What does it say about our civilization when we have put such a high price on honesty? I tried to come up with an interesting and tangible explanation to why I've been relatively silent/inactive this past week but couldn't. The reality is that my inactivity in life carried over to inactivity of pen/mind. It's honest and that has to count for something. It has to count for something. (Isn't honesty McCain's selling point and main source of popularity?)
When did we stop expecting honesty and start expecting lies or half truths? I always hear Watergate thrown out there as the occurrence that changed America, a loss of innocence. Watergate supposedly woke America up to reality. Taking liberties with the English language: it signaled the "cynicification" of America.
Today is supposed to be the day that decides the Democratic nomination. Votes are being cast in Ohio and Texas that will decide the fate of the Clinton campaign. Throughout these past months I've waffled back and forth on what candidate I preferred but today I can tell you that I hope the voters of both states add to Obama's growing mandate.
Along the way it dawned on me that, as a man and a candidate, what Obama offers with his promises of hope and change is as much a vision of the past as it is a paean to the future. His message, more than anything, seems to offer a way to shed the cynical shells we wear as Americans. I concocted many stratagems to avoid what I felt deep inside me--the urge to support Obama. Among other things I told myself that his policies weren't clear enough, that the 1-2 diplomatic punch of the Clinton's would right the wrongs of the world. I was fighting the urge. I was too proud to support a..."feel good" candidate.
His campaign seemed to deny reality. I couldn't stomach that.
Cynicism is a hard thing to shake but at some point I realized that denying reality was exactly what was needed. A reality where honesty comes as a surprise, a reality of hardened cynicism, is a reality that shouldn't be stomached.
An Avett Brothers lyric seems to apply: "So if ever someone says to you, life isn't fair, get used to it. Then you should say 'Well it might be if folks like you would let it be."
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
Words and Wonders
I imagine there are countless misspellings and mistranslations of French words all across the English speaking world so it is not really fair to poke fun when I find them here in France. Fairness aside, they are usually too damn funny not to say something about them. Most recently there was a mistake I saw while waiting in line to see St. Chapelle.
As you can hopefully see from the picture above, only one monosyllabic word suffices in description--Wow. It's a two story chapel completely surrounded by the Palais du Justice (formerly a royal residence from the 10th-14th century) on Ile de la Cite. It was built by Louis IX to house the relics of the Passion of Christ like the Crown of Thorns. The purchase of the relics from the Emperor of Constantinople actually cost more than the construction of the church itself. Stained glass windows surrounding the second floor walls of St. Chappelle tell the story of the Bible from Genesis through Christ's resurrection. Also, there is a depiction of the Apocalyptic prophecies of St. John on the western rose window. Lying opposite, the eastern rose window (behind the altar) depicts the Passion.
Being completely enclosed by the Palais, it's somewhat off the beaten path for Parisians and tourists alike. Consequently it, unlike most other church buildings, has an admission price and fairly tight security. It was while waiting in line to go through security that I noticed signs in French, English, and Spanish detailing instructions for passing through the security check. I began reading the sign in English, did a double take and immediately burst out in laughter drawing curious stairs from everyone around me. Someone in the French translation department had created a new English word, "travelator." As in "put your bags and any metal items onto the travelator." Unless "travelator" is the British word for "conveyor belt," some bureaucrat pulled a word out of a hat.
As you can hopefully see from the picture above, only one monosyllabic word suffices in description--Wow. It's a two story chapel completely surrounded by the Palais du Justice (formerly a royal residence from the 10th-14th century) on Ile de la Cite. It was built by Louis IX to house the relics of the Passion of Christ like the Crown of Thorns. The purchase of the relics from the Emperor of Constantinople actually cost more than the construction of the church itself. Stained glass windows surrounding the second floor walls of St. Chappelle tell the story of the Bible from Genesis through Christ's resurrection. Also, there is a depiction of the Apocalyptic prophecies of St. John on the western rose window. Lying opposite, the eastern rose window (behind the altar) depicts the Passion.
Being completely enclosed by the Palais, it's somewhat off the beaten path for Parisians and tourists alike. Consequently it, unlike most other church buildings, has an admission price and fairly tight security. It was while waiting in line to go through security that I noticed signs in French, English, and Spanish detailing instructions for passing through the security check. I began reading the sign in English, did a double take and immediately burst out in laughter drawing curious stairs from everyone around me. Someone in the French translation department had created a new English word, "travelator." As in "put your bags and any metal items onto the travelator." Unless "travelator" is the British word for "conveyor belt," some bureaucrat pulled a word out of a hat.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Springtime of the Masses
The first of March and the signs of spring continue to appear--fewer scarves, girls in skirts without stockings, actual sunshine. If nothing else, the changes could be seen in the mass clusters of people around the city, sprawled along the Seine or perched on the steps of L'Opera Garnier, lapping up the sun like parched puppies. Although the temperatures refused to entirely cooperate, the sun was shining across the capital today. It had been missed.
I keep returning to the weather. People ask if I get homesick and I don't per se, though the weather seems to promulgate a deep craving for light and openness. It's astounding how much a little sunshine can alter moods, feelings, the day itself. The weather here seems to have a cumulative effect--brow beating the inhabitants into a morose state during the winter. Perhaps it's banal but I feel the effects each day. I can see the drawn, stern faces of pedestrians--each feeding off the other and the whole taking their cue from the skies.
At times it is particularly devastating for me as I am disused to the winter as it occurs here. This unfamiliarity is then exacerbated by the effect of being a stranger, a fish out of water. With sunshine comes vibrancy, smiles, and activity. As a foreign resident winter seems to test your mettle and perhaps gauges the true value you hold on a place whereas the warmth of summer is an idyll felt more with the senses than the mind. My time in Paris this summer existed on a different plane. It was an experience suspended from reality. As a result it continues to exist more tangibly in my mind than in the place I see around me each day. These past two months have been rooted in reality, offering a myriad of emotions and experiences. As a result this reality of place has granted me a better understanding of the city that surrounds me and of myself. So while there might be times where something as cliché as a gray sky creates a wistful feeling inside me, there are more often feelings of true happiness found in experiences--of place, of love, of life--all rooted in reality.
I keep returning to the weather. People ask if I get homesick and I don't per se, though the weather seems to promulgate a deep craving for light and openness. It's astounding how much a little sunshine can alter moods, feelings, the day itself. The weather here seems to have a cumulative effect--brow beating the inhabitants into a morose state during the winter. Perhaps it's banal but I feel the effects each day. I can see the drawn, stern faces of pedestrians--each feeding off the other and the whole taking their cue from the skies.
At times it is particularly devastating for me as I am disused to the winter as it occurs here. This unfamiliarity is then exacerbated by the effect of being a stranger, a fish out of water. With sunshine comes vibrancy, smiles, and activity. As a foreign resident winter seems to test your mettle and perhaps gauges the true value you hold on a place whereas the warmth of summer is an idyll felt more with the senses than the mind. My time in Paris this summer existed on a different plane. It was an experience suspended from reality. As a result it continues to exist more tangibly in my mind than in the place I see around me each day. These past two months have been rooted in reality, offering a myriad of emotions and experiences. As a result this reality of place has granted me a better understanding of the city that surrounds me and of myself. So while there might be times where something as cliché as a gray sky creates a wistful feeling inside me, there are more often feelings of true happiness found in experiences--of place, of love, of life--all rooted in reality.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Of Floss and Fowl
Of late there has been quite a bit of turbulence in the private sector of French enterprise. The populous seems to be chaffing under the economic stress of the nation. This unrest has reached a fever pitch recently with strikes at a Miko ice cream factory (they "kidnapped" their manager) and a Ford plant while L'Oreal workers took to the streets. To top it off there have also been strikes by supermarket cashiers, hairdressers, Taxi drivers, and airline workers over the past month. The reasons brought forth for the unhappiness generally include the high cost of living and the loss of purchasing power. All of this has been compounded by the sinking approval ratings of Sarkozy. The displeasure stems from the failure to enact the campaign assurances of reversing the economic stagnation of France. Many feel that this failure can be directly attributed to the distracting nature of his private life.
This past summer I had noticed that things tended to be more expensive than in the states but regarded it as "normal" and never gave it a second thought. I try to stay abreast of the news and had noticed the strikes. Being a bit cavalier, I dismissed it as the spoiled sense of self that seems to afflict the nation at certain levels. Reality came crashing down today in the form of 21 euros. Within a span of minutes, what I had dismissed as "their" problems became mine.
I wanted some dental floss so I stepped into the pharmacy downstairs. Six euros later I had dental floss. To compound the problem I was informed by Morgane that only "old people" use floss. Apparently nine out of ten dentists here fail to recommend flossing each day.
The entrance to the apartment has the pharmacy on one side and a boucherie (meat market/butcher) on the other. Just outside the entrance to the boucherie there is a rotisserie filled with beautiful chickens that I have to walk past each day. I have a weakness for rotisserie chicken but had somehow made it these past few weeks without ever buying one. Today, however, the poulet was calling my name.
I stepped inside and with the best French I could muster ordered a chicken. 15 euros. This shop is a bit on the fancy side but 15?! In a matter of minutes I dropped 21 euros on dental floss and a chicken.
Which way to the barricades?
This past summer I had noticed that things tended to be more expensive than in the states but regarded it as "normal" and never gave it a second thought. I try to stay abreast of the news and had noticed the strikes. Being a bit cavalier, I dismissed it as the spoiled sense of self that seems to afflict the nation at certain levels. Reality came crashing down today in the form of 21 euros. Within a span of minutes, what I had dismissed as "their" problems became mine.
I wanted some dental floss so I stepped into the pharmacy downstairs. Six euros later I had dental floss. To compound the problem I was informed by Morgane that only "old people" use floss. Apparently nine out of ten dentists here fail to recommend flossing each day.
The entrance to the apartment has the pharmacy on one side and a boucherie (meat market/butcher) on the other. Just outside the entrance to the boucherie there is a rotisserie filled with beautiful chickens that I have to walk past each day. I have a weakness for rotisserie chicken but had somehow made it these past few weeks without ever buying one. Today, however, the poulet was calling my name.
I stepped inside and with the best French I could muster ordered a chicken. 15 euros. This shop is a bit on the fancy side but 15?! In a matter of minutes I dropped 21 euros on dental floss and a chicken.
Which way to the barricades?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Cluny and The Cops
After a long day working in front of the computer Morgane accompanied me on a visit to the Cluny (Musée National du Moyen Age/Medieval Museum). Neither of us would ever claim to be a lover of Medieval art but I was curious to see it and it was free.
The Cluny is on the Left Bank next door to the Sorbonne. It offers three distinct architectural features within the larger framework of the museum. There is the 15th century Gothic mansion that housed the Cluny Abbey seen above), Gallic-Roman baths from the 3rd century, and a medieval style garden that surrounds the outer portions of the building. There were countless items of interest, everything from swords and jewelry to tapestries and religious shrouds. As historically minded as I am I found most of it pretty interesting. Our bus ride back to St. Lazare, however, provided the most entertainment.
I love riding the bus in Paris. This is largely because I am a looker. I love looking out the window at the city. When I've driven in Paris I'm usually too nervous to let my gaze wander like I might in America. On the bus I'm able to see things with the freedom I'm not granted as a driver and at a different angle than when I walk. Rolling through the city streets, I stared out at the city while chatting idly with Morgane.
As we turned right on to Rue Royale I noticed police men gliding by in the opposite lane. Emitting a "what the hell" I jerked my head back and said, "you have Rollerblade cops?" Police men on roller blades! This blew my mind. I of course bombarded Morgane with questions about why, how they were effective, etc. Apparently they aren't the type of cops who arrest people or write tickets. They are community cops out there to strength relations with the people, to help forge a bond with the young people, and to make the neighborhood feel safer. Maybe I'm alone here but having cops on roller blades in my neighborhood wouldn't ease any safety fears I had.
Do we have roller cops in American cities? Did I miss the creation of these tactical units? I have a hard time seeing them as a viable tactical element in most American cities (except maybe New York). Not because they would be made fun of (though I would think that would be an issue) but as a result of grass. It seems like there is a lot more "green space" in most American cities. If you're a crook making a getaway all you have to do is get off pavement and the roller cop is screwed. I've never been much of a skater but it seems like the efficiency they might offer on the sidewalk or street is completely reversed once you find a park. Just make sure you escape before the backup arrives.
The Cluny is on the Left Bank next door to the Sorbonne. It offers three distinct architectural features within the larger framework of the museum. There is the 15th century Gothic mansion that housed the Cluny Abbey seen above), Gallic-Roman baths from the 3rd century, and a medieval style garden that surrounds the outer portions of the building. There were countless items of interest, everything from swords and jewelry to tapestries and religious shrouds. As historically minded as I am I found most of it pretty interesting. Our bus ride back to St. Lazare, however, provided the most entertainment.
I love riding the bus in Paris. This is largely because I am a looker. I love looking out the window at the city. When I've driven in Paris I'm usually too nervous to let my gaze wander like I might in America. On the bus I'm able to see things with the freedom I'm not granted as a driver and at a different angle than when I walk. Rolling through the city streets, I stared out at the city while chatting idly with Morgane.
As we turned right on to Rue Royale I noticed police men gliding by in the opposite lane. Emitting a "what the hell" I jerked my head back and said, "you have Rollerblade cops?" Police men on roller blades! This blew my mind. I of course bombarded Morgane with questions about why, how they were effective, etc. Apparently they aren't the type of cops who arrest people or write tickets. They are community cops out there to strength relations with the people, to help forge a bond with the young people, and to make the neighborhood feel safer. Maybe I'm alone here but having cops on roller blades in my neighborhood wouldn't ease any safety fears I had.
Do we have roller cops in American cities? Did I miss the creation of these tactical units? I have a hard time seeing them as a viable tactical element in most American cities (except maybe New York). Not because they would be made fun of (though I would think that would be an issue) but as a result of grass. It seems like there is a lot more "green space" in most American cities. If you're a crook making a getaway all you have to do is get off pavement and the roller cop is screwed. I've never been much of a skater but it seems like the efficiency they might offer on the sidewalk or street is completely reversed once you find a park. Just make sure you escape before the backup arrives.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Identity and the World
In the hope of continuing the trend of positivity I started out to write a post about my two month anniversary of not watching television. Instead of television I ended up with a long string of thoughts on cultural homogenization. What follows (I hope) is a coherent summation of those thoughts.
Ray McKinnon (O, Brother; Deadwood; Chrystal) wrote, directed, and starred in a film called "The Accountant" that deals with the loss of cultural/regional identity. An Oscar winner for best short film in 2002, it is a powerhouse of humor, rhetoric, and morbidity (I know I'm breaking my own rules of "hyping" a movie and not sticking to the binary scale but it is tough to find. I was able to watch courtesy of Derek T. Miller).
There are countless reasons, causes, and sources for the supposed "death" of the south as a regional identity (McKinnon's title character blamed it on Hollywood) and the homogenization of America. This loss has in turn created a sort of panic within certain southerners, causing them to grasp for an identifier and as a result ape a characturized stereotype of what they're supposed to be instead of what they are: a displaced people. No longer separated from the nation--brought together by the cultural mediums of the nation, most notably television and movies. I'm sure there are countless academics who've tackled the subject a bit more thoroughly, albeit with less aplomb and passion than McKinnon.
It seems to me that this broad homogenization is a world wide phenomenon occurring in stops and starts on a global scale. Unbeknown to me, several events over the past few days have led me to this line of thinking. First is the new found independence of Kosovo and with it the larger situation of eastern Europe in general. A surge towards a more "western" world and the competing pull back by another side. This is readily evident in the divisiveness of Ukraine, split between desires to join the west (NATO and the EU) and retain the traditional eastern allegiances, i.e. Russia.
Next was the 1985 movie, Out of Africa with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep. It's based on the life of Karen Blixen (pen name: Isak Dinensen) in Africa. Blixen (Streep) wants to create a school for her Kikuyu. Finch (Redford) bristles at the notion, "I just don't think they should be turned into little Englishmen." He and the Kikuyu chief both recognized the new knowledge was going to come at a cost to their culture. And now Kenya, long the "model nation" of Africa, is embroiled in political upheaval and violence.
And then yesterday afternoon I came across an article about the Guarani tribe in a remote part of Argentina that has initiated a resistance to the outside world. The tribe instituted a a law to ban its adolescents from leaving the village until they are well into their twenties. This measure was created to put a stop to the destructive effects alcohol was having on the village and to stem the tide of despair many felt about their place in the world.
Perhaps it is ill conceived to string these events together to make a point, even a broad one, but I can't help but see similarities in them all. Violent Serbs rioting at the loss of their supposed heartland to the "West." Kenyans chaffing under the system imposed upon them long ago. Village watchmen prowling the edges of a community with wooden sticks in an attempt to keep youngsters from leaving--to keep the world at bay.
And there was our own great struggle. The rural nature of the south has long separated it from the "north" and the rest of the nation. Unique cultures sprang out of the earth with broad variations of accent, entertainment, and economy. This sense of identity, the sense of separation was heightened through slavery, secession, and war. An "us" verse "them" mentality solidified the mentality of separateness.
We've always been a nation and long thought of ourselves as such but there has also been a connection to the land, the region of our birth, the land of our fathers. This connection was just as much a piece of our identity as was our status as an American. And perhaps our own transformation as a nation can be seen as a homogenization not just of culture (television, movies) but as a collective loss of "roots." The mobility of our world has created a society on the move, striving for the brass ring at the expense of a traditional association with a place.
I know I jumped around a bit and I apologize. I suppose I still haven't sifted these thoughts into something truly cohesive yet. In an attempt to summarize my aims: I wanted to highlight the continual battles between identities on a global and national scale--a silent war of ideologies and economic mobility.
Ray McKinnon (O, Brother; Deadwood; Chrystal) wrote, directed, and starred in a film called "The Accountant" that deals with the loss of cultural/regional identity. An Oscar winner for best short film in 2002, it is a powerhouse of humor, rhetoric, and morbidity (I know I'm breaking my own rules of "hyping" a movie and not sticking to the binary scale but it is tough to find. I was able to watch courtesy of Derek T. Miller).
There are countless reasons, causes, and sources for the supposed "death" of the south as a regional identity (McKinnon's title character blamed it on Hollywood) and the homogenization of America. This loss has in turn created a sort of panic within certain southerners, causing them to grasp for an identifier and as a result ape a characturized stereotype of what they're supposed to be instead of what they are: a displaced people. No longer separated from the nation--brought together by the cultural mediums of the nation, most notably television and movies. I'm sure there are countless academics who've tackled the subject a bit more thoroughly, albeit with less aplomb and passion than McKinnon.
It seems to me that this broad homogenization is a world wide phenomenon occurring in stops and starts on a global scale. Unbeknown to me, several events over the past few days have led me to this line of thinking. First is the new found independence of Kosovo and with it the larger situation of eastern Europe in general. A surge towards a more "western" world and the competing pull back by another side. This is readily evident in the divisiveness of Ukraine, split between desires to join the west (NATO and the EU) and retain the traditional eastern allegiances, i.e. Russia.
Next was the 1985 movie, Out of Africa with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep. It's based on the life of Karen Blixen (pen name: Isak Dinensen) in Africa. Blixen (Streep) wants to create a school for her Kikuyu. Finch (Redford) bristles at the notion, "I just don't think they should be turned into little Englishmen." He and the Kikuyu chief both recognized the new knowledge was going to come at a cost to their culture. And now Kenya, long the "model nation" of Africa, is embroiled in political upheaval and violence.
And then yesterday afternoon I came across an article about the Guarani tribe in a remote part of Argentina that has initiated a resistance to the outside world. The tribe instituted a a law to ban its adolescents from leaving the village until they are well into their twenties. This measure was created to put a stop to the destructive effects alcohol was having on the village and to stem the tide of despair many felt about their place in the world.
Perhaps it is ill conceived to string these events together to make a point, even a broad one, but I can't help but see similarities in them all. Violent Serbs rioting at the loss of their supposed heartland to the "West." Kenyans chaffing under the system imposed upon them long ago. Village watchmen prowling the edges of a community with wooden sticks in an attempt to keep youngsters from leaving--to keep the world at bay.
And there was our own great struggle. The rural nature of the south has long separated it from the "north" and the rest of the nation. Unique cultures sprang out of the earth with broad variations of accent, entertainment, and economy. This sense of identity, the sense of separation was heightened through slavery, secession, and war. An "us" verse "them" mentality solidified the mentality of separateness.
We've always been a nation and long thought of ourselves as such but there has also been a connection to the land, the region of our birth, the land of our fathers. This connection was just as much a piece of our identity as was our status as an American. And perhaps our own transformation as a nation can be seen as a homogenization not just of culture (television, movies) but as a collective loss of "roots." The mobility of our world has created a society on the move, striving for the brass ring at the expense of a traditional association with a place.
I know I jumped around a bit and I apologize. I suppose I still haven't sifted these thoughts into something truly cohesive yet. In an attempt to summarize my aims: I wanted to highlight the continual battles between identities on a global and national scale--a silent war of ideologies and economic mobility.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Noticing the Positive
It's easy to focus on negative aspects of any situation. I think that most of us are more inclined to take notice of things when they don't go our way because we are so used to them going our way. I don't think that is inherently self-centered. A bit spoiled perhaps. Maybe I'm rehashing my sauce verse meat argument but I think it's indicative of the occidental (that's for you, Tank) world.
I'm not trying to point fingers or slander whole nations but think about the things of which we take notice. Think about the things that shake us out of our daily stupor. Tragedies. What's on the news? Wrecks, kidnappings, political fights, etc. Even though it isn't always indicative of the state of the world the aim of the content is grabbing our attention. Negative events accomplish the goal. It seems natural, even logical. Stopping to smell the roses is tough when in comparative terms your entire life is roses. Perhaps the negative events we notice are noticed to inflate our sense of self, to secure our sense of superiority, to mask the void we often feel.
What I found, or rather realized, is that I've had a lot of "complaints" on here and I didn't want to convey an ill defined picture of my life by focusing only on the little aggravations I experience. If anything I find humor in the aggravations and don't look at them in a negative light. In the spirit of optimism, I set out today to write about an inherently positive topic and ended up rambling about the world.
Maybe it is a stretch but my positive topic was bugs. I suppose I should say "lack of bugs" because they don't have them here. I've seen one bug since I got here. It was upon seeing the tiny little mite yesterday that the idea of positivity struck me. I took it as a harbinger of spring. Who needs robins when you have mites? Perhaps not having bugs in the winter isn't a huge deal. After spending a year and a half at the Roost (or the "Group Home" as my father and Nancy call it) waking up to roaches on the counter, I consider no bugs in the winter a significant perk. It's not exactly a life changing miracle but no bugs is a pretty comforting thing.
I'm not trying to point fingers or slander whole nations but think about the things of which we take notice. Think about the things that shake us out of our daily stupor. Tragedies. What's on the news? Wrecks, kidnappings, political fights, etc. Even though it isn't always indicative of the state of the world the aim of the content is grabbing our attention. Negative events accomplish the goal. It seems natural, even logical. Stopping to smell the roses is tough when in comparative terms your entire life is roses. Perhaps the negative events we notice are noticed to inflate our sense of self, to secure our sense of superiority, to mask the void we often feel.
What I found, or rather realized, is that I've had a lot of "complaints" on here and I didn't want to convey an ill defined picture of my life by focusing only on the little aggravations I experience. If anything I find humor in the aggravations and don't look at them in a negative light. In the spirit of optimism, I set out today to write about an inherently positive topic and ended up rambling about the world.
Maybe it is a stretch but my positive topic was bugs. I suppose I should say "lack of bugs" because they don't have them here. I've seen one bug since I got here. It was upon seeing the tiny little mite yesterday that the idea of positivity struck me. I took it as a harbinger of spring. Who needs robins when you have mites? Perhaps not having bugs in the winter isn't a huge deal. After spending a year and a half at the Roost (or the "Group Home" as my father and Nancy call it) waking up to roaches on the counter, I consider no bugs in the winter a significant perk. It's not exactly a life changing miracle but no bugs is a pretty comforting thing.
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