Probability

If an infinite number of YouTube commenters watched an infinite number of videos, would one of them eventually post something intelligent?

SSC: Hayley

I’ve mentioned before that my first love was Hayley Mills, and in a way I’m still carrying a torch for her, 40+ years on.

I looked for a photo from that time to illustrate this rather weak SSC, but there were none I would dare to publish. People might get entirely the wrong idea. Just because I’m fixated at a pre-adolescent stage of psycho-sexual attraction doesn’t mean I’m a pervert, officer. She’s ten years older than me. When I fancied her she was well over the age of consent.

Besides, nothing ever happened. I’m not giving up hope, though.

Nurture

I’ve been reading the story of a boy who grew up an only child, in a household where his parents ignored him, and were indifferent to his concerns. The main emotion they seemed to express was irritation at the way he impinged on their lives.

The boy had no friends: at school he was considered a massive under-achiever, despite being of high intelligence and quick wit. His main interactions, apart from with teachers, were with a bully who beat him mercilessly; and with a girl towards whom he expressed himself in the only way he could: with hostility, aggression and anti-social behaviour. Typical behaviour, in fact, for an abused child, but there was no evidence he was ever actively abused.

Instead, he was ignored. He did what any introspective, isolated child would do: he invented an imaginary friend. His imaginative life became a substitute for the real world, thus exacerbating his isolation. In his daydreams, he’s a spaceman or a dinosaur, both of whom live in a world without (other) humans. His imaginary friend is a wild animal, not a person.

What chance does such a child have? What sort of adult do you suppose this child would grow up into? Perhaps the answer lies here:

click to biggify

Never shall affection die

Leave Me from Daros Films on Vimeo.

 

Dear, when I am from thee gone,
Gone are all my joys at once.
I loved thee and thee alone,
In whose love I joyed once.
And although your sight I leave,
Sight wherein my joys do lie,
Till that death do sense bereave,
Never shall affection die.

And the rain runs

But before going on with such explorations, a return to someone I’ve written about before here. Ilse Weber, a Moravian Jew, musician, writer of songs and plays for children. She was sent to Terezín, or Theresienstadt, and took it upon herself there to play with and for the children. She had two of her own: Tommy was with her in the ghetto, but his older brother Hanus had been sent to Sweden, and was living there in safety.

The song Und der Regen rinnt is about Hanus, far away across the high mountains and the deep sea, where he is spared the sight of sorrow and misery, and never need walk in the “stony alleyways” which perhaps refers to some local feature of Terezín associated with the transports.

Because their paths were not to come together again. Willi, her husband, was selected to be transported to Auschwitz. Ilse elected to go along with him, with Tommy. On arrival, Willi was put to work and Ilse and Tommy were gassed. Willi survived the war, as of course did Hanus.

(Note how sehnsucht returns, and here it definitely does have an object.)

 

Une der Regen rinnt

Und der Regen rinnt, und der Regen rinnt …

Ich denk im Dunklen an dich, mein Kind.

Hoch sind die Berge und tief ist das Meer,

mein Hertz ist müd und sehnsuchtschweer.

Une der Regen rinnt, und der Regen rinnt …

warom bist du zo fern, mein Kind?

 

Une der Regen rinnt, und der Regen rinnt …

Gott selbst hat uns getrennt, mein Kind.

Du sollst nicht Leid und Elend sehn,

sollst nicht auf steinigen Gassen gehn.

Une der Regen rinnt, und der Regen rinnt …

Hast du mich nicht vergessen, Kind?

 

And the rain runs

And the rain runs, and the rain runs …

In the dark I think of you, my child.

High are the mountains and deep is the sea.

My heart is weary and heavy with yearning.

And the rain runs, and the rain runs …

Why are you so far away, my child?

 

And the rain runs, and the rain runs …

God himself has parted us, my child.

You are not meant to see sorrow and misery;

you are not meant to walk in stony alleyways.

And the rain runs, and the rain runs …

Have you not forgotten me, my child?

 

You can listen here to the song sung by Anne Sofie Von Otter, whose remarkable story is told at the Grapes 2.0 link above. That recording, together with the words and translations in this post, come from the CD Terezín/Theresienstadt, also featuring Christian Gerhaher and Daniel Hope.

Sehnsucht

I’ve been considering the mental states of nostalgia, saudade and Sehnsucht, all of which seem to be local versions of various aspects of melancholy. Sehnsucht is the title of a poem by Goethe, set to music by Schubert, which our choir was planning to perform next weekend, which planted the seed in my mind. The poem goes like this:

Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt

Weiß, was ich leide!

Allein und abgetrennt

Von aller Freude,

Seh ich ans Firmament

Nach jener Seite.

Ach! der mich liebt und kennt,

Ist in der Weite.

Es schwindelt mir, es brennt

Mein Eingeweide.

Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt

Weiß, was ich leide!

In English:

Only one who knows this longing

Understands what I suffer!

Alone and separated

From all joy,

I look to the vast horizon

On every side.

Oh! He who loves and knows me,

Is far away.

I feel dizzy, and it burns

my insides.

Only one who knows this longing

Understands what I suffer!

Goethe’s idea that nobody else could know what he’s going through is central to the idea of Sehnsucht. The feeling itself is not, unlike nostalgia, associated with yearning for anything in particular, unless it’s a time before the Sehnsucht came on. It’s an idiopathic condition, in that respect.

Germans even seem to be convinced that only Germans suffer from Sehnsucht, since they’re the only ones who have a word for it. That sounds to me like a version of the old canard about Eskimos and their snow vocabulary, and about as convincing. What’s wrong with the word “yearning”? That’s an emotion that doesn’t require an object, as any teenager knows.

Melancholy itself, in the sense in which we now use it, is also similar to that free-floating form of yearning. So, also, is the Portuguese saudade, which I’ll look at later.

There is also a setting of the Goethe poem by Tchaikovsky, and a piece for piano by Robert Schumann. Here’s a performance of the Schubert setting:

Nostalgia

Apparently Swiss mercenaries in the 17th and 18th centuries used to miss their homeland so much they often succumbed to a form of homesickness, or nostalgia, which could lead to desertion, disability and even death. To help prevent this happening, they were forbidden from singing songs from home known as Kuhreihen, which although they were simple melodies played by cow-herding Swiss, were so melancholic as to bring the condition on.

The Wikipedia article on nostalgia has a hilarious sentence:

“Cases resulting in death were known and soldiers were sometimes successfully treated by being discharged and sent home.”

One of the few cases in those days where medicine hit the nail on the head, I suspect.

Joker

This week, it was revealed that Afghanistan is sitting on such a huge pile of mineral wealth it could become “the Saudi Arabia of lithium” – an element expected to play a major role in the development of electric cars.

God certainly is a joker, you have to admit. First he makes Saudi Arabia into the Saudi Arabia of petroleum, then he turns Afghanistan into the Saudi Arabia of lithium.

The one consolation is that there is competition. In an article in the New Yorker back in March, Lawrence Wright wrote about Bolivia, one of South America’s poorest countries, which is sitting on half of the world’s known reserves of lithium (incidentally, a similar amount to Afghanistan, which in March was “unknown reserves”). And what were the people of Bolivia starting to call their country, according to Wright? The Saudi Arabia of lithium, that’s correct.

 

See the phrase used in this abstract here. Full version only available to subscribers.

 

Heartache

The Union of Belgian Optimists held their first-ever congress last week in Brussels. One of the speakers was the cardiologist to the King, Professor Pedro Brugada, who spoke about optimism as an antidote to stress, and all that that entails.

"It's difficult to remain optimistic if you're surrounded by people who see things in black," he said. "That's why I find it important to support movements like this which put optimism into society, and offer a counterweight to the overwhelming melancholy."

It may not occur to him that "overwhelming melancholy" is the only really sane response to the world. It clearly doesn't occur to him that for a melancholic, the presence of an optimist is the very last thing likely to bring relief.

On the other hand, he is a doctor of the heart. He surely must know what he's talking about.

Conspiracy

Two flavours/scents I can’t abide are cloves, and lavender.

The new toothpaste, Crest, has the distinct flavour of cloves, which is odd as that taste is associated with toothache.

The shower gel, meanwhile, has a nasty, acrid, piercing top-note of lavender.

My bathroom hates me.

UPDATE: It turns out that the active ingredient in clove essential oil is eugenol, and that harsh top note in the lavender fragrance is probably camphor, and both are hepatotoxic, which means they're bad for the liver. So that, boys and girls, is most likely where my dislike for those two compounds derives from. Isn't that interesting?

Ouch

One of the hottest flames I’ve ever seen, and I was a flame warrior for quite a few years. Not a surprising opinion, but it’s all in the expression. 

But when Kenny G decided that it was appropriate for him to defile the music of the man who is probably the greatest jazz musician that has ever lived [Louis Armstrong] by spewing his lame-ass, jive, pseudo bluesy, out-of-tune, noodling, wimped out, fucked up playing all over one of the great Louis's tracks (even one of his lesser ones), he did something that I would not have imagined possible. He, in one move, through his unbelievably pretentious and calloused musical decision to embark on this most cynical of musical paths, shit all over the graves of all the musicians past and present who have risked their lives by going out there on the road for years and years developing their own music inspired by the standards of grace that Louis Armstrong brought to every single note he played over an amazing lifetime as a musician. By disrespecting Louis, his legacy and by default, everyone who has ever tried to do something positive with improvised music and what it can be, Kenny G has created a new low point in modern culture - something that we all should be totally embarrassed about - and afraid of. We ignore this, "let it slide", at our own peril.

JazzOasis.com - Pat Metheny on Kenny G

Useless actions

One thing that divides Man from the animals is our ability to perform useless actions in a graceful and beautiful way. That’s the only explanation for Balanchine, or Van Beethoven, or this bloke fucking about on his bike.

Most of your actions are useless, I suspect. Does it even occur to you to do them gracefully?

 

Bonne nuit

In a hotel room too hot, with foamy unsupportive pillows, I dreamed you were gone off with some man who seemed to have enchanted you. You were far from me, and I felt an immeasurable distance between us. I awoke at 4am with a feeling of melancholy, that the last of something had happened, without my awareness.

All of which is true, of course, except that the man in reality is not a sinister figure. He's just a guy. But the distance and the finality are utterly real.

Analyse that, Freud, if you dare.

Destiny

Bayliss: What if the one true love of your life was an Eskimo, and you lived in Des Moines?

Pembleton: There are a lot of nice girls in Des Moines.

from Homicide: Life on the Street

Up In the Air

Oh my God, a Hollywood movie that romanticises the sacking of thousands of American workers. You don’t have to be Barbara Ehrenreich to find that utterly repellent.

Recipe

I’ve figured out what it is that makes George Clooney so sexy.

Fuck you if you think I’m telling.

Viral

People send you links to videos, thinking they’re the first. But they found the link via someone else. What is wrong with this picture?

I think we need to have badges according to the amount we use the net. Then a badge no. 2 would know not to send me, a badge no. 7, anything at all. Everyone lower than 7 would have to leave me alone, and I’d only have to take links from Sal Towse and Jason Kottke.

(link)

Beard

One of the main problems about letting your beard grow, is that sooner or later you begin to ingurgitate your own hairs. Unlike other foreign-body hairs, your own seem to be less readily rejected by your body.

I guess this is a problem only men have. I’ve seen old women with facial hair, but none with hair like I’ve grown since last September. Now we know there’s a price to pay.

Bite

I don’t often look in the mirror, for obvious reasons, but today I happened to catch a glimpse. And found a bite-mark.

No, not a sexy vampirish twin puncture. The imprint of a full set of choppers. Not a bite, a bruise.

Where have I been? And what have you been doing to me?

Horse

I have a grey horse, who shares my bed with me. He’s about one hand to the shoulder, and in fact you can hold him in one hand. My children gave him to me one Fathers’ Day; they’d been looking for a donkey, my beast of choice, but this would have to suffice. They may have been unsure, or even imagined I wouldn’t spot a ringer.

He’s pretty useless for snuggling (and he’s indifferent to my philosophising and snowman-building) but I keep him in my bed anyway, so that the children will see him from time to time, and know that he’s still close to me.

TIA

You think you're being polite when at the end of an email you go, "Thanks in advance". In fact you're being insufferably presumptuous. Thanks in advance means, Get it done, bitch.

Whatever happened to "Your humble servant"?

The Lovely Bones

There's a very effective, Hitchcock-like moment in The Lovely Bones, involving a creaky floorboard, a desperate sister and a serial killer. Watching it, I was not only reminding myself that I already knew the outcome, I was also admiring Hitch's definition of suspense, and director Peter Jackson's willingness to wring every last drop from the scene.

But please OMG, don't hope for anything else from this dreadful, bungled movie.

Alice Sebold's novel may not be great literature, but her description of how a family reacts to the death of one of its members was, for me, utterly convincing, and I've been in the situation. It's terribly hackneyed to claim the film wasn't as good as the book, but all film adaptations are better than this one. It failed not only to capture the narrator, who without spoiling is a murdered girl. It also failed to capture the father, who goes a bit nuts; the mother, who bolts; the sister, who becomes an avenging angel; the brother, who doesn't understand anything, until he does; and the detective, played by Michael Imperioli from The Sopranos, and getting less to do than if he were the guest on an episode of Extras.

Oh yeah, and it fails to develop the Indian boy, the clairvoyant girl, the Indian boy's mother -- all of whom were characters in the book, all well-developed.

How could a film miss so much? Partly it's in the nature of film, as we all know. That doesn't excuse why things went so wrong. Maybe Peter Jackson is just a crap director. He's famous for Lord of the Rings and King Kong. Maybe he's out of his depth when doing things on a human scale.

(Trailer)