- Gregorovius
Saturday, July 31, 2010
streeting in hues of sabiduria.
when all is said and done, the writing's already on the wall. there's no need to fret over the socio-national origins of public education or the post-war bourgeois role of the state in constituting a perpetual domination of the masses through the manufacture of historiographical heresies by way of chauvinistically fraudulent curriculum; at least, that is, not in buenos aires:
one of the advantages of having a large, unorganized and fractured left is the occasional cynicism it inspires (whether deserved or not) - and the politico-historical imagination, shall we say, that springs from such disillusionment. not that a fractured base is necessary to question given political situations, however pernicious they may be; indeed, only through well-structured opposition can one dismantle - and eventually construct - one's own historiographical haven, be it ideological-communal, regional or national in scope. what advantages, then, can possibly be said to exist in a highly politicized yet simultaneously marginalized political ambiance? the imagination, my friend, the imagination - as well as the nerve.
more than a few people have remarked the extent to which buenos aires street art is overwhelmingly political in nature. perhaps this is somewhat akin to when john adams said that "i must study politics and war so that my sons may study mathematics and philosophy, natural history and naval architecture, in order to give their children the right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, tapestry and porcelain." (i might scrap the last two for something slightly more gumptious, but that's just me). whereas berlin and new york street artists can busy themselves with expressing the oddities of the modern, pre/post-yuppie condition, the boys in Bs As are must first address the contradictions that escape their politicians (how we could all learn a lesson or two from them). whence such a cosmopolitan vision? i would like to know. the socially, politically, economically and ethnically marginalized in the u.s. do not take to paint as ofter as their counterparts elsewhere; when they do, tis less to expose the geo-social contradictions into which they were born than an immediate yearning for communal attention, or so i suspect. such attention, however, if and when it is obtained, is rarely communal in scope - and when it is, is more often met with contempt than solidarity.
i interviewed an aging
former guerrilla and life-long militant yesterday evening who had many an interesting thing to say. amongst a number of gramscian truisms, there were several that stood out in particular: for one, he took great pains to remind me that repressive, bourgeois military rule is always a sign a weakness rather than strength. the real trick is getting people to ignore the root/s (and manifestations!) of their socio-existential malaise as they stare them in the face and consequently not act thereupon (in concerted fashion). none of this is new, of course, as any functionally well-read and semi-critical observer will note. nonetheless, it begs an important question: what is more pernicious - a semi-functioning confederacy of well-oiled, oligarcho-populist spin-doctors whose constituents know, fear and condemn them in the streets - through art if nothing else - or a highly efficient, quasi-democratic though faux-representative ethnocratic political culture that even encourages vandalism, so long as it's neither political nor artistic in scope? at times, it is hard to distinguish between the two (the former ostensibly emblematic of tina-land, the latter of the states). at this point, we only ask that the citizen-artist make the attempt.
one of the advantages of having a large, unorganized and fractured left is the occasional cynicism it inspires (whether deserved or not) - and the politico-historical imagination, shall we say, that springs from such disillusionment. not that a fractured base is necessary to question given political situations, however pernicious they may be; indeed, only through well-structured opposition can one dismantle - and eventually construct - one's own historiographical haven, be it ideological-communal, regional or national in scope. what advantages, then, can possibly be said to exist in a highly politicized yet simultaneously marginalized political ambiance? the imagination, my friend, the imagination - as well as the nerve.
more than a few people have remarked the extent to which buenos aires street art is overwhelmingly political in nature. perhaps this is somewhat akin to when john adams said that "i must study politics and war so that my sons may study mathematics and philosophy, natural history and naval architecture, in order to give their children the right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, tapestry and porcelain." (i might scrap the last two for something slightly more gumptious, but that's just me). whereas berlin and new york street artists can busy themselves with expressing the oddities of the modern, pre/post-yuppie condition, the boys in Bs As are must first address the contradictions that escape their politicians (how we could all learn a lesson or two from them). whence such a cosmopolitan vision? i would like to know. the socially, politically, economically and ethnically marginalized in the u.s. do not take to paint as ofter as their counterparts elsewhere; when they do, tis less to expose the geo-social contradictions into which they were born than an immediate yearning for communal attention, or so i suspect. such attention, however, if and when it is obtained, is rarely communal in scope - and when it is, is more often met with contempt than solidarity.
i interviewed an aging
former guerrilla and life-long militant yesterday evening who had many an interesting thing to say. amongst a number of gramscian truisms, there were several that stood out in particular: for one, he took great pains to remind me that repressive, bourgeois military rule is always a sign a weakness rather than strength. the real trick is getting people to ignore the root/s (and manifestations!) of their socio-existential malaise as they stare them in the face and consequently not act thereupon (in concerted fashion). none of this is new, of course, as any functionally well-read and semi-critical observer will note. nonetheless, it begs an important question: what is more pernicious - a semi-functioning confederacy of well-oiled, oligarcho-populist spin-doctors whose constituents know, fear and condemn them in the streets - through art if nothing else - or a highly efficient, quasi-democratic though faux-representative ethnocratic political culture that even encourages vandalism, so long as it's neither political nor artistic in scope? at times, it is hard to distinguish between the two (the former ostensibly emblematic of tina-land, the latter of the states). at this point, we only ask that the citizen-artist make the attempt.
Monday, July 26, 2010
una gota con otra se hace aguacero.
yesterday i made my first visit to a buenairense hospital. one can learn a great deal about any campo, county, capital or country from the waiting room of its public health facilities - and not only based on services rendered (or lack thereof). as any astute observer will remark, hospitals betray a remarkable trove of socio-political orientation. indeed, they're a demographic portrait of a given class or society frozen in a single frame: economically, ethnically, aesthetically. we all have an image of the american waiting room - however different its urban, suburban, outer-sprawl or rural variants may prove. (in two words - sadness and obesity - if we're being honest.) though i've yet to studiously wile away the afternoon in a recoleta plastic surgery clinic, one has little trouble picturing their clientèle, either (if not cosmo, perhaps they'll have the new yorker?). to begin with, i made the mistake of seeking medical attention during the mid-morning rush; not that things were hectic - on the contrary - they were almost too calm, considering the number of people seeking care for gunshot wounds and paco overdoses at 10am on a brisk monday in july (ok, bad joke). without trying to speak for the sub-altern, i must say that everyone there seemed to carry themselves with an uncanny dignity; silent without being morose, reserved without being dejected, they diligently waited their turn. from the 'guardia' bureau where you receive your initial slip, you advance to the preliminary line (ventanilla) - whence they schedule you the fatal appointment, often within the same day. luckily enough, i lived within 8-9 stone's throws away and went home to lay in bed, drink mate and pity my poor condition before returning for an afternoon bout with the general practitioner.
a friend from sau paulo visited last week and made a number of interesting remarks about the city i'd only subliminally noted at best. any number of stereotypical balloons are bound to be popped when trading in reputations as inflationary as menem's sense of propriety - and buenos aires is no exception. hailed as the 'paris of the south' or latin america's 'greenwich village,' among other geo-cultural impertinences, some are disappointed when they arrive in the city of good airs only to discover that it neither rains women nor sprouts t-bones from the cracks of the sidewalk pavement (at least my fare saint louis only has to live up to a fervent obsession with baseball, toasted ravioli, frozen custard, blues and high murder rates). that is not to say it isn't sublime, upon slightly deeper reflection, for in many respects it is. judging by the surface, however, is a more delicate affair. for one, as my dear friend remarked, the bustling metropolis is full of old folk. tis true, Bs As must have the highest median age of any capital outside of moscow and minsk - for reasons i've thus far failed to grasp. perhaps it's because the kirchner government reinstated government-backed pensions; maybe it was the junta's systematic near-liquidation of an entire generation in the late 1970's and their would-be 20 somethings that were sterilized or never born - one can only surmise. there was an article in the times a few weeks back focusing on the city's efforts to render itself more senior-friendly (slow news cycle, anyone?). the mayor's spokesman said they were extending the 'go' sign at crosswalks by a full four seconds (and yet the germans still don't take them up on the offer when the blinking red men rears his head) - the rest of the details slip my mind (why not enlarge the numbers on the lotto tickets for those with poor sight - an alternative countermeasure to republican repeals of the death tax, anyone?).
the point of all this is that Bs As is older, quieter and more tranquil than it's often made out to be in popular northamerican and european imagination. some of this is the winter talking. or the fact that i've lacked for either fortune or health for the better part of my stay (which need not be a bad thing, either, if one can learn to properly reflect upon such states of being. read orwell's down and out in paris and london in case you're looking for inspiration). the fact is, for all the politicization of public life and vitriolic memory, the argies are a kind and gentle bunch. racist, yes. authoritarian at times - from what i've heard. arrogant, perhaps a tad in Bs As (though nothing compared to what they've been made out to be. they couldn't hold a candle to parisians if they tried). on the whole, however, at least from the perspective of a young, white, northern male, they're as welcoming as a lukewarm pint on a autumn evening's park bench overlooking the city. that's to say, more friendly, kind and helpful than not. just don't mention your leftist-guerrilla research project in the northern dives. you might just get a reaction.
back to the hospital. a plethora of almost-middle-aged women and their late-adolescent daughters filled the corridors. do men simply not get sick? tis difficult to dictate symptoms, though it has been done (a 'western' female friend of mine once paid a visit to the doc in india, accompanied by a male companion, as is customary in certain places; before she could explain her condition, however, the doctor made very clear that he would only address his male counterpart, giving way to her first three-party, uni-lingual information transfer at point blank.) a low murmor drifted through the air, the rhythmic hullabaloo of which paled in comparison to the average playground chatter of two american joes. i'm always in awe of people that can simply go about their business - or lack thereof - in what appears to be clear and present resignation. is there a thought-attainment brain state to which we mind-fidgeters are not privy? in any case, half the room was in line while the other half conscious-slumbered in the waiting chairs, awaiting their eventual go at the state-ordained healer.
i returned for my scheduled appointment at 4:40, five minutes ahead of schedule. both brain and body had taken a lackadaisically unpleasant beating the two previous weeks and i'd figured i give antibiotics a go. you needn't a prescription for this sort of thing down south, but i couldn't surmise any reasonable dosage upon request and the pharmacist sent me packing to get one from the doc. when i returned to the hospital that afternoon things had quieted down quite a bit. there was a security guard with a sign-in desk posted at the front entrance, to whom i smiled and nodded before contining upstairs to the assigned room on the appointment stub. the second floor hallway was well illuminated by the afternoon sun, and for a moment i was almost glad to be there. in fits of extended fever, one's memory and perceptive abilities have a way of dislodging positive and negative connotations; was this warm, sun-light hallway reminiscent of bouts through the hallowed halls of brittany woods middle school? the nurses' trailer at summer camp in southern missouri? the central prefect's detox station from that one night in paris with ultan the irishman? none of the aforementioned proffer particularly illuminating encounters; why they come to mind, you'll have to ask my psychoanalyst (they say Bs As has got the second most per capita in the world after parigi.) nonetheless, it was not an unwelcoming sight. miniature card board signs protruded from the doors at horizontal angles, indicating each room's number. when i got to mine, the top half of the door, which disconnected from the bottom, was propped open, such that an observer of 3 or more feet could lean into the office to announce his arrival. within in a number of seconds, a small, bearded man approached and asked me for my stub.
"and where are you from?" (he asks in spanish). "the united states," i respond in kind. he writes down my nationality and completes the form. a full 28 seconds later, he grins and offers: "ahh! uniiiiiited staaaates! yes, yes, united states!" "why, yes, sir, that's correct - the united states," i muster, trying not to chuckle. "united staaaates!" he reminds me as he gives me a wink. "vas a seguir por alla - hasta la sala 145.. eeet is, yes.. that way! united states!" i amble 40 feet down the hall to the aforementioned room and look around for a seat. the man follows, this time downright beaming. "vos tenes que tocar a la puerta - like diss! bop bop! you see? pero vos hablas castellano - porque te estoy hablando en ingles? jajaja i do not know! why do we do what we do? solo dios sabe!" he enters, momentarily converses with the doctor before coming back out. "sentate, sentate - just one moment please!" i sit down and pull out my paper as he hurries off back down the hall. before i get a paragraph into the article, he's back with a vengeance in english: "you like to read?" - "why, yes, i tell him." "ah! very good!" and he scurries off toward the doctor's office, some 15 feet to my right. i debate whether or not to look up as he passes me on is way back. i crack. "reading very good!" he assures me, as we meet eyes, and goes back to his office. 46 seconds later, he emerges again, sitting next to me. "where you from?" - "st. louis," i tell him, with an unconvincing plea - how will i ever get this one across? "you know, like, tom sawyer and huckleberry finn? mark twain, paddling down the mississippi?" pronouncing each character's name with the argiest of accents i can muster. "ah, writers!" he shrieks in excitement. "why, yes, we've a few of them where i'm from in the states - t.s. eliot, tennessee williams (mi colegio! mi colegio! i keep repeating)." - "yes, yes, now i see, very, very good!" as he pats me on the knee and takes off for the doctor's office once again. on his way back, we exchange yet another cosmological glance. "cortazar! borges!" he offers. "sabato?" i meekly respond. "sabato! yes! sabato!" as he passes me by. before reaching the door he turns to me with a mischievous grin, as though concealing an eternal secret. "and wah wehminh!" i hesitate, feigning comprehension and solidarity with whatever just came out of his mouth. he doesn't take the bait, however mastered it's become. "walt whiiitman!" he repeats, this time radiating. "oh, i don't know, buddy - i think he's ours!" i reply in kind as the man chuckles and scuttles off down the hall.
when i did finally get around to seeing the doctor that day, he recommended that i boil salt in water, add mint leaves and breathe the vapor with a towel over my head. apart from sexual proverbs and an urban guerrilla tactic or two, that was the first thing my roommate nico had taught me in Bs As. "yes, that's been working, but is there any chance you could tell me the suggested amount of antibiotics a person of my age and weight might require? that's really all i need," i beseeched the portly gentleman. "afraid i can't my son - tisn't my specialty. you'll have to see the ear, throat and nose doc for that." - "can i see him this afternoon by any chance?" - "no, twill have to been first thing in the morn.' come by at 6am and you should be ok." dejected, i gathered my possessions, thanked the man and walked across the street. he'd given me a prescription for a decongestant, just as the sinus was getting better and the head throbs worse. "would you like anything else?" the woman behind the desk politely asked. "uuh, why yes, how about a pack of skittles and some penicillin." - "what dosage?" - "oh, you know, something a growing boy of my size would be able to handle," i proffered in return. moments later i clamored out the door, fenoximetilpenicilina potasica in hand, and wandered into the setting evening sun, mate, medicine and medialunas on my mind...
a friend from sau paulo visited last week and made a number of interesting remarks about the city i'd only subliminally noted at best. any number of stereotypical balloons are bound to be popped when trading in reputations as inflationary as menem's sense of propriety - and buenos aires is no exception. hailed as the 'paris of the south' or latin america's 'greenwich village,' among other geo-cultural impertinences, some are disappointed when they arrive in the city of good airs only to discover that it neither rains women nor sprouts t-bones from the cracks of the sidewalk pavement (at least my fare saint louis only has to live up to a fervent obsession with baseball, toasted ravioli, frozen custard, blues and high murder rates). that is not to say it isn't sublime, upon slightly deeper reflection, for in many respects it is. judging by the surface, however, is a more delicate affair. for one, as my dear friend remarked, the bustling metropolis is full of old folk. tis true, Bs As must have the highest median age of any capital outside of moscow and minsk - for reasons i've thus far failed to grasp. perhaps it's because the kirchner government reinstated government-backed pensions; maybe it was the junta's systematic near-liquidation of an entire generation in the late 1970's and their would-be 20 somethings that were sterilized or never born - one can only surmise. there was an article in the times a few weeks back focusing on the city's efforts to render itself more senior-friendly (slow news cycle, anyone?). the mayor's spokesman said they were extending the 'go' sign at crosswalks by a full four seconds (and yet the germans still don't take them up on the offer when the blinking red men rears his head) - the rest of the details slip my mind (why not enlarge the numbers on the lotto tickets for those with poor sight - an alternative countermeasure to republican repeals of the death tax, anyone?).
the point of all this is that Bs As is older, quieter and more tranquil than it's often made out to be in popular northamerican and european imagination. some of this is the winter talking. or the fact that i've lacked for either fortune or health for the better part of my stay (which need not be a bad thing, either, if one can learn to properly reflect upon such states of being. read orwell's down and out in paris and london in case you're looking for inspiration). the fact is, for all the politicization of public life and vitriolic memory, the argies are a kind and gentle bunch. racist, yes. authoritarian at times - from what i've heard. arrogant, perhaps a tad in Bs As (though nothing compared to what they've been made out to be. they couldn't hold a candle to parisians if they tried). on the whole, however, at least from the perspective of a young, white, northern male, they're as welcoming as a lukewarm pint on a autumn evening's park bench overlooking the city. that's to say, more friendly, kind and helpful than not. just don't mention your leftist-guerrilla research project in the northern dives. you might just get a reaction.
back to the hospital. a plethora of almost-middle-aged women and their late-adolescent daughters filled the corridors. do men simply not get sick? tis difficult to dictate symptoms, though it has been done (a 'western' female friend of mine once paid a visit to the doc in india, accompanied by a male companion, as is customary in certain places; before she could explain her condition, however, the doctor made very clear that he would only address his male counterpart, giving way to her first three-party, uni-lingual information transfer at point blank.) a low murmor drifted through the air, the rhythmic hullabaloo of which paled in comparison to the average playground chatter of two american joes. i'm always in awe of people that can simply go about their business - or lack thereof - in what appears to be clear and present resignation. is there a thought-attainment brain state to which we mind-fidgeters are not privy? in any case, half the room was in line while the other half conscious-slumbered in the waiting chairs, awaiting their eventual go at the state-ordained healer.
i returned for my scheduled appointment at 4:40, five minutes ahead of schedule. both brain and body had taken a lackadaisically unpleasant beating the two previous weeks and i'd figured i give antibiotics a go. you needn't a prescription for this sort of thing down south, but i couldn't surmise any reasonable dosage upon request and the pharmacist sent me packing to get one from the doc. when i returned to the hospital that afternoon things had quieted down quite a bit. there was a security guard with a sign-in desk posted at the front entrance, to whom i smiled and nodded before contining upstairs to the assigned room on the appointment stub. the second floor hallway was well illuminated by the afternoon sun, and for a moment i was almost glad to be there. in fits of extended fever, one's memory and perceptive abilities have a way of dislodging positive and negative connotations; was this warm, sun-light hallway reminiscent of bouts through the hallowed halls of brittany woods middle school? the nurses' trailer at summer camp in southern missouri? the central prefect's detox station from that one night in paris with ultan the irishman? none of the aforementioned proffer particularly illuminating encounters; why they come to mind, you'll have to ask my psychoanalyst (they say Bs As has got the second most per capita in the world after parigi.) nonetheless, it was not an unwelcoming sight. miniature card board signs protruded from the doors at horizontal angles, indicating each room's number. when i got to mine, the top half of the door, which disconnected from the bottom, was propped open, such that an observer of 3 or more feet could lean into the office to announce his arrival. within in a number of seconds, a small, bearded man approached and asked me for my stub.
"and where are you from?" (he asks in spanish). "the united states," i respond in kind. he writes down my nationality and completes the form. a full 28 seconds later, he grins and offers: "ahh! uniiiiiited staaaates! yes, yes, united states!" "why, yes, sir, that's correct - the united states," i muster, trying not to chuckle. "united staaaates!" he reminds me as he gives me a wink. "vas a seguir por alla - hasta la sala 145.. eeet is, yes.. that way! united states!" i amble 40 feet down the hall to the aforementioned room and look around for a seat. the man follows, this time downright beaming. "vos tenes que tocar a la puerta - like diss! bop bop! you see? pero vos hablas castellano - porque te estoy hablando en ingles? jajaja i do not know! why do we do what we do? solo dios sabe!" he enters, momentarily converses with the doctor before coming back out. "sentate, sentate - just one moment please!" i sit down and pull out my paper as he hurries off back down the hall. before i get a paragraph into the article, he's back with a vengeance in english: "you like to read?" - "why, yes, i tell him." "ah! very good!" and he scurries off toward the doctor's office, some 15 feet to my right. i debate whether or not to look up as he passes me on is way back. i crack. "reading very good!" he assures me, as we meet eyes, and goes back to his office. 46 seconds later, he emerges again, sitting next to me. "where you from?" - "st. louis," i tell him, with an unconvincing plea - how will i ever get this one across? "you know, like, tom sawyer and huckleberry finn? mark twain, paddling down the mississippi?" pronouncing each character's name with the argiest of accents i can muster. "ah, writers!" he shrieks in excitement. "why, yes, we've a few of them where i'm from in the states - t.s. eliot, tennessee williams (mi colegio! mi colegio! i keep repeating)." - "yes, yes, now i see, very, very good!" as he pats me on the knee and takes off for the doctor's office once again. on his way back, we exchange yet another cosmological glance. "cortazar! borges!" he offers. "sabato?" i meekly respond. "sabato! yes! sabato!" as he passes me by. before reaching the door he turns to me with a mischievous grin, as though concealing an eternal secret. "and wah wehminh!" i hesitate, feigning comprehension and solidarity with whatever just came out of his mouth. he doesn't take the bait, however mastered it's become. "walt whiiitman!" he repeats, this time radiating. "oh, i don't know, buddy - i think he's ours!" i reply in kind as the man chuckles and scuttles off down the hall.
when i did finally get around to seeing the doctor that day, he recommended that i boil salt in water, add mint leaves and breathe the vapor with a towel over my head. apart from sexual proverbs and an urban guerrilla tactic or two, that was the first thing my roommate nico had taught me in Bs As. "yes, that's been working, but is there any chance you could tell me the suggested amount of antibiotics a person of my age and weight might require? that's really all i need," i beseeched the portly gentleman. "afraid i can't my son - tisn't my specialty. you'll have to see the ear, throat and nose doc for that." - "can i see him this afternoon by any chance?" - "no, twill have to been first thing in the morn.' come by at 6am and you should be ok." dejected, i gathered my possessions, thanked the man and walked across the street. he'd given me a prescription for a decongestant, just as the sinus was getting better and the head throbs worse. "would you like anything else?" the woman behind the desk politely asked. "uuh, why yes, how about a pack of skittles and some penicillin." - "what dosage?" - "oh, you know, something a growing boy of my size would be able to handle," i proffered in return. moments later i clamored out the door, fenoximetilpenicilina potasica in hand, and wandered into the setting evening sun, mate, medicine and medialunas on my mind...
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
the backward glance of the historian.
"the reason why we are never able to foretell with certainty the outcome and end of any action is simply that action has no end. the process of a single deed can quite literally endure throughout time until mankind itself has come to an end.
"that deeds possess such an enormous capacity for endurance, superior to every other man-made product, could be a matter of pride if men were able to bear its burden, the burden of irreversibility and unpredictability, from which the action process draws its very strength. that this is impossible, men have always known. they have know that he who acts never quite knows what he is doing, that he always becomes 'guilty' of consequences he never intended or foresaw, that no matter how disastrous and unexpected the consequences of his deed he can never outdo it, that the process he started is never consummated unequivocally in one single deed or event, and that its very meaning never discloses itself to the actor but only to the backward glance of the historian who himself does not act."
- arendt
"that deeds possess such an enormous capacity for endurance, superior to every other man-made product, could be a matter of pride if men were able to bear its burden, the burden of irreversibility and unpredictability, from which the action process draws its very strength. that this is impossible, men have always known. they have know that he who acts never quite knows what he is doing, that he always becomes 'guilty' of consequences he never intended or foresaw, that no matter how disastrous and unexpected the consequences of his deed he can never outdo it, that the process he started is never consummated unequivocally in one single deed or event, and that its very meaning never discloses itself to the actor but only to the backward glance of the historian who himself does not act."
- arendt
Monday, July 19, 2010
congressing in the rain.
the good airs of the argentine capital weren't in top form this afternoon, though i'd already arranged to meet a friend at the library of congress around 1pm. we mistakingly made for the 'legislators only' door and had to be redirected down the street to the visitors' entrance, an unassuming and ill-publicized vestibule to the country's most famed halls of power. the english-language guides started an hour earlier than those in castellano, so we decided on the former, despite the fact that my companion was an argie and the guided tour had no other takers. that being said, we still had two hours to kill and i wasn't in the mood for a long conversation or prancing about the neighborhood in the rain. i'd mentioned to my friend there were a couple of newspapers in the archives i'd yet to consult the previous week (what i'd thought was a more than subtle hint that we'd convene at a later hour) - and she not only insisted that i go, but that she tag along as well. i'm certainly not that avant-garde, but bringing a female companion to the archives didn't strike me as the most amusing, progressive or intelligent of afternoon outings. quite the charmer, he must be, the boy who can nonchalantly pull this off. alas, tis but the price one gets to pay for sending mixed signals.
i went to the back desk to retrieve the nearly three foot, 15-pound bound copy of La Prensa from september 1980 - whereto she followed me the entire way. after filling out the paperwork to retrieve the informational tome, the gentleman turned to ask her what document she was looking for. "oh don't worry, i'm with him," she assured the confused onlooker. only mildly embarrassed, i dragged the manual back to the workbench to get started - scholarly assistant not far behind. "i can assure you, my friend, you're going to be bored out of your wits," as i try and insinuate the initial seeds of doubt in the endeavor. "how could you possibly say that? i'm sure it will be a blast!" she reassures me. i begin to take pictures of various articles but am having trouble getting the lens to focus on the fine print. "here, i'll show you how to use the camera!" she offers. "oh, cheers, but i think i'll manage - i've been stuck in this joint for weeks now and am starting to get the hang of it." nothing juicy from september 21st - so i flip past the classifieds to find the next day's front page. "hey, i was in the middle of an article!" ah, yes, how silly of me. "why are you taking a picture of the general?!" oh, just a curiosity, i proffer. "i was thinking of getting his mustache tattered on my abdomen. "oh, i see... why don't you get the whole face?"
an eternity and two hours later, we left the archives and made for Congresso. after a quick coffee con medialunas on the way over, we arrived five minutes late, by which time our english-language tour guide was no where to be found. when she did arrive, it occurred to me that we should've said something to our gracious host, tiger-skin jacket, hot pants and heel-clad charmer though she was - and saved her the effort from speaking the saxon-tongue. despite the occasional mistake, she seemed to be enjoying herself: "dis wood is from idalee, dat marble from france," over and over again, ad nauseam. though our visit was cut rather short by a series of unexpected renovations, we began our tour in the 'pink room,' where evita would entertain a strictly female retinue. a freshly mint coat of deep salmon contrasted the walls with the ovular arrangement of tawny-stained old pink armchairs. upon noticing the individual bronze standalone ashtrays strategically set between each table, i asked if parliamentarians were still able to light up in the chamber. "in the chamber, well, not exactly - that is where they wrote the anti-smoking law two years ago," she chuckled, pointing to the adjacent room. "but in here, why, yes, they still sometimes exercise this habit."
i went to the back desk to retrieve the nearly three foot, 15-pound bound copy of La Prensa from september 1980 - whereto she followed me the entire way. after filling out the paperwork to retrieve the informational tome, the gentleman turned to ask her what document she was looking for. "oh don't worry, i'm with him," she assured the confused onlooker. only mildly embarrassed, i dragged the manual back to the workbench to get started - scholarly assistant not far behind. "i can assure you, my friend, you're going to be bored out of your wits," as i try and insinuate the initial seeds of doubt in the endeavor. "how could you possibly say that? i'm sure it will be a blast!" she reassures me. i begin to take pictures of various articles but am having trouble getting the lens to focus on the fine print. "here, i'll show you how to use the camera!" she offers. "oh, cheers, but i think i'll manage - i've been stuck in this joint for weeks now and am starting to get the hang of it." nothing juicy from september 21st - so i flip past the classifieds to find the next day's front page. "hey, i was in the middle of an article!" ah, yes, how silly of me. "why are you taking a picture of the general?!" oh, just a curiosity, i proffer. "i was thinking of getting his mustache tattered on my abdomen. "oh, i see... why don't you get the whole face?"
an eternity and two hours later, we left the archives and made for Congresso. after a quick coffee con medialunas on the way over, we arrived five minutes late, by which time our english-language tour guide was no where to be found. when she did arrive, it occurred to me that we should've said something to our gracious host, tiger-skin jacket, hot pants and heel-clad charmer though she was - and saved her the effort from speaking the saxon-tongue. despite the occasional mistake, she seemed to be enjoying herself: "dis wood is from idalee, dat marble from france," over and over again, ad nauseam. though our visit was cut rather short by a series of unexpected renovations, we began our tour in the 'pink room,' where evita would entertain a strictly female retinue. a freshly mint coat of deep salmon contrasted the walls with the ovular arrangement of tawny-stained old pink armchairs. upon noticing the individual bronze standalone ashtrays strategically set between each table, i asked if parliamentarians were still able to light up in the chamber. "in the chamber, well, not exactly - that is where they wrote the anti-smoking law two years ago," she chuckled, pointing to the adjacent room. "but in here, why, yes, they still sometimes exercise this habit."
on violence in the arts.
the vehement yearning for violence, so characteristic of some of the best modern creative artists, thinkers, scholars and craftsmen, is a natural reaction of those whom society has tried to cheat of their strength.
- hannah arendt, the human condition
- hannah arendt, the human condition
a carnival of outrage.
"it is therefore quite significant, a structural element in the realm of human affairs, that men are unable to forgive what they cannot punish and that they are unable to punish what has turned out to be unforgivable."*
arendt says the only way to temper the morning train of uncertainty leaving the station of uncontrollable human action is through absolution and avowal: forgive them, father, for they know not what they do. ou bien, "si algun alma pecare por equivocacion, entonces tiene que presentar una cabra en su primer ano como ofrenda por el pecado."* que la lectrice choisisse elle-meme. in any case, i've just unwittingly sneezed on the spanish language bible. i know not what i do, to say the least. (and to think my roommates actually had a copy laying around - twas next to trotsky's 'historia de la revolucion rusa,' in case you were wondering). it's amazing what google, mate and a decent library can bring to the workbench of the mind.
where were we, then? concretizing reality through forgiveness and promises. can we promise to forgive? or promise to write our theses? or will uncovering the secrets of the human condition suffice? yesterday i told a friend i'd meet her at 1:00pm in the northern bit of town; two buses and 3/5 of a 13m person metropolis later, i arrived at 2:40. luckily, she forgave me - or so i can only hope. she did buy me lunch (for which i owe you my dear!). on action, ardent writes: "but trespassing is an everyday occurrence which is in the very nature of action's constant establishment of new relationships within a web of relations, and it needs forgiving, dismissing, in order to make it possible for life to go on by constantly releasing men from what they have done unknowingly. only from this constant mutual release from what they do can men remain free agents, only by constant willingness to change their minds and starts again can they be trusted with so great a power as that to begin something new" (216).
shortly thereafter, she reminds us that 'forgiveness is the opposite of vengeance.' nonetheless, i've yet to hear someone posit that "forgiveness is the sweetest joy next to gettin' pussy," as did a certain 'poet' from the 1990's (insert 'revenge' for forgiveness; a shame we don't bare the more sensitive souls in mind.) to speak from experience - i once lived in a rank, dark and dank college-town studio on the third floor of a crumbling midwestern house, under the auspices of a turkish slumlord. what was once a 3-4 bedroom house had been converted into 12 units - three of which were in the basement and occupied by seasonal labourers from south of the rio grande (perhaps they stayed the winter - we didn't cross each others' paths all that often; how easily - and eerily - the anonymity that dominates the 'public' can creep into the private. there was a fair amount of scrubbing to be done upon arrival - for which i'm ever so grateful to family and friend who lent a hand. upon moving out, we gave the place another thorough once-over. to my great dismay, i was still docked the majority of my (parents') deposit for a specious cleaning fee. mind you, i bore a slightly more intemperate soul in those days, and was greatly tempted to take vigilante action. over the years i'd learned the 'i'll report you to the better business bureau' threat from my father - and addressed this in writing to my turkish overlord. reluctantly, if i recall correctly, she parted with $50 - though added another $25 for the space-heater she'd lent me while the furnace had been malfunctioning during exams that winter. by that point, i was thirsty for blood, if not at least spray paint. a la lutte! (if not a cathartic blog entry 4 years later - how's that for petty, postmodern bourgeois revenge).
i had her address - and constantly considered making a foray into the burbs to spray her garage door a visit. one's inner vandal is much more potent at 20 years of age, it goes without saying. (or does that precept only apply to vandals? guilty, i concur.) what message would the angel of vengeance bestow upon our beneficiary of vigilante justice? a nice "amına koyim!" in 'times new roman'? or shall we go with the classic "Bir daha anılmayacaksınız!" in the updated yale typeface?* in any case, the fateful move was never taken. after several questionable decisions one evening in april, i had an 'obstructing government operations' charge pending with the columbia, missouri police department and opted to put the operation on hold. furthermore, i was set to leave the country at the beginning of june for a month-long catholic pilgrimage with my older sister and didn't need draw any more attention to my late-adolescent errs of recent. divine intervention? i'll let my turkish slumlord be the judge of that. in any case, twas an non-act of indecision - and not one of forgiveness.
where were we going? retournons a arendt. "while violence," she writes, "can destroy power, it cannot never become a substitute for it. from this results the by no means infrequent political combination of force and powerlessness, an array of impotent forces that spend themselves, often spectacularly and vehemently but in utter futility, leaving behind neither monuments nor stories, hardly enough memory to enter into history at all" (181). to be sure, here she's referring of the perpetual violence of tyrannical government - that permanent state of terror that leaves room for neither deliberation nor action. a crude, unrefined, restrictive and puerile violence - hegel's somewhat specious asiatic despotism, if you will. but what of fanon's restitutive violence whereby the life of each settler taken in colonial algeria consequently liberated two - that of the oppressed and the oppressor? is this cathartic outburst to be understood as justice, punishment, vengeance or all of the above? vengeance, to be sure, is an act of punishment that needn't necessarily double as a deterrent; rather, in "the form of re-acting against an original trespassing, whereby far from putting an end to the consequences of the first misdeed, everybody remains bound to the process, permitting the chain reaction contained in every action to take its unhindered course." furthermore, arendt maintains, it "encloses both doer and sufferer in the relentless automatism of the action process, which by itself need never come to an end." does vengeance exacerbate the violence of victim-hood ad infinitum by reacting - and thus recreating - the very conditions he or she would have originally sought to avoid? or does the 'original trespass' preordain a perpetual eruption of violence that, once set in motion, can be punished or forgiven but not condemned?
punishment, on the other hand, as both a principle and in distinction to mere vengeance, shares with forgiveness an attempt "to put an end to something that without interference could go on endlessly" (216-7). whereas human punishment goes into effect the moment it is able to exert itself (i.e. once the concomitant infrastructure is in place), the divine punishment of an all-powerful and sovereign God - at least in the christian tradition - is reserved for the end of (one's) days. only the sovereign, it would seem, can freely avenge the original trespass; as regards individual action, forgiveness is proffered as the only healthy, if less tempting, alternative thereto (according to arendt, in any case). Keep in mind she is not denying society the free prerogative to punish; she is, however, denying the individual’s capacity to act both vengefully and within a state of freedom – since the individual can only exert her freedom through the capacity to forgive the original transgression. any other response to physical violence and wrongdoing, she seems to posit, is merely re-active and thus ontologically reactionary – little more than a predictable, though not condonable, rung in the ladder of human madness. but what of he who’d like to keep climbing?
if the individual, that is, the party harmed, cannot avenge himself and remain free, wherein lies the prerogative to do so? can society ever commit an act of vengeance – or must it satisfy itself with an even-handed and dispassionate punishment of offenses? (a social phenomenon that in practice is still hard to fathom.) was carthage burned as an act of punishment, retribution or deterrence? to stress an earlier junction, arendt says that vengeance merely perpetuates a violent causal process, whereas punishment, in similar fashion to forgiveness, seeks to bring it to an end. is there a causal vacuum in which the former can functionally double in the same conclusive fashion as the latter – or is all re-action ontologically impotent insofar as it merely commits the expected? here i am not merely concerned with an eye-for-an-eye, tit-for-tat vengeance as such – but with an exploration of whether vigilante justice can retributively liberate the victim and expiate the original trespassing. if philosopher and society alike deny the victim the prerogative to freely avenge the original offense, what do they make of a third party’s attempt to do so? keep in mind that we are not talking about the state – which dispenses punishment and perhaps even justice, at times - though ostensibly never vengeance. that which is public is to remain dispassionate – a truism that betrays a rather well-known, if less documented, disdain for history and experience as such. enter, then, robbin hood; the revolutionary; the underground vigilante in all his rebellious revelry; by slaying the first offender, can the unrelated avenger expiate, if not alleviate, the violence of the original recipient’s victimhood? such are the questions i seek to address in my forthcoming thesis (for which I’ve managed precious little primary research thus far).
* Arendt, Hannah. The Human Condition, p.217
* Numbers 15:27 (King James): "And if any soul sin through ignorance, then he shall bring a she goat of the first year for a sin offering."
* Fuck you (anonymous); You will be remembered no more. Ezekiel 21:32
arendt says the only way to temper the morning train of uncertainty leaving the station of uncontrollable human action is through absolution and avowal: forgive them, father, for they know not what they do. ou bien, "si algun alma pecare por equivocacion, entonces tiene que presentar una cabra en su primer ano como ofrenda por el pecado."* que la lectrice choisisse elle-meme. in any case, i've just unwittingly sneezed on the spanish language bible. i know not what i do, to say the least. (and to think my roommates actually had a copy laying around - twas next to trotsky's 'historia de la revolucion rusa,' in case you were wondering). it's amazing what google, mate and a decent library can bring to the workbench of the mind.
where were we, then? concretizing reality through forgiveness and promises. can we promise to forgive? or promise to write our theses? or will uncovering the secrets of the human condition suffice? yesterday i told a friend i'd meet her at 1:00pm in the northern bit of town; two buses and 3/5 of a 13m person metropolis later, i arrived at 2:40. luckily, she forgave me - or so i can only hope. she did buy me lunch (for which i owe you my dear!). on action, ardent writes: "but trespassing is an everyday occurrence which is in the very nature of action's constant establishment of new relationships within a web of relations, and it needs forgiving, dismissing, in order to make it possible for life to go on by constantly releasing men from what they have done unknowingly. only from this constant mutual release from what they do can men remain free agents, only by constant willingness to change their minds and starts again can they be trusted with so great a power as that to begin something new" (216).
shortly thereafter, she reminds us that 'forgiveness is the opposite of vengeance.' nonetheless, i've yet to hear someone posit that "forgiveness is the sweetest joy next to gettin' pussy," as did a certain 'poet' from the 1990's (insert 'revenge' for forgiveness; a shame we don't bare the more sensitive souls in mind.) to speak from experience - i once lived in a rank, dark and dank college-town studio on the third floor of a crumbling midwestern house, under the auspices of a turkish slumlord. what was once a 3-4 bedroom house had been converted into 12 units - three of which were in the basement and occupied by seasonal labourers from south of the rio grande (perhaps they stayed the winter - we didn't cross each others' paths all that often; how easily - and eerily - the anonymity that dominates the 'public' can creep into the private. there was a fair amount of scrubbing to be done upon arrival - for which i'm ever so grateful to family and friend who lent a hand. upon moving out, we gave the place another thorough once-over. to my great dismay, i was still docked the majority of my (parents') deposit for a specious cleaning fee. mind you, i bore a slightly more intemperate soul in those days, and was greatly tempted to take vigilante action. over the years i'd learned the 'i'll report you to the better business bureau' threat from my father - and addressed this in writing to my turkish overlord. reluctantly, if i recall correctly, she parted with $50 - though added another $25 for the space-heater she'd lent me while the furnace had been malfunctioning during exams that winter. by that point, i was thirsty for blood, if not at least spray paint. a la lutte! (if not a cathartic blog entry 4 years later - how's that for petty, postmodern bourgeois revenge).
i had her address - and constantly considered making a foray into the burbs to spray her garage door a visit. one's inner vandal is much more potent at 20 years of age, it goes without saying. (or does that precept only apply to vandals? guilty, i concur.) what message would the angel of vengeance bestow upon our beneficiary of vigilante justice? a nice "amına koyim!" in 'times new roman'? or shall we go with the classic "Bir daha anılmayacaksınız!" in the updated yale typeface?* in any case, the fateful move was never taken. after several questionable decisions one evening in april, i had an 'obstructing government operations' charge pending with the columbia, missouri police department and opted to put the operation on hold. furthermore, i was set to leave the country at the beginning of june for a month-long catholic pilgrimage with my older sister and didn't need draw any more attention to my late-adolescent errs of recent. divine intervention? i'll let my turkish slumlord be the judge of that. in any case, twas an non-act of indecision - and not one of forgiveness.
where were we going? retournons a arendt. "while violence," she writes, "can destroy power, it cannot never become a substitute for it. from this results the by no means infrequent political combination of force and powerlessness, an array of impotent forces that spend themselves, often spectacularly and vehemently but in utter futility, leaving behind neither monuments nor stories, hardly enough memory to enter into history at all" (181). to be sure, here she's referring of the perpetual violence of tyrannical government - that permanent state of terror that leaves room for neither deliberation nor action. a crude, unrefined, restrictive and puerile violence - hegel's somewhat specious asiatic despotism, if you will. but what of fanon's restitutive violence whereby the life of each settler taken in colonial algeria consequently liberated two - that of the oppressed and the oppressor? is this cathartic outburst to be understood as justice, punishment, vengeance or all of the above? vengeance, to be sure, is an act of punishment that needn't necessarily double as a deterrent; rather, in "the form of re-acting against an original trespassing, whereby far from putting an end to the consequences of the first misdeed, everybody remains bound to the process, permitting the chain reaction contained in every action to take its unhindered course." furthermore, arendt maintains, it "encloses both doer and sufferer in the relentless automatism of the action process, which by itself need never come to an end." does vengeance exacerbate the violence of victim-hood ad infinitum by reacting - and thus recreating - the very conditions he or she would have originally sought to avoid? or does the 'original trespass' preordain a perpetual eruption of violence that, once set in motion, can be punished or forgiven but not condemned?
punishment, on the other hand, as both a principle and in distinction to mere vengeance, shares with forgiveness an attempt "to put an end to something that without interference could go on endlessly" (216-7). whereas human punishment goes into effect the moment it is able to exert itself (i.e. once the concomitant infrastructure is in place), the divine punishment of an all-powerful and sovereign God - at least in the christian tradition - is reserved for the end of (one's) days. only the sovereign, it would seem, can freely avenge the original trespass; as regards individual action, forgiveness is proffered as the only healthy, if less tempting, alternative thereto (according to arendt, in any case). Keep in mind she is not denying society the free prerogative to punish; she is, however, denying the individual’s capacity to act both vengefully and within a state of freedom – since the individual can only exert her freedom through the capacity to forgive the original transgression. any other response to physical violence and wrongdoing, she seems to posit, is merely re-active and thus ontologically reactionary – little more than a predictable, though not condonable, rung in the ladder of human madness. but what of he who’d like to keep climbing?
if the individual, that is, the party harmed, cannot avenge himself and remain free, wherein lies the prerogative to do so? can society ever commit an act of vengeance – or must it satisfy itself with an even-handed and dispassionate punishment of offenses? (a social phenomenon that in practice is still hard to fathom.) was carthage burned as an act of punishment, retribution or deterrence? to stress an earlier junction, arendt says that vengeance merely perpetuates a violent causal process, whereas punishment, in similar fashion to forgiveness, seeks to bring it to an end. is there a causal vacuum in which the former can functionally double in the same conclusive fashion as the latter – or is all re-action ontologically impotent insofar as it merely commits the expected? here i am not merely concerned with an eye-for-an-eye, tit-for-tat vengeance as such – but with an exploration of whether vigilante justice can retributively liberate the victim and expiate the original trespassing. if philosopher and society alike deny the victim the prerogative to freely avenge the original offense, what do they make of a third party’s attempt to do so? keep in mind that we are not talking about the state – which dispenses punishment and perhaps even justice, at times - though ostensibly never vengeance. that which is public is to remain dispassionate – a truism that betrays a rather well-known, if less documented, disdain for history and experience as such. enter, then, robbin hood; the revolutionary; the underground vigilante in all his rebellious revelry; by slaying the first offender, can the unrelated avenger expiate, if not alleviate, the violence of the original recipient’s victimhood? such are the questions i seek to address in my forthcoming thesis (for which I’ve managed precious little primary research thus far).
* Arendt, Hannah. The Human Condition, p.217
* Numbers 15:27 (King James): "And if any soul sin through ignorance, then he shall bring a she goat of the first year for a sin offering."
* Fuck you (anonymous); You will be remembered no more. Ezekiel 21:32
Friday, July 16, 2010
unos proverbios argentinos
la sangre derramada no sera negociada.
(we will not negotiate bloodshed.)
con paciencia y salivita un elefante se la metio a la hormiguita.
(with patience and saliva the elephant seduced the ant.)
la gata flora cuando se la ponen gritan y cuando se la sacan lloran.
(the kitty flora screams when you put it in and cries when you take it out.)
un pelo de concha tira mas que una yunta de bueyes.
(one hair of the pussy pulls more than a yoke of oxen.)
(we will not negotiate bloodshed.)
con paciencia y salivita un elefante se la metio a la hormiguita.
(with patience and saliva the elephant seduced the ant.)
la gata flora cuando se la ponen gritan y cuando se la sacan lloran.
(the kitty flora screams when you put it in and cries when you take it out.)
un pelo de concha tira mas que una yunta de bueyes.
(one hair of the pussy pulls more than a yoke of oxen.)
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
porque naranja significa la union entre el hombre y la mujer!
a new addition to the blog will be the quote of the day - depending on the quality of characters i encounter, nico's mood and what i manage to read. the following is from hannah arendt's 'the human condition' which, although a rather dense read, has its lucid moments:
the bubbled age of compartmentalized political paranoia is no stranger to the southern realm. oddly enough, it is only after a few pints in a northern Bs As dive and a thorough reading of a truly terrifying article on the contemporary state of american democracy (http://www.thenation.com/article/37165/kabuki-democracy?page=0,0) that i've come to realize this. on the one hand, our culture wars are not that different. hundreds of thousands of orange-clad, banner-waving reactionaries took to the streets the other night to protest an upcoming floor debate on a bill that would potentially legalize both gay marriage and adoption rights (why orange, you wonder? because "naranja significa la union entre el hombre y la mujer." i'm not making that up - apparently winter can have that effect on those accustomed to more sexually enticing summer hues. personally, i would've gone with cafe con leche - but that's just me). true, it was an ambitious first step to take for a country that's yet to legalize abortion (and still apparently far from doing so) - though was still disheartening to see the cameras pan from the raving, flame-emblazoned familial values vanguardia marching against the bill in front of Congreso to the hundred or so supporters thereof meekly disseminated around the Obelisco a half mile away. Hannah Arendt once noted that (political) power is "dependent upon the unreliable and only temporary agreement of wills and intentions." what a frightening permanence such wills occasionally have the tendency to betray. oh, the perennially sweet, sad power of no.
on the other hand, our culture wars are markedly different. conservative argentine political culture does less to romanticise, so as to appropriate, the values of the working class, as is more likely in the case in our fair land. regarding the (north)american 'working class,' of course, we mean white 'working class' - a group whose politico-economic aspirations, it has been said with no dearth of bad faith, are supposed to mirror those of their masters. in argentina, such is not the case. political stability is a fragile affair, and one that would be wrought with further complications should the conservative factions try to enlist the cultural wrath of the underclasses - as been done with its caucasion variant north of the rio grande. argentine conservatism, on the other hand, betrays an odd cosmopolitan-bourgeois, militaresque consensus of catholic solidarity praising a past that never existed and a future that never shall. that in mind, should it really strike us as that odd that our metropolis-dwelling concitoyens not prove the vanguard of progressive tolerance we've come to expect from voters in New York, Boston and San Francisco? Face to face with - and fully benefiting from - the contradictions of modern urbanity, who can blame them? alas, at times the pie only seems to be getting smaller...
if the fear of political implosion in plutocratic democracies is not unmerited - perhaps it could be useful to chart international variations thereof. one the one hand, conservative and liberal (north)american pundits alike, in wildly varying shades of veracity, either augur a forthcoming nationalsozialistische dictatorship and or (somewhat accurately, in my opinion) expose the baffling contradictions of the one already in place (the reader is implored to see the above-mentioned article). in argentina, there is no frantic denunciation of that which lie around the imminent historical corner: according to every party, the worst has already manifest itself. "i was thinking of traveling to entre rios this weekend - you know, get a taste of the argie countryside to ease my urban conscience," i mention to my spanish prof in passing. "tis full of fachos - good luck! you have to realize, my dear, you live in a bubble of light - an island of humanity amidst a sea of unrepentant fascists. they'll skin your poor soul if they can." admittedly, i am exaggerating - though she's not entirely mistaken. rather than insinuate 'locking and loading' a la palin to resist obama's snakelike stranglehold on the american soul, noted argentine journalists still openly advocate military coups against the leftist kirchner government (here's to you, grondona). eventually, you begin to sympathize with her conviction that we bold 'argonauts of the ideal' are perpetually encircled by legions of reactionaries ready to pounce at any moment.
here, conspiracies, blanket denunciations and genuine mistrust exist on an altogether different scale. "80 percent of robberies, burglaries and brake-ins are conducted by - or linked back to - the police," my friend Dario, a very intelligent and studious young political scientist, tells me. "when pablo sanchez refused to keep robbing at their behest, he was disappeared." i do not deny the darker doings of the argentine security forces - though do find this systematically unsophisticated pillaging of the populous a tad far-fetched. but don't get me wrong, little in life is more fun than simplifying the universe into little prettily-packaged cup-cakes of quantifiable misinformation; indeed, the bulk of my worldly convictions were born of this pastime. that being said, whereas mine usually intended to be a coy, if not slightly obnoxious, caricature of more candid attempts to document reality, in argentina the art has been taken to new extremes - and not always by well-intentioned conspiracies from the Left. "90% of the students at the UBA are foreigners (that is, negros)," nico's facho aunt from entre rios reminded us one night over dinner (maybe my spanish prof was onto something!). "and 60% of argentina is jewish."
in any case, the moral of the story is that this trench-like political mentality - the fear of ideological engulfment from every possible front - is rampant and all-encompassing amongst the educated (that is, leftist), moneyed and middle class catholic (that is, rightist) factions. tis a peculiar suspicion, a primal pessimism if you will, that i've only encountered amongst the most fervent of american leftists; generally, the latter's countryfolk, however politically involved they may be, tend to betray an almost-clumsy optimism in the efficacy of their efforts (we won't speak of the politically apathetic, disenchanted or disenfranchised for the time being) - a spring of belief whose source, while dwindling as of late, has not been irreparably depleted, i should hope.
Popular revolt against materially stronger rulers, on the other hand, may engender an almost irresistible power even if it foregoes the use of violence in the face of materially vastly superior forces. To call this 'passive resistance' is certainly an ironic idea; it is one of the most effective and efficient ways of action ever devised, because it cannot be countered by fighting, where their may be defeat or victory, but only by mass slaughter in which even the victor is defeated, cheated of his prize, since nobody can rule over dead men.
the bubbled age of compartmentalized political paranoia is no stranger to the southern realm. oddly enough, it is only after a few pints in a northern Bs As dive and a thorough reading of a truly terrifying article on the contemporary state of american democracy (http://www.thenation.com/article/37165/kabuki-democracy?page=0,0) that i've come to realize this. on the one hand, our culture wars are not that different. hundreds of thousands of orange-clad, banner-waving reactionaries took to the streets the other night to protest an upcoming floor debate on a bill that would potentially legalize both gay marriage and adoption rights (why orange, you wonder? because "naranja significa la union entre el hombre y la mujer." i'm not making that up - apparently winter can have that effect on those accustomed to more sexually enticing summer hues. personally, i would've gone with cafe con leche - but that's just me). true, it was an ambitious first step to take for a country that's yet to legalize abortion (and still apparently far from doing so) - though was still disheartening to see the cameras pan from the raving, flame-emblazoned familial values vanguardia marching against the bill in front of Congreso to the hundred or so supporters thereof meekly disseminated around the Obelisco a half mile away. Hannah Arendt once noted that (political) power is "dependent upon the unreliable and only temporary agreement of wills and intentions." what a frightening permanence such wills occasionally have the tendency to betray. oh, the perennially sweet, sad power of no.
on the other hand, our culture wars are markedly different. conservative argentine political culture does less to romanticise, so as to appropriate, the values of the working class, as is more likely in the case in our fair land. regarding the (north)american 'working class,' of course, we mean white 'working class' - a group whose politico-economic aspirations, it has been said with no dearth of bad faith, are supposed to mirror those of their masters. in argentina, such is not the case. political stability is a fragile affair, and one that would be wrought with further complications should the conservative factions try to enlist the cultural wrath of the underclasses - as been done with its caucasion variant north of the rio grande. argentine conservatism, on the other hand, betrays an odd cosmopolitan-bourgeois, militaresque consensus of catholic solidarity praising a past that never existed and a future that never shall. that in mind, should it really strike us as that odd that our metropolis-dwelling concitoyens not prove the vanguard of progressive tolerance we've come to expect from voters in New York, Boston and San Francisco? Face to face with - and fully benefiting from - the contradictions of modern urbanity, who can blame them? alas, at times the pie only seems to be getting smaller...
if the fear of political implosion in plutocratic democracies is not unmerited - perhaps it could be useful to chart international variations thereof. one the one hand, conservative and liberal (north)american pundits alike, in wildly varying shades of veracity, either augur a forthcoming nationalsozialistische dictatorship and or (somewhat accurately, in my opinion) expose the baffling contradictions of the one already in place (the reader is implored to see the above-mentioned article). in argentina, there is no frantic denunciation of that which lie around the imminent historical corner: according to every party, the worst has already manifest itself. "i was thinking of traveling to entre rios this weekend - you know, get a taste of the argie countryside to ease my urban conscience," i mention to my spanish prof in passing. "tis full of fachos - good luck! you have to realize, my dear, you live in a bubble of light - an island of humanity amidst a sea of unrepentant fascists. they'll skin your poor soul if they can." admittedly, i am exaggerating - though she's not entirely mistaken. rather than insinuate 'locking and loading' a la palin to resist obama's snakelike stranglehold on the american soul, noted argentine journalists still openly advocate military coups against the leftist kirchner government (here's to you, grondona). eventually, you begin to sympathize with her conviction that we bold 'argonauts of the ideal' are perpetually encircled by legions of reactionaries ready to pounce at any moment.
here, conspiracies, blanket denunciations and genuine mistrust exist on an altogether different scale. "80 percent of robberies, burglaries and brake-ins are conducted by - or linked back to - the police," my friend Dario, a very intelligent and studious young political scientist, tells me. "when pablo sanchez refused to keep robbing at their behest, he was disappeared." i do not deny the darker doings of the argentine security forces - though do find this systematically unsophisticated pillaging of the populous a tad far-fetched. but don't get me wrong, little in life is more fun than simplifying the universe into little prettily-packaged cup-cakes of quantifiable misinformation; indeed, the bulk of my worldly convictions were born of this pastime. that being said, whereas mine usually intended to be a coy, if not slightly obnoxious, caricature of more candid attempts to document reality, in argentina the art has been taken to new extremes - and not always by well-intentioned conspiracies from the Left. "90% of the students at the UBA are foreigners (that is, negros)," nico's facho aunt from entre rios reminded us one night over dinner (maybe my spanish prof was onto something!). "and 60% of argentina is jewish."
in any case, the moral of the story is that this trench-like political mentality - the fear of ideological engulfment from every possible front - is rampant and all-encompassing amongst the educated (that is, leftist), moneyed and middle class catholic (that is, rightist) factions. tis a peculiar suspicion, a primal pessimism if you will, that i've only encountered amongst the most fervent of american leftists; generally, the latter's countryfolk, however politically involved they may be, tend to betray an almost-clumsy optimism in the efficacy of their efforts (we won't speak of the politically apathetic, disenchanted or disenfranchised for the time being) - a spring of belief whose source, while dwindling as of late, has not been irreparably depleted, i should hope.
Monday, July 5, 2010
el antitesis nordico-mediterraneano
since 'national stereotypes' are on the family menu this week, i won't be one to miss an opportunity. that being said, though there's precious little material more fun than national finger-wagging, that doesn't preclude us from looking further into the magician's hat for old, if not beloved, tricks. the nation, as every good grad student knows, is but an imagined community - a 17th century trojan horse of traveling salesmen, an 18th century swindle to shore up a budding bourgeoisie, a 19th century scour upon the international labour movement. several chatanooga-bound train stops shy of civilizational skirmishes, however, there lies a fading formality of cosmo-provincialism: the time-tested prequel to 'when mediterranean harry met nordic sally' (i'll let the ACLU and Anti-Defamation League settle that one). yes, we're going there - from the dasein of the deutsch dandy to the cogitations of the catalonian caper; au dela de la critique weberienne to the original north-south divide; what makes dutch parliamentarians ride their bike to see their mistress, whereas italians might bring a cousin-clad motorcade; why the visigoths were able to bypass roman import quotas on alcohol, tobacco and firearms with rapacious, albeit pre-modern, efficacy. bien, perhaps not quite that far - but you get the point.
greek financial crises aside, the new world usually provides an ample supply of civilizational fodder to the age-old debate surrounding 'cultural variations' within 'euro-white civilization' - and argentina is by no means an exception. if it's 'popular' in some sense to have irish blood in the U.S. (a trend that i've been told is rather bothersome for those actually born in eire), it's positively 4/5 up the 'respectable' fence of humanity in argentina. not that it's in any way disrespectable in north america - it merely means you can write, fight, govern/police, booze and be a bigot - and that you're probably mobbing deep. in argentina, it just means you're northernish-white, linguistically-hegemonic and not english - which, however unmerited, gives you unspoken advantages in this part of the world. but getting back to the point of our discussion - how argies, or at a very minimum my spanish prof, define the geo-cultural divide.
bibi tonnelier is a character if ever i've met one. at the ripe old age of 21 she set out on a 17-year self-imposed exile to switzerland, spain and greece to avert what she (somewhat) accurately predicted would be menem's neo-liberal inferno that first came to power in 1990. with the kirchners in office, however, she could finally return to her native land of facho's (i'll elaborate momentarily) - and enjoy the 'petty bourgeois' comforts of a proletarian wage teaching english to various krauts and yanks downtown. her grandfather originally fled from pas de calais, in the north of france, whence he'd dodged the great war draft and made off like a central american dictator on his way to miami - albeit minus the bilingual parrots, family caskets and cachets of cash-money. nonetheless, la patrie wasn't having any of that and, in turn, shipped his 16-year old brother off to the front - an act the younger frere would never forgive. years later, the latter would follow the former as far as uruguay in a fit of fratricidal rage; unsuccessful in his first fatal attempt, he took his own life a year later in cordoba. an familiar ode to modernity, i know. bibi, however, wouldn't learn any of this until well into adulthood, when - after making a misguided attempt to apply for french citizenship - her application was rejected for consanguineous treachery nearly a hundred years after the fact. gaullic memory, it shall be noted, apparently doesn't fade as fast as in our culturally miscegenatious new world republics. but back to the lesson at hand.
from the little i've seen thus far, argentine cinema is generally quite good, if not subtly despondent. that being said, the majority of good pictures outside (and within) the US usually are (call me a doleful downer - it's true. if the americans have one talent, it's their ability to give the cinematic impression that the state of the world is generally quite good - which, as we all know...). in any case, i asked her why this was. "in general, we're a very meloncholic people." this is not the first impression one has of argentines (nor the intermediary, nor the last, for that matter - if such a thing exists). well fed and read? it would appear at first sight. vane? not nearly to the extent that outsiders claim they are (which just goes to show just what kind of neighborhoods even the relatively indigent international traveler can afford to live in here). extremely class-conscious? amongst the educated, most certainly. a tad facho at times? in the running. but melancholic? i wouldn't have said so. bibi continued: "all mediterranean peoples are melancholic; the argentine merely expresses it with more grace and a keener sense of separation." true, i would rather pay my dues to the temple of sadness at her aegean, rather than patagonian, outpost. that being said, the generalization, whose form i usually relish, still doesn't seem to fit. "let me elaborate," she assured me, "on the dichotomous value system that separates the nordic from the mediterranean entity:"
how so? the reader is curious to know. though bibi's a fabulous teacher, she had a tendency to arrive 35-45 minutes late each day. seeing as my opportunity cost of each three-hour lesson was the equivalent of a week's worth of groceries (or, consequently, two lobster dinners - or - twenty three packs of cigarettes - or - thirty five liters of quilmes, you get the point), i took it upon myself to mention that we try and make up for lost time the following week. "on the one hand," she reminded me, "nordics tend to be consumed by notions of duty and guilt. schedules, times, meetings, appointments - they are the superstructure of nordic efficacy-worship. mediterraneans, on the other hand, live through the antithesis of honor and shame and are infinitely more concerned with quality over quantity. a nordic student, for example, might get his panties in a bunch over missing several minutes of an hours-long class. mediterraneans, however, are more concerned with embodying a general paradigm of qualitative excellence. we do not fret over small beer but, rather, remain intimately concerned with the bigger picture. i will not give you a reading assignment and then sit there and watch you read it. what a complete and utter waste of time." though i was mildly taken aback, you have to give her credit. to arrive 45 minutes late to a three hour lesson two days in a row and then call you a nordic time-worshipping rule-monger in a one-on-one conversation course is an impressive feat. and not that we don't get along - we're the best of mates. a cultural difference i both admit and even reluctantly envy. if only i wasn't paying for it.
greek financial crises aside, the new world usually provides an ample supply of civilizational fodder to the age-old debate surrounding 'cultural variations' within 'euro-white civilization' - and argentina is by no means an exception. if it's 'popular' in some sense to have irish blood in the U.S. (a trend that i've been told is rather bothersome for those actually born in eire), it's positively 4/5 up the 'respectable' fence of humanity in argentina. not that it's in any way disrespectable in north america - it merely means you can write, fight, govern/police, booze and be a bigot - and that you're probably mobbing deep. in argentina, it just means you're northernish-white, linguistically-hegemonic and not english - which, however unmerited, gives you unspoken advantages in this part of the world. but getting back to the point of our discussion - how argies, or at a very minimum my spanish prof, define the geo-cultural divide.
bibi tonnelier is a character if ever i've met one. at the ripe old age of 21 she set out on a 17-year self-imposed exile to switzerland, spain and greece to avert what she (somewhat) accurately predicted would be menem's neo-liberal inferno that first came to power in 1990. with the kirchners in office, however, she could finally return to her native land of facho's (i'll elaborate momentarily) - and enjoy the 'petty bourgeois' comforts of a proletarian wage teaching english to various krauts and yanks downtown. her grandfather originally fled from pas de calais, in the north of france, whence he'd dodged the great war draft and made off like a central american dictator on his way to miami - albeit minus the bilingual parrots, family caskets and cachets of cash-money. nonetheless, la patrie wasn't having any of that and, in turn, shipped his 16-year old brother off to the front - an act the younger frere would never forgive. years later, the latter would follow the former as far as uruguay in a fit of fratricidal rage; unsuccessful in his first fatal attempt, he took his own life a year later in cordoba. an familiar ode to modernity, i know. bibi, however, wouldn't learn any of this until well into adulthood, when - after making a misguided attempt to apply for french citizenship - her application was rejected for consanguineous treachery nearly a hundred years after the fact. gaullic memory, it shall be noted, apparently doesn't fade as fast as in our culturally miscegenatious new world republics. but back to the lesson at hand.
from the little i've seen thus far, argentine cinema is generally quite good, if not subtly despondent. that being said, the majority of good pictures outside (and within) the US usually are (call me a doleful downer - it's true. if the americans have one talent, it's their ability to give the cinematic impression that the state of the world is generally quite good - which, as we all know...). in any case, i asked her why this was. "in general, we're a very meloncholic people." this is not the first impression one has of argentines (nor the intermediary, nor the last, for that matter - if such a thing exists). well fed and read? it would appear at first sight. vane? not nearly to the extent that outsiders claim they are (which just goes to show just what kind of neighborhoods even the relatively indigent international traveler can afford to live in here). extremely class-conscious? amongst the educated, most certainly. a tad facho at times? in the running. but melancholic? i wouldn't have said so. bibi continued: "all mediterranean peoples are melancholic; the argentine merely expresses it with more grace and a keener sense of separation." true, i would rather pay my dues to the temple of sadness at her aegean, rather than patagonian, outpost. that being said, the generalization, whose form i usually relish, still doesn't seem to fit. "let me elaborate," she assured me, "on the dichotomous value system that separates the nordic from the mediterranean entity:"
el sistema de valores nordico se base en la dicotomia "deber-culpa," en tanto el sistema mediterraneo se basa en la antitesis "honor-verguenza." por ende la actitud de las personas frente a la vida difiere muchisimo.
how so? the reader is curious to know. though bibi's a fabulous teacher, she had a tendency to arrive 35-45 minutes late each day. seeing as my opportunity cost of each three-hour lesson was the equivalent of a week's worth of groceries (or, consequently, two lobster dinners - or - twenty three packs of cigarettes - or - thirty five liters of quilmes, you get the point), i took it upon myself to mention that we try and make up for lost time the following week. "on the one hand," she reminded me, "nordics tend to be consumed by notions of duty and guilt. schedules, times, meetings, appointments - they are the superstructure of nordic efficacy-worship. mediterraneans, on the other hand, live through the antithesis of honor and shame and are infinitely more concerned with quality over quantity. a nordic student, for example, might get his panties in a bunch over missing several minutes of an hours-long class. mediterraneans, however, are more concerned with embodying a general paradigm of qualitative excellence. we do not fret over small beer but, rather, remain intimately concerned with the bigger picture. i will not give you a reading assignment and then sit there and watch you read it. what a complete and utter waste of time." though i was mildly taken aback, you have to give her credit. to arrive 45 minutes late to a three hour lesson two days in a row and then call you a nordic time-worshipping rule-monger in a one-on-one conversation course is an impressive feat. and not that we don't get along - we're the best of mates. a cultural difference i both admit and even reluctantly envy. if only i wasn't paying for it.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Politica. Economica. Sociedad. Mundo. Deportes.
such was the order on the bottom of the television screen. from politics to economics, we move onto more important matters - from examining the state of contemporary society to covering world affairs. only once we've reached a truly global perspective, however, can we proceed to sports. i'm desperately trying to recall the order in which the newscast went back home, but to no avail. it's been years since i lived with a television and in the 'pick-and-choose' media age that simply caters to our own selective mediatric biases, it is easy to lose sight of the mediating power of order. in austria, for example, the day's skiing results were the first thing to appear on screen - well before the latest from the political spectrum. when the l.d.g - r.e.k mob allegiance begins its uprising, we'll proffer the latest in sour-gummie engineering before news from the front unsettles early evening appetites.
argentines call bean bags 'poofs' and bogies 'poochos.' when nico speaks of love (in english), his "whole world turns pink." whenever nico speaks in english, the world of 1230 saavedra becomes an outrageously funnier place. "love," he reminds his amante, "is an invention of the mind. except for mine is a communism love - not a capitalism love. you cannot understand communism love from a capitalism vision." the night progressed in concomitance with his romantic revelations; by ten oclock, he was reordering the romantic wheel: "first, of course, are you, my dear laura (his companion and our roommate), "followed by maradona, revolution and, finally, drugs." within seconds, however, his forehead cringed in reflection. "no, i'm sorry, my dearest. first, maradona, then you, revolution and drugs." by midnight he had us all singing along to "oh i love your tits on winter." the drugs, of course, were but an decorous prop. as far as i know, he doesn't smoke beyond tobacco and can hold his drink for the most part. indeed, nico is an intelligent, hard-working and courageously funny man. he is also an ardent marxist revolutionary with an agenda. something happens, however, when he begins to speak english.
if all language is ideology, then despite his political affinities and projects, nico's conception of our mother tongue must be a pleasant, if not at times slightly vulgar, one. once he gets cracking in anglosaxon-speak, he cannot seem to stop. of course, when navigating your way in a foreign tongue, the best way to get cracking is by bringing up the obvious. "what do you think about the malvinas war" is always a interesting one in this part of the world. "what becomes of vegans in argentina" is another? after posing the latter i was met with a fury of disgruntling groans of disgust. "first we fuck them then we kill them.. and then we fuck them again." how, when said with a perfect blend of linguistic naiveté, ignorance and audacity, can such statements produce such a hallucinogenic humour? it may sound absurd at the time of writing this, though i assure you - it 'seemed like a good idea at the time.' somehow we stumbled upon circumcision, nico being convinced that marianna was in love with a jewish man, to which she replied, "impossible. i take either all or nothing." i told them that the majority of americans were circumcised as well. after learning of the hygienic powers thereof, he concludes: "it is true, if you don't shower enough, you generate some cheese." when later pressed on his choice of words, he reminded us that his english was "latin american english. the revolutionary english. the english that talk fidel and che. when are you going to get a phone, evan?! imagine we are starting the revolution - how do i reach you?"
the man, as the reader can clearly see, is more than down for the cause. "how much do you love the revolution?" we ask him. "i love it more than popcorns in USA."
the clock is ticking and we've all got a big day ahead of us, not to mention the essay i'd yet to write on the 'role of the intellectual' in latin america (yes, i'm that twat). the strumming wound down and several roommates made for their sleeping quarters at a quarter past 1. we would need to conserve our festive forces for the morrow's celebration. around 1:30, he put the icing on the evening's cake: "tomorrow we're going to throw the house out of the window. i am shakespeare."
argentines call bean bags 'poofs' and bogies 'poochos.' when nico speaks of love (in english), his "whole world turns pink." whenever nico speaks in english, the world of 1230 saavedra becomes an outrageously funnier place. "love," he reminds his amante, "is an invention of the mind. except for mine is a communism love - not a capitalism love. you cannot understand communism love from a capitalism vision." the night progressed in concomitance with his romantic revelations; by ten oclock, he was reordering the romantic wheel: "first, of course, are you, my dear laura (his companion and our roommate), "followed by maradona, revolution and, finally, drugs." within seconds, however, his forehead cringed in reflection. "no, i'm sorry, my dearest. first, maradona, then you, revolution and drugs." by midnight he had us all singing along to "oh i love your tits on winter." the drugs, of course, were but an decorous prop. as far as i know, he doesn't smoke beyond tobacco and can hold his drink for the most part. indeed, nico is an intelligent, hard-working and courageously funny man. he is also an ardent marxist revolutionary with an agenda. something happens, however, when he begins to speak english.
if all language is ideology, then despite his political affinities and projects, nico's conception of our mother tongue must be a pleasant, if not at times slightly vulgar, one. once he gets cracking in anglosaxon-speak, he cannot seem to stop. of course, when navigating your way in a foreign tongue, the best way to get cracking is by bringing up the obvious. "what do you think about the malvinas war" is always a interesting one in this part of the world. "what becomes of vegans in argentina" is another? after posing the latter i was met with a fury of disgruntling groans of disgust. "first we fuck them then we kill them.. and then we fuck them again." how, when said with a perfect blend of linguistic naiveté, ignorance and audacity, can such statements produce such a hallucinogenic humour? it may sound absurd at the time of writing this, though i assure you - it 'seemed like a good idea at the time.' somehow we stumbled upon circumcision, nico being convinced that marianna was in love with a jewish man, to which she replied, "impossible. i take either all or nothing." i told them that the majority of americans were circumcised as well. after learning of the hygienic powers thereof, he concludes: "it is true, if you don't shower enough, you generate some cheese." when later pressed on his choice of words, he reminded us that his english was "latin american english. the revolutionary english. the english that talk fidel and che. when are you going to get a phone, evan?! imagine we are starting the revolution - how do i reach you?"
the man, as the reader can clearly see, is more than down for the cause. "how much do you love the revolution?" we ask him. "i love it more than popcorns in USA."
the clock is ticking and we've all got a big day ahead of us, not to mention the essay i'd yet to write on the 'role of the intellectual' in latin america (yes, i'm that twat). the strumming wound down and several roommates made for their sleeping quarters at a quarter past 1. we would need to conserve our festive forces for the morrow's celebration. around 1:30, he put the icing on the evening's cake: "tomorrow we're going to throw the house out of the window. i am shakespeare."
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