Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Adios, Esperanza

Just a few months ago, I reflected upon the moral responsibility of successful and honest politicians in the past (if such entity exists) to step up and attempt bridling a country in decomposition. The shocking step-out from the first line of Esperanza Aguirre (politician who, as her name indicates, remained possibly the only certain hope for such a task) has put me in an angle from which my reflections spawn into a completely different direction.

The general public really does not know why she resigned on Monday 17th, although there are a number of plausible reasons. Most of them certainly have to weight one way or another towards Aguirre's final decision, but I happen to believe the argument that Esperanza brandished as the main, positive reason. "I never took really care of myself. I want to do it now, and be close to mine people", she said.

Because of the fainted political situation in Spain right now and the slender pillars on which its institutions support themselves this very day (utterly wretched circumstances), the light-hearted resolution of Esperanza has fallen like a massive anvil of concrete on people's brittle hearts. I mean, of course, people who admire and love her... Naturally, the same counterweight of hatred and aberration towards her liberalism, celebrated her retirement. The anvil has fallen all of a sudden and raised a tidal of lack of understanding. Now? Now when she is more needed? Did she not say that she will not give up?

The point is that Aguirre has not given up. In my view, she has just revealed her way of understanding politics. Against the common, historical role of a politician as that vocational being touched with the power to bend history and undergo social projects of savage proportions, being those good or evil, Aguirre seems to understand politics as a profession in itself consisting in going to work every day and setting into practice a collection of certain ideas and principles. She was (is) an ardent defender of the battle of ideas because she is convinced of the moral and technical superiority of liberalism against any kind of state interventionism. The task might be demanding, but it is just work. There is life after it! There is a family, there is a space for personal development beyond the public spot, there is room for intimacy. In this sense, she is unique: ideas are relevant, but not to the extend of undermine and overwhelm the individual. The opposite example can be found in Mariano Rajoy who, a few weeks ago, repeated two or three times in the course of a TV interview: "Be confident that I would do what I feel best for the country". I am shocked at the fact that nobody seems to rest in these terrible, authoritarian words. Mariano: I don't care what you feel; please, fulfill those actions you say you would do before the Spaniards gave you a landslide majority in the elections. You are beginning to be traitor and a liar, the empty tin man without a heart.

The most surprising part of the story has been the statement of Aguirre's enemy in the Parliament of Madrid, Tomas Gomez, not more than an insignificant socialist pawn, but always, daily, Aguirre's punchbag. His words seems sincere with acknowledgement and recognition, by far more honest and significant than any pronounced by the Aguirre's fellows of the Popular Party. The guy has proved to be much smarter and good-hearted than he seems, but also has revealed himself ignoble and soaked in cowardice: such is the nature of the hideous game he plays.

(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT)

Friday, September 21, 2012

Frankenstein (I)

Frankenstein was written in 1816, when Mary Shelley, her author, was 18 or 19 years old. Interesting stuff, although must undergo a purge. Do it when I finish. Let me recount here a contradiction. It could be the classic contradiction from an 18 year-old writer, or it could not, apart from all other implausibilities, exotic stories and romantic aura. When Victor Frankenstein is pulled out a piece of ice going astray in the middle of nowhere by the adventurous sailors, and gets recovered, he tells his story to Robert Walton, which begins like this: "I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic". However, two pages later he says: "I, their eldest child, was born at Naples". Interesting lapsus... . The contradiction is solved in a Spanish translation I had at hand last weekend, though.

Anybody noticed? It might be an on-purpose mistake. Romantic stuff, I guess... .

(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Sherlock straight

Yesterday, the new movie of the Spanish film maker and intellectual Jose Luis Garci was premiered in Spain: Sherlock Holmes, Madrid Days. The title is a little bit off... And difficult, like a punishment: we tend to make the "d" of Madrid more or less mute (when not a "z"), but here Garci adds another one next to it, absolutely necessary for "day" to be "day". Talking about the letter "d", the title sounds a little bit dodgy.

The title has though the charm of a passionate person of great conversation, incapable of speaking English. Those are the most charming and sweet of all! I don't think he has improved a tiny bit since his famous speech at the Oscars in 1983, when he became the first Spanish director in winning one (best film). It seems not to be in YouTube, O wonder of wonders! But it does not matter. That is the spell of Garci's universe, a world of passion and hope that is coming to an end. In a radio station where he collaborates, surrounded by friends, someone asked him to say a few words about the movie and, out of everything that is possible to say, he chooses: "what can I say? That it has been a true miracle for this movie to be out". Somewhere else, he points out: "the days of cinema are doomed".

Garci belongs to a different place. No mobile phone, no web, no social network, no shit. However, I find a sort of comfort listening to him speak, the way he does, unfolding naturally a significant life and knowledge, no better than anybody else's, but lived with enthusiasm and in the wings of passion. Jose Luis Garci seems to be one of this guys that pass by this vale of tears lighthearted (o, wondrous word and concept!); they look innocent, gullible, old-fashion and, possibly, they are taken as losers and unfitting, but as you scratch a little the appearance, you find a different story running underneath: "life ain't be no crystal stairs" for them, like Langston Hughes sang, like ain't for anybody else. Perhaps, they just embrace faults and wrong as part of it; perhaps they just lived it generously.

**

Precisely this afternoon, Without a Clue was on the TV. The idea of a imbecile Sherlock Holmes taking all the credit from a sharp Watson is interesting. Being Michael Caine and Ben Kingsley, one and another, respectively, is even more interesting. Funny and theatrical. Great... Ben Kingsley, the great winner of the Oscars in 1983 in Ghandi, precisely. D.M. invited me to his place along with other leftist friends of his to watch it in a huge screen he got, 8 years ago, in the States. It was a Friday and I fell asleep on the couch. It was  his last invitation to movies... .

**

I have only read a couple of novels of Sherlock Holmes, the first two. I think I have already commented here about it. The most interesting fact about the couple is, likely, the only aspect completely forgotten. And it is that Sherlock and Watson were two wretched individuals, without girlfriends, without women, sharing a flat. Watson had just came from the war in Afghanistan and checked in a hotel. However, he happened to be a spendthrift and had to start looking for a room to share and, therefore, cut down expenses. That's how they met each other, through a common acquaintance. On his side, Sherlock would have become a sort of Cosmo Kramer one hundred years later: the individual -the crazy individual, super smart, that almost all sometime have met- always up to something strange, moving from one blinding enthusiasm to another every other week. His addiction to drugs seems to me just something "elemental": the necessary, logical move of his nature.

(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Garbage 98 %

Precisely on  the eve of the 60th anniversary of the characterization of the double-helix DNA molecule, the destiny written on the stars has brought to the spot light a major realization, in my opinion, regarding that molecule. I must say, however, that I know nothing about. Sometime in the late 90s, when the genetic maps were for the first time -I guess- drawn and reproduced, when Dolly killed God to become the new, ruthless Frankenstein, I looked a little into the matter. But that was all. I have forgotten almost everything.

Nevertheless, I heard these days that the 98 % of the DNA molecule, the one not made of genes (the sugar-phosphates rigs), might play a major and unique role and explain why the same genetic information can lead to different outputs in two different individuals. Until now, that massive part of the molecule was considered as "garbage" by the plenary scientific community. Two main, general thoughts come to my mind: 1) how stupid and vane is to believe that 98% of something can be useless in Nature, as it were a public company or institution, with free licence to squander; and 2) how tyrannical the dictatorship of Science can be to those who dare to swarm in no-man-land waters, away from the warm streams of the accepted and networked shit.

For sure: garbage 98 %.

(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Betrayal

Finally, I sit down to write. Things, ideas come and go, but I would not like to forget to say something disgraceful... Actually, a couple of disgraceful episodes, episodes of betrayal.

The first one is about Breivik. Breivik himself. Do you remember him? A lot of fuss about was around one year ago. One year after, he has been forgiven for his murdering of 77, most of them underage. The guy has gone almost away with it: 21 years of prison, that's all, the maximum penalty in Norway which, you will see (if we are still around), will get shorten down to 10. That is disgraceful! The guy is crazy; his crime was the modern edition of Mr Jekyll and Dr Hyde with a touch of Dr. No and Viktor Frankestein. Chemistry, diaries, full conscience and premeditation. His recipe and cooking was a boiling pot of frozen cruelty and all he gets is just nothing! It would have been better to declare him perturbed and disturbed and all fucked-up and have him caged for life in a mental institution.

Still, what has Norway done to change the police and the security structures and policies? The tragedy got record pikes because of a total incompetence and lack of common sense in security issues! The myth is all that remains: oh, the blessed Scandinavians, social paradises. All we get, one year gone is words, words, words.

**

The second awful story of betrayal is the Bolinaga case in Spain. Josu B. Bolinaga is a motherfucker, son of a bitch, murderer of 3 policeman and main responsible of kidnapping a man and keeping him in a two-by-two hideout for 532 days, until the Spanish police found him. The victim was more a ghost than a person. Apparently, the executioner is now dying from cancer and the Spanish Government is about to let him out. I am not too sure, tough, I rather think the Government got in a good trouble itself.

The problem with ETA in Spain is tragic these last years. I have pointed out here sometime before that the Socialist Party betrayed decades of fighting by negotiating with the criminal gang a plan to make political concessions starting something like 10 years ago. The current Government, against its political ideas and electoral promises, is following down the path... But why?

I can only think of one reasonable explanation: they don't want any more killings. None of them want. But alas! That is precisely the gist of the stuff! 10, 15, even 25 years ago, all governments up to that of Aznar repeated to ETA: "avoid violence, forget violence, you will never get anything via it!" Unfortunately, the Spanish politicians have abandoned the struggle. They have given up and ETA is arriving safely to destination through it. ETA is not killing today, but has now political power and control over many towns, villages and areas of the Basque country and has chances to win the Regional elections in the whole Basque country on next October 21st against PSOE or PNV. ETA does not need to kill now, but if it does, it will, because violence will pay off. ETA got it, all by fear to VIOLENCE. Amazing. Disgraceful. Vomitive.

ETA is about to get THROUGH violence what has always pursued: a totalitarian state based on lies and lack of liberties, a pure reflection of Cuba, Venezuela or the worst Soviet republics at the time. The lost lives of so many (858 since 1977, Franco already dead) count nothing, the sacrifice of so many, the horrifying kidnapping and killing of Miguel Angel Blanco, the blood, the innocence of children, the youth of so many young police-men and women, the murder of Spanish politicians, journalists, judges, most of them still young, the most terrifying and cruel moments.

I cannot think of anything worse. ETA got what it wanted the way it wanted. Years from now, I can see, the  parents will tell their criminal cubbies that it was a time when they did not give up nor given in, and so they have to do.

Terrorism and evil is being perpetuated.

FUCK ETA. ETA FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK YOU!!

(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR MESSAGE) 

Sunday, September 2, 2012

While mortals sleep

While mortals sleep is a collection of short stories by Kurt Vonnegut, published by Vintage Originals. I bought it in a bookstore aside one of the entrances to Hampstead Heath a couple of weeks ago.

I don't think Vonnegut is any great short-story writer in the trail of the great short-story American writers, such as O. Henry, Flannery O'Connor, Raymond Carver or Jack London. However, his writing is inviting and in his straight, linear stories one senses this musty smell of what can go wrong with adults, sometimes as if imposed by an overwhelming power above, part of which, I must say, is nonetheless familiar to me. I find the book a pleasant reading and an open invitation to sit around and bitch about -an experience-sharer.

Here and there there is interesting stuff, like this definition of a "dreamer" that Bob, the 21-year old, just-married, MIT engineer gives to his wife: someone who "never sees things the way they really are". The musty smell becomes pungent before this super-familiar-to-me, meta-cognitive sentence. Everything points to chaos and to an eternal cliff for Bob and Nancy. They've been married for a few hours, but she is already crying: "you sound so mad". One, two, three, four words... Four words that mean so much.

Particularly, the Hundred-Dollar Kisses story contains a sentence in current order. Henry is being judged for having hit his co-worker Verne with a telephone. Why he did it? Because Verne represents everything that is wrong with the world. What is wrong with the world? "Everybody pays attention to pictures of things. Nobody pays attention to things themselves"... .

Anybody has any doubt?

(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).