boosting straight into the future, deeply rooted in the past.
A sweet, refreshing stop in the dust of a demanding pathway.
Happy New Year!
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
On Christmas time one comes back home. One comes back home to lick out the pain of wounds and banishment. And each corner of the old house lightens up alive. Each corner starts up the mechanisms of old memories. Each corner comes up to life. The clock ticks on and on ahead; time becomes a little more mature, but still glazing with the varnish of the past. One feels at ease. Peace. A recommendable peace. A peace boosting straight into the future, deeply rooted in the past.
A sweet, refreshing stop in the dust of a demanding pathway.
Happy New Year!
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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