Poner en valor

I've heard today that John Hennessy, President of Stanford's University, has a clear vision for any and all of the students of his institution: to get rich through creativity. Rooted in the image is the idea of avoiding established modes, trodden paths and major streams. There is no written course for the human mind and resilience. The belief in excellence and independence of the mind opens the door to countless ways of arranging one's life and intellectual production. But, the whole enterprise would be ill-founded if no satisfactory reward were to come out of the sacrifice. Being creative and useful to others mean to make money -with permission of the interventionist Government-, and that is a tremendous accomplishment for the individual. Happiness awaits round the corner. You see? A well-found passion turned into reality with no other judges than free individuals. The iron of one's ideas and work is tested in the forgery of the market. In a country like a Spain -generally opposed to this angle of view-, such test of fire is called "poner en valor". A beautiful as much as rusty expression.

***

These days more than ever it is in fashion to be told what is good and what is not. The beauty of a miss, the dancing of a teenager group of the singing of a young girl is decided in panels, and the verdict of the committee is heard like the utterances of the Oracle. Most surprising, people seek such consultation and believe it, whether it is a former football-player judging a contest of jumps from a springboard, or a group of Academics marking a PhD thesis they ignore all about. It is not only that the so-called experts often fail (Seix Barral turned down Cien Anios de Soledad, as he considered it non-commercial), but that the philosophy is barren. The activity of the human is restricted significantly and framed within the well-known limits. It is the dictatorship of the consensus. Progress and change are admitted as developments of a social network in given directions. Of course, such network or collectivism is blind and lack any individual responsibility.

The personal sky of possible satisfaction, usefulness and happiness fells down to a couple of feet above ground. It chokes.

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The great deed of Benedict XVI

It was reading The Evening Standard in the tube about a month ago that my friend A. and I learned of Benedict's renounce. A. noted how interesting was the fact that we had not know from TV. We both were surprised as everybody else and, as anybody else, without much opinion. The interpretations of Benedict's unique decision and its consequences have been presented in a political tone: the Pope, as the leader; his act, as a resignation; and the challenges faced, as scandals that could cause the follower numbers drop. Nothing farther away from the truth. It was only a month ago when Benedict, in strict observance of the Canonical law, communicated freely his renounce; today, there is already a new Pope with a new name who, as it seems, is already liked. In the midst of a tremendous economical and institutional crisis, Spanish politicians took three months to take power after winning elections by landslide. First difference: Church is not politics.

It is in my view that none of this conclave is fortuitous. The countenance and self-assurance that Francis displayed yesterday minutes after his election and, above all, his words: "this stage we begin...", leads the way to suspect that this outcome was indeed sought. He did not look surprised and no one could be surprised when he says: "the stage we begin today...".

Few days after my friend A. and I learned of Benedict's renounce, I started speaking my mind and I could not help but feeling awe and admiration for the Emeritus Bishop. Unlike politicians, he rejected power. He said he felt weak and powerless. As if he was a vulgar politician, the media began speculating on the true reasons behind his decision. So much we are use to the lies of politics! Conspiracy, secret reports, unknown scandals were brandished by the Church haters, who likely would love to watch the end of it live on TV, in Reality format. Nothing of this is relevant at all in my opinion. Benedict knows himself at the door of death and he is going to prepare for it. Probably he did not wanted to be a Pope; probably that is the profound, intimate meaning of his Encyclical Letter Caritas in Veritate: everyone must love from Truth, in his own sacred place and vocation, as the Holy Ghost arranges. "I am a pilgrim at the final stage of his voyage", he said. This sentence is the first of three that makes the act of Benedict an utter deed. "I examined my conscience before God", is the second, oozing responsibility, freedom and individual relationship with Him. "The Church belongs to Christ and He would take care of It", is the third. These three statements are the statements of the true believer, of someone who, before being a Pope, Bishop or Priest, is a disciple of Christ. Again, nothing farther from a politician.

If any change is to come from this (excitement and renew expectations are themselves a form of change already), it seems to me that Benedict XVI purposely looked and prepared for it. The reformation of the proceedings to find agreement in the Pope election and the speed up of the process are two concrete but decisive details. But, even more. If one listens to Francis' Homily today (beautiful and moving), the same elements that drove the decision of Benedict are in the new Pope: " (approx.) if we do not walk or do not build as Church, or do walk and do build but do not proclaim the Christ, we can be Popes, Bishops or Priests, but we are not disciples of Christ".

Benedict can be an excellent theologian or "one of the best in the history of Church", as the elites (i.e. Opus Dei) like claiming, but his contribution goes beyond and is infinitely more important: he is a man of great Faith and has return the Church of Christ to the believers. It seems safe to say in 24 hours that Francis is one of them. It is a great day for the faithful man.

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Heroes

A hundred feet across my door there is this small place serving fast-food (chicken) to go. I've never come in but I walk by every day on my way to the tube, another hundred feet further. Running parallel to the exterior window it is the counter and, on one of the perpendicular walls, one can see through the window the picture of 20 or 25 famous maladies, portrait-size. The images are framed and arranged neatly in a 6 x 4 matrix, or something of the sort: Marylin Monroe, Nelson Mandela, Maradona, Michael Jackson, Vito Corleone, El Che, Elvis, Jimmy Hendrix, etc. The heroes of our time!

I am tempting of suggesting the addition of Oscar Pistorius to the collection of illustrious brutes. The criminal fits well in the standards of modern heroes. In the days following his arrest and hearing it seems that some people in the UK wondered bewildered, their whole concept of the hero scattered to pieces: "what shall we say to our kids who loved him?". In the Spanish language there is a proverb: "el hábito no hace al monje". Perhaps, it is a good starting point. The Beauty falls in love with the Beast because, before you can emit any judgement, you need to go beyond appearances and seek the heart. Mobs often fail.

However, perhaps that proverb is not a good starting point. After all, from the information we have so far, the lifestyle of Pistorius has been, at least lately, suspicious. His profile is one of the book: typical rich guy, overprotected (and, thus, insecure and violent), surrounded always by friends of the like ("dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres", is another Spanish proverb) and tasting over and over the nectar of gods. And by this I mean drugs and something else, of course: the rapturous feeling of having the world looking at you with the eyes of the submissive dog. In my mind, Oscar Pistorius makes a murderer, a perjurer and, possibly, a briber. The worst kind. You have to be an unbridled animal to kill a woman -his relationship with Reeva seems nothing special, just a normal now-for-a-while type of thing- shooting her through the door out of jealousy or spite. Alas! The mighty hero turns out to be the vulgar murderer of a woman in a domestic scene, notwithstanding the brutality of the story, overwhelmed by the lowest instincts. He can always say that it was in a rage, that he never knew he would kill her through the door. That might be a little more difficult to challenge by the prosecution and, I guess, will smooth the sentence. But I suspect that Pistorius knew also what he was doing; knew that shooting through the door, he would kill her. Otherwise he would have never made that nonsensical alibi the first day.

Poor devil! The strong fighter, the admired athlete, devastated by the worst of his weaknesses: fear. I was thinking that the verses in Cohen's Hallelujah would go well: "Maybe there is a God above/ but everything I've learned from love/ is how to shoot someone who overdrew ya". But there is no love in Pistorius deed: it is a barren blow of blind destruction.

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Against power

London is a micro-cosmos of power. Every corner exudes power and everyone seeks it. Beyond the line of the city, power is the only reason to move under the light of sun. Above everything, above friendship or love, there is power. Power is the key, speaks and is spoken to. The whirlpool of power sucks mind and body altogether and demands something in return: total servitude. The system works neatly like a Swiss watch, but produces waste. Un-digested by-products of the machinery of power lay aside: people who did not get enough momentum to swirl around; or never wanted; or never could; or never knew how. Time is unmerciful on them.

Oh, bless, bless be the Lord who built His Church on the stone disposed of by the mason! If I ever am to understand the meaning of the term "waste", it must be now. I can see them around us, like ghost of sad spirits in the limbo, unnoticed and forgotten. They are men and women without achievements, who strive daily against their own self and are at the service of their own ruthless minds. They pull their lives purposelessly beyond their prime. I can see them with my eyes of flesh _solitary men, sat next to a pint at the bar, men carrying bags and shuffling their feet in the tube. Unappealing and ungraceful. Their good hearts buried on tangles of dead leaves. You could become one of them. You are not better than they were _perhaps, not better than who they still are.

In the middle of the hot and stifling desert, I feel the words of the Christ quieting my spirit: "I will built my Church on discarded stone", he says. And I imagine a castle of sandstone; its walls and chambers devoid of power, brimming with detachment and generosity. The spiral of power, broken down in pieces, scattered and lost. There is no much need for understanding: the pain of this world is cast in precious prayer. After all breathlessness and embarrassment I can see people awaken on the terrace at the sunset. They all look further west. The sky is water-colored in horizons of multiple red, and the breeze finally shows up. They feel its gentle touch in their temples, foreheads and sprinkling torsos... Come unto Him all of you! _ barren pieces of dust, who are tired and through and utterly fed up; "brushed and battered"; wasted and squandered; all of you who matured without blossoming: beyond the Red Sea, it is tomorrow.

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The alcoholics of Jim Thompson

Like a symphony without instruments or a movie with no actors: that is the sort of feeling one gets after reading The Alcoholics of Jim Thompson (1953). The inexorable truth behind any alcoholic lies in a small bundle of pages, but will remain veiled and ignored for being too crude, raw and brutal. The characters crawl their way out day after day with no more hope that the fate awaiting irretrievable men (and, to a less extend, women). It is true that Thompson does not sound that hopeless. The end, with Love and Friendship and Care showing timidly up, is tender and uplifting.  However, the fate of Thompson's characters is just a peregrination in a vale of tears. The diagnosis is too real. No music is allowed: even sad songs will sweeten up the drama.

If I read The Alcoholics is because I heard a valuable critic that claimed that Thomson had the key to explain the curse: alcoholic addition is based on fear. I longed to explore that. In an age of confusion and polymorphism, it sounds relivable to hold the key of something. What kind, what sort of fear?, I wondered. Now I know that is the Fear with capital letters Thompson talks about, the supreme Fear that makes any other fear small and unaccountable... The fear to the things alcohol can do to yourself included. "It is impossible to scare the shit out of an alcoholic", it is said abundantly clear throughout the pages.

The door opened to alcoholism is that of Fear: the Fear to yourself. The Fear that lies within yourself. The Fear that the Batman of Christopher Nolan fights against while being utterly transform by it. The ways this terrible evil operates are described at some point in the novel and the most scary part of all is that, as far as I can see, this Fear is way too common and extended and can drive anyone to any other kind of addition or hell, anytime. Listen to this:

"There's only one reason any alcoholic ever drinks" -says the Doc to Jeff Sloan. "Because he's afraid (...). Whatever you're considered_ iron-nerved, a pinch-hitter, a guy who knocks'em cold and wraps 'em up_ it isn't enough for you. You're afraid. You've got to keep showing people. The more you show 'em the more you have to. And when you can't...". This is in my view a too familiar experience: people with something to prove or, better, with nothing to prove but condemned to do it. Even more frightening is the following recognizable experience: "The alcoholic's depressed mood pulls him two ways. While it insists that great deeds must be done by way of proving himself, it insidiously resists his doing them. It tells him simultaneously that he must -and can't. That he is certain to fail -but must succeed".

**

Thompson keeps telling us the ways of Jeff Sloan. The following paragraph is quite explicit and allows us hypothesize and explore more: "He sipped at the whiskey until the glass was approximately two-thirds full. Then, he dripped water into it until the level reached the top again. He took another sip, held it in his mouth a moment, savoring it judiciously. He nodded with satisfaction... Very shrewd, he though, congratulating himself on the 'discovery'; unaware that the trick was the older in the alcoholic's repertoire".

First, notice that the alcoholic is by no means a scatterbrain; it is probably a being holding a somewhat high recognition for himself, which, in turn, tears him apart. For such phenomenon to happen, a certain intellectual activity is due. The alcoholic does not seem a man full of himself or holding an err or deceitful opinion of himself with no regard for "higher" values. As a matter of fact, it looks the opposite: the alcoholic does care, sees beyond, seeks truth. There is something that push him to expect more of himself. It is an obligation turned into a moral urgency. Later on, while in the grip of alcohol, he knows himself trapped. And, most important, he suffers. Hopelessness keeps biting and the taste is bitter and painful. Any small battle won counts and satisfies.

I tried to reproduce Sloan's trick by doing a simple calculation. Below it is the plot of how much liquid he drinks for a given number of times that he performs the re-fill with water, n. Further below, it is the plot of the actual amount of alcohol he gulps down each time. Notice that it takes now 3 operations to drink the volume of a whole glass, whereas the alcohol swallowed is only about 70 %. After 9 or 10 repetitions, there is virtually no more alcohol left in the glass. (If we take whiskey as 40% v/v and ethanol as the alcohol, there is about 89 mg of alcohol per quarter-of-liter glass).

The trick would certainly prevent his death by shock or episodes of coma, but the trouble is that it would sink him down in a world of drowsiness. Senses would become vaporous as the cognition functions of his brain. Jim Thompson knew it well: it is rare to find an alcoholic who actually die directly from alcohol. They might get into brawls, be driven over trucks or beaten by teenagers or the unmerciful cold instead.

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