Tuesday, June 30, 2009

'kokoro no semasa', or: random thoughts from exile...


One of the aspects that deeply, deeply upsets me in this country is most people's absolute lack of spontaneity, their exasperating inability to drop the social script and do (or say, for god's sake!) something unexpected for a change. As if life's main purpose were to rule out the unpredictable.

If you want to invite someone to lunch or dinner, you have to plan it days and days (and often weeks or even months) ahead, as most Japanese folks are always way too 'isogashii' - busy, hectic, whatever - to accept an impromptu invitation. I often think they must derive some sort of puritan pleasure from making themselves unavailable, irresponsive to other people: 'tsugo ga warui' ('it's a bad/inconvenient time for me'). A recurrent, calculated, morally superior excuse for which I have less and less patience. It's such a difference when you invite a European pal (not yet adulterated by native customs, of course, since some are already beyond hope) for a spur-of-the-moment stroll or drink... Such a difference.

I used to find it hard to believe, but in the past few years I've come to fully understand why so many foreigners leave Japan with the bitter feeling there is no 'native' they can genuinely call a friend. A friend is someone who uncalculatingly, un-arse-lickingly has time and space for you, and there are, alas, fewer and fewer people like that around town.

The sad paradox is that usually none of this isogashisa, none of this self-righteous franticness, translates itself into high standards of productivity and excellence - well, certainly not in a creative, inspired way, even though most people do in fact excel in sheepishly doing what they are told, no questions asked. I guess that's what keeps the status quo from crumbling or imploding.

And how could you expect things to be otherwise when the educational system (aided by religion, I would add) laboriously, obsessively extirpates from the outset any signs of individuality, passion, desire - the very lifeblood of creativity, imagination, vision, originality - in favour of authoritarianism, senseless hierarchies, narrow-mindedness and collectivism?...

Well, anyway, the show must go on, or, as the song goes, everybody's got to live their life, and god knows I've got to live mine - god knows I've got to live mine... [sigh]



*(14:32): Yup, you're absolutely right, Antonio. If you surround yourself as much as possible by genuinely interesting, caring, humane, warm-hearted people, like a fortress, you can at least ward off the most crippling effects of the contact with the system and its hypocritical zombies.


Friday, June 12, 2009

bleeding


Underneath all the raucous laughter, effusiveness, tittle-tattle, was that soft but unmistakable touch of sadness, loneliness, or shall I perhaps call it 'melancholy'?...

Tongue-tied, two vagrant, wounded souls in search of something they'll never find outside themselves (until they find it within. Will they ever?...).

Yes, that's what brought us together from the outset, a sense of solidarity in our utter inadequacy - or shall I say we 'bumped into' each other on the way to nowhere?...

I really don't know. What I do know is that yesterday I too was crying within, darling, all the time my heart was bleeding, bleeding.


Monday, June 8, 2009

larger despairs than ours...



NO SOLUTION

Above and below
The roll of days spread out like a cloth
Days engraved on everyone's forehead
Yesterday folding Tomorrow opening
Today like a horse without a rider
Today a drop of water falling into a lake
Today a white light above and below

A fan of days held in a virgin hand
A burning taper burning paper
And you can turn back no longer
No longer stand still
The words of poems curling among the ashes
Hieroglyphics of larger despairs than ours.


David Gascoyne, Selected Poems (London: Enitharmon Press, 1994), p. 34.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

whistling in the dark



Another definition of the poet's art and of poetry's place in our lives that I wholeheartedly endorse.


. . . in the wood
Of wandering among wood-hiding trees, where poet's art
Is how to whistle in the dark, where pockets all have holes,
All roofs for refugees have rents, we ought to know
That there can be for us no place quite alien and unknown,
No situation wholly hostile, if somewhere there burn
The faithful fire of vision still awaiting our return.


David Gascoyne, from "The Sacred Hearth", in Selected Poems (London: Enitharmon Press, 1994), p. 153.


Saturday, May 23, 2009

reverie


To designate a dreamed world well, it is necessary to mark it with a happiness.

Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie.


Or perhaps only with a hopefulness, however slight. Making light out of the dark, against all odds. Against the darkest signs reality keeps on sending you from out there. On a daily basis. Opening up the tiniest aperture where grace can somehow still coexist with this sense of irrecoverable loss.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

style


To the poor souls who think that 'style' has anything whatsoever to do with clothes & fashion, here's the coolest, most stylish answer ever given:

Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.

Gore Vidal

(Cited apud Mark Simpson, 'Gore Vidal Turns Off The Lights On The American Dream' / 'Gore Vidal speaks to Mark Simpson')


There you are.

Monday, May 18, 2009

the unbearable lightness of being




A poem I return to every now and then, if only to remind myself that our grip on life, frail though it may seem, doesn't cease to surprise us in the most testing times - or, harder even, amidst the desultory, futile banality of the everyday.


You've Lived

All through the play, Hamlet's
Looking for some hold in the world.
All through it, he's searching for something in life
To bear the weight of his being

And neither his father's murder,
The adultery of his mother
Nor Ophelia's love --
Things shattering enough
One would have thought --
Is sufficient to root him
In the rank, unweeded garden
Which was what he called life.
He was here without an anchor
In a fruitless sea of being.
And he never evolved an interest
(As we say) 'to keep him going' --
He, with his wayward life; he, the lost one.

So take comfort --
Even if you only grow onions,
Breed rabbits or put ships in bottles,
If that grips you, you are one of the saved,
The light shines on you, you can fear death,
Go in dread of the end.
That is to say, you've lived.


Gwyn Thomas



Wednesday, May 13, 2009

subjective correlative


Were I to find a correlative of my state of mind these days, it would be the following verses by Stevie Smith:


All things pass
Love and mankind is grass


Why say more?...


Sunday, May 10, 2009

It isn't happiness I seek


After Anna Akhmatova


It isn't happiness I seek.
My lover leaves to visit a lover.
I put my tired child to sleep
like a good mother.

I kneel in my cool, calm room
and pray to the angels -
how hard it is to live alone
and to pretend to be cheerful.

I ask for a vision of passion,
walking the path I know too well,
in my usual fashion,
to the cold, stone building on the hill.


Carol Ann Duffy

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

shit happens


Love is awakened only by chance. It flares up at the merest coincidence. . . . Nothing is more contrary to love than to exercise the reckoning mind so as to exclude adverse chances.
Shit happens.


Alphonso Lingis


Indeed. Couldn't agree more.
More and more.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

the world's stone-hard heart, again


Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?

W. B. Yeats, "Easter, 1916"


Yes, indeed - and it can make a wreck of the body attached to the poor petrified heart.
It seems never to suffice, never, this widening distance between the far country of our desires and the wretched world we have to live in.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

treading softly


Once upon a time, an occasional lover she mistreated somewhat sent her a small, delicate scroll with the following poem painstakingly handwritten in tones of light brown, like faded blood:


HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W. B. Yeats


Yes, she had read the poem numerous times before in books, but never before had she felt so wretched and shaken in her certainties. Maybe it was because all of a sudden she recalled a favourite childhood story, the one where the Fox lectures the Little Prince about the delicate rituals of taming someone:


"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . . "

"What must I do, to tame you? asked the little prince.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. First you will sit down at a little distance from me--like that--in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . . "


Call it friendship, love... whatever, but it hit her she had never had the patience to tame anyone willing to be tamed - treading softly, sitting a little closer everyday, subtly dispelling deep, ingrained fears, bringing down defences by slow degrees. Everything had always been now or never, now or never.

Shaken by disaster, she would eventually change afterwards, over the years, becoming slower, timid, patient, cautious (overcautious even), and the more so the more she loved and cared for someone. Out of tune with the times, no doubt.

Whether anyone listened or cared for or tamed her in return remains uncertain. Up to this day.


Tuesday, March 31, 2009

William, it was really nothing





The rain falls hard on a humdrum town
This town has dragged you down
Oh, the rain falls hard on a humdrum town
This town has dragged you down
Oh, no, and everybody's got to live their life
And God knows I've got to live mine
God knows I've got to live mine
William, William it was really nothing
William, William it was really nothing
It was your life ...

How can you stay with a fat girl who'll say :
"Oh ! Would you like to marry me ?
"And if you like you can buy the ring"
She doesn't care about anything
Would you like to marry me ?
And if you like you can buy the ring
I don't dream about anyone - except myself
Oh, William, William it was really nothing
William, William


The Smiths


Monday, March 30, 2009

hand in glove...





Hand in glove
The sun shines out of our behinds
No, it's not like any other love
This one is different - because it's us

Hand in glove
We can go wherever we please
And everything depends upon
How near you stand to me

And if the people stare
Then the people stare
Oh, I really don't know and I really don't care

Hand in glove
The good people laugh
Yes, we may be hidden by rags
But we've something they'll never have

Hand in glove
The sun shines out of our behinds
Yes, we may be hidden by rags
But we've something they'll never have

And if the people stare
Then the people stare
Oh, I really don't know and I really don't care

So, hand in glove I stake my claim
I'll fight to the last breath

If they dare touch a hair on your head
I'll fight to the last breath

For the good life is out there somewhere
So stay on my arm, you little charmer

But I know my luck too well
Yes, I know my luck too well
And I'll probably never see you again
I'll probably never see you again
I'll probably never see you again
Oh ...


The Smiths

Sunday, March 29, 2009

there is a light and it never goes out...





Take me out tonight
Where there's music and there's people
And they're young and alive
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven't got one
Anymore

Take me out tonight
Because I want to see people and I
Want to see life
Driving in your car
Oh, please don't drop me home
Because it's not my home, it's their
Home, and I'm welcome no more

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

Take me out tonight
Take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care
And in the darkened underpass
I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last
(But then a strange fear gripped me and I
Just couldn't ask)

Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven't got one, da ...
Oh, I haven't got one

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

Oh, There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out



The Smiths / Lyrics by Morrissey


beautiful boys will be beautiful boys (2)...




Handsome Devil

All the streets are crammed with things
Eager to be held
I know what hands are for
And I'd like to help myself
You ask me the time
But I sense something more
And I would like to give you
What I think you're asking for
You handsome devil
Oh, you handsome devil

Let me get my hands
On your mammary glands
And let me get your head
On the conjugal bed
I say, I say, I say

I crack the whip
And you skip
But you deserve it
You deserve it, deserve it, deserve it

A boy in the bush
Is worth two in the hand
I think I can help you get through your exams
Oh, you handsome devil

Oh, let me get my hands
On your mammary glands
And let me get your head
On the conjugal bed
I say, I say, I say

I crack the whip
And you skip
But you deserve it
You deserve it, deserve it, deserve it

And when we're in your scholarly room
Who will swallow whom ?
When we're in your scholarly room
Who will swallow whom ?
You handsome devil

Oh, let me get my hands
On your mammary glands
And let me get your head
On the conjugal bed
I say, I say, I say

There's more to life than books, you know
But not much more
Oh, there's more to life than books, you know
But not much more, not much more
Oh, you handsome devil
Oh, you handsome devil
Ow !


The Smiths / Lyrics by Morrissey


Saturday, March 28, 2009

the boy with the thorn in his side




Listening to Morrissey's latest album has brought back fond memories of The Smiths, to which I used to listen compulsively in my late teens. I was not much aware of this at the time, but it was mainly the sexual obliqueness and ambiguity of their lyrics and performances that gripped (and still do, I guess) so many of us - an ambiguity continuously fed by Morrissey's refusal to accept petty, worn-out labels.
I'm not sure what to make of the title of this late album, Years of Refusal, of its campy cover and desperately sad, lonely effusiveness. Whatever the case, songs like "Hand in Glove", "Handsome Devil", "Shoplifters of the World Unite", "There is a Light That Never Goes Out" or this all-time favourite of mine, "The Boy with the Thorn in His Side", will continue to move and mesmerise with their ambivalence, their openness to all interpretations and inclinations.


The boy with the thorn in his side
Behind the hatred there lies
A murderous desire for love
How can they look into my eyes
And still they don't believe me ?
How can they hear me say those words
Still they don't believe me ?
And if they don't believe me now
Will they ever believe me ?
And if they don't believe me now
Will they ever, they ever, believe me ?
Oh no ...
Oh ...

The boy with the thorn in his side
Behind the hatred there lies
A plundering desire for love
How can they see the love in our eyes
And still they don't believe us ?
And after all this time,
They don't want to believe us
And if they don't believe us now
Will they ever believe us ?
And when you want to live
How do you start ?
Where do you go ?
Who do you need to know ?
Oh no no no ...


Oh ...
Oh no ...
Oh ...
La ...



The Smiths / Lyrics by Morrissey


Friday, March 27, 2009

I'm throwing my arms around Paris...





In the absence of your love
And in the absence of human touch
I have decided I’m throwing my arms around
around Paris because only stone and steel
accept my love

In the absence of your smiling face
I travelled all over the place
and I have decided
I’m throwing my arms around
around Paris because only stone and steel
accept my love
I’m throwing my arms around
around Paris because only stone and steel
accept my love

I’m throwing my arms around
Paris because nobody wants my love
Nobody wants my love
Nobody needs my love
Nobody wants my love
Yes, you made yourself plain
Yes, you made yourself very plain


Lyrics by Morrissey, from the album Years of Refusal



Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Under here





Have just discovered, on another blog, that this video I've been seeking for ages is finally available on YouTube. A mesmerising song on the lovable, translucent, dark, terrifying liquid realm to which those who desire someone always feel compelled to return.


Little Water Song

Under here, you just take my breath away
Under here, the water flows over my head
I can hear the little fishes

Under here whispering your most terrible name
Under here, they've given me starfish for eyes
And your head is a big red balloon

Under here, your huge hand is heavy on my chest
Ah, and under here, Sir, your lovely voice retreats
And yes, you take my breath away

Look at my hair, as it waves and waves
Sir, under here, I have such pretty hair
Silver, it is, and filled with silver bubbles

Ah, and under here, my blood will be a cloud
And under here my dreams are made of water
And, Sir, you just take my breath away

For under here, my pretty breasts are piled high
With stones and I cannot breathe
And tiny little fishes enter me

Under here, I am made ready
And under here, I am washed clean
And I glow with the greatness of my hate for you



Lyrics by Nick Cave
Performed by Ute Lemper

Monday, March 23, 2009

hieroglyphs in the wilderness

A few weeks ago I visited Kiyoshi Awazu's wonderful retrospective, Re-Reproduction, at the Kawasaki City Museum. Ever since I saw Awazu's graphic design work for the first time, I have been intrigued by his fixation on two ambiguous female faces, which he has endlessly reproduced and, at times, juxtaposed: Leonardo's Mona Lisa and the (in)famous Sada Abe. To those unfamiliar with the latter: in the mid-1930s, Sada erotically asphyxiated her lover, Kichizo Ishida, during one of their sex marathons, and then cut off his penis and testicles, carrying them around in her handbag for a couple of days, until she turned herself down to the the police in Tokyo. The story became known in the West through Nagisa Oshima's film version Ai no Korida / In the Realm of the Senses (No Império dos Sentidos, in Portuguese), even though the story has been the object of various other film adaptations in Japan.
Reverting to Awazu (and to the artists and philosophers who have been interested in both myths, for that matter): what might explain such male fascination with the blank, ungraspable facial expressions of these female sexual personae?

Once again, Camille Paglia suggests a provocative line of interpretation. A feminist with brass balls, no doubt!


Leonardo's Mona Lisa is the premiere sexual persona of western art. She is the Renaissance Nefertiti, eternally watching. She is unnervingly placid. The most beautiful woman, making herself a perfect stillness, will always turn Gorgon. I spoke of the Mona Lisa as Leonardo's apotropaion, his household charm of warding-off [evil]. She is an ambassador from primeval times, when earth was a desert inhospitable to man. She presides over a landscape of raw rock and water. The distant river's snaky meander is the elusiveness of her cold daemonic heart. Her figure is a stable female delta, a perceptual pyramid topped with the mystic eye. But the background is deceptive and incoherent. The mismatched horizon lines, which one rarely notices at first, are subliminally disorienting. They are the unbalanced scales of an archetypal world without law or justice. Mona Lisa's famous smile is a thin mouth receding into shadow. Her expression, like her puffy eyes, is hooded. The egglike headwith its enormous plucked brow seems to pillow on the abundant, self-embraced Italian bosom. What is Mona Lisa thinking? Nothing, of course. She is Zeus, Leda, and egg rolled into one, another hermaphrodite deity pleasuring herself into mere being. Walter Pater is to call her a "vampire", coasting through history on her secret tasks. Despite many satires, the Mona Lisa will remain the world's most famous painting. Supreme western works of art [...] preserve their indeterminacy through all interpretation. They are morally ungraspable. Even the Venus de Milo gained everything by losing her arms. Mona Lisa looks through us and passively accepts our admiration as her due. Some say she is pregnant. If so, she radiates the solipsism of woman gloating over her own creation. The picture combines fleshy amplitude, emotional obliqueness, and earthly devastation. Leonardo has drawn mother nature from life.
[...]
Mona Lisa's ambiguous smile is a hieroglyph symbolizing the link between Leonardo's sexual personae and their enshrouding atmosphere, a strange light which is their own stormy inner weather. [...] So Leonardo's smile is androgynous, a sexual hex sign.
[...]
Freud traces the mysterious smile to Leonardo's buried memory of the lost biological mother preceding his adoptive mother, the two women of The Virgin with St. Anne. Freud connects the painting to Leonardo's childhood dream of a bird of prey, the hermaphroditic Egyptian vulture goddess. [...] I trace the smile all the way back through Botticelli to Donatello and find it amoral, solipsistic and gender-crossing from the start.
[...]
But as the grotesque landscape shows, this is no celebration of female power. Like Michelangelo, Leonardo finds the condition of male servitude intolerable, and rightly so.


Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson (London & New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), pp. 154-56.


Image source for Kiyoshi Awazu's Portrait of a Woman (1977): the website of the 21st Museum of Contemporary Art, Kanazawa, Japan.