- 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
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