Birth of KPC

I have to fill up some gap in the narrative.

About two centuries ago, a girl in my kk family fell in love with a boy in Kunnathur mana (Padinjaredath, after the split into Kizhakedath and Padinjaredath). As he was a younger brother, he should not have married from his own caste; but the lovers managed to marry.

In due course, a bonny boy was born to the couple who lived in-cognito. The boy was regularly brought to the Peruvanam temple for Darshan of Eratteppan (it was recently that I knew about it. Eratta = double; there is a big lingam and a small one, side by side). The smart boy invited the attention of Ittivasu-aphan (Brother-in-law of Shaktanthampuran) who was meditating in the mandapam.

 On being asked: which is your family?

The boy said: Padinjaredath which surprised the aphan!

A boy in my family, unknown to me?

When matters were clarified, he persuaded the elder brother to bring the young family and both lived happily ……till fate ordered almost a violent implosion. My uncle (eldest) and father of the present kpc generaion hated each other, like Duryodhana and Bhima. My brother may know all about it. A separate kitchen was set up. Maternal grandmother who knew Mahabharat so well failed to intervene. Her opposite number was a simple village girl. After protracted cold war, it was decided to partition the property. Neither party had enough money to pay compensation. So they approached Raja of Travancore who purchased the house. Now some social activities are going on there.

Uncle moved to Kuttapuzha which is very fresh in my memory, as construction of the new house at Naruvakulangara was going on under the supervision of my father. There were a number of wooden vessels used to store sambar etc during feast and we used  to play in them as boats !From Kuttapuzha house we would climb the broken corner wall of the temple and collect marod- a long flat piece of baked earth used as tile-rendered waste after the temple was renovated, with manglore tiles. We would make multi storey structures with marod. Krishnammaman, of my age, was my playmate. Ma’s father married a second time to dispose of my ma’s elder sister(here was a tragedy before which ma’s fate pales into insignificance; at least, ma enjoyed brief spells of affluence and happiness) Krishnammaman was son to the second wife.

One day there was a commotion. My stepsister was running towards the fence. Maheswaran’n elder brother, who was later to be closely associated to me, was trying to come down from a bamboo tree. A thorn had pierced his eye. They took him to Nambisan’s clinic at Trichur, but could not save the eye.

School

My guru died, followed by several of his brothers, on account of some epidemic, I think. Vedic education came to an end. I wanted to go to school inspired by the fact, perhaps, that all my cousins in ma’s house went to school.

Somehow, I had a half shirt and half trouser. I changed into this new dress and approached uncle Vasudevaphn, who was working at high school at Cherpu. He was reading something at his bungalow at kottical. When he heard me, he quietly gave me a four anna coin (25 paise) and dismissed me.

I went straight to ma’s house at Naruvakulangara and requested the one-eyed Aniettan (Neelakanthan)to help me. Next day at 9 am we started for the high school, where he was studying. In front of the Karayogam School, he asked me to wait and proceeded further. At 10 the bell rang. I panicked and followed the children who went into the first standard. I sat with them on a bench. There were no desks. Ramankutty master (there male teachers were called so) must have been surprised. He did not say anything. I immensely liked the new atmosphere .The masterji drew a fine pumpkin on the blackboard which looked like a real one.

At lunch break, he gave me a form and told me to get it filled by elders. I do not remember who signed it. Perhaps my second uncle. I dutifully handed over the form to masterji.

That was the happiest day in my life! Goddess Saraswatiy must have been very pleased. My parents or anybody in my family, probably, did not know about it, until I returned on Friday evening.

Pidikaparambu

After partition of property between Vasudevaphan and our family, when we came away, we became refugees in our own village. Who would take responsibility of a young widow and her four children without any wherewithal? We were housed in an old uninhabited cottage. A faithful maidservant remained with mother even in her woes. Across the fields my brother and I would run to join our cousins who are children of Ramaphan, who happened to be patrnal great grandfather’s youngest son. Recently I happened to see the latter’s cousin, something like a character from history. I did not know that such a person ever lived. This is a peculiar nature. I never cared to know anything about anyone. Now I want to have a record of each member of our clan. Living ones are more than sixty in number.

Ramaphan’s son Unni (KRS) is only slightly elder to me. At that time, we were about thirteen. Next comes Vasudevan and Raman. Their orchard is very large and has a big pond and two or three wells. In the night we all used to sleep together.

At the Shiva temple Othootu was going on. Yajurveda would be recited every day for forty one days continuously, from morning till midnight with lunch break of an hour or so.

Morning breakfast at 8, lunch at 1p.m., evening light food at 6, and dinner at midnight .There were oil and vaka (powdered bark of a tree) and crushed leaves of hedge for shampoo (what a healthy life style !) at the temple tank for our use (only for Namboodiris) Our bath may take a long time, massaging, talking and swimming…..

Practically we children enjoyed the time.

Poor ma once woke up in the night and saw something hanging from the roof .The only light was from a small bottle lamp (filled with kerosene and fitted with a perforated lid through which a wick is inserted) She woke up the maid. It was a SNAKE, probably poisonless (Rat snake) chera, but remember that father died of snakebite !All through the night, they kept vigil lest it may harm the sleeping girls…

Thiruvallakavu temple, now famous for initiating kids into the world of letters, is only two miles from our house. People offer appam (rice powder and jaggery mixed and made into balls which are then fried in pure cows’ ghee) We walk the distance , circumventing the hill, with hardly any dwelling in that are (now there is bus service, tarred road, plenty of terrace buildings and Santa Maria School) and stray dogs with menacing looks, reach the main Trichur-Kodungallor road. At 3pm is the pooja. The appetizing fragrance of ghee diverts our attention while praying for sadbudhi (wisdom). We may eat the appam then and there.

One day a stranger appeared, wearing khaki trousers and half-sleeved shirt. He smiled at us and started talking, as if he knew us. He was hefty and well built and had leadership qualities. He organized local farmers to form a Kisan Sabha.We were easily entangled into a Balasangham.He became a hero-comrade M.N., later; a warrier also became an activist.

Our Cochin state was an independent entity, ruled by a king, area comprising of the land south of Bharatapuzha and Travancore state in the South, beyond Ernakulum district. There was demand for peoples’ representation in the administration and people were becoming politically conscious. A private road leading to a temple was closed to lower castes. They were agitating for the right to use the road. Police mercilessly beat them up. M.N. was among them. We saw him coming with several injuries. Our tender hearts melted, we gave the appams we were carrying, to comrade.

At that time I took Savithri, my sister to Vallachira School and enrolled her there. I do not remember any of our relatives visiting us. Not even maternal grandmother!

Avanavil mana had three elephants. The youngest Ramachandran became out of control and refused to come out of the temple tank. We all went to see the fun. It was spectacle worth watching. The animal was swimming and diving, sometimes only the four feet visible above water, moving from corner to corner within seconds, muddying the water, putting the mahouts to an ordeal. They taught him a lesson, after he was ultimately enticed with a bunch of plantains, beating him right and left. The poor creature was simply enjoying a dip in water. He was a waterfriend. I almost wept. Why do we not allow these forest animals their freedom?

Pazhai

Ultimately Veembur kadalayil mana adopted us and we moved to a cottage adjoining their’s, purchased from a nair family, marking the beginning of a lifelong relationship with V.B.S, my guide and mentor until I left Keralam for good.

The lady in white, my maternal grandma ,belonged to this house which was earlier located at Thalore.

 Pazhai(gone waste)

 The very name is a thrill. In the village library, I found my first novel(Translation of  “The Wreck by Tagore “), I devoured every word, like a thirsty man drinking dew drops. I was disappointed, when Kamala returned to her lawful husband, whom she had never seen! The love between her and  Romesh, the hero, was pure and devoid of selfishness. Alas, such love wilts under the heat of married life!

There was an ashram of Vivekananda Mission, near the river (now under RSS).The plot was donated by maternal grandma’s uncle. The library had children’s English books which I greedily read, though half the words were unknown to me.

VBS’s cousins and their children, my maternal uncles and occasionally, politicians used to frequent the VK house and, in short, a certain intellectual air prevailed there, very stimulating and invigorating. There, I learned the basics of Marxism. Gorky’s books were a favourite. Ralph Fox, Steinbeck, Howard Fast etc. were too familiar, even though, Trotsky’s autobiography was read only recently in Dyal Singh Library (he was unjustly maligned by Stalinists. He was a genius of the rank of Lenin, M.N.Roy, Mao etc).

Notable artists who made the area their home include John Steinbeck, who grew up in Salinas, and lived in nearby Pacific Grove for many years as well as the city of Monterey for a very short time. Steinbeck immortalized Monterey with his novels Cannery Row, Tortilla Flat and East of Eden, and his play Of Mice and Men. Among Steinbeck’s friends were some of the city’s more colorful characters, including Ed Ricketts, a marine biologist, and Bruce Ariss, artist and theatre enthusiast who designed and built the Wharf Theater. After Rickett’s death, the new owner and a group of his friends would assemble in Rickett’s lab for drinks and Jazz music every Wednesday evening. While visiting with the group, San Francisco DJ, Jimmy Lyons, suggested holding a Jazz celebration in Monterey which eventually became the Monterey Jazz Festival.^[

You kids are just so sweet with your comments.

Okay, Rage Sunday update.

But first, I find this terribly funny so therefore must write about it first. Two search terms that have popped up in the last day that have me cackling to myself:

“Fucking the tiny baby”

and

“I have mike in my tits”

What in the name of god is wrong with you people? I have baby fuckers being led to my blog by google. Thanks google!!!!!

Onward….

In spite on two hangover cokes and two excederin my head still feels like it’s full of mashed potatoes. So I guess that means it was a good rage night. We all know I’m not very funny when I’m hungover and Tay Tay Jenkins arrival is imminent so I’m going to make this brief.

1. One thing I’ve realized is that whenever I got to Rontoms, when I first walk in I’m overwhelmed by all the bearded and stylish men. I think, “Holy shit, this is why I love Portland! So many hot guys!”. But then an odd thing happens when I start drinking. Instead of getting cuter they all start to become less and less attractive. Backwards, eh? I notice that this one is 5′5″, that one has food in his beard, the one over there reeks of STDs, that one looks like Spock (not a bad thing until you add in a 1980’s windbreaker). So Lucy and I rolled straight through a bar full of men to the patio and struck up a conversations with the only 45 year old dudes in the bar. They hand rolled us cigarettes while we told them about our plans to start a brothel in Port Townsend with “classy, smart Canadian whores”.

2. Tiny Baby texted me at 11:30 to ask where I was. You can’t tell a girl “I can’t get you out of my mind, I want to see you Sunday” and then not get in contact until almost midnight. FAIL. We moved on to a bar closer to home where I could get sauced without having to worry about driving. Tiny Baby continued to text and at some point I told him I would slap the shit out of him which he liked and asked me to tell him more. Oh, drunk texting. God bless it.

3. For some reason Lucy’s friend who invited us to that hipster art party last weekend was texting her that he thought I was hot and would have hit on me had he known I was single. This turned into two hours of Lucy giggling drunkenly while texting back and forth with him until she actually gave him MY phone number and he started texting me. I think I may have said something offensive. I could go back and piece it  together through my sent texts but I can’t muster up the enthusiasm. I think I was trying to get him to talk dirty which he said he doesn’t do on the “first text”. Then he asked me to drinks and I said something about all young boys being lame. He’s 25…oooops. Oh well, he looked way too much like a guy I used to fuck back in the bay area. It would have been like re-fucking but having to add another number to the list.

4. Did I mention my head hurts and that I’d much rather be back in bed but I’m waiting for Tay Tay on the couch while the dog gets as close as possible to my lap while my laptop is on it resulting in me basically typing this with one good hand and one gimp hand? Awesome.

5. Oh, also, I saw The Bartender last night at Rontoms. He barely made eye contact with me. Ooops. Not that I did anything bad to him other than not want a second date. I was not drunk enough to explain to him that it’s because he looks like Gregory Hines. Lucy was drunk enough to loudly proclaim that I didn’t need to be dating “wannabe actors” right in front of him. That got her a stern look and a smack from me.

6. As many guest appearances as Lucy makes in this blog I feel like she should have her own little about me section. I’m like the main character on a TV show but she’s the sidekick that everyone loves more and who will eventually get her own spin off show. In which she will just get hammered and yell at people and talk to old man strangers about whores and literature.

7. Speaking of literature, while talking to the old men last night one of them mentioned Steinbeck to which I shouted “FUCK STEINBECK!”. The look of terror and disgust on the guy’s face was priceless. But really, eat my shit, Cannery Row.

This wasn’t very short was it? Shit. Oh well. I was on a roll. Plus when I’m typing I want to puke less. But my arm is falling asleep from the dog weight on it.

Tay Tay adventure blogs next time!

OH! As I was proofreading this Lucy’s art hipster friend texted me. He said his mom will let him borrow the car to take me out if he gets it back to her early. I was really fucking confused for a minute until I realized he’s poking fun at me making fun of his age. Duh. Now he needs a blog nickname. But motherfucker, go out with ANOTHER young dude? Should I? Ugh.

This piece is an illustration for the cover of The Pearl, a novel by John Steinbeck.

The story revolves around a poor Mexican family. The husband earns his meager income by diving for pearls. When his son is stung by a scorpion he searches for a pearl to pay for a doctor to heal his child. He finds a perfect pearl in the ocean that brings optimism and joy to the family but it also places a burden on the family they have a great difficulty dealing with.

You can buy a limited edition print of this painting in my Etsy shop.

"East of Eden"

This is my new exhibition.

I’m going to say a few quick profound things about it which you can either read or skip, but people ask all the time what things mean, so this is my attempt to counter-act the impending questions.

I’ll begin by stating the obvious: I am using a title that John Steinbeck gave to a book he wrote, which was published in 1952, and which is a work of art that I admire ridiculously and helplessly.  Steinbeck in turn got it from the Bible.

But I don’t necessarily mean to make a direct reference to the Bible or even to Steinbeck’s book – although traces of it I know have lodged themselves deep into my anatomy, as they should.  Rather, I’m making a reference to the quiet and startling drama those words are heavy with in my opinion.

They give me the idea of something fatally misplaced by a few inches.  Transparently wrong, but maybe in such a gentle way that it can go unnoticed by millions of onlookers.

The imagery in this show is kind of hinged on that idea.  The work was mostly finished when I put the title on it, but as always, the right title explains a lot of things to myself about my work.

I think it’s safe to presume that “East of Eden” is a good match.  There’s probably someone out there who disagrees, but as R. Crumb said the other night, “You can’t please everyone.”

Below is all the info for you to get to the exhibition.  I hope you will make it.  You are excused if there is a major body of water in the way.

All the best,

Mercedes.

14 November to 19 December 2009

MERRY KARNOWSKY GALLERY

170 S. La Brea Ave.

Los Angeles, CA. 90036

Here is a paper I wrote documenting changes to the Gulf of California since the 1940 Ricketts and Steinbeck expedition.  Below is a link to a  radio program with Dick Gordon on NPR’s “The Story” where I talk about Steinbeck, Ricketts and changes to the Gulf.

SagarinEtAl.2008.RememberingTheGulf.Frontiers

The Story on the Sea of Cortez

Dave LaBelle’s four greatest influences are Rembrandt, Norman Rockwell, John Steinbeck, and Jesus. But LaBelle is not a painter, a writer, or  a priest.

LaBelle, a photojournalist, spoke at Elon Wednesday night in the interactive media floor of Powell.

Originally from western Kentucky, LaBelle left his home in California and has been on a speaking tour since the second week of September of this year. His wife, two sons, two dogs, and guinea pig joined him.

LaBelle’s talk included two parts: in the first, he highlighted the importance of TLC–timing, light and composition. In the second, he share his personal story, philosophy and life statement.

When LaBelle was a young photojournalist, everything was interesting. His keen eye and talent presented him–at 20 years old–to travel the world shooting sports. After much internal debate, LaBelle turned down the offer.

“I wanted, needed to do more than take pretty pictures, ” LaBelle said. “I wanted, needed to tell stories that help people.”

In California, LaBelle suggested that the newspaper he work at begin doing a piece on the homeless. His inspiration were the “Adopt Me” pieces that newspapers typically do on cats or dogs that need homes. Typically, when these stories are published, soon afterward, the animals are adopted.

The newspaper began publishing a piece entitled “Hard Times” every other week.

As LaBelle did the piece each week, he began to identify his vocation.

“I realized my responsibility to change people’s lives for the better,” LaBelle said.

LaBelle shared a story about a college-aged woman named Samantha. A part-time student with a full-time job, Samantha was homeless and lived in her car. After her story was published in the paper, a man called asking about her. He offered her an extra room in his home. “I don’t know what God looks like. . .maybe she is what God looks like,” the man said.

Yet, certainly, not all photographers or photographs highlight positive stories. “The world is good and evil,” LaBelle said. “For whatever reason, most people focus on the evil.”

“I choose to celebrate the good,” LaBelle said. “I want to celebrate the goodness of the human spirit as it has been demonstrated to me.”

Through experiences, LaBelle has learned not only about human nature in general, but also himself and his views on his career.

“I learned photojournalism is a universal language. Today, you are learning a language,” he said. “Who will you speak to? What will you say?”

Hösten andas tungt, mörkret faller sorgset över landet. Vemodet griper tag i människorna, i oss som hastigt befolkar ytan för en stund, vi som stampar jorden. För en stund kan det kännas som en evighet, i ett ögonblick är det över; borta för alltid. Tiden stannar inte, den fortsätter. När allt känns stilla springer tiden, rentav rusar i vansinnig takt iväg; bakom släpas vi, antingen vi vill eller inte.

Ibland frågar vi oss om det var slumpen som satt oss till jorden. Ett klämkäckt svar är att så var det inte, utan det var våra föräldrar. En biologisk förklaring som kan synas acceptabel. Det ger en viss utgångspunkt, nu vet vi hur livet vi äger hade sin början; men den nyfikne frågar varför? Därför att Pappa ville, svarar någon. Jag svarar att jag inte vet. Det finns stunder när jag tror mig veta. Men hastigt kör jag på en betongsugga och färdriktningen möter ett abrupt slut. Målet som var så klart, meningen som hägrade någonstans där framme är nu långt borta. Det enda som finns kvar är vägen.

Varje gång mina tankar möter dessa mentala betongsuggor uppstår förvirring. Hur kunde jag ta så fel? Förstod jag inte att det var fel färdriktning?

Nej jag förstod inte. Jag förstår inte. Det enda jag är medveten om är att vägarna ligger kvar. Programmera om GPS:en och styr mot nästa mål, någon gång når jag destinationen som sökes. Man brukar lite föraktfullt fnysa över den Amerikanska frihetsglorifieringen som ofta symboliseras av en bil på en öppen väg. Inte jag, inte ens ironiskt. Känslan av att vara på väg framåt, från eller till, i flykt eller sökande; föder själen. På öppen väg trivs jag bäst, gärna med ett obestämt mål. Svänga mot det som för stunden verkar bära på sanning och frihet.

Avtrycken vi gör under vår korta stund på jorden är omtvistade. Vi försöker råda och styra andra var de ska svänga eller sätta sina avtryck. Det är många som vill bestämma hur jorden ska trampas av mig. Jag stampar jorden där mina fötter för tillfället ser målet. Mina steg bär alltid på tvivel, oro och vånda; men även nyfikenhet och glädje. Om inte ens mina hjärnceller eller min själ vet vart i världen mina fötter ska styra, hur kan de andra veta? Det är en strid att få trampa stigen dit man vill, det är en kamp att få svänga av dit jag vill.

I Steinbecks “Vredens druvor” färdas romanens karaktärer mot det som för stunden synes vara målet; Kalifornien. Där väntar frukt och arbete, drömmarna hänger i stora klasar framme i Kalifornien. Det som skiljer dem från drömmarna är en väg, en lång väg. Vid en rastplats lämnar den ena karaktären sällskapet som gett sig av tillsammans. Brodern frågar honom; vart ska du ta vägen?

Han ska vandra bort; utmed floden. Han vet inte var, men något säger honom att där finns hans väg. Hans väg är inte längre den till Kalifornien. De andra följer honom inte. Men han går, trampar sin egen stig och lämnar det som nu är de andras väg, inte längre hans. I sinnet vandrar jag med honom, trampar stigen; mitt val. Det inbegriper inte tvång eller fruktan, utan enbart förnimmelsen över att en ny väg behöver trampas; själen viskar att det är dags att trampa nya stigar. Andra följer sin väg i detta korta ögonblick. Tillsammans trampar vi jorden:

men vägvalet ska vara fritt, utan tvång eller välmenande förmaningar. Dessa förmaningar och regler; utformade till att skydda, blir den gråa betongsuggan; som hindrar oss från att trampa stigen.

10. 1984
George Orwell

Orwell’s dystopian novel of a world controlled by Big Brother has become the quintessential cautionary tale for the far-reaching arm of government and the dangers of totalitarianism. Orwell has designed every corner of this futuristic world and transports us to a place where we may not want to be, yet cannot tear ourselves away from. It is a strong message about uniformity vs. individualism and makes us question what freedom really means while at the same time frightening us by showing that freedom may be slipping away from us as we speak.

9. To Kill A Mockingbird
Harper Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird is a tale of racism and bigotry seen through the eyes of a child. At first, the novel works as a story of what it is to be young and free. Then the novel moves into issues of social justice as Scout and Jem have their eyes open to the larger world. Atticus Finch is a hero of morals and values who fights to do what is right even when he knows he will lose. The novel is rich with themes and characters which are almost impossible to forget once you have read it.

8. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce

James Joyce is one of the greatest writers of this century, and this semi-autobiography led Joyce’s movement into modernist literature. This novel outlines the main characters journey to grow in his intellect, philosophy and spirituality. Joyce’s style here is inventive and thought-provoking and has made this one of the best novels of the last one hundred years.

7. The Sound and the Fury
William Faulkner

A tale told from the viewpoint of multiple characters, The Sound and the Fury is a masterpiece at describing the thought processes of humans. Faulkner damn-near perfected the stream-of-consciousness thinking. Faulkner moves us with his tale of the decline of a southern family and their struggle to maintain honour.

6. The Catcher in the Rye
J.D. Salinger

Teen angst has never been so literary. Catcher in the Rye is one of the most popular books in the world. Its biting satire and well-constructed anti-hero have made this an exceptionally brilliant novel, definitely worthy in its inclusion as one of the greatest ever written.

5. The Grapes of Wrath
John Steinbeck

There may be no better written recording of the Great Depression than Steinbeck’s classic The Grapes of Wrath. It tells the tale of the Joad family on a quest for a better life in California and it is a tale of adversity and perseverance on a scale which sets the bar for all other American novels.

4. The Lord of the Rings
J. R. R. Tolkien

The Lord of the Rings has become a cultural phenomenon in the latter half of the twentieth century, a masterpiece of high fantasy on an epic scale in both scope and depth. Lord of the Rings is not a simple fantasy tale but is in fact a story rich in themes; loyalty, friendship, fate, duty, corruption, etc. Tolkien has created a world so full and complex you are immediately transported into it and become engrossed with every detail. Literary critics often dismiss The Lord of the Rings because of its genre, not able to look further to see that it is the masterpiece of its genre and is a work of genius.

3. Gravity’s Rainbow
Thomas Pynchon

Perhaps the greatest piece of post-modern literature, Pynchon’s masterpiece is a story about post-war Europe and the production of the V2 rocket. Pynchon’s novel is complex in its plot and structure. Gravity’s Rainbow also uses a lot of science and mathematics in its story, adding a level of sophistication and even greater complexity. Many critics argue that this may be the greatest literary work on the last one hundred years, while other claim it is far too difficult to be read. Nonetheless it is a massive achievement in writing and storytelling.

2. The Great Gatsby
F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby is often called “the great American novel”. Jay Gatsby is living the dream; riches, women, high society lifestyle. Everything seems to be going his way. Fitzgerald uses this character and situation to explore they areas of morality, materialism, and what it means to have wealth and worth. It is a true classic that was never recognized in its time, but grew into one of the most acclaimed novels of the modern era.

1. Ulysses
James Joyce

As almost any literary scholar what the work of the century is and you will almost get a unanimous decision: Ulysses. It seems to almost be a given that Ulysses is the best novel of the 20th century. Ulysses has strong characters, humour, technique, style; it is perhaps the most important piece of modernist literature. James Joyce is one of the greatest writers of the modern age and he has given us the greatest novel of the century.

John Steinbeck wasn’t crazy about going to Texas when he made his trip across America with Charley, but he couldn’t avoid it. The state so dominates the southern half of the United States, there is no going around. Then, Steinbeck noted, once you get in it takes forever to get out.

Amen and amen. Just driving from my daughter’s in Dallas to Austin, “just down the road,” takes almost four hours. In that time you can cross several states along the eastern seaboard.

Steinbeck’s wife was a Texan. Like it or not, once you get that connection, Texas is in your face. It leaves its mark on you. Steinbeck called Texas a “state of mind,” and “an obsession.” It is hard to express to someone who hasn’t had the experienced, but there it is.

I now have a Texas state of mind. I was married to a native, and I have given birth to and raised two native Texans. I think I’ve earned my piece of the pecan pie. And yes, I have yellow Ropers and a cowboy hat. I bring ‘em out every couple of years, just for the fun of it.

Someone asked me if there was one word that could sum up my journey. There is, and it is beauty. The United States has expansive beauty that reaches from coast to coast, north to south. I am one of the lucky ones, I have seen it. Texas has its beauty as well. It is so vast, it may not be immediately obvious to the casual traveler, but it is there, from the piney woods of East Texas to the grandeur of the Big Bend in the west.

Nowhere in Texas is more beautiful than Austin and the surrounding hill country. In fact, Austin holds its own against all of the wonderful cities I visited, especially considering the music, the food, the culture, and the Texas angle. I have found a home here that feeds me physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

I thought a lot about home as I traveled. Where do I want to be for the second half of my life? When we are younger we make accommodations for careers and financial opportunities. By this point in life, we know what it will take to be happy.

For me, for now, it is Austin.

There will be a price to pay for choosing to stay. My greatest financial reward would come from seeking a job as a city manager in a small to medium size Texas town, but that would require uprooting again, and once more, losing sight of home. I was named a finalist for just such a city mid way through this trip. However, in a step of faith, I removed myself from consideration.

Steinbeck said that people don’t take trips, trips take people. If this trip has taken me anywhere, it has taken me home.

Cuando terminas un libro largo, te apetece cambiar radicalmente y pasar a leer algo más liviano. Eso es lo que me pasó tras terminar La piedra lunar, y este es el libro corto.

La perla es una pequeña novela que tiene como trama el descubrimiento de un mejicano de una perla de gran valor.

El autor es nuevo para mí, aunque no para mi lista de libros por leer, porque Las uvas de la ira y De ratones y hombres figuran ya en ella desde hace un tiempo. Por lo que sé, sus novelas se suelen centrar en la pobreza del Sur de Estados Unidos, y esta novela es un claro ejemplo de ello. Alguien que no tiene más que una barca y una pequeña familia se ve bendecido por la Diosa Fortuna (como bien diría nuestro querido amigo Ignatius Reilly). Pero algo que en principio es una suerte puede convertirse también en una maldición…

La edición que tengo del libro es la que dieron con El Mundo (seguro que muchos la conocéis). Como otras veces, me salté el prólogo que se incluye al principio del libro por miedo a que me lo destriparan (una y no más, me dije a mí misma cuando me jorobaron el final de El caballero de Olmedo). Efectivamente, estaba en lo cierto. Cuando lo terminé, leí el prólogo. No me sorprendí al encontrar troceada la historia. ¿Pero por qué lo hacen? ¿No se dan cuenta de que no tiene sentido? Vale que comenten algo del autor, o de cómo se engarza esta novela entre las demás del escritor… pero de ahí a desmenuzarla…

Os dejo ahora un par de frases que me han llamado la atención:

Entonces, de un rincón de la casa llegó un sonido tan suave que bien podía haber sido un pensamiento, un leve gesto furtivo.

Las casas eructaban gente; las puertas vomitaban niños.

Relación con Lost.

La primera es obvia: la Perla es el nombre de una de las estaciones de la Iniciativa Dharma, en concreto la que se dedica a supervisar la estación de El Cisne. Lo que se comenta es que es una estación dedicada al análisis psicológico. Sin embargo, lo que vemos después es que su trabajo era inútil ya que las notas tomadas acaban en el vertedero. Más que eso, al ser vigilada la propia estación por una cámara, se puede llegar a la conclusión de que eran los sujetos de dicha estación los sujetos del experimento.

La segunda es de invención propia. El tema central de la Perla tiene relación con la situación que atraviesa Hugo tras ganar la lotería con la secuencia de números. No sabemos cómo acabará la cosa, pero el asunto es que algo que en principio es bueno puede tornarse en nuestra contra por unos u otros motivos.

FICHA:

Esto es todo por hoy. Pasad un buen fin de semana.

Namaste.

so i saw this online recently, and i decided that i should do a similar thing.

10 books that changed my life and will forever stay in my mind.

of mice and men by john Steinbeck

this book is more than just a story. to me it was the way i discovered way more about myself and the way i deal with people than i felt comfortable knowing. the story is so perfectly and fully american. the feeling of honor and comfort clashing at every turn, and most of all the need to destroy the most beautiful parts of life. i cant read this book without a tear to this day.
rage by richard bachman (stephen king)

i really got into this book when i was about 12. i have re-read it countless times since and it always evokes a very strong and very personal reaction. there is something about the writing. it feels like a sloppy book by a teenage boy. it has all the fury, all the agony, and well… all the rage that it should. i’m sad that it is out of print, it is without a doubt my favorite book by him.

the man who would be king by rudyard kipling

magic lives in between the words of every rudyard kipling story. i can remember sitting in my grandfather’s house when i was only 10 and watching the movie version of this story. i can remember not understanding a thing. and i remember the way he watched the film. he was one of the smartest men ever to walk this earth, and when he watched this movie he didnt make a sound. he just sat there, in awe. i knew that meant it was good. so i remember watching it with him. in perfect silence. this is another story i have read and re-read, and every time i do i like it more. and i identify with it more. this story is magic.

the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald

i have beaten myself up countless times about how closely this book follows parts of my life. i know everyone who wants to sound deep says something like ‘i am gatsby’… but damn. i am. or at least, i was. this is without a doubt one of the best and most important books ever written.

the naked and the dead by norman mailer

norman mailer is the man’s writer. his stories are grizzled and masculine in ways that structured words cant describe. i have never met a real man who didnt like his work. but interestingly enough i have met countless women who hate it. i like to describe him as the serious three stooges. only guys get it. when i first read this book i couldnt believe it. his words are written in cold ink. and i understand every one of them.

old man and the sea by ernest Hemingway

this book is a ‘how to’ of how to be a man. id like to say that i have taken it to heart…
death of a salesman by Arthur miller

this book is way to personal to go into here. i just hope that im not as similar to Willy as i feel sometimes.
dune by frank herbert

the scifi novel at its greatest. this book has everything that a ‘normal respectable’ genre book has and more. the almost biblical tones and the messianic imagery alone makes this book a classic. and as if that wasnt enough, Gurney Halleck is the single greatest man in world literature. take that Beowulf!

the minister’s black veil by nate Hawthorne

this is another book that gave me something to point to. it was something i could reference to explain another little bit of myself.

our town by thornton wilder

this book/play has influenced my own storytelling more than anything else i can think of. the way it tells a somber tale but does it with just enough whimsy is the archetypal story in my mind. i cant imagine my own writing with out this book.

i only picked one book from each author. if i hadnt the list may have well ended up being all Steinbeck and Hemingway, with gatsby nailed in there as well…

Scored some new books with a Half Price gift card my friends April and Kristy got us for the wedding. They were pretty picked through on some of the contemporary stuff I was hoping to get, so I just grabbed some canonical stuff  and a couple others.

• Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck – loved Travels with Charley, so I thought I’d read his classic.
• The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway – not sure how I got through BSU English dept. without reading this.
• The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories by Hemingway – thought I’d give it another chance without the “forced to read it for a class” bias.
• No Country for Old Men by McCarthy – liked The Road and keep getting told I need to read more Cormac.
• The History of Love by Nicole Krauss – gave my old copy away as a gift to my friend Laura who DJ’ed our reception. I like Krauss and Foer, and I’m completely okay with that.

*

Before I get to these though, I must finish Scorch Atlas by Blake Butler which I started awhile ago before I got distracted by the 2-weeks run up to the wedding. I feel like next-to-an-ass for taking so long on this book. It’s not that it’s not captivating enough to finish. More exactly the opposite. It goes like this. I’m scared of it. Downright damn scared, because it makes me feel like drowning in the, ”I could understand how a drowning man might suddenly feel a deep thirst being quenched,”* fashion of drowning.

(*I will hug the first person who knows this reference. I give good hugs–hugs that would make you not want to kill yourself if you wanted to kill yourself. But, if I find out you simply Googled it, I’ll give you a hug like a thousand needles in your eye. My kung fu is good.)

The past few weeks have been that break above the wave, that panicked draw of air, arms flailing, don’t even shout HELP because it’s wasted energy, before rip-tided back under and bubbles. There are bubbles.

Read this book.

*

 I feel acutely aware of my socks today, and they feel gross, bunched in places and not dry, and my hands feel like a box of clams and no pearls.

C’è un dolore dei luoghi che non se ne va nemmeno in questa giornata soleggiata.

Erano gli anni dei bomboloni caldi all’alba nel Forno di Idice, delle gare domenicali di motocross; dei comizi in piazza, sotto la pioggia, di Berlinguer; gli anni dei weekend al mare schizzandoci con l’acqua e cantando la pubbilicità dei Mastrolindo; gli anni del mitico concerto dei Clash.

Erano gli anni delle canzoni di Claudio Lolli; gli anni in cui Gregory Corso lesse in Piazza Maggiore una poesia dedicata alla strage del 2 agosto. Gli anni in cui bastava mettere uno ska dei Madness per avere voglia di conoscere persone nuove e organizzare feste a sorpresa “alla Steinbeck”.

Erano gli anni in cui i giochi elettronici si chiamavano “marzianini”; in cui al liceo studiavo la teoria del clinamen di Epicuro; gli anni delle collette per qualche grammo di libanese; delle cento lire che gonfiavano le pance dei flipper; quando l’amicizia era bere dalla stessa bottiglia e masticare la stessa gomma alla fragola; gli anni in cui Ada sognava di sposare Carmelo Bene e io David Bowie.

Erano gli anni del calcio brasiliano, dei tornei di goriziana, del primo concerto di Pino Daniele.

Gli anni di Maledetti vi amerò! e La città delle donne; gli anni dei tafferugli con la polizia davanti al Palazzo dello sport; gli anni in cui giocavamo a poker di sigarette e sapevamo a memoria brani da Di qua dal paradiso e Morte nel pomeriggio.

Gli anni del referendum sull’aborto e della sconfitta del Movimento per la vita. Gli anni del dramma di Alfredino e del concerto dei Dire Straits di cui sentimmo, da fuori, solo gli echi…

Erano gli anni in cui alla fine di ogni incontro ci salutavamo con un addio, e io ci mettevo una tale enfasi nel pronunciare quella parola da sembrare l’imitazione perfetta di un’attrice quando leggeva Hemingway ad alta voce: “Addio, pensò, questa è una bella parola. Suona bene, pensò. Addio, un lungo addio e portalo con te dovunque tu vada, completo con gli accessori e tutto”.

Quell’estate l’Italia battè il Brasile 3 a 2 con tre reti di Paolo Rossi, e infine la Germania per 3 a 1. Campioni del mondo significò fare il bagno nella fontana del Nettuno, perderci nella folla e non rivederci mai più.

Once you hve accepted that this KDP structure is archetypal to thought, (and therefore expressed as a derivative by project management methodologies, not that they thought of it first), you find it as satisfyingly and unintentionally ubiquitous as an archetype should be.

Here’s an example I was particularly happy to find, because I like Steinbeck so much! It occurs in the first chapter of “Travels With Charley” by John Steinbeck. The emphases and phase descriptors are mine – all the rest he writes:
“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don’t improve; in further words, once a bum, always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.
“When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. (SCOPE) This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. (GENERATE) And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. (BUILD) This part of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bumdom, like teen-agers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it.“Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. (USE) It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. (LEARN) Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it.”

“That’s him. That shiny bastard. That’s him.” Casy stared blindly at the light. He breathed heavily. “Listen,” he said. “You fellas don’ know what you’re a-doin’

- Jim Casy from Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath -

Can’t say just why but I have always been fascinated by the character of Jim Casy from John Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath”. He’s a strange and enigmatic creation. A defrocked preacher (for fornication) who has some crazy idea of the nature of God. In fact the character was intentionally written to be a Christ figure. The above quote is from when he is about to be beaten to death with an axe handle. Steinbeck created a masterpiece in the character of the holy man who has fallen.

You know I have kicked around the idea of writing a book where the protagonist would be a preacher who walked away or was pushed away from the pulpit and the journey he takes to find the real God behind the words and behind the sermons, behind the tracts and Gospels. And the truths he finds. I got some good ideas. I guess the only thing hindering me is this sense that it has been done before and it’s a tad cliche. The healer who fails to heal himself until he is redeemed. It’s a good concept, but it would need a really strong and unique perspective or it just ends up being derivative. Who knows, I just might do it anyway and let it happen. I’ve heard it said that a good author doesn’t always know where the story is going as he writes and he lets it grow and move in its own way. Eroding walls and mountains. Almost an organic thing or a river.

Put that on the list of “Things I Will Do If I Ever Get The Nerve”.

Speaking of preachers and to show I a, not always some morose and gloomy freak who dwells in some basement somewhere. Here’s an excerpt from an email I sent to my pastor this morning…

“Hey Mr. God Talking Guy

To laughing!

I was thinking that I have not mad any good lists lately.  So, I thought I would ponder a while and make a good one.

Books that Changed My Life

This is a list of books that I feel really had a profound effect on me in one way or another.  Now this is a good list, not a cliche list so books like the Bible and the books that I learned to read with are not on here though the Bible is a big influence in my life and I would not have learned to read had it not been for the I See Sam books.  This is a good list.  It is in no order, so they are not numbered.

East of Eden
I had all but given up on American literature when I met John Steinbeck.  We had a run in a few times in high school: Of Mice and Men and then The Grapes of Wrath.  Both were for class so I felt like spending time with him was an obligation, so I never really got to know him.  I don’t remember what motivated me to pick up EoE three summers ago, but I did.  I could not put it down.  The picture above is one that I took at the lake while my friends were swimming and I was on the shore, glued to my book.  Sam Hamilton is a storehouse of wisdom that I gleaned a lot from.

The Wringer
I read this book when I was in about 7th grade.  I am a firm believer that there is a perfect time to read every book.  I think there are some books that you can’t understand until you are a certain age or at a certain place in your life.  The Wringer was that for me.  I think that 7th grade is where I started really thinking and working on some things of my own.  In the book, there is a pigeon festival in the boy’s town where everyone wrings the neck of a pigeon. The boy, in front of his whole town, refuses to do it.  He is also found later to be hiding a pigeon in his room as a pet.  This flies in the face of everything he is supposed to be doing, but he does what he feels right anyway.

Blue Like Jazz
Again, another book found at just the right time.  I was a sophomore in college, I had just finished a summer camp where a lot of my thinking was shaped and challenged.  I was just kind of afloat spiritually not liking what I was seeing, but not having any ideas for what I thought spirituality should look like. Then I was talking to my youth minister and he said he had just read Blue Like Jazz.  I laughed and said I wasn’t reading it because it was just trendy at the time, but he assured me that this was worth the read, so I picked it up.  Then the picture began coming in clearer for what I was looking for in my faith: something that cared about people, something that was built off Christ instead of what people had told me, a church that was active.  This is what faith was supposed to look like.  I have now progressed past the level of thought and moved into action, but BLJ was a huge push in that direction.

Hatchet
I cannot talk about how much I love books without mentioning the first book I ever loved.  In 5th grade I had Ken Stamatis as a reading teacher.  I wasn’t really into reading, I liked football.  But he wasn’t going to let a single kid leave that class without a joy for reading, and he didn’t.  He asked me what I liked I told him I like being outside and I like watching nature shows on television, so he handed me Hatchet by Gary Paulsen.  So, I gave it a try.  Holy crap!  This book is awesome.  I read it super fast and told Mr Stamatis how much I loved it.  He told me there was another book and another.  There were even two more coming out.  I devoured them like a fat kid does candy.  Then I started reading other books by Paulsen.  Eventually Mr. Stamatis recommended I branch out giving me some Roald Dahl, Avi, Mark Twain and others a try.  Each time he was spot on. 

Nickel and Dimed
I read this book a few years ago and I believe it put me on a track for better poverty awareness and understanding.  Though my own up-bringing wasn’t particularly affluent this book better helped me to understand the cycle of poverty.  In it, the author goes from city to city putting herself in low-wage jobs to try to work out of that position, but realizes time after time that she cannot pay rent, gas and food with a minimum-wage job. 

Blink
If nothing else, this book was an introduction to many things including the psychology of marketing and design.  In this book, along with the others by Malcom Gladwell, deep psychological studies are put into easily understandable and applicable terms for the common person.  This book is much to credit for my young interest in psychology, sociology and other people-based sciences. 

Catcher in the Rye
This book is one that I come back to very often for wisdom on my own life.  I remember reading it when I was in high school and talking to my friend Sarah Walker about it.  I said, “I hate Holden.  What a waste of potential.  He’s smart and all, but just doesn’t care to work at anything to show people he’s worth anything.”  To which my friend Sarah replied, “You’re Holden.”   This book really is a lot about me.    A coming of age book about a guy who spends all of his time wishing he could be somewhere else and never really using where he is to its fullest potential.   He also finds out in his journey that you can never really go back home, that even the most basic of places are not the same anymore.

by cheri block sabraw

We all get busy.

And sometimes, we are so intent on our mission, we forget how sensitive other people can be. A woman who came into my business last week reminded me of this in her one-liner, spoken flatly.

But let me set the scene and the business environment.

Those of us who own small businesses, who deal with the public in person and on the phone, know first hand that this rotten economy has dredged rawness in the eyes and hearts of people who once were light hearted and fun.

We field cold calls from janitorial and insurance services. Resumes from Silicon Valley physicists, biologists, and engineers needing work sputter out of my old fax machine at least once a week.

My business has managed to stay afloat in a bad economy. How? And Why?

First to answer the how:

• We have worked more creatively in the last year and have spent less money on advertising.  For example, instead of paying my advertising company to design our mini-ad campaign, this year I designed the ads myself. OK. So they have my dog in them and pictures of my student employees, but hey, the price is right. And I can now justify the purchase of my new camera.

• All of us have agreed to salary cuts because we see the larger picture. We’d rather have a job making less money than not have a job. It’s all pretty simple.

• We cut the following out of our budget: magazine and newspaper subscriptions, U. S. Postal Service mailings, the cleaning service, and the window washers. Now, I bring in my personal subscriptions to Sunset Magazine, Cooking Light, and The Economist for my clients to read while they  wait for their kids to finish their classes. We set up a chessboard and a Scrabble game to entertain the little ones. My secretary Pat, my student employee Christine, and I do the vacuuming, coffeepot cleaning, and garbage dumping. You get the picture.

Now to answer the why:

• The instructors who lend their teaching skills to my business feel appreciated, I hope. We laugh, collaborate, teach, and learn ourselves, so our sense of worth and purpose stay lubricated.

• We are not all about business all the time. What did you do this weekend? Oh,  you are a new aunt. Gee, I am sorry to hear about so-and-so. You look tired. Are you OK? Your child is dressing up as Hillary Clinton for Halloween? That’ll be a kick. The work environment caters to other needs  we humans have: friendship and value.

• We have lowered our tuition slightly, but still remain a bit more expensive than other competitors. One would think such a practice would do us in; in fact, the opposite has been true:  Because we have distanced ourselves from the pack, and not slashed prices for this or for that, more discriminating customers are coming our way. We let them pay in alternative ways and listen to their requests. When a check bounces, we try to help, not judge.

These bullet points about marketing, salary cuts, tuition rates, and employee morale are relevant, but at the heart of successful business is how we treat people in all layers,  from the customer to the big mucky-muck CEO.

Last week, as I was preparing my lessons, sequestered and full of my thoughts and myself, Christine came into my room, leaving the door open.

“Mrs. Sabraw, there’s a lady from Geico Insurance who would like to talk with you.”

The lobby is ten feet from my classroom.

My first reaction was to have Christine tell her I was busy because I was.

Instead, for some reason, I stepped out to deliver that message myself to the brave cold-caller.

Tired eyes and bad teeth greeted me in a worn out casting call. Hair that needed a cut and color contrasted with my recent trim and highlight.

Hi, I’m Cheri Sabraw. Sorry, but we have The Hartford Insurance and are happy with it, so we don’t need any new insurance at this time. But thanks for coming by.

OK, she said, handing me her business card.

As she pushed the glass door to leave, she looked back and said, Thanks for coming out to meet me. And then she left.

I got it. My heart contracted and truly, goose bumps popped.

Christine and I met eyes.

It’s all about dignity, Christine. As in The Grapes of Wrath, remember?

* The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. Chapter 24

Frank Galati’s adaptation of Steinbeck’s mammoth novel The Grapes of Wrath is currently on at Birmingham Rep. I have to say I was intrigued to see how a lengthy novel which covers so much ground (literally and metaphorically) could be adapted into a play, but I was impressed with how it worked.

The plot is outlined on the Rep website thus: “The Joads, a family of impoverished Oklahoman sharecroppers, lose everything when their farm is repossessed after a devastating drought and are driven from their home to make the monumental trek Westward to California. Seduced by the prospect of opportunity and dignity, they invest everything they have in the journey. When forced to face the possibility that California may not after all be the promised land, they have no choice but to go on; nothing is left for them in Oklahoma.”

As you can see, it’s quite a challenge, but one that was met with aplomb. Galati keeps the essence of the novel in his script, using some direct quotations from the novel, and is helped enormously by the fantastic set, which gave the impression of covering great spaces even on a small stage, and adding some irony by featuring contemporary advertising hoardings about “the American Dream”. Set in the Depression of the Thirties, this play is a harsh lesson about the economics of recession, from the issues of strikes to the value of workers when there are thousands too many looking for work.

As the Joads journey on, their loss of faith is evident – faith in God, in America, and even in humanity – in many ways the play was nearly 3 hours of unrelenting misery, and yet the faintly shocking but absolutely redemptive act of humanity at the end allows the play (and the book) to offer a genuinely cathartic experience in the tradition of classical tragedy. I was afraid that the play would have so much to cover that the audience would fail to be properly engaged with the characters, but I shouldn’t have worried – this is an adaptation well worth seeing.

Having read “Travels with Charley,” I can see that little has changed from what John Steinbeck saw as he crossed the country in the 1960s. Steinbeck focused on different experiences, but the landscape pretty much remains the same.

There is one phenomenon I have seen that I am quite sure Steinbeck missed. This country is now dotted with massive wind farms. I have seen them in Texas, New Mexico, Utah, North Dakota, and Iowa.

A wind farm is a group of wind turbines in the same location used for production of electric power. A large farm may consist of a few dozen to several hundred individual wind turbines, and cover an extended area of hundreds of square miles, but the land between the turbines may be used for agricultural or other purposes. These turbines are interconnected with a medium voltage (usually 34.5 kV) power collection system and communications network. The power is sold to public utilities. I read that the Tennessee Valley Authority recently purchased a large volume of power from the North Dakota wind farms I saw on this trip.

Thanks to President Obama’s stimulus program, the nation’s wind industry is continuing to open new wind farms with the help of nearly $1 billion in federal grant money.

Seriously, guys.

Seriously.

September 2008 was a catastrophe of a kind we had almost forgotten, so deeply engrossed we were in our illusion of comfort: a financial crash of epic proportions, a Steinbeck-type of depression that sent the western world into a whirlwind of home foreclosures, a steady and steep rise in unemployement rate and a (justified) growing mistrust in the free market. For the first time in a really long time, people called for regulation. They called for governmental intervention. The ghost of the red scare, floating over the United States despite skinny dipping into a pool of debt, was pushed away by people falling below the threshold of poverty, or reaching new lows they thought they would never attain. No social security to catch those millions on the downfall. Surely this would be enough of a nightmare for a deafening, international wake-up call? Surely, this depression would bring about the change we had all been waiting for? Finally, we would treat bankers like the irresponsible children that they are and would reign in the market to protect our assets that are, ultimately, our livelihood.

Yeah, well, no. Guess we never learn.

A year after the record plummeting of Wall Street, unemployement rates are peaking at 9.8% , foreclosures are planned to reach 2.3 million , but the banks are doing obnoxiously well. As a vast majority of us are contemplating a bleak and dull future, as employers of national companies are throwing themselves out of windows, financial markets are registering historic profit. On average, traders of the 23 first banks in the United States will cash an annual income reaching $143,400. This is when some of us will no longer be able to meet our mortgage payments or pay our rent. Bill Clinton’s miserably failing welfare system is tested in the most cruel and inhumane ways as Wall Street investors will pocket a total of $437 billion. Billions. Billions that have not been handed out by Congress in support of universal health care, when medical expenses in these uncertain times are undoubtedly going to send people into a spiral of financial distress. Bonuses pocketed by the sole Bank of America CEOs (who have begged for a $45 billion bail-out out of taxpayer’s money) will be six times as much as the IMF annual budget that tried to feed the very same people Bank of America majorly, royally and unapologetically screwed over.

Let’s face it: bankers were once on top of the world, and regardless of the pretty, hopeful and thoughtful rhethoric the new administration has been blasting in our ears, they still are. They literally got away with murder, and keep on living their lavish lifestyle while the dark clouds of the recession are still casting a long shadow over our heads.  The regulation we had been promised, supposedly extensively discussed during the G20 summit in Pittsburgh just a few months ago, has yet to be felt. Peter Kennen, professor of economics at Princeton University, told Le Monde that “the state does not have the power to act, but banks have to realise by themselves that the public opinion  can no longer accept such practices – and that they must change before Congress is forced to pass law.” Let it be clear: the government does have the power to act, it simply chooses not to do so. With all due respect for Mister Kennen, if any form of action is easily labeled – and thus slandered – by the conservatives as being an oppressive form of that scary socialism, it does not necessarily mean it is beyond Obama’s reach. As a matter of fact, this might be exactly what he has been elected upon: for once, a presidential candidate felt ready and even obligated to act upon the people’s wishes. Would that be a little too democratic for a country that’s not ruled by the Constitution, but simply being a by-product of the free market?

Robert Shapiro, president of Sonecon, is a little less positive and optimistic. He claims that banks are simply making a risky, short-term quick buck at the minute, and that the Dow Jones’ spectacular rise from its ashes (passing the bar of over 10,000 points) may only be temporary. Despite the banks’ goodwill plea that the bonuses fixed by the G20 summit will be respected, Shapiro is realistic enough to take those moral conversions with a grain of salt: “they only have their word for it”, he said, “and if they really commit to those principles, I want to see proof.” We all do, and we are all waiting for our returns on investments they have greedily swallowed along with their half-ethics never to plunge an entire country – and an entire economic system – into the Dark Ages ever again. Oh well, cross your heart and spit on it, because Goldman Sachs is not exactly anywhere near retiring from the business.