I'm getting nowhere fast: my daily "I'll just check what the bloggers said while I was sleeping" has become roughly 3 hours in the morning and 3 more at night. Comments pages are a delight normally, but when you get a right-wing rantosaur and left-wing plodadactyl mudslinging shitfest, I guess you know you're site is doing well: click on the title of this post.
Just want to say that Hugo Chavez becoming an ENEMY of the USA because he happens to believe that Bush wants to eliminate him is the largest bunch of misrepresentation I've heard for a long time. Like a number of Chavez's statements, there is much calm logic to it.
Being called an ENEMY?? Chavez is right for 'folding' in this "Texas Hold 'em" in full public view.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
High Wycombe, the world, and my Father
Yesterday there were a number of police raids in three areas of England, one of these places was my town. Of course I'm saddened by this event; by what's caused these events; and by the cause behind the cause of these events. And that where I grew up has changed so totally over my life, which has never bothered me because Change is the only Constant. Before I became too ill, everywhere that could be mapped, was logged up here — I hated it of course, resented it, but I savoured it.
With my parents it is a different story:
They met on the daily bus to Wycombe in the early sixties where they had joined the design school, they discovered themselves there, and they were involved in the growing hub of music and style that was 'swinging', then 'way-out', then 'hippy'. The town that nurtured this was renowned for its furniture industry, and its twisting 16th century streets and slums, at turns conservative, insular. They chose to stay here because my sister and I had arrived and the town was close enough to the surrounding countryside, there was a conscious decision to join in an ethnic mix that wasn't found in other towns, and is close enough to London to be not feel provincial.
My Father is an odd person; a brilliant self-taught musician but also a very decent designer, and resolutely self-employed. There has always been a certain desperation to his various ventures. Growing up under the regime meant never knowing what was going to happen next or whether we'd ever go on a normal holiday. People have let him get away with his work-mania because he is a joy know in other ways.
Last night was bad, we hadn't got together for a while so a curry at the best place around should've been a treat. But he just couldn't let the terrorist news go, it was eating him up: He was talking as if he'd been had, all that time he'd put into living in Wycombe he felt his trust had been abused by the Asians of the town, his voice getting louder all the time — it was disgusting really, and embarrassing because I know how much love and patience there still is in my Dad.
I'm glad they are going to be moving out of the town next year, I hope it'll return the person I remember.
With my parents it is a different story:
They met on the daily bus to Wycombe in the early sixties where they had joined the design school, they discovered themselves there, and they were involved in the growing hub of music and style that was 'swinging', then 'way-out', then 'hippy'. The town that nurtured this was renowned for its furniture industry, and its twisting 16th century streets and slums, at turns conservative, insular. They chose to stay here because my sister and I had arrived and the town was close enough to the surrounding countryside, there was a conscious decision to join in an ethnic mix that wasn't found in other towns, and is close enough to London to be not feel provincial.
My Father is an odd person; a brilliant self-taught musician but also a very decent designer, and resolutely self-employed. There has always been a certain desperation to his various ventures. Growing up under the regime meant never knowing what was going to happen next or whether we'd ever go on a normal holiday. People have let him get away with his work-mania because he is a joy know in other ways.
Last night was bad, we hadn't got together for a while so a curry at the best place around should've been a treat. But he just couldn't let the terrorist news go, it was eating him up: He was talking as if he'd been had, all that time he'd put into living in Wycombe he felt his trust had been abused by the Asians of the town, his voice getting louder all the time — it was disgusting really, and embarrassing because I know how much love and patience there still is in my Dad.
I'm glad they are going to be moving out of the town next year, I hope it'll return the person I remember.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Terrorist — John Updike
Last week I read an extract from John Updike's latest, "Terrorist".
Its a duff book in many ways, a vehicle for a person to express sustained misanthropy, because the 'protagonista' is a resentful Muslim in the heart of America. I detect a certain amout of glee for this opportunity to vent.
I don't know any of his other work, as it doesn't really travel, but I've heard it said that the old man's a classic WASP.
Based on the short excerpt that I read, its a collection of stereotypes, and very little effort has been put in to try to understand all the other motivations of this 'viper in the nest'.
It surprises me most that Updike has written this Now . . . 5-6 years ago [at the time of 9/11] it would have been much more understandable for an American to present this sort of picture, but after half a decade, to only have come up with the same old crap suggests to me that there's been a traumatic failure of intelligence — the rabbit in the headlights.
The other direction he could have gone . . . is to present two characters; one who lives an insular life, who can't understand how another person lives and has no interest in how things affect others; and the other who's been raised to see how every interaction results in a clear winner and clear loser in a global sense.
Updike's had a neural-collapse in his metaphor department.
Its a duff book in many ways, a vehicle for a person to express sustained misanthropy, because the 'protagonista' is a resentful Muslim in the heart of America. I detect a certain amout of glee for this opportunity to vent.
I don't know any of his other work, as it doesn't really travel, but I've heard it said that the old man's a classic WASP.
Based on the short excerpt that I read, its a collection of stereotypes, and very little effort has been put in to try to understand all the other motivations of this 'viper in the nest'.
It surprises me most that Updike has written this Now . . . 5-6 years ago [at the time of 9/11] it would have been much more understandable for an American to present this sort of picture, but after half a decade, to only have come up with the same old crap suggests to me that there's been a traumatic failure of intelligence — the rabbit in the headlights.
The other direction he could have gone . . . is to present two characters; one who lives an insular life, who can't understand how another person lives and has no interest in how things affect others; and the other who's been raised to see how every interaction results in a clear winner and clear loser in a global sense.
Updike's had a neural-collapse in his metaphor department.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
"Pity the Nation"
2 years ago I read the book which is by Robert Fisk, a correspondant for 'The Independent' in Beirut for 25 years. As it keeps getting referenced at places I've visited recently, I'll mention it here. It has the same feel and level of relentless detail that you'd find in Alexander Solzhenitsyn's work. Its an exhausting read, but I must add, it isn't all joyless either.
The link here is more expansive than I can be right now.
The link here is more expansive than I can be right now.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Anti-nunciation
In this latest Lebanese crisis, I've noticed that every Israeli spokesman has made a really big deal out of the name of their Arch-Enemies, taking every opportunity to emphasize the 'H' with a heavy gutteral sound . . . . it got me wondering about whether this is some sort of in-joke, maybe it matches an expression of contempt by mimicing the sound of someone hawking up a looger, or even that it might be an offensive pun in Arabic.
Hezbollah have been around for a while now, and I've never heard anyone pronouncing it in this way before. So out of interest, I checked it on Google, and yes, Hezbollah is meant to be pronounced by emphasing either the SECOND or THIRD syllables. But I don't yet know whether this is an insult or not.
I don't like this attempt to coerce me onto a particular side using this contemporary Shibboleth, the Old Testament proudly tells us that 42,000 Ephraimites were slaughtered by the tribe of Gilead because this word identified them — nice.
Its not PROnunciation, its ANTInunciation.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shibboleth
http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/theeditors/2006/07/today_s_pronunciation_hezbo.html
http://upyernoz.blogspot.com/2006/07/blog-post.html
http://hollywood-elsewhere.com/archives/2006/07/post_4.php
Hezbollah have been around for a while now, and I've never heard anyone pronouncing it in this way before. So out of interest, I checked it on Google, and yes, Hezbollah is meant to be pronounced by emphasing either the SECOND or THIRD syllables. But I don't yet know whether this is an insult or not.
I don't like this attempt to coerce me onto a particular side using this contemporary Shibboleth, the Old Testament proudly tells us that 42,000 Ephraimites were slaughtered by the tribe of Gilead because this word identified them — nice.
Its not PROnunciation, its ANTInunciation.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shibboleth
http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/theeditors/2006/07/today_s_pronunciation_hezbo.html
http://upyernoz.blogspot.com/2006/07/blog-post.html
http://hollywood-elsewhere.com/archives/2006/07/post_4.php
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
From Spain
My mood is good right now. But can it cope with brokering an arrangement with the mother of my Son over the future of his education, where they are going to settle for his primary stage schooling, and increased access to him for me. I feel that things are attainable when I'm reasonably happy, but as I've said before, this little doorway in the year limits what I can fit through it.
I pray and pray She will allow for the rest of our families to play a larger role, which for her means relinquishing some of her freedom to move around as much as she has, but also allow for a chance of respite — is she willing? More soon.
I pray and pray She will allow for the rest of our families to play a larger role, which for her means relinquishing some of her freedom to move around as much as she has, but also allow for a chance of respite — is she willing? More soon.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Summertime
I love this weather (30ºC), I've been waiting since October 2005 for my life to get started again. With the relentless sluggish depression that is known as S.A.D. lifting only a month ago — it is a hell of a wait.
With no money for a break in Spain for some "winter sun" — the only way to get some vitamin D is through synthetic means, as my light-box is only good for simulating the sun-up you normally miss in the winter, well it was a start — a shame it can't do more for me.
My beautiful garden is also flourishing: my raspberry canes are having a bumper crop this year — I've let it take up a third of growing space, and the plant has been fruiting for 5-6 weeks now, despite a drought here in the South East of England. These fresh raspberries make me so happy, they mirror of my mood this time of year — just as fruitful.
Because I can't eat a crop this large fast enough, I love being able to give them away , it makes me feel that my life isn't in vain, or that I am a waste of resources — my normal mode.
My bamboo makes a good screen in the no-fence area I call my garden, it is loving this sun, making all growths more solid and compact, and the shoots are so dry that they are crystal hard within a week of sprouting: whereas my abundant Honeysuckle has really taken to the trellis I put in last year, and its blooms produce that gorgeous highly condensed perfume in the evenings.
This weekend I was coaxed out of my valley to a highly genteel party in rural Cambridgeshire . . . Is it wrong to adore your cousins this much?
I suspect it is . . . I'd not seen these two women since 1998 in Vegas — I'd met them when I was 3, but then their family moved to Texas, then Arizona, then New Mex, then Nevada, and etc. The youngest with lots of tatoos, is a photographer, has been married three times now and has sprouted all kinds of children, lives in a tiny house and has the adoration of all kinds of her neighbourhood's waifs and strays. The eldest is a doctor in child psychology, and the epitome of Southern Charm School manners, she now lives in Evansville Indiana with her English husband who is employed as choir-master/composer for a large Presbytarian Church. If I wasn't related, I'd never've met these two wonderful people, hmm, well . . . at least we have some kind of link, because they are really special characters.
Note to self — must get out more !
With no money for a break in Spain for some "winter sun" — the only way to get some vitamin D is through synthetic means, as my light-box is only good for simulating the sun-up you normally miss in the winter, well it was a start — a shame it can't do more for me.
My beautiful garden is also flourishing: my raspberry canes are having a bumper crop this year — I've let it take up a third of growing space, and the plant has been fruiting for 5-6 weeks now, despite a drought here in the South East of England. These fresh raspberries make me so happy, they mirror of my mood this time of year — just as fruitful.
Because I can't eat a crop this large fast enough, I love being able to give them away , it makes me feel that my life isn't in vain, or that I am a waste of resources — my normal mode.
My bamboo makes a good screen in the no-fence area I call my garden, it is loving this sun, making all growths more solid and compact, and the shoots are so dry that they are crystal hard within a week of sprouting: whereas my abundant Honeysuckle has really taken to the trellis I put in last year, and its blooms produce that gorgeous highly condensed perfume in the evenings.
This weekend I was coaxed out of my valley to a highly genteel party in rural Cambridgeshire . . . Is it wrong to adore your cousins this much?
I suspect it is . . . I'd not seen these two women since 1998 in Vegas — I'd met them when I was 3, but then their family moved to Texas, then Arizona, then New Mex, then Nevada, and etc. The youngest with lots of tatoos, is a photographer, has been married three times now and has sprouted all kinds of children, lives in a tiny house and has the adoration of all kinds of her neighbourhood's waifs and strays. The eldest is a doctor in child psychology, and the epitome of Southern Charm School manners, she now lives in Evansville Indiana with her English husband who is employed as choir-master/composer for a large Presbytarian Church. If I wasn't related, I'd never've met these two wonderful people, hmm, well . . . at least we have some kind of link, because they are really special characters.
Note to self — must get out more !
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