The purpose of "Indra's Net," if I may be so bold as to make a statement as to say it has one, meaning that yes, there is a method to the madness, can neatly be summed up in two words: analysis, synthesis.
For me, life is a series of negotiations between analysis and synthesis.
Some would argue that I am not the best negotiator (references upon request) because, according to them, I have often "given in" or "compromised" instead of being a cold, steel-hearted, ruthless haggler who fights to the death, ultimately getting it my way. Guilty as charged. Some battles are not worth fighting any longer.
For me, at least, that is not the purpose of negotiations. More often than not, as with the case of the Belgian non-Government Government, it is a stalemate, an impasse, an emotional or ideological brick wall. Call me a Hegelian.
I did my morning swim today at the Ft. Marcy pool in Santa Fe, and I thought of an analogy that helps me to get this point across, at least to myself.
For someone in Belgium right now, it may not mean anything if I say, "Hey, I just swam 6,600 feet at Ft. Marcy." For one, if people could actually see my words, they would think I just said 6 and 2/3 feet because you use a period, not a comma to designate a thousand. That aside, saying 6,600 feet instead of 2 kilometers is futile to someone whose cognitive set is the metric system. Moreover, unless you know Santa Fe, saying Ft. Marcy means nothing as well. Or, if I said at 2286 meters above sea level to most Americans, it would not garner much response, though 7500 feet would.
When we live or travel in other countries we are always making such conversions, for if we don't, our message does not get across clearly.
Similarly, just speaking about what concerns us may not mean anything to someone else. If I say that I swam 1 1/4 miles today to a runner or a cyclist, not much crossover. That is a paltry distance to them, given their choice of sports. However, I have made some correlations with running and cycling based on time and effort involved, and 1 1/4, my daily swim, becomes a 5 mile (11 km) run or a 15-mile (33 km) bike ride. (You're going to have to trust me on the math on this). Likewise, to someone who never swims, runs, or bikes, that is a great distance. For me, it is a leisurely morning swim at high altitude (which allows you to add a percentage of distance and time). In other words, as you can quickly see, just talking about my morning swim can be a whole mess of miscommunications.
Add to that: emotions, cultural differences, interior monologues, personal demons, perspectives, ad nauseum, you get quite a net there rather quickly.
When I set out with Indra's Net then, it was to attempt to talk about these cultural conversions that we make every day in our lives. Some readers may relate to philosophical questions, others to being a parent, still more to being an American, or not being an American and so on. It is a calculus of negotiations, striving to produce such cultural conversions to open dialogue, rather than to create an impasse. As I said, call me a Hegelian, guilty as charged.
Perhaps I am a "weak" negotiator, one who seeks for resolution in order to move forward by realizing that some impasse situations lack such conversions. Some things just can't be translated. Some things are indeed, lost in conversion.
dinsdag 26 juli 2011
vrijdag 22 juli 2011
Learning to Swim
Although I have been swimming for the majority of my life, I have found myself in the position of learning to swim on a regular basis. Currently I am providing my uncle with swim lessons which are going quite well, until he gets the bill that is, but whenever I give lessons, I always find myself learning all over again.
One of the more dramatic forms of this took place while I was teaching English and coaching swimming at the Antwerp International School. Via via, I found out that there was a re-organization of the school's swim team and that they were looking for a new coaching staff.
Three of us were hired, myself, Raf (a top-level, former Belgian National team swimmer), and Veronique. It was quite a formidable coaching staff, especially when we saw the team. I had been told one, that there was a team, that was a slight exaggeration, and that I needed to watch out for the parents, no exaggeration.
We held team "try-outs" and indeed about 40 kids showed up. A couple, I was told, would not be there. Later, I met them, they were the sure things, kids who worked out with a real team and showed up when necessary for the AIS team. They were the rock stars.
Well, after the try-outs and some near drownings, we had our "team," which I lovingly called "The Bad News Bears," which fortunately no-one had heard of and they all thought I was being endearing. We had our Tanners, our Lupus, our Olgivie, our Engleberg, our Amanda, but what Bad News Bears team would be complete without Kelly? He was one of the ones who did not show.
Kelly, (a german kid, who had actual potential), had a bit of an ego problem. He was much, much better than all of the other kids on the team, that much was true, but his stroke was far from perfect. I am a perfectionist when it comes to stroke technique. I think you can see that things were off to a rocky start.
For the first few weeks, all we worked on was stroke technique and no drills. Let me put it this way, I believe that Pat Morita's "Mr. Miyagi" role in the original "Karate Kid" might just be the greatest influence one me as a coach in all my life.
After a few weeks of wax on/wax off, Kelly had about had it with me and pretty much became defiant and attempted to rope a few of the bench-sitters away from the dark side. Some were swayed, others continued with wax on/wax off.
I had several conversations, and without going into too many Teutonic stereotypes, many fell on deaf ears. His stroke was perfect and his "real" coach told him so from the other team. I met one of these other so-called coaches that some of the other kids had gone to. He showed up to one of my swim meets and we had a "conversation." Let's just say that one did not fall on deaf ears...
However, back to Kelly. He was adamant, and at some point, you realize, you can lead the horse to water, but you can't make him do wax on/wax off, or something like that.
At the final International Championships, Kelly did perform quite well and set several records. However, what stood out more is that the two or three other kids who continued with wax on/wax off, ended up beating his split on the 4x100 Freestyle Relay. To put it bluntly, Kelly was stunned. I was not coaching the next year, and apparently Kelly did not return to the team, but stayed with his other team and coach. A pity.
What I learned from Kelly was that I, too, can always learn. I needed to learn how to get to someone like him better in the future, as I see this as a failure of my coaching, not him as a swimmer. He was sixteen. Sixteen year-olds are supposed to be idiots. Adults aren't.
Teaching my uncle now, I am realizing how difficult it is for us to "be taught" by others. We have our minds set in our ways. I am impressed by my uncle's rapid improvement and his trust in my teaching methods as they are, shall we say, un-orthodox at times.
I hope that I then will remain teachable as well as learning to swim again, each time I help another. Today, I consciously thought of how I do actually breath when I swim and it was an interesting experience to have that renewed awareness after all of these years.
Afterwards, we picked up our stuff, me with my plastic and canvas bag, and we headed to the locker room for a well-earned whirlpool. Though, I could have sworn I heard someone cough, "Kabosshh." Strange.
One of the more dramatic forms of this took place while I was teaching English and coaching swimming at the Antwerp International School. Via via, I found out that there was a re-organization of the school's swim team and that they were looking for a new coaching staff.
Three of us were hired, myself, Raf (a top-level, former Belgian National team swimmer), and Veronique. It was quite a formidable coaching staff, especially when we saw the team. I had been told one, that there was a team, that was a slight exaggeration, and that I needed to watch out for the parents, no exaggeration.
We held team "try-outs" and indeed about 40 kids showed up. A couple, I was told, would not be there. Later, I met them, they were the sure things, kids who worked out with a real team and showed up when necessary for the AIS team. They were the rock stars.
Well, after the try-outs and some near drownings, we had our "team," which I lovingly called "The Bad News Bears," which fortunately no-one had heard of and they all thought I was being endearing. We had our Tanners, our Lupus, our Olgivie, our Engleberg, our Amanda, but what Bad News Bears team would be complete without Kelly? He was one of the ones who did not show.
Kelly, (a german kid, who had actual potential), had a bit of an ego problem. He was much, much better than all of the other kids on the team, that much was true, but his stroke was far from perfect. I am a perfectionist when it comes to stroke technique. I think you can see that things were off to a rocky start.
For the first few weeks, all we worked on was stroke technique and no drills. Let me put it this way, I believe that Pat Morita's "Mr. Miyagi" role in the original "Karate Kid" might just be the greatest influence one me as a coach in all my life.
After a few weeks of wax on/wax off, Kelly had about had it with me and pretty much became defiant and attempted to rope a few of the bench-sitters away from the dark side. Some were swayed, others continued with wax on/wax off.
I had several conversations, and without going into too many Teutonic stereotypes, many fell on deaf ears. His stroke was perfect and his "real" coach told him so from the other team. I met one of these other so-called coaches that some of the other kids had gone to. He showed up to one of my swim meets and we had a "conversation." Let's just say that one did not fall on deaf ears...
However, back to Kelly. He was adamant, and at some point, you realize, you can lead the horse to water, but you can't make him do wax on/wax off, or something like that.
At the final International Championships, Kelly did perform quite well and set several records. However, what stood out more is that the two or three other kids who continued with wax on/wax off, ended up beating his split on the 4x100 Freestyle Relay. To put it bluntly, Kelly was stunned. I was not coaching the next year, and apparently Kelly did not return to the team, but stayed with his other team and coach. A pity.
What I learned from Kelly was that I, too, can always learn. I needed to learn how to get to someone like him better in the future, as I see this as a failure of my coaching, not him as a swimmer. He was sixteen. Sixteen year-olds are supposed to be idiots. Adults aren't.
Teaching my uncle now, I am realizing how difficult it is for us to "be taught" by others. We have our minds set in our ways. I am impressed by my uncle's rapid improvement and his trust in my teaching methods as they are, shall we say, un-orthodox at times.
I hope that I then will remain teachable as well as learning to swim again, each time I help another. Today, I consciously thought of how I do actually breath when I swim and it was an interesting experience to have that renewed awareness after all of these years.
Afterwards, we picked up our stuff, me with my plastic and canvas bag, and we headed to the locker room for a well-earned whirlpool. Though, I could have sworn I heard someone cough, "Kabosshh." Strange.
maandag 18 juli 2011
The Times are A'changin'
I am sitting in Amarillo, Texas now, having flown from Brussels yesterday, where it is nearly 18:00, or 6:00 pm, and here it is 10:00 in the morning.
Travel across time zones is a curious phenomenon because we take ourselves along with the time change, though those that we left behind, stay behind with that "other" time and other place. When I am here in Texas or New Mexico, I am not just here physically and mentally, but also temporally.
For my daughter, who is not quite old enough to really grasp the time change, yesterday was just a really long day, being more like 31 hours, rather than 24 hours, which brings up the whole issue of perspective of time. I just told her, "Please give Papa fifteen more minutes and we'll go to the store."
"Whoaah! (her interjection of choice)," she said, "That's a long time."
"For you it is," I replied, fatherly.
So, here I am 7 hours "behind" Belgium, where a part of my life continues on, but a fourth of a day ahead of me.
People who might be reading my blog there, then, are winding up the day, while if you read this post in Texas as soon as I post it, your day is just beginning. The former might make a connection from today's events, while the latter might see something later today and say, "hey, that's odd, I just read about that in this weird guy's blog..." Or, something like that.
When I go to India next month, I will be in a time zone three and a half hours ahead of Belgium and ten and a half hours ahead of Texas. If I post something there, I will be nearly one half of the 24-hour day different. Makes sense, will be nearly exactly half way around the world. So, in essence, I will be living three lives at once, thinking simultaneously about my life here, my life in Belgium, and my life in India, or thinking about my past, present, and future all at the same time.
Or, is it? Can we think simultaneously about two things? We cannot be physically in the same place, so can we also not be mentally in the same place?
This morning, here in Texas that is, I went for a mile swim in the old pool I used to swim in twenty-five years ago. It is the same pool, or...is it?
Stephen Dedalus thinks about I, I and I (the Stephen of the past, present and future) as he walks along the beach in the Proteus chapter of Ulysses. Proteus, as you may know, is the god that Odysseus must hold onto as Proteus furiously changes shapes, in order to get an answer from the protean deity when he finally stops changing.
But, can we hold onto a memory, one stuck in time, one that is so dramatic, such as where we were when the Space Shuttle exploded, or the Twin Towers fell, or when man first walked on the moon?
Can we stop time to remember something? Do we have the leisure to do so? Or, are we always moving on to the next moment.
People to see, places to go.
Going to the store now, my fifteen minutes are up.
Travel across time zones is a curious phenomenon because we take ourselves along with the time change, though those that we left behind, stay behind with that "other" time and other place. When I am here in Texas or New Mexico, I am not just here physically and mentally, but also temporally.
For my daughter, who is not quite old enough to really grasp the time change, yesterday was just a really long day, being more like 31 hours, rather than 24 hours, which brings up the whole issue of perspective of time. I just told her, "Please give Papa fifteen more minutes and we'll go to the store."
"Whoaah! (her interjection of choice)," she said, "That's a long time."
"For you it is," I replied, fatherly.
So, here I am 7 hours "behind" Belgium, where a part of my life continues on, but a fourth of a day ahead of me.
People who might be reading my blog there, then, are winding up the day, while if you read this post in Texas as soon as I post it, your day is just beginning. The former might make a connection from today's events, while the latter might see something later today and say, "hey, that's odd, I just read about that in this weird guy's blog..." Or, something like that.
When I go to India next month, I will be in a time zone three and a half hours ahead of Belgium and ten and a half hours ahead of Texas. If I post something there, I will be nearly one half of the 24-hour day different. Makes sense, will be nearly exactly half way around the world. So, in essence, I will be living three lives at once, thinking simultaneously about my life here, my life in Belgium, and my life in India, or thinking about my past, present, and future all at the same time.
Or, is it? Can we think simultaneously about two things? We cannot be physically in the same place, so can we also not be mentally in the same place?
This morning, here in Texas that is, I went for a mile swim in the old pool I used to swim in twenty-five years ago. It is the same pool, or...is it?
Stephen Dedalus thinks about I, I and I (the Stephen of the past, present and future) as he walks along the beach in the Proteus chapter of Ulysses. Proteus, as you may know, is the god that Odysseus must hold onto as Proteus furiously changes shapes, in order to get an answer from the protean deity when he finally stops changing.
But, can we hold onto a memory, one stuck in time, one that is so dramatic, such as where we were when the Space Shuttle exploded, or the Twin Towers fell, or when man first walked on the moon?
Can we stop time to remember something? Do we have the leisure to do so? Or, are we always moving on to the next moment.
People to see, places to go.
Going to the store now, my fifteen minutes are up.
donderdag 14 juli 2011
Brussels is Boring
Ok, there I said it. Brussels is boring.
I've said this before, and every time I say it I feel guilty, like I've got this dirty, little secret. I said it the first time I was in Brussels twenty years ago. Backpacking around Europe I remember standing in the Grand Place/Grote Markt thinking, "wow...this is amazing!" Classical music was playing and I had read in Let's Go that Victor Hugo had made a comment more or less saying that one cannot but be moved by standing in the Grande Place of Bruxelles/Brussels/Brussel. I was moved, but then, when I moved out of the great plaza, I was bored.
Walk back in, ... "wow!"
Walk out, bored.
ad nauseum
I remember people asking me, "what's Brussels like?" I fidgeted, shuffled my feet, looked at their feet, talked about the weather, anything but answered the question, closed my eyes, clicked my heels, "there's no place like home, there's no place like home." But, people wanted to know, "what's Brussels like?" When pressed, I would blurt out, "It's boring!" and then the guilt would set in...
Now, I want to jump on the rooftops, screaming, "Brussels is Boring!" Now, that is not entirely fair, but I am really stuck. I can't get past it.
I went to Brussels today, obviously, to pick up my Visa for India, and there it was...boring. From the station I had to go up towards the Royal Palace to catch the Tram 94 to Avenue Louise. Normally I walk around and up, but today, I kept going through the underground passage up into Galerie Ravenstein. Now, say that out loud, with a menacing accent--- Ravenstein. Sounds like something grand out of Harry Potter (going tonight) or Tolkein. At least, bats or belfries or something. Majestic.
Nope.
BOOORRRINGGGG!!!
Galerie Ravenstein is perhaps the most uninspired, inspired piece of architecture I have ever walked through. I was depressed by the time I got to the other end. I wanted to go home and listen to Morrissey, wear black, huddle up in a ball, rocking back and forth and cry.
Walking out towards the steps up to the park, that disturbing feeling of boredom was soaking me through. The steps leading up are through the Rue de Biblioteque/Bibliotheek with a statue of Baron Horta presiding. Horta, the name associated with Art Deco! There he is, guardian of Galerie Ravenstein. What a horrible fate.
So, there I was, waiting for the tram, bored out of my mind, all of ten minutes in Brussels, and a young woman comes up to me and asks, in Flemish, if this was the tram, richting Louizalaan? Now, for those of you not following Belgian politics...coming up to someone in the middle of Brussels and addressing them in Flemish is a statement. Of course, I was flattered. Finally, someone speaks to me in Flemish on the streets, albeit in Brussels. My friend who teaches in Beirut said I need to add more from "the man on the street" to my blogs. I told him, "the man on the street here ignores me..." until today. How to puff up my feathered breast, speak to me like a native, baby.
So, I answered that indeed it was. Doubly proud because Avenue Louise is the tony street in Brussels where all the AMERICANS go, so hey, Je suis arrivè! Oops, faux pas. Hier ben ik!
On the tram, feeling quite smug now, but still bored, I looked around. My god, were we going to a funeral today? In Ulysses, Bloom thinks to himself on the tram, how sour and dour everyone looks for such a short trip. As my Beirut-based friend says, "Roger that." You would think that this 10 minute tram ride was a transatlantic flight, sitting on wooden benches, with no heat. A funeral procession worthy of Eliot's waste land.
My stop comes, having passed the building where we had tried marriage counseling...strange...and I disembark.
And, so did she.
She crossed the street and went up towards where I was going. Now, I felt odd, but I had to go there too. Then, we get to the same building, smile awkwardly, she goes in one elevator, I the other. Up to the Indian Visa office, elevator opens, I get out, she gets out. OK, that was weird. Turns out, we are both picking up our visas to go to India.
So, after a very confused man behind the desk who thought we arrived together, a conversation in French, English, and Dutch, and if I am not mistaken Hindi, I leave with my visa and have met a fellow traveller.
So, we took the tram back together and talked about India, living in Italy (she had studied in Padua) and various other things. For her, the visa had been a bit more work, though she had been to India before, and I had said that it was much easier than going to the Questura in Italy. And, from that, she had said that "hoe gemakkelijker" it is in Belgium. How much easier...and I said, in English, "Don't get me started..." and later gave her my blog site.
Walking down through the Galerie Ravenstein (and a wave of boredom swept over me, not from the conversation, but that damn building) again on the way back to the station as she was catching a train to Leuven and I back to Antwerp, we talked (still in Dutch, as I kindly requested, and she granted that wish) and she had mentioned that America was not on her list to see. "Not even New York City??" I asked, in English, incredulously. Nope, not even a road trip out West??? Nope.
Times have changed. I remember the first time in Brussels when I told people I had come from Texas, everyone wanted to know about the horse that I rode to work (true story) and cowboys and Indians and, of course, Dallas, the TV show, (which is now getting a reprieve I saw). No longer, but hey, that is the way the world goes. Times change.
Just happen to be listening to REM (decided against Morrissey) right now (Fables of the Reconstruction) and the line just came up, "when you greet a stranger, look at his shoes..." Funny, I looked at everyone's shoes today... "home is a long way away...at the end of the day..." Today is full of serendipity.
I left my new traveler-in-arms at the train station. I wish her well and all of the other travelers out there a bon voyage, errr.... Ik bedoel, goeie reis...
OK, so Brussels wasn't boring today after all.
I've said this before, and every time I say it I feel guilty, like I've got this dirty, little secret. I said it the first time I was in Brussels twenty years ago. Backpacking around Europe I remember standing in the Grand Place/Grote Markt thinking, "wow...this is amazing!" Classical music was playing and I had read in Let's Go that Victor Hugo had made a comment more or less saying that one cannot but be moved by standing in the Grande Place of Bruxelles/Brussels/Brussel. I was moved, but then, when I moved out of the great plaza, I was bored.
Walk back in, ... "wow!"
Walk out, bored.
ad nauseum
I remember people asking me, "what's Brussels like?" I fidgeted, shuffled my feet, looked at their feet, talked about the weather, anything but answered the question, closed my eyes, clicked my heels, "there's no place like home, there's no place like home." But, people wanted to know, "what's Brussels like?" When pressed, I would blurt out, "It's boring!" and then the guilt would set in...
Now, I want to jump on the rooftops, screaming, "Brussels is Boring!" Now, that is not entirely fair, but I am really stuck. I can't get past it.
I went to Brussels today, obviously, to pick up my Visa for India, and there it was...boring. From the station I had to go up towards the Royal Palace to catch the Tram 94 to Avenue Louise. Normally I walk around and up, but today, I kept going through the underground passage up into Galerie Ravenstein. Now, say that out loud, with a menacing accent--- Ravenstein. Sounds like something grand out of Harry Potter (going tonight) or Tolkein. At least, bats or belfries or something. Majestic.
Nope.
BOOORRRINGGGG!!!
Galerie Ravenstein is perhaps the most uninspired, inspired piece of architecture I have ever walked through. I was depressed by the time I got to the other end. I wanted to go home and listen to Morrissey, wear black, huddle up in a ball, rocking back and forth and cry.
Walking out towards the steps up to the park, that disturbing feeling of boredom was soaking me through. The steps leading up are through the Rue de Biblioteque/Bibliotheek with a statue of Baron Horta presiding. Horta, the name associated with Art Deco! There he is, guardian of Galerie Ravenstein. What a horrible fate.
So, there I was, waiting for the tram, bored out of my mind, all of ten minutes in Brussels, and a young woman comes up to me and asks, in Flemish, if this was the tram, richting Louizalaan? Now, for those of you not following Belgian politics...coming up to someone in the middle of Brussels and addressing them in Flemish is a statement. Of course, I was flattered. Finally, someone speaks to me in Flemish on the streets, albeit in Brussels. My friend who teaches in Beirut said I need to add more from "the man on the street" to my blogs. I told him, "the man on the street here ignores me..." until today. How to puff up my feathered breast, speak to me like a native, baby.
So, I answered that indeed it was. Doubly proud because Avenue Louise is the tony street in Brussels where all the AMERICANS go, so hey, Je suis arrivè! Oops, faux pas. Hier ben ik!
On the tram, feeling quite smug now, but still bored, I looked around. My god, were we going to a funeral today? In Ulysses, Bloom thinks to himself on the tram, how sour and dour everyone looks for such a short trip. As my Beirut-based friend says, "Roger that." You would think that this 10 minute tram ride was a transatlantic flight, sitting on wooden benches, with no heat. A funeral procession worthy of Eliot's waste land.
My stop comes, having passed the building where we had tried marriage counseling...strange...and I disembark.
And, so did she.
She crossed the street and went up towards where I was going. Now, I felt odd, but I had to go there too. Then, we get to the same building, smile awkwardly, she goes in one elevator, I the other. Up to the Indian Visa office, elevator opens, I get out, she gets out. OK, that was weird. Turns out, we are both picking up our visas to go to India.
So, after a very confused man behind the desk who thought we arrived together, a conversation in French, English, and Dutch, and if I am not mistaken Hindi, I leave with my visa and have met a fellow traveller.
So, we took the tram back together and talked about India, living in Italy (she had studied in Padua) and various other things. For her, the visa had been a bit more work, though she had been to India before, and I had said that it was much easier than going to the Questura in Italy. And, from that, she had said that "hoe gemakkelijker" it is in Belgium. How much easier...and I said, in English, "Don't get me started..." and later gave her my blog site.
Walking down through the Galerie Ravenstein (and a wave of boredom swept over me, not from the conversation, but that damn building) again on the way back to the station as she was catching a train to Leuven and I back to Antwerp, we talked (still in Dutch, as I kindly requested, and she granted that wish) and she had mentioned that America was not on her list to see. "Not even New York City??" I asked, in English, incredulously. Nope, not even a road trip out West??? Nope.
Times have changed. I remember the first time in Brussels when I told people I had come from Texas, everyone wanted to know about the horse that I rode to work (true story) and cowboys and Indians and, of course, Dallas, the TV show, (which is now getting a reprieve I saw). No longer, but hey, that is the way the world goes. Times change.
Just happen to be listening to REM (decided against Morrissey) right now (Fables of the Reconstruction) and the line just came up, "when you greet a stranger, look at his shoes..." Funny, I looked at everyone's shoes today... "home is a long way away...at the end of the day..." Today is full of serendipity.
I left my new traveler-in-arms at the train station. I wish her well and all of the other travelers out there a bon voyage, errr.... Ik bedoel, goeie reis...
OK, so Brussels wasn't boring today after all.
woensdag 13 juli 2011
Muscles from Brussels?
Mosselen!
The mussels are coming, the mussels are coming, on a whimper rather than a bang, that is.
Tomorrow is the official start date for mussels season in Holland, but leave it to the Flemings to get a jump on the show. We'll show those damn Dutch! The two main food chains, Carrefour and Delhaize are jumping the gun and starting the festivities a day early. Only one problem, well, actually, two.
Apparently this year's crop of mussels is not so bumper. What is the world coming to!?! First, the real "Muscles from Brussels," Jean-Claude Van Damme is doing laundry detergent commercials (that is a blog entry in itself, don't worry!) and now this. The mosselen are not only 20% more expensive, but that much smaller. I expect total chaos, just waiting for the other clog to fall. Pure pandemonium. You know, Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, "cats and dogs, living together" kind of end-of-the-world chaos. I am going to batten down the hatches and avoid grocery stores at all costs, no telling what these Flemings are capable of doing in such a crisis.
As for me, the mussels things just sort of went South one day. There was a stretch of time that I was just bonkers about bi-valves, but now, eeeuuuwww. I don't know what happened. I would go to the store, get a pack of the Super Jumbo Extra Monster mussels and make up a steaming pot of them with so many spices and coconut milk and curries and lemon grass and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! And then, one day, as I was about half way through the pot, I just actually really looked at the things.
What the HELL am I eating?! was what went through my head. These things are bottom feeders, basically a stomach and guts and, well, to put it politely--mussels' excrement. As I said, eeeuuuuwww.
So, the mussels' pot has long since been retired and I can't say I miss 'em. But, who am I to stand in the way of a time-honored tradition? For the "origin" of Belgian's eating mussels, see the Asterix comic "Asterix and the Belgians." Spot on. Hilarious.
Oh, Jean-Claude, what happened? Has the thespian in you no shame? Who am I to think of now when I hear Men at Work's song "Down Under..."? I weep.
the horror, the horror
The mussels are coming, the mussels are coming, on a whimper rather than a bang, that is.
Tomorrow is the official start date for mussels season in Holland, but leave it to the Flemings to get a jump on the show. We'll show those damn Dutch! The two main food chains, Carrefour and Delhaize are jumping the gun and starting the festivities a day early. Only one problem, well, actually, two.
Apparently this year's crop of mussels is not so bumper. What is the world coming to!?! First, the real "Muscles from Brussels," Jean-Claude Van Damme is doing laundry detergent commercials (that is a blog entry in itself, don't worry!) and now this. The mosselen are not only 20% more expensive, but that much smaller. I expect total chaos, just waiting for the other clog to fall. Pure pandemonium. You know, Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, "cats and dogs, living together" kind of end-of-the-world chaos. I am going to batten down the hatches and avoid grocery stores at all costs, no telling what these Flemings are capable of doing in such a crisis.
As for me, the mussels things just sort of went South one day. There was a stretch of time that I was just bonkers about bi-valves, but now, eeeuuuwww. I don't know what happened. I would go to the store, get a pack of the Super Jumbo Extra Monster mussels and make up a steaming pot of them with so many spices and coconut milk and curries and lemon grass and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! And then, one day, as I was about half way through the pot, I just actually really looked at the things.
What the HELL am I eating?! was what went through my head. These things are bottom feeders, basically a stomach and guts and, well, to put it politely--mussels' excrement. As I said, eeeuuuuwww.
So, the mussels' pot has long since been retired and I can't say I miss 'em. But, who am I to stand in the way of a time-honored tradition? For the "origin" of Belgian's eating mussels, see the Asterix comic "Asterix and the Belgians." Spot on. Hilarious.
Oh, Jean-Claude, what happened? Has the thespian in you no shame? Who am I to think of now when I hear Men at Work's song "Down Under..."? I weep.
the horror, the horror
maandag 11 juli 2011
Uncle Filip Wants You!
"11 juli moet de Vlaamse onafhankelijkheidsdag worden zoals de ’4th of July’ voor de Amerikanen Independence Day is", zei VB-kopstuk Filip Dewinter.
Or, in English,
"July 11th needs/ought/must to be become Flemish Independence Day, like the '4th of July' is American Independence Day," said VB-leader Filip Dewinter.
Ummm...yeah. Why can't Jon Stewart speak Flemish!
For those of you who are not aware of the current (perennial) Belgian political situation, we are looking at 400 days coming up around the corner for a country without, (apathetic drum roll, please) a government. Longer than Iraq, the former Guinness book of stalemate-gridlock-impasse Records holder for a government-less nation, by quite a bit.
"What is a nation?" asks a soon-to-be drunken pub patron, John Wyse, to Leopold Bloom in Ulysses in the "Irish" nationalistically laden chapter of "Cyclops."
"A nation is the same people living in the same place." Bloom tells us.
...lots of ale-fueled laughter...
"Or also living in different places." he adds...
...more hops and barley-scented guffaws...
But, what, indeed, is a nation? Lest poor Filip need a history lesson, the 4th of July is just a little bit more than not wanting to be associated with the French-speaking Walloons and to preserve a pure, Flemish state. There was this small thing about international armies, new constitutions based upon revolutionary philosophical systems, taxation without representation, and a few other slight variations, but let's not haggle over the details...today at least (Guldensporenslag comparisons, which granted was no slouch of an event, will have to wait til another day).
But, to return to the question, what is a nation? Is Belgium a nation? Is Flanders a nation, worthy of an "Independence Day?" To become the 194th nation, following in the heels of South Sudan. Oh, wait, there was a war there and 2 million people died, starvation, genocide, never mind.
Elio Di Rupo, the French-speaking elected leader of the coalition-less coalition-run parliament, issued a referendum, the latest one to be shut down, that apparently threatens the sovereign, Flemish-speaking nation of ... Flanders? But, there is a French-speaking Flandres in France, and some Dutch is spoken in Holland, and there is this guy on The Simpsons, ..., but is it a country, a nation?
Dewinter and Bart De Wever (political leader of a somewhat less Flemish-nationalist party) seem to think so. Though, in a recent poll, only 8% of the Belgian youth agrees that the end of Belgium is necessary. So, is it a nation or isn't it? I remember being in Normandy many years ago on July 14th, Bastille Day. Kind of like, you know, "the 4th of July is American Independence Day," there is this big day in France, but there was something odd. No French flags to be see. The Normans weren't so keen on being French, but there was no talk of a succession of Normandy, at least not that I was aware of. They were still French, sort of.
Will we see yellow flags waving proudly with the black Flemish Leeuw (lion) on July 11th next year? Fireworks? Hot dogs and parades? A hearkening back to a war, whose first shot, was, like the later American Civil War, "heard 'round the world?" Probably not more than today, and in the last instance, definitely not. Flags are already waving this year at the more "Flemish" establishments (brown cafes), hot dogs are to be had at the train station any day, and fireworks are best left to the Americans, Chinese, and Italians for the time being.
HOWEVER, it does raise the interesting question that Joyce posed to us.
What is a nation????
Or, in English,
"July 11th needs/ought/must to be become Flemish Independence Day, like the '4th of July' is American Independence Day," said VB-leader Filip Dewinter.
Ummm...yeah. Why can't Jon Stewart speak Flemish!
For those of you who are not aware of the current (perennial) Belgian political situation, we are looking at 400 days coming up around the corner for a country without, (apathetic drum roll, please) a government. Longer than Iraq, the former Guinness book of stalemate-gridlock-impasse Records holder for a government-less nation, by quite a bit.
"What is a nation?" asks a soon-to-be drunken pub patron, John Wyse, to Leopold Bloom in Ulysses in the "Irish" nationalistically laden chapter of "Cyclops."
"A nation is the same people living in the same place." Bloom tells us.
...lots of ale-fueled laughter...
"Or also living in different places." he adds...
...more hops and barley-scented guffaws...
But, what, indeed, is a nation? Lest poor Filip need a history lesson, the 4th of July is just a little bit more than not wanting to be associated with the French-speaking Walloons and to preserve a pure, Flemish state. There was this small thing about international armies, new constitutions based upon revolutionary philosophical systems, taxation without representation, and a few other slight variations, but let's not haggle over the details...today at least (Guldensporenslag comparisons, which granted was no slouch of an event, will have to wait til another day).
But, to return to the question, what is a nation? Is Belgium a nation? Is Flanders a nation, worthy of an "Independence Day?" To become the 194th nation, following in the heels of South Sudan. Oh, wait, there was a war there and 2 million people died, starvation, genocide, never mind.
Elio Di Rupo, the French-speaking elected leader of the coalition-less coalition-run parliament, issued a referendum, the latest one to be shut down, that apparently threatens the sovereign, Flemish-speaking nation of ... Flanders? But, there is a French-speaking Flandres in France, and some Dutch is spoken in Holland, and there is this guy on The Simpsons, ..., but is it a country, a nation?
Dewinter and Bart De Wever (political leader of a somewhat less Flemish-nationalist party) seem to think so. Though, in a recent poll, only 8% of the Belgian youth agrees that the end of Belgium is necessary. So, is it a nation or isn't it? I remember being in Normandy many years ago on July 14th, Bastille Day. Kind of like, you know, "the 4th of July is American Independence Day," there is this big day in France, but there was something odd. No French flags to be see. The Normans weren't so keen on being French, but there was no talk of a succession of Normandy, at least not that I was aware of. They were still French, sort of.
Will we see yellow flags waving proudly with the black Flemish Leeuw (lion) on July 11th next year? Fireworks? Hot dogs and parades? A hearkening back to a war, whose first shot, was, like the later American Civil War, "heard 'round the world?" Probably not more than today, and in the last instance, definitely not. Flags are already waving this year at the more "Flemish" establishments (brown cafes), hot dogs are to be had at the train station any day, and fireworks are best left to the Americans, Chinese, and Italians for the time being.
HOWEVER, it does raise the interesting question that Joyce posed to us.
What is a nation????
zondag 10 juli 2011
O, Rocks!
Today, I began a new blog called, "You May Leave if You Wish," which is to be a pseudo-chronicle, reconstruction of its origins, and preparatory musings of my upcoming journey to Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India. Upon thinking about that blog, I of course stumbled upon the silent tomb of this blog, begun and abruptly halted three years ago soon upon having moved to Antwerp as a still slightly younger, definitely more naïve, Fulbright professor to teach British and American Literature at Universiteit Antwerpen. Much has happened since my last post.
There is a curious passage in Ulysses, which I am currently re-reading for the nth time, but perhaps really just for the first, in the so-called "Aeolus" chapter, which reads: "I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives." (Ulysses, 140) Curious for many reasons, not the least that it is not clear who the "I" is as most of the novel is in the third person, but also for its placement. Tucked in a completely innocuous sub-section of the chapter, this line is, for all intents and purposes, the philosophy of the entire book, if one were to go so far as to be so bold as to say, which I am now saying.
Joyce's penultimate tome about the day in the lives of quite a good number of Dubliners is about just that, the crossings and criss-crossings of seemingly inconsequential events that are essentially the further woof and warp of the fabric of our quotidian lives and are the determinants of the entire aftercourses of our lives as a whole. In the "Wandering Rocks" chapter, these characters move and sway through the streets of Dublin, sometimes meeting, sometimes not, but always affecting the others' lives in some way, whether grand or small, though always affecting.
However, to go further, which I have elsewhere (queue up Jon Lovitz as "The Critic" saying, "Buy My Book! Buy My Book!"), this is Stephen's proof by calculus that Shakespeare is the ghost of himself, and is simultaneously his own son, father (this conversation is in the proximity of Trinity College...)and every other character he ever created and so on. A beyond-the-pale reflection of Joyce himself, who in turn is the creator of all of the characters in Ulysses, thus being thousands of people at once, meeting himself portraited as an artist as a younger man, Stephen, seen through the eyes of a more experienced, cuckolded family man, the everyman, Bloom.
Reading the "Circe" chapter last evening outside at the Jazz cafe, De Muze, in the heart of the old city of Antwerp, it was hard not to live some parallel lives of the characters I was reading. I first read Ulysses in Antwerp, nearly 18 years ago to the day, a good part of it in De Muze, where I also had the first date with the woman that I would be married to soon afterwards, and with whom I am now engaged in a divorce process as I write nearly two decades after that seemingly innocuous encounter.
Sitting there, looking up from my book intermittently, absorbing what I had read and glancing around, I wondered to myself as well. Am I meeting myself coming and going? Sitting in that cafe, in the same cafe that has been there, itself changed little, though now populated with new people, living different, yet similar lives. Young couples, where would it lead to? Older couples, where had it gone? Was I still that same starry-eyed American kid with a head full of ideas? Or was I now an older and wiser American who has seen much more of the world now, both physically and mentally, though still with a head full of ideas? Or, both? Or, more than both?
Auto-Metempsychosis?
O, Rocks!
There is a curious passage in Ulysses, which I am currently re-reading for the nth time, but perhaps really just for the first, in the so-called "Aeolus" chapter, which reads: "I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives." (Ulysses, 140) Curious for many reasons, not the least that it is not clear who the "I" is as most of the novel is in the third person, but also for its placement. Tucked in a completely innocuous sub-section of the chapter, this line is, for all intents and purposes, the philosophy of the entire book, if one were to go so far as to be so bold as to say, which I am now saying.
Joyce's penultimate tome about the day in the lives of quite a good number of Dubliners is about just that, the crossings and criss-crossings of seemingly inconsequential events that are essentially the further woof and warp of the fabric of our quotidian lives and are the determinants of the entire aftercourses of our lives as a whole. In the "Wandering Rocks" chapter, these characters move and sway through the streets of Dublin, sometimes meeting, sometimes not, but always affecting the others' lives in some way, whether grand or small, though always affecting.
However, to go further, which I have elsewhere (queue up Jon Lovitz as "The Critic" saying, "Buy My Book! Buy My Book!"), this is Stephen's proof by calculus that Shakespeare is the ghost of himself, and is simultaneously his own son, father (this conversation is in the proximity of Trinity College...)and every other character he ever created and so on. A beyond-the-pale reflection of Joyce himself, who in turn is the creator of all of the characters in Ulysses, thus being thousands of people at once, meeting himself portraited as an artist as a younger man, Stephen, seen through the eyes of a more experienced, cuckolded family man, the everyman, Bloom.
Reading the "Circe" chapter last evening outside at the Jazz cafe, De Muze, in the heart of the old city of Antwerp, it was hard not to live some parallel lives of the characters I was reading. I first read Ulysses in Antwerp, nearly 18 years ago to the day, a good part of it in De Muze, where I also had the first date with the woman that I would be married to soon afterwards, and with whom I am now engaged in a divorce process as I write nearly two decades after that seemingly innocuous encounter.
Sitting there, looking up from my book intermittently, absorbing what I had read and glancing around, I wondered to myself as well. Am I meeting myself coming and going? Sitting in that cafe, in the same cafe that has been there, itself changed little, though now populated with new people, living different, yet similar lives. Young couples, where would it lead to? Older couples, where had it gone? Was I still that same starry-eyed American kid with a head full of ideas? Or was I now an older and wiser American who has seen much more of the world now, both physically and mentally, though still with a head full of ideas? Or, both? Or, more than both?
Auto-Metempsychosis?
O, Rocks!
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