The heat

I really want to write something more interesting but it seems that my brain is not really working. It is the heat, the heat is all I can think of. How did I use to function in these temperatures, how do people actually function in these temperatures? This city is one giant burning block of flats. Women put on make up and get out in the streets and I am wondering: how does the slap stay on their faces? I feel if I put anything on there, it is going to dissolve the moment I set my foot on the burning pavement. And with it, I feel that my face will also dissolve, like the guy in 'death in venice'. He, at least, let himself dissolve because he wanted to impress someone, he wanted to impress a boy. Why are all these women doing it for?

Waiting for the sea.

The kindness of strangers

The nights in Athens are very hot. Heat in general, is different in Greece. It comes with a greasiness and a drowsiness that you don’t find anywhere else. It comes with a sluggishness and a νωχελικότητα that can only be found here.

I just came here 2 hours ago or something and I am already feeling relaxed. I need to feel that kind of relaxation, I need to feel that I can be drowsy and not do much all day.

I always get this open network here, and I think that the person who has it is my friend and lets me use it implicitly. My network in Belfast is also open and I do it for him, this random guy in Greece that lets me surf in the middle of the night. Tonight, though, there’s no network. I wanted to post this now, at 4 in morning, from my hot apartment in Athens, but I can’t.

Tomorrow maybe.

Even robots get their happily-ever-afters

Carina Lau married Tony Leung in a true Wong Kan-Wai style.
This must be life imitating art, surely.



Doesn't this look like a scene from 'Hero'? Apparently they got married on Bhutan, the holy mountain that features so beautifully in the end of 'Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon'. If there is any reason for star system to exist, is for people to marry in movie sets and produce pictures straight from Kar-Wai movies.

Then again, maybe I am just an idiot and wanted to post these pictures (and am now trying to give them some meaning, beyond the gossip).

Class

Sometimes, I think they left out the best scene and the best song. This is a deleted scene from the movie Chicago, that appears in the DVD that has Mamma Morton and Velma Kelly sing the immortal lines:

Oh, there ain't no gentelmen to open up the doors,
There ain't no ladies now there's only pigs and whores
And even kids'll knock you down so's they can pass
Nobody's got no class!!!

The irony here obviously is that the women who sing about class have no class of their own, since they are swearing all the time. It makes me think about this old taboo about women and swearing. I swear a lot and a lot of people are not pleased with me for that. I hear a lot of stupid things about swearing and how it does not agree with me, with my social standing and my education.

I profoundly disagree. Petit bourgeoisie must die, I say. What does it mean, social standing and the rest? Anybody can sometimes feel pressed and then curses and feels better. Whoever doesn't do that will die repressed. My education has nothing to do with my need to say a bad word if I feel to. And in any case, I think that class is severely overrated, and so often confused with 'good manners' from another century. Class has nothing to do with how you speak and whether you say 'fuck' every so often. It has to do with so many other things. Like Velma and Mamma Morton, who overcome the irony and manage to still have some class in jail, swearing like sailors.

The summer

It is amazing how much rejuvenation summer brings, so much more than spring, so much more than anything else.
Last week I felt down, but now the prospect of holidays has lifted my spirits to the max.

The sales suddenly seem better.
The books seem more interesting.
The songs sound new.
The sun seems aplenty (even here).

Summer in the city (is sweet only before going to the sea...)

Soon this blog is going to fall into hibernation, only to come back stronger and more interesting in the fall.

Oh man, I'm so wasted...

This is awesome!
For more videos, check out the guy's site: www.joecartoon.com

-Oh man, I'm so wasted
-I think I can fly man
-But you are a fly man...

-Man I can't see my hands
-But you don't have hands

Priceless...

This is my hero

This is my hero. Look at her for she is a hell of a ten-year old girl.



I read her story in CNN and I was amazed. Initially, I was amazed because there are people that sell off their ten year old children as brides. Then I thought they must be incredibly poor to do that. Then I was amazed because for a man was beating and raping a ten-year old girl. But then I thought that this is not so amazing; it happens everywhere. Then I was amazed because the girl had to 'compensate' her husband (according to the Sharia law) and give him 200 dollars (I presume for letting her divorce him). But then I thought that by analogy, similar things happen here.

And then I read the story again and I realized that the only amazing thing is this girl. This girl who was sold as a bride in the age of 10, with the promise of the groom to her parents that he would not touch her until she became 20. Essentially she was sold off not as a bride, but to loosen the economic burden of her parents. But then her husband was beating her and raping her. Initially she went to her mother, who told her to stay there because that's her home now. But the girl did not do that. During a visit to her parents she escaped and went to a courthouse and demanded to speak to a judge. She demanded for a divorce and got it. She now has returned to her family home, and is happy to play with her siblings again, only she cannot go out to play a lot because the 'attention bothers her'.

Where did this 10 year old girl find the courage to do what she did?
That's why she is my hero, because it takes so much courage to do what you believe is right. And so many people never ever have the guts to do that.

On repeat

I saw the edge of heaven again a couple of days ago, and although I loved it again, I have to admit that it wasn't as much as when I watched on the first time, in the sense that I did see a couple of flaws. This reminds me of my past habit of reading and re-reading books. I used to do it compulsively, especially with one book (hmmm the secret history) which I must have read over ten times. The books I love take second reading well and they become better, grander books. The first time you read something, it's all about the plot: you read thirstily, fast and you lose so many details. The entire beginnings of books are usually read in a haste, me I never remember beginnings. I think they have to be good enough to keep your attention but not give any important information about the plot because I will never remember that. Very often I don't even know what they're talking about, and only after a hundred pages or so do I see the point and go back and read things again. Anyway, regarding second readings, it's rare that a book can survive them and be enjoyed as much the second time round. The same with movies, especially the ones whose hype relies so much on a surprise endings or a twist of some sort (fight club, seven, sixth sense etc) very rarely make good second sightings. Instead other surprising movies, like the silence of the lambs, that do have a twist but they don't rely too much on it, can be seen again and again and never lose their charm. Perhaps this is what makes a movie or a book a classic, it's when they can be seen more than once and be enjoyed as much (but perhaps differently) than the first time.

The point is that first impressions do not seem to matter.
A good generalization one can stick to for more than one things, don't you agree?

The past

Now I know how people start living in the past. It only takes a song and you’re there. You’re there, revisiting painfully your older, more glorious self. You start remembering when you life was not full of the things you ‘have to’ do. I know I sound clishé, it seems impossible to avoid this being clishé thing, especially here in the blog. It seems to me though, that these stupid social constraints are to blame for so many things: I cannot go out and drink and be funny and be loud anymore (at least not in the company of my ‘serious’ friends). I cannot afford to fuck around and do a radio show, like I used to when I was 18. Now I have to publish or perish. Stupid academia, stupid boring academia. I hate this stupid life that cannot afford us with a spare moment of boredom.

Vive la différance!

Modesty (and lack thereof)

I think modesty is a virtue I hold too dearly near my heart. I always thought that people should have, I thought that I should have it.

A PhD is an exercise in modesty, a friend has told me. She has said that its main function is that it places you opposite your own mediocrity and this is something that one should learn to face. She also told me that at the end of the PhD you end up knowing more about yourself than your topic. My PhD taught me some things about myself, incidentally the same things that my quitting smoking has taught me. (One could therefore say, that I should only have done wither of the two, either a PhD or quitting smoking!) It has taught me that I cannot perform if people are judging me all the time: if people know the exact week I'm submitting, and they ask me all the time, I get nervous and I am afraid. It feels as if I am on a diet and people ask me all the time how much weight I'd lost. When I quit smoking, I didn't tell anybody and I was walking around with my cigarettes in my bag, telling myself that it's ok if I want to smoke, no big deal, they're right here. The same thing happened with my PhD, I had to deflate it in my mind in order to submit it, I had to think that no one was judging me for it.

But I digress, for the issue today is modesty. So, when I started my PhD, me like so many other people before me, I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be the best and change my field. I wanted my PhD to be cited all the time, I wanted to go to conferences and people applaud me as if I were giving an Oscar speech. Alas, it was not meant to be. I did have to accept that I am kind of mediocre, honest yet mediocre.

There are people around me, people that have gone through the same "humbling" experience that are not modest. People that seem untouched from the whole thing. People that still think they will change the world. I am usually very annoyed with these people, perhaps from jealousy, I think. I wish I were like them, I wish I, too were as sure about myself as they are. Perhaps, my love for modesty is love for mediocrity. I want all people to be mediocre and feel modest, just like me. Or perhaps, I should stop feeling mediocre and start being proud of myself, having the all-American attitude of the 'champion'! Maybe like that I can become great too, just like my non-modest friends!

Like a little child

Yesterday I lost something and I started reacting like a little spoilt brat. I cried, I moaned, I kicked stones in the street etc. I went everywhere to find it and I made a big fuss about it. The only consolation (in the sense that I am not totally nuts for reacting that way) is that what I lost was something nice: a little brooch with the little prince that my mum had bought me. I loved it and I was proud wearing it. Everyone was giving me compliments for it. In some strange way, I also thought it brought me good luck. Written down, this thought looks kind of absurd.

Whenever I lose something I obsess with two thoughts: firstly I wish that the thing I lose would have a beeper that I could press and I could hear the noise that would lead me to it. Or maybe it could have a glowing light that I could see, if I narrowed my eyes. A glowing light to lead me to it. The other thought that upsets me, is to think of the little thing I lost, in this case my precious little prince, in a corner somewhere, by the road, in the mud, somewhere dirty and abandoned. Again, this thought written down seems quite absurd, but that is what I feel.

I wish someone might have found my little prince and is wearing him now. If I don't have him, at least I hope someone else is being happy with having him.

The character and the nation

I just finished reading that brick of a book, the Cairo trilogy, by Naguib Mahfouz. It is not right to call it one book, since it is a trilogy published together for the first time. One thousand three hundred and thirty one pages, it took me months to read it. It was difficult at times, boring maybe, too tedious, the writing was sometimes too old-fashioned. When it finished though, I was sad. I wanted to read more, I wanted it not to end. I managed to like some of the characters, even at the beginning I didn’t think I would.

The story evolves around the three generations of a family in Egypt, starting while the English are occupying the country and ending around the second world war. The characters are plenty and very different from each other: initially we are introduced to the tyrannical patriarch Abd-Al Jawaad and his extremely submissive wife Amina. Their five children: the shallow and hedonistic Yasin, the romantic idealist Fahmy and the young Kamal, who will be the main character in the other two books and their sisters: the blonde and naive Aisha and the ugly and feisty Kadja. The most interesting thing in this book is the duality of the life of Abd Al-Jawaad who is extremely serious and scary in his house but also has a secret life full of alcohol and women, the nights that he goes out. Years go by and his children grow up, and Kamal takes central stage. He is a true intellectual, who is looking for the bast way to lead a good life. He initially experiments with religion that doesn't satisfy him too much, mostly because it leaves no room for lust and love. In search of some balance between the intellectual and the physical, Kamal focuses on philosophy, and becomes a teacher and a regular contributor to a popular journal. But his shyness and his reluctance to live cripple him and regardless of his intellectual capacities, he remains a hermit, a man without a life, alone forever. In the last book, the central theme of the entire trilogy, that of the balance between the intellectual and the physical, is transferred to the two nephews of Kamal, one being a religious fundamentalist and the other one being a communist, both of which end up in jail.

These books that span so many years and encompass of so many characters can often be great. They almost always are seen as covert histories if the countries they are set in. In the case of the Cairo trilogy, the struggle within the central character Kamal, might be seen as personifying the struggle of Egypt, from English occupation to independence and from independence to political instability again during the years of the second world war. Perhaps this is the only way to write history these days, though literature, where nations could be seen as complex characters inside a magical book.

Happy Anniversary!

This is the 100th post in this blog!

I was really looking forward to writing this entry, only to say how important is has been for me.
As, I've written before blogging makes me think, and I love it for this. I makes me communicate with my friends and it lets them see another side of me. It occasionally makes me communicate with people I don't know at all, and this makes me feel that I'm not alone. There is a great feeling when one communicates with strangers.

Anyway, all I wanted to say is happy anniversary to this blog and a big thank you to all my co-authors who were willing to share their thoughts with me in this blog.

The little dieing girl

I know a girl who is dieing. She has cancer. She is very young and she’s had cancer for four years now. Initially they found out she was dieing and they thought they got it early. You really need to get cancer early, from what I hear, if you are to have any luck. So, they found out that she had cancer and they started their treatment and they thought that they were done. The little girl came back to her old life and tried to start over.

She had a lot of all clears before her cancer came back. I don’t know much about such things, but it seems to me that I would be deeply optimistic if I ever had cancer and then was given the all clear. I would think that lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice. But I would be wrong and so was the little dieing girl, for lightning did strike the same place twice and the little dieing girl had cancer again. They tried again and again they thought they had got it. Apparently, they did a great new treatment that was proven to be very successful. Or so they thought. They did the treatment, they took off the little girl’s liver (or most of it), but I am not sure if they knew what they were doing. In short, the little girl was some sort of a guinea pig.

Lightnings have a soft spot for girls, it seems and her illness came back yet again. But the little girl is tired. She doesn’t want to fight anymore. She wants to live a normal life, she goes to work and doesn’t take time off. She gets angry with her mother because ‘she keeps staring’ at her.

I wonder what the little dieing girl feels. Does she know she’s dieing? If yes, how does she live with this? Does she want to pretend that everything is normal and death can find her in her chair and her desk, working? Should she go for a holiday, so death can find her by a beach? Is there ANY good way of dieing? Are you supposed to settle your accounts and then go somewhere and die silently? I have no clue.

Some people have problems in their lives and some others just pretend to. Nobody can say, ah other people are dieing here, so I should be happy all the time and not regard my problems as real problems. But stories like this, do put your life into perspective.

Reserve

Yesterday, I was in an Italian café and I saw a poster on the wall; it was a poster with various movies from the golden age of the Italian cinema: Otto e mezzo by Felini, Blow up by Antonioni, Riso amarro, Dolce vita, la Ciocarra etc. I looked at it closely and realized that I had not seen any of these movies. Not one. Initially, I thought I could lie if anyone asked me, I could say yes, I’ve seen one or two, but it was a long time ago and I don’t remember them very well. Or I could also say that I fell asleep while watching them, that is always a good excuse when pretending to have seen a movie.

Then, I got very ashamed of myself: I like cinema and I take pride in thinking that I know a lot about. How is it possible, then, for me not to have seen any of these movies? My next impulse was to go and buy them all immediately and watch them as quickly as possible, so I would not be ashamed and not have to lie in an imaginary conversation, if anyone asked me if I had seen these movies.

Then, however, I thought that maybe it was good that I hadn’t seen any of these movies: I felt a warm feeling inside me, that there is an intellectual stimulation that I have never used. Like when I was younger, when I bought a book and wouldn't read it, I would keep it on the shelf to read at a later stage, when I felt like it. It was reassuring to know that, if I wanted to read a good book, I had one sitting on my shelf. It was the same reassuring feeling that tells you that you have a friend, if you need one.

Italian cinema for me then, is a reserve friend. If one time I feel the need for some intellectual stimulation, I'll get all these movies and watch them.