Happy World Book Day, 2010

The 11 o'clock viewing just got cancelled. It was a dream place. Affordable and spacious. And it will stay so, because I will never see that it was actually a ran down hole. So I will keep beating myself up about it that I have missed out on this possibly perfect opportunity. This is what viewings are really for. To see what you do NOT want. But no fretting, I still have a quarter to 12 and a half 12 appointment to see where we do not wish to live. As you can see I am resorting to morose skepticism in order to not be disappointed, as I was when the agent called minutes ago to cancel the viewing and I went into a not-so-dignified chain of cussing, that may have offended my neighbours on the other side of the paper thin walls. 

You will be glad to know, that I still haven't made it to the library, since the last brief visit to register for my library card (which is actually a piece of yellow paper with a barcode sticker on it, fancy huh?). London is sunny! Who in their right mind would voluntarily imprison themselves within four walls, when spring comes trotting into the grey and rainy town? So I took a long, wonderful and bathing-in-the-sunshine walk in Hyde Park. Then, took a long, wonderful and bathing-in-the-sunshine walk in Regents Park. Then ... alright, to cut to the chase I also walked up to Camden and then Kentish Town. Let me tell you, I walked everywhere except to the library. 

I also wondered into a bookstore, when I was waiting for my randez-vous with the Doctor. I should have learned never ever to do that. It is dangerous activity for my time and also money. I could live in a bookstore. Just sit on the ground, and devour everything from classic to cult, through non-fiction to cook books. Somehow, I never end up reading what I'm supposed to be reading (fascinating pieces for aiding the structuring of my theoretical framework - says me, swallowing back a little vomit) so basically I procrastinate from reading by reading. I walked away, with only the essentials. At one point I was clutching five books, and trying to decide on the verge of tears, which ones I should take home. I think this is what most people feel when they have to pick out puppies from a litter. 

Under the Frog (A béka segge alatt) by Tibor Fisher

Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo, y en español

and finally,

Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk,

which by a simple game of 'reach-in-the-bag-and-see-what-you-get' was the first to be read. Sitting at Euston, waiting for the Doctor, the station disappeared as I was sucked in to the horror and insight of the narrative. I actually had to look up at times, to tear myself away from the vivid images that my mind kept belching up of torn intestines, mouths bleeding from cold sores and carrots. While I was trying to find the appropriate balance between continuing reading and registering that there is still a somewhat normal reality around me, I noticed that the girl next to me is immersed in the Bible. I don't think I've ever seen anybody actually Reading the Bible. Nor at a coffee shop or on the bus or, in this case, at a train station. There is talk about it all the live long day, but not a sight of somebody just casually whipping it out. Of course, it is also possible that I haven't frequented the right places. So, I looked at my book, the one that is clinically dissects and smears the world the other is striving to build, and the other whose message is threatened or at least faded with the existence of the prior. I looked around, and it was only the two of us reading in a long row of people playing on their blackberries, iphones, ipads you name it, anything to not look and recognize each other, while from the Haunted rose cruel, disgusting and illuminating reality of the everyday life and from the Bible rose the promise, guilt and superiority of an other universe. And the girl and I played out the silent war of worlds from within our hands.  

A recent addition to Sara's box

"At my apartment, the ceiling is pounding with some fast music. The walls are murmuring with panicked voices. Either an ancient cursed Egyptian mummy has come back to life and is trying to kill the people next door, or they're watching a movie.

Under the floor, there's someone shouting, a dog barking, doors slamming, the auctioneer call of some song.

In the bathroom, I turn out the lights. So I can't see what's in the bag. So I won't know how it's supposed to turn out. In the cramped tight darkness, I stuff a towel in the crack under the door. With the package on my lap, I sit on the toilet and listen.

This is what passes for civilization. 

People who would never throw litter from their car will drive past you with their radio blaring. People who'd never blow cigar smoke at you in a crowded restaurant will bellow into their cell phone. They'll shout at each other across the space of a dinner plate.

These people who would never spray herbicides or insecticides will fog the neighborhood with their stereo playing Scottish bagpipe music. Chinese opera. Country and western. 

Outdoors, a bird singing is fine. Patsy Cline is not.

Outdoors, the din of traffic is bad enough. Adding Chopin's Piano Concerto in E Minor is not making the situation any better.

You turn up your music to hide the noise. Other people turn up their music to hide yours. You turn up yours again. Everyone buys a bigger stereo system. This is the arms race of sound. You don't win with a lot of treble.

This isn't about quality. It's about volume.

This isn't about music. This is about winning.

You stomp the competition with the bass line. You rattle windows. You drop the melody line and shout the lyrics. You put in foul language and come down hard on each cussword.

You dominate. This is really about power.

[…] 

These music-oholics. These calm-ophobics.

No one wants to admit we're addicted to music. That's just not possible. No one's addicted to music and television and radio. We just need more of it, more channels, a larger screen, more volume. We can't bear to be without it, but no, nobody's addicted.

We could turn it off anytime we wanted.

[…] 

These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.

Old George Orwell got it backward.

Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He is pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He 's making sure you're fully absorbed.

He's making sure your imagination withers. Until it's as useful as your appendix. He's making sure your attention is always filled. 

And this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

[…] 

There are worse things than finding your wife and child dead.

You can watch the world do it. You can watch your wife get old and bored. You can watch your kids discover everything in the world you've tried to save them from. Drugs, divorce, conformity, disease. All the nice clean books, music, television. Distraction. 

These people with a dead chid, you want to tell them, go ahead. Blame yourself.

There are worse things you can do to the people you love than kill them. The regular way is just to watch the world do it. Just read the newspaper.

The music and laughter eat away at your thoughts. The noise blots them out. All the sound distracts. Your head aches from the glue.

Anymore, no one's mind is their own. You can't concentrate. You can't think. There's always some noise worming in. Singers shouting. Dead people laughing. Actors crying. All these little doses of emotion.

Someone's always spraying the air with their mood.

Their car stereo, broadcasting their grief or joy or anger all over the neighborhood.

[…] 

This isn't anything new.

Experts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn't see their thoughts as belonging to them. When ancient Greeks had a thought, it occurred to them as a god or goddess giving an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to fall in love.

Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy, but now they call this free will.

At least the ancient Greeks were being honest."

-- 'Lullaby' by Chuck Palahniuk