I love to walk, whether in a large Metropolitan city, out in the county, along a beach, up a mountain path, or sometimes in circles as it often feels. But, there is something special about the Walk.
And, there is also something special about walking a big city at night.
Last evening, after dinner I took the Tube down to various stops near the Thames and did some walking. I was nearly alone. Partially because of the more business aspect of the area and there is no residential, and partly because nearly the entire city was packed in all of the pubs watching the Soccer match, from which you would sporadically hear roars of frustration, jubilation, or anger.
So, I had a chunk of London to myself, almost literally for the span of nearly an hour. I felt like I was in a story such as Cormac McCarthy's The Road, in which I was walking through a post-apocalyptic urban waste land, devoid of much human contact.
But, it was a fitting last night for this particular visit to London, which was different in many ways than the previous ones.
I did have Snow Patrol's song in my mind at times, and it was rather fitting.
WIth the recent ruling against the former Penn State football coach, Sandusky for 45 counts of sexual abuse, this title is a bit sensitive, I am aware.
However, this has to do with something else. Currently, I am in London, and was reminded of Faithless's song "Dirty Ol' Man," which is likewise not about a pedophile or lecher, but about big, urban cities, such as London.
What strikes me most about being in London again for the fifth time in 25 years or so, is that each time, like Manhattan, it becomes less and less dirty. When I first came here as overwhelmed teenager from America and London being the first European city I had been to, (though depending upon whom you ask, London is or is not European), I remember how DIRTY it was and all of the visceral, urban smells I had not been familiar with in places I had been before in the States.
This time, however, I am truly struck with how CLEAN central London is. Granted, there are still very dirty parts, to be sure, but I am really amazed more and more how these very large urban centers continue to become cleaner and cleaner in the past 10-15 years.
Of course, Kensington and Notting Hill Gate are not what one would think of as dirty, though I have been in several much grittier and "real" areas in London, but here is a sign from Dawson Place, part of the tony neighborhood around here.
Holy Crap! And, I mean, that must be one Holy Crap, because that is one helluva an expensive Dog Poop. For us Yanks, that is more than $1500 dollars for a doggie cigar misplaced.
When I first went to Antwerp in 1990 or so, you could not dodge the innumerable dog poop piles on the streets. Now, in 2012 Antwerp, you would be hard pressed to find any. Not that I WANT to be dodging doggie bombs, but the difference is pretty amazing.
Having lived in Madurai, India and visited Varanasi recently, there is not much I would be surprised to see in a city, and those truly are about as dirty as a city comes. In fact, not sure I want to see if one can be worse. And, perhaps that perspective has permanently changed my views on dirt, filth, and the human condition in a city, but still, the urban centers of London, NYC, Dublin, Paris, Antwerp, and so forth are definitely not the "dirty old men" cities of merely 25 years ago that I once saw.
What was interesting is that about 50m from this sign, there was a pile of vomit, most likely from a heavy night out of drinking, which was not cleaned up. I wonder how much that would be fined?
The dichotomy between James Joyce and Samuel Beckett could at times be so implausible that it seems like they were fictions of their own fictions.
Joyce, perhaps the most verbose writer who has ever lived and may ever live and could arguably be the simultaneous progenitor of Hyper-Realism, Modernism, and Post-Modernism. That is a broad statement, but one that can be backed up by the author of Dubliners, Ulysses, and Finnegans Wake respectively. Joyce was a polyglot, polymath, and polygraphic on a scale that may never be seen again. Nearly 80 languages have been identified in Finnegans Wake at some level, to give one such example. There are entire concordances of Joyce's neologisms and centers, such as the one here in Antwerp devoted to deciphering his volumes and volumes of scripted notes, that also happen to be in various handwritings, including Beckett, who for a time helped Joyce scribble his notes due to a hobbled eyesight that left Joyce nearly blind.
Beckett, who was perfectly bi-lingual with French and would actually translate his work back into English, was a minimalist by comparison. With not many more words than one would find in a Dr. Seuss book, Beckett would break the blank page with a turgid laconic method that has also yet to be matched.
Partly due to their mutual Irishness and partially due to exile in Paris and perhaps in part due to other external circumstances, Joyce and Beckett did have an interesting relationship, one that was further compounded and complicated by Joyce's mentally-ill daughter, Lucia, having a sexual fascination for Beckett, much to his and Joyce's discomfort.
Joyce and Beckett find themselves being put together for a variety of reasons at conferences dedicated to Joyce, or Beckett, or topics such as Modernism, Post-Modernism or archives with such fine scholars as Antwerp's own Geert Lernout and Dirk Van Hulle leading the charge.
Some years ago, on Bloomsday, someone sent me this video, though I am blank to the page about whom right now, but I remember being at the Harry Ransom Center, a treasure trove of Joycean materials where I was a curator and Joycean collaborator with international conferences and research, and I remember perhaps literally falling off of my chair when I watched this video. To me, although most lightly Joyce was not so boisterous, unless he had too much to drink as he was known to do, this is pure comic brilliance about capturing two protean and enigmatic Irish and worldly writers as Joyce and Beckett.
I have a few, and by that mean, a handful few indulgences when it comes to television, and to the naked eye, they seem even more trivial. One of my old friends I have recently been in contact with was humored to imagine me watching American sitcoms here in Belgium. Many of the days Justin and I spent together were mired in "all-too-serious discussions of life and the meaning or lack thereof," so to send him a short list of the shows I actually watch here was rather funny, in a middle-aged, "ha ha" epiphany kind of way. I think.
The one show I did leave out on my list for him, however, was "The Big Bang Theory," which is a Chuck Lorre production, though without Charlie Sheen in it. The Star, or at least by default of the show is the über-genius Physicist, Sheldon Cooper, portrayed by Jim Parsons, who is the most misfitted misfit in a world of misfits. I remember first watching the Big Bang a few years ago and just could not stand it, but over there years, like stinking Limburger cheese, it grew on me, and I became endeared by poor Sheldon and his plights of not fitting in, and knowing that feeling all too well. Raised in Texas as the story goes, and as Parsons was, Sheldon just never fit in and eventually found his way into the big leagues of Theoretical Physics.
When I was at Amarillo High School, intermittently, though ultimately graduated from there, there was a true genius amongst us, Andrew Chamblin. Ultimately, Andy, as we were wont to call him, proved his mettle on the world stage, being a protégée of both Roger Penrose and Stephen Hawking at Oxford and Cambridge respectfully. If you are not familiar with the gravity of what that means, it is beyond rock-star status. It is like Bono calling you up one day to sub in for U2 because he has a sore throat. Something along those lines.
Andy was on the cutting edge of Theoretical Physics, like Sheldon, though there was a difference, one that may have been fatal, yet at the same time opened him up to the world, giving him a broader perspective upon things.
His main field of interest, last I could ascertain was the domain of Branes and multi-dimensional models of black holes and the pressing question of what exactly the universal constant means, not to mention being involved in the sexy science of String Theory.
However, Andy is dead now for several years. Complications connected with living a life outside of the experimental cage led to some fatal complications in Andy's health, and his untimely death at 36. To put into perspective of what he did, he has a bust at Pembroke College in Cambridge next to Sir Isaac Newton, and has memorial dedicated to him each year with a physics lecture in Cambridge with the likes of Brian Greene and Paul Davies, (the latter with whom I was fortunate enough to share high table at in Pembroke for one of the memorials) and a musical recital dedicated to Andrew in Oxford, each year. Not bad for a kid from the sticks of Amarillo.
I was in contact with Andy in the last months before he died, but did not know he was so sick. We were tossing around ideas about collaborating on physics-based short stories and he had sent me a short "screenplay" of sorts to review about Amarillo. I sent a heavily edited version back to him at one point, and never heard back. I thought he was offended, or had just moved on. I inquired further and learned that he had died.
One thing that Andy was amazing about is that he had a huge range of interests, well beyond physics and math, despite being an off-the-charts genius in both. He was also human in that he was known to be a horrific cheat and liar on the golf course as he was on the golf team. Yet, he also built a home-made harpsichord in high school and was one of the very few people who enjoyed word play and literary references as much as I did. We shared Calculus class and every day Andy and I would bore the entire class with endless puns and obscure references, as I still seem to do with people. It made high school bearable for me.
I was not a big fan of education, and the fact that I became involved with education was a direct result of my not wanting to be part of the problem, but in my egotistical way, to be part of the solution. I wanted to be an educator who did not ignore the human component.
Tonight, watching a re-rerun (all we have here) of The Big Bang Theory, I was reminded of Andy and of how he was not like Sheldon, when Penny asks Sheldon, "So, Who is Radiohead?" after Sheldon had just proclaimed that because he studies physics he has the keys to the universe. By his patented dead-pan blank stare, it is clear that he has no idea who Radiohead is, thus temporarily giving Penny, the "uneducated" waitress of the Cheesecake Factory the edge.
Some, like Dr. Chamblin, do seem to be tapped into a higher order of understanding, and I don't think that they are products of education, as much as I love to think that good teachers do it all. I was fortunate to have many good, if not great, teachers, but, there is something more out there.
We still need to know who Radiohead is, or the equivalent, no matter how high the ladder we climb, or fall from. Andy did know such things, and he is a model for me to realize that life is precious, life can be fleeting, and if we are not careful, we can become mere Paranoid Androids.
Rest in Peace, Andrew, may we never become mere unthinking Androids, at any cost...
Well, I purchased Led Zeppelin's least, and I mean least by millions of listener's favorite's albums recently at the Juke Box Shop on Anspach Blvd in Brussels, which specializes in psychedelic, soul, and "song's." The latter I have no idea what they mean, but they should also have classic rock on that list on their take-home plastic bag. Anyone need a good translator, copywriter???
That aside, this LP is incredible, and so sadly undervalued.
The cover art, and the fact that this was the turning and turning off point for so many people for Zeppelin is interesting. Similar to the saga of Rush and the album Signals, things just were never the same in the marriage of the fans and the band.
However, it is often the dustbins of our relationships that we find what is most interesting, and unfortunately for many, the least likely to be talked about unless tossed out there on the floor with an extended dust pan in one hand and broom in the other and go, "what the hell is that?" And, either you can sweep it under the rug, or you can deal with it and actually talk it through. A novel idea for the modern world and an idea for a novel in the modern world.
Outside of the pool that I swam (and regularly swim under the airborne toxic event across the river) at on the Linkeroever of Antwerp today, as I was unlocking my bike, I was listening to a commentary about a book that I need to look up about the ultimate emergence of technology into the world of a "world of its own" and not on a philosophical plane, but simply, it is coming to a theater near you, just that theater is your life, and what will we do when that day happens, and it will. Not in a James Cameron way (though that is highly plausible), but in a discreet, simply, suddenly Susan 3.0 kind of way. I personally have a computer story about such an event that I hope does not manifest itself as it gives me the creeps to think about, making the Matrix and Terminator pale in comparison, trust me, though we are closer and closer to that image that I have in line more with Lev Stanislaus or Daniel Denett. Spoiler alert, I won't spoil the alert, but when I write it and post it, don't say I didn't tell you so...
Regardless, conversations about such things can make us uncomfortable. Conversations on a daily basis are usually so mundane and banal as to not even phase us, nor to turn our heads, nor such to make us wonder. However, my personal philosophy is that at least once a day you should have, initiate or engage in a conversation that does make you uncomfortable at some level. That is how I used to teach classes, whether yoga or in the actual "classroom." I have thousands of student witnesses if you think this was not a "presence" in my classes. We talked about very uncomfortable things, and not as shock value. Anyone can shock. Boring. Can you Engage? When I taught Yoga, we got into uncomfortable positions and had to find the Integrity of the Pose. However, most teachers don't engage, they just ask the students to do the heavy lifting, sit back, drink a coffee and wonder how they ever did it. I was never one of those teachers.
That is wrong on so many levels. If you engage, you must also engage.
If you are willing to ask another, whether a friend, student, lover, son, mother, father, or complete stranger to engage in a state of "Presence," then, it is Nobody's fault by your/my/his/her/their/our own and it is one that you better be able to follow through with with words, but more importantly, with a compassionate, though guided and if necessary, critiquing ear.
Know your audience. Sometimes, the audience is at fault sometimes the one who delivers. With "Presence," I find nothing wrong with the message, nor the delivery. It just didn't work with many. So, whose fault is it? Nobody's but mine. Take responsibility people.
I Triple-Dog Dare you not to watch this in its entirety. Look at Robert Plant's gaze at about 2:13, he is wondering what conversation he has engaged, that is my wager.
Although this title may evoke memories of the cartoon dandy Snagglepuss delivering the lines like Thurston Howell III of Gilligan's Island, for me, it is the live album from Rush that was one of the vehicles for putting them into the limelight from the Great White North down to the US and the rest of the world.
"Exit, Stage Left" as an album was revolutionary in that it was not only a moving portrait of a band on the run, but was an escalation of the band as independent maestros of each of their respective talents and instruments: Peart on percussion, Lee on Bass/Synthesizers/Vocals and Liefson on lead guitar. In other words, it was the turning point for the band and for establishing a live watermark for many future band members of other bands to caution. If Rush could do these things live, then the studio question was simply out of the question. Rush has been accused (and sometimes rightly so) for their static performances. However, the reason that they cannot be bouncing around the stage is exactly tied to their art and craftsmanship.
"Closer to the Heart" comes from "A Farewell to Kings," an album that has strong affinities for me for many reasons, and although it became a mainstream hit, it does highlight the Rush of the "Exit, Stage Left" era quite well.
It does beg many questions on a philosophical level as well. What does it mean to be a true craftsman or woman at what cost? We prey upon the faults of others at the market place when they fall below our standards, but often they are just trying to crank out a living as we are. In the Republic of Plato, Socrates in his ironical way of being naive suggests that a "perfect" society would involve everyone doing one thing really, really well and leaving the rest to those who do other things better. Novelty or a novel idea, there is something that rings true. However, in modern society, that sort of excellence comes at a cost. Should we abandon the rest of life's duties to become the "best that we were born to be?"
In either case, I believe, as with the song, that if we produce, with our hearts and with our attention, we can produce the best that we can, and indeed, whether Plato was selling us a Noble Lie or not, it could be better for all of us.
I spent a few hours today in Brussels, perusing the vinyl shops that are to be found in this mosaic city that no one can really put a finger on about liking or not. Regardless, I got some real gems today that I am sure I will be writing about in the near future.
However, for this post, it is what it is not that is what it is that is what I am interested in, namely the paradox of image and sound. The disjunct between perception and reality on one level and the reality of perception on the other.
I did purchase Led Zeppelin's "Presence" today at the Juke Box Shop on Anspach Blvd. in Brussels, but the video that was in my mind with LZ could not be more different, or could it?
"Presence" was the turning point, down turn or turn off point for legions of Zeppelin fans around the globe. It just didn't make sense as to how the creators of a stairway leading to the heavens of rock or the physical graffiti of a generation could create this? It was a conundrum and enigma for many, enough so to signal the prophetic Swan Song fall of Icarus from scaling the heights of the heavens with his waxen wings of glorified human ego. The higher they fly, the faster they fall...
The dynamics of "Presence" notwithstanding, one of the most "serious" sounding tracks from Zeppelin could arguably be the "Immigrant Song" from Led Zeppelin III. It deals with the tragically-laced history of the Norseman Vikings coming southwards, leaving a trail of pillage and rapacious destruction in their wake. The second-most "serious" song might be "Kashmir" from Physical Graffiti, though incorrectly cited by Damone in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" as the second side of Led Zeppelin IV (also known as Zoso or "Symbols" on which it is not).
However, there is a video out there that makes me smile, irrespective of the source, and the "seriousness" of the content, kittens from Valhalla just make me laugh out loud. Sometimes taking the unfamiliar, filtered through the familiar and then re-filtered through the unfamiliar to the mundane can have quite an effect that is something more than mockery and can just be good fun, such as the Viking Kittens.
Without a doubt, one of the best live music performances I have ever seen was David Bowie for his Sound+Vision tour at the Frank Erwin Center in Austin. It was one of those situations where I decided to go about 30 minutes before the show, walked up to the arena, no ticket in hand and purchased one from one of the entrepreneurs who are wont to be found in front of such events, and I took advantage of their sense of emporium skills and bought an incredible 3rd-row floor ticket to see Bowie.
At the time, 1991-2, the acoustics of the Erwin were reprehensible at best, but to be about 20 feet from Bowie was worth every nails-on-the-chalkboard miscue of the PA system, or lack thereof. I knew that I was truly in the presence of musical genius, which Bowie is.
However, as with many things in life, it is often much later that we find out the details of events and the oddities of Space and Time begin to show through in Low moments or again in epiphanies and revelations.
What struck me so odd of all about Bowie, someone whose work I have admired for many, many years, is that I didn't even look into him until somewhat recently. I just liked Bowie. I knew that the curious eye discrepancy was due to a youthful encounter, disfiguring his vision for life, though probably enhancing his quest for sound as well.
But, only quite recently did I look up the "meaning" of "Life on Mars" and found that it is somewhat of an Alice in Wonderland perspective of a young girl listening to the news. Now, the song makes perfect sense. Having a daughter of my own who is beginning to be quite aware of the world around her, and its imperfections, the detail of what the devil this song was about became crystal clear, like a diamond bullet through the forehead, if you will.
The world is a mysterious place and the world of adults is quite as mysterious for children as it is vice versa for adults to remember the world of our youth. J.D. Salinger's "Nine Stories" is akin to Beethoven's Ninth (as interpreted in the movie Immortal Beloved) of bringing this troubled connection of youthful innocence and adult folly into focus.
Bowie's "Life on Mars" does so likewise, and suddenly a song took on a whole new meaning for me.
