ULYSSES album version

•••

hashiru densha no mado kara
tokeru you na yuuyake ga
senaka o sotto dakishimeta
kyou ga owatte yuku
are mo kore mo nani mo kamo o
suteta shunkan ni tadayou
natsukashikute amai kaori wa nandarou?

dokoka ni okiwasureta tsubasa o mata sagashite
tsugi no eki de oritara soko wa BANIRA no kuni
kanashii koto wa subete sotsugyou dekita akashi ni
hontou no tabi ni deyou ano BANIRA no kuni e

tooi tooi haruka ga tooi
michi nori ga PANORAMA ni nari
setsunai hodo amai kioku ga yomigaeru

watashi wa tatan de ita tsubasa o mata hirogete
hikaru sora ga mietara soko wa BANIRA no kuni
deaeta hito to subete itoshiaeta akashi ni
omoide ni KISU o shite saa BANIRA no kuni e

kanashii koto wa subete sotsugyou dekita akashi ni
hontou no tabi ni deyou ano BANIRA no kuni e

ano BANIRA no kuni e

•••

走る電車の窓から
溶けるような夕焼けが
背中をそっと抱きしめた
今日が終わってゆく
あれもこれも　何もかもを
棄てた瞬間に漂う
なつかしくて甘い香は何だろう？

どこかに置き忘れた　翼をまた探して
次の駅で降りたら　そこはバニラの国
悲しいことはすべて　卒業できた証に
本当の旅に出よう　あのバニラの国へ

遠い遠い　遥か遠い
道のりがパノラマになり
切ないほど甘い記憶がよみがえる

わたしはたたんでいた翼をまた広げて
光る空が見えたら　そこはバニラの国
出会えた人とすべて　愛しあえた証に
思い出にキスをして　さあバニラの国へ

悲しいことはすべて　卒業できた証に
本当の旅に出よう　あのバニラの国へ

あのバニラの国へ

Today in 1933 Judge John Woolsey made a decision to allow James Joyces, then obscene novel “Ulysses” be published in the United States. That decision was also affirmed by the United States Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. According to Wiki-Pedial Woolsey “opened the door to importation and publication of serious works of literature, even when they used coarse language or involved sexual subjects.”

Free speech is essential to the health of any individual or society. Stifling it is the equivalent of putting a plastic bag over ones head. Eventually everyone needs to breathe.

To find out more about the novel and read the text itself visit this site. The issue of freedom of expression is one of importance and is often the subject of some novels themselves. Such is the case with Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. It is a foreboading depiction of censorship run amuck.

One recent case for free speech concerns the book Looking for Alaska by John Green. In 2008 Some Depew High School parents tried to ban the book for its depiction of sex and alcohol consumption despite the fact that the book shows the dangers associated with irresponsible sexual intimacy and irresponsible alcohol consumption. Green was called a pornographer. Eventually the Depew School Board made a wise call and kept the book Looking for Alaska in their school curriculum. These stories help create a dialouge about these topics between teenagers and their teachers, parents and each other that is vital to them learning how to approach sex and alcohol responsibly.

The miracle in question was only performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present necessity, which required it. -Ben Franklin

Finished that belated, beloved, beleaguering NaNoWriMo contest at 50,267 words. What can I say: thanks to the divine. Amen to my mom and dad. Blessings to the organisers. Yiiipppeeehs and Yaya-cries to the other writers and GoGoGoGo to those who’re still slaving away at it! Exclamation mark time! Now I need to shake it all off and wipe my boots clean. A winner all the same.

Actually, I can’t believe I am writing again already! Worse: I am already thinking about the next novel! It happened in the car as I was listening to the intoxicating Jim Norton reading Ulysses…and I have plans for video and podcasts – on the last day, I even managed to record a novel excerpt as a podcast – you know how much I like La Voce. Divas. Verdi. La Callas. Aww.

What it meant: I am now estranged from Ms Flawnt. Fortunate for me, she is the forgiving type (though she doesn’t know it – that’s even better). Our daughter has begun to call me ‘mummy’ because, evidently, she has suppressed all memory that she has a father (that used to be me before nano). I haven’t been around much in SecondLife®…the chat’s too good there, too many distractions, and, as Mark Twain says, only swiftness in banging the keys counts. Hence, not much remains of this writer’s virtuality…one of the many things to be picked up again in December, and also, there is Black Friday to consider (less of a tragic, torturous event on the Old Continent, but still, who are we without regular, life-affirming, mind-numbing consumption).

Banging builds muscle, but...

‘Banging’ was my original title for this piece, but it’s perhaps not as relevant as its current title, ‘manifesting’. In previous reviews of my path through NaNoWriMo jungle, machete in hand, rubber boots on my feet, a turban slung around my head (aching from plot twisters), I have discussed gathering yer wits, digesting yer innards, listening to yerself…in the last week, I found that the hour of manifestion had come: I see manifestation as the ability to make something happen by drawing on all your resources, not just that clever little brain of ours, caffeine and nicotine drenched as it is in my case.

...only manifestation can make miracles happen.

On that last day, I needed a small miracle to finish: word count was good, but my characters were fighting with each other for my attention, besides my original heroine, another one, her opposite in every way, had appeared and captured the heart of my main character (MC), and even the MC’s lofty priority position was threatened by a character, who, in the course of several chapters, had shown staying power and an uncanny ability to hold the story together by its very presence. Even the location was in serious jeopardy: I had started in London, but about half way through the novel, my main cast relocated to a castle in the Scottish Highlands – should I lure them away from there for the grand finish (which I always imagined in a trendy city venue, or trust them? To put it shortly: I did not count on miracles though I felt I needed one. I was planning a major military operation dominated by me as field marshal, and I envisioned myself on a hill, leaning on a cannon, mumbling phyrrically: „Another victory like this and we’re done for.”

OK. Lemme put all this behind me. Rumour has it, that I’m being missed under Milk Wood, which is where I live. It’s time to return for timeless chat, banter and a small, measured amount of words every day, but not 1,667 (the required daily amount for NaNoWriMo). I have vowed to put the manuscript in a drawer for at least one month while I rebuild relationships with Ms Flawnt and with Little Miss Flawnt. I am daunted by the task of editing the beast. If you do, too, write to me and we shall whine side by side.

Virtually yours,
Flawnt Alchemi

Robert Schneider é lider dos The Apples in Stereo e divide com o of Montreal o posto de queridinho do coletivo musical Elephant 6 e já participou da produção do conceitual cd do Neutral Milk Hotel, In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, e ajudou nos Marbles ora ou outra. Mas se tem um projeto paralelo que realmente poucas pessoas sabem que existe ou tem acesso ao material é a banda a parte de Robert, Ulysses.

Com um somzinho bem lo-fi e umas boas pegadas de rock, o projeto Ulysses é uma ótima recomendação a quem quer se aventurar por um universo um pouquinho experimental e saber do que se trata essa arte na realidade. Há muitas outras bandas que ainda vou postar, conforme minha conexão permitir, como Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s ou Animal Collective – que é bem conhecida, por observação. Aqui para download o álbum o.1o    Download

Various offal delicacies (heads, brains, trotters and tripe) for sale in an Istanbul meat market. (Wikipedia)

Since we go out of our way to include, within the modest meat portion of our diet, regular servings of chicken liver and pork liver (chicken and turkey giblets and gizzards, too), sold for around a dollar a pound and incomparably richer in vitamin A, vitamin B12, iron and zinc than all other cuts of meat, we were heartened to read this, from a review by Sudip Bose in The American Scholar of On ULYSSES and Us: The Art of Everyday Life in Joyce’s Masterpiece by Declan Kiberd:

How to Eat Well

“Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod’s roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.” So begins the fourth episode, “Calypso,” which introduces us to Bloom. His tastes reflect a time when offal was widely consumed, but they also prefigure our own age, when chefs such as Fergus Henderson and Mario Batali are embracing innards and putting them back on restaurant menus.

Bloom is a true gourmand, though his tastes are hardly extravagant. For his breakfast, he prepares a pork kidney, frying it in butter with lashings of black pepper. He takes time to eat his meal, enjoying it—in marked contrast to his wife, Molly, who dispatches with her breakfast without ceremony, and to Buck Mulligan and the Englishman Haines in “Telemachus,” who carelessly consume their food. Later, in “Lestrygonians,” the sight of men devouring plates of meat at the Burton restaurant will even turn Bloom temporarily vegetarian, as he escapes to the more civilized interior of Davy Byrne’s pub for a cheese sandwich and glass of burgundy.

But why does Bloom love offal? For one thing, the less desirable parts of the animal are actually quite delicious. They also happen to be the parts that most often get thrown out. Practical, frugal Leopold Bloom despises nothing more than waste—wasted food, yes, but also wasted lives. Seeing Stephen, who has the potential to be a great artist, waste his life away in melancholy self-absorption, Bloom recalls “instances of cultured fellows that promised so brilliantly, nipped in the bud of permanent decay, and nobody to blame but themselves.”

Compare that to a passage from “Why Cooking Matters” by noted chef and restaurateur Dan Barber in the September 21 food issue of The Nation:

Supermarkets in the United States stock cutlets and steaks and loins–restaurant chefs, including me, feature them in seven-ounce portions–but unless you venture to an ethnic market (or dine at an ethnic restaurant), you’ll have a hard time getting your hands on liver, kidney or tripe. For commerce’s sake, it makes more sense to use these odd cuts for dog food, or simply to dump them abroad, in places like Mexico and India. (The only way we’ve accepted using these less-than-desirables is grinding them up into sausage links and hot dogs–creating dull food products out of disparate and delicious parts.)

Paul Roberts, in his book The End of Food, calls this the “protein paradox”: meat production has outstripped people production. Through advances in breeding and grain feeding, the cost of one pound of meat is cheaper now than at any time in history. And yet that downswing in cost hasn’t led to any kind of meat-eating democracy. If anything, it has enabled–and at this point, even encouraged–a kind of pork chop dictatorship. Not only do we eat too much meat, we also eat too much of the wrong parts. We don’t know where our meat comes from, we don’t know what the animal we’re eating ate, and we sure don’t know how to get behind the stove and take control of what we put in our mouths.

We ought to start by looking at the great food cultures of the world. The traditional cuisines of Asia and North Africa, not to mention France and Italy, are based on rice, wheat, spices and smatterings of all cuts of meat. In just about every other cuisine, protein plays second fiddle to grains and vegetables. When meat appears, it does so modestly; it takes up less space on the plate, and more often than not it’s a piece of the animal–tripe or oxtail–that Americans so willingly discard.

This is a story from last year that I worked on some tonight, revising and such. Again: been reading The Beautiful and the Damned — and thinking a lot about Catcher in the Rye lately? So, be ready for some Fitzgerald/Salinger playing around. And that’s all it is, playing; I’m not going for pretentious, although it may seem that way because — as you know — I think in pictures, so I have fun throwing lots of words in there to try to paint them. I just thought I’d let you know that I haven’t actually turned into a Princeton snob.

When it is darkest, men see the stars.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Jimmy tossed again, willing, against agitation, his weary body to lie in peace; it is difficult to sleep soundly when the mind cannot rest and no man’s conscience can find solace in the thought of a bloody dawn. Settling, finally, as if laid on a hospital cot, the boy lolled just his neck to the left in a sort of surrender to his own situation, consequently finding his open eyes upon a still thing. Transfixed by bleary insomnia and a peaceful jolt of envy, he watched his buddy, sleeping. Beyond him lay a line of brothers, all identical, passed out lumps of fleshy foliage. Past his toes there was another row, and another; the same strong, simple pattern unfolded above his head. Their rhythmic breathing rose and fell through the ranks, rocking his tethered consciousness in a calm harbor of olive. From high above, Jimmy imagined they looked like a reflection of the night sky, the youth of each life a twinkling in the blackness. Gazing up, he wondered how many stars would shine in the sky tomorrow — he longed for none of them to go out. Not until this night had he ever truly looked at them, beheld the beauty of their chaotic design, realized their flawless suspension, their multitude, their singularity, and the magic of it all. His lips moved meekly, whispering to the absence alone, that he might see these stars once more, this exact tableau of the heavens with not a jot of revision – to mar a virtuoso’s masterpiece! He knew that every boy along either side of the thin brush was praying for the same thing: and that that was the real reason they were shooting at each other.

About ten months ago Jimmy was inside of a small café flipping the pages of a newspaper he couldn’t read, sitting across from his buddy in uniform who was flirting with a girl he couldn’t understand; she was pretty though, and they both understood that. Finding the next most attractive woman in the room very much attached to a man very much twice his size, Jimmy had taken to looking out the window.

It was a fine day: when Jimmy couldn’t sleep he lulled his anxious thoughts to a tipsy stupor with stories of such naïve afternoons and the blissful lives that exist only in them and outside windowpanes. He loved to tell himself stories of people who entered his life only for a moment and from a distance. They were all going somewhere, he was sure, and had come from somewhere else; Jimmy found pleasure in filling in the blanks. With all the answers, the world around him seemed much more real.

That day, about ten months ago, was sunny, the sort of hazy sunshine that lingers on glass and softens the world with a golden luster. An accordion player played a lively waltz over the restaurant’s crackling radio and the tune gave everyone curious and marvelous motives. Jimmy loved how background music could affect the story of a stranger. Across the street a man strolled away from a mailbox: he had just mailed 673 invitations to 673 churlish aunts and lawyers inviting them to his wedding at the Claremont Hotel on the 27th at 2 o’clock; RSVP to decline only, please. Much to the frustration of a surely portly hotel manager, 656 guests (seventeen invitees were, oh!, terribly sorry, but they had already committed to previous engagements that they just could not break) would arrive, unexpectedly, one week late at the Claremont Hotel — for neither the portly hotel manager nor the 656 attending guests knew the wedding was to take place on the 20th, in the peaceful absence of the man’s rich, professional father. Such a rich, professional man did not approve of the young Adelaide, who was neither attribute. So the young man and his freely chosen bride would not hear uncles indignantly swearing at concierges, or grandmothers complaining shrilly about the “state of things these days!” for they would already be in Switzerland on the 27th, beginning their life together, and one day having three children: Stewart, Lane, and Penelope. The lovely bride, whose name was scripted on 673 invitations in fashionable script, was in no distress, however. Upon cooling from a mere blush of scandal, she was free to marry her doctor as she had vowed in her girlish makeshift veil and train. She would live in a townhouse that takes up half a block with seven house servants, Egyptian linen table napkins of an angelic thread count, and a dog walker for her two small, yappy dogs. After all the initial chaos, everyone was happy. Jimmy loved that.

Jimmy turned his head back to his buddy, his gaze deadened by the juxtaposition of his own nostalgia, his stare sharp as one who had been awoken from a dream. He reached for a pistol beneath his sleeping bag; his fingers touched the steel and he configured the instrument in his palm. He pulled the gun up to his eyes. It was such a small thing, but it was heavy in his hand. Its creators were clever that way, he thought.

With his eyes still locked on his target, Jimmy pointed the gun at the back of his buddy’s head. He had the quiet pose of a madman, his arm outstretched in certain betrayal, and yet his sanity was wholly defended by his curiosity: he just needed to know if he could do it. His finger played softly with the trigger, stroking it, learning it like a child might. At that moment, Jimmy was the manifestation of a perfect soldier — his eyes, his body, disconnected from and unyielding towards his conscience and personal agony; he was a man torn from his soul. But still, he could not shoot.

He remained suspended, dangling from the open paws of some gleaming eyed cat, for an eternity, unmercifully chastised for his inability to unravel logic. He had killed men before. He didn’t know how many, but he had killed men before. Having seen them from the other side of a sun-drunk glass he knew the dying or dead played tricks with romance, that they cast themselves in some sick play, for just a moment, as sleeping men, as his sleeping buddy at the end of his short barrel. It was wonderful performance. And yet, this time, he could not pull the trigger. This time, he felt his body constricted by the grips of damnation, his mind clawed by his conscience; all of Jimmy’s inner workings mutinied against any justification for the murder of this man.

His hold on reason, however, was firm: one man is a man, is a man, is a man. He had killed men before; his buddy is a man, therefore, the murder of men, having been justified in his mind, allows for the vindication of his buddy’s death. The calculus held true! However Jimmy’s one, unflinching index finger tipped the scales of his equation, marred his schoolboy scratches upon the very finality of the proof. Why? Before lowering his weapon, before rendering himself vulnerable to the whims of night phantoms, Jimmy needed the comfort of an answer that would make the world around him seem real.

Slowly, with the deliberateness and hesitation of a child, Jimmy put down the pistol. He knew where his buddy had been, he knew that his buddy was going somewhere else; Jimmy’s buddy had a story. He was real. Jimmy loved to tell stories, but he could never end them. “The End” was scripted by a more powerful author.

Jimmy had never killed a man. He had killed men, statistics printed in block face and haphazardly folded on café benches, pieces of an enemy entity and larger demon – but never one man: never one boy, with a fiancée and a sister, who planned to return home and take over his hobbling father’s cobbler shop and paint his street address on the new mailbox. Never one man. Multiplication distorts human perception, and so his calculus was flawed. There is no life in numbers; the difference between two and three, or two and four-thousand-forty-seven is minute, it is weakening an army, it is changing a thing. But the difference between one and zero, that is everything. Addition by one is the only comprehensible mathematics in man’s mind.

Jimmy looked up at the sky again, thinking these things and others. His thoughts coupled the lights in the sky and bashed through the barricade of his memory: he had killed four men. In his mind, he wove a lullaby and told their stories, separately, singularly, all culminating in painful similarity.

He had killed a man: the man had an older sister back home and a knack for football. In high school he had been captain of the team and controversially fallen in love with an intelligent, bookish girl who planned to become a librarian and one day bear his children. She hoped to name it Rose, if it was a girl, after her mother – but she was open to discussion, course. His mother knit him sweaters every birthday; he had nineteen in his drawer. He was killed in the war.

He had killed a man: he liked to play blackjack and was a bit of a cheat, but he was clever about it and his slight of hand was considered more an envied skill than a detriment of character. Being an only child, this genial boy had taken to mentoring younger children in the community, creating his own makeshift family out of the scraps of others’; he was especially fond of a young boy named Carl who dreamed of one day becoming an artist. This man wanted to become a teacher, and had a scholarship to a good school when his run was up. He was killed in the war.

He had killed a man: he was a trumpeter, not especially good, though passable and pleasant to listen to. Once, when he was ten, he flipped over the handlebars of his bicycle and had to have twenty-eight stitches from his lower lip across his right cheek; he bore the scar with humility. He was one of six brothers and had been voted prom king a few months prior. He was killed in the war.

He had killed a man: this boy had always been quiet. In school, he always sat in the second row and modestly accumulated academic achievements. When he was seventeen, an outgoing girl invited him for a soda and he agreed; they went steady for four months before their relationship fizzled and ended with a handshake and warm feelings. Every week, he wrote letters home to his father and his current beau; he signed them, “Cordially and with all truth, Allen.” He was killed in the war.

One plus one, plus one, plus one equals four.

Like the brilliance of the stars, only that night did Jimmy realize the emptiness between them. He wondered how much brighter the night would be if everyone tried to count the stars one by one.

-Ulysses

The first duty of a revolutionary is to get away with it.

-Abbie Hoffman

Hello, world! We are the Urchins. Welcome to our website. We’re just your average, run-of-the-mill starving artist revolutionaries taking our movement to the internet in hopes of reaching millions. We’re young, poor, and in love with the world. And we know we can’t be alone. Urchins are everywhere. See that skinny kid in the corner reading a well-loved copy of Ulysses? Probably an Urchin. Remember that graffiti of an excerpt from Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own you pass on your way home? Probably the work of an Urchin. And that person at your local bookstore who keeps moving his favourite books to the front of the displays? Definitely an Urchin.

Urchins of the world, our time has come! Let us rise up and with one slightly superior voice cry out, ‘Revolution!’

"Does this even need a witty caption?"

Lady Gaga is a confusing artist. I’ll say this right now; her songs are cringe-worthy, and incredibly pretentious at times. However, she creeps up on you, and before you know it you are singing along to every chorus, and trying to join in on the absurd dance moves in her videos. Lady Gaga is the both the worst of pop, and the best of it all at once, and I don’t know if I’ll ever wrap my head around her fully. If her first album wasn’t confusing enough, this special edition bonus tracks-cum-EP-cum-new album that she calls ‘The Fame Monster’ just adds to the Gaga enigma.

Just let me take on the Lady as a whole, first off. She’s incredibly odd, in terms of look, costume, public persona, music, and especially her music videos. By rights, she should have gone the way of Bjork in the public perception, a one hit wonder that drops out of the mainstream but still has hardcore fans who can accept her strange aesthetic and unique musical style. Lady Gaga, on the other hand, endures. I think this is because she isn’t unique. Whether this is pure lack of creativity, or as I like to see her, a big postmodernist comment on the world of pop and celebrity, is still up for debate. What Gaga does well is take on the wide range of what we call pop, smash it all together through massive layers of production and create something decidedly weird, but catchy as hell and so bombastically unoriginal that it comes full circle and feels fresh and new.

I hate to go track by track, but I’m going to party have to for ‘The Fame Monster’ as it is not really a coherent album. Oh sure, it’s being sold as that now, but it was originally planned as a bonus disc for her debut release ‘The Fame’, filled with tracks that were either new or left off that release, depending on which articles you read. The only thing that seems to pull the album together is the repetition of the words “free bitch” in a few of the songs. The reason for highlighting certain tracks will just give you an idea of what to expect, and an idea of how eclectic an album ‘The Fame Monster’ is:

Bad Romance is the closest to what I’ve come to expect of Gaga thus far, with a similar sound to previous songs like Paparazzi, though with a vocal hook that reminds me of Boney M’s Rasputin, and a verse in French for no other reason than it’s a Lady Gaga song. Alejandro opens with a spoken intro in a bad, pan-European accent, and carries on in that vein, sounding like Shakira taken to the Europop extreme. Monster is booming R&B and features the line “he ate my heart and then he ate my brain.” ‘nuff said. Speechless would sound like Abbey Road/Let It Be era Beatles mixed with Christina Aguilera, if it weren’t for the strange accent Lady Gaga puts on to sing it. Try to imagine a country drawl mixed with Dick Van Dyke quality cockney and you’ll be about half way there. Dance In The Dark sounds a little like a darker version of her earlier song ‘Just Dance’, funnily enough. Telephone (feat. Beyonce) opens with a harp, and then breaks out into a thumping club track. If you like random vocal effects and hearing Beyonce for a verse, then you’ll probably enjoy it, there’s not much else to it really. So Happy I Could Die is what Rhianna would sound like if she’d been around in the 90s, pop R&B scene. Finally we have Teeth, which to my ears is the love child of Fanz Ferdinand’s ‘Ulysses’ and everything Scissor Sisters ever released. Though sadly, unlike those bands, Lady Gaga’s tongue is nowhere near her cheek in this one.

So where does that leave us? The Fame Monster is an eclectic mix of songs, which while possibly enjoyable on their own, don’t totally work together. Actually even on their own, just as you start to get into a song something, be it the lyrics, or an odd sound effect Gaga decided to add, will make you cringe. The subject matter is a little more mainstream than her main her first album, with each track seeming more about relationships than celebrity. Here’s the rub. Nothing I or any other reviewer says about this album will matter. This album will sell. It will pump out single after single, and Lady Gaga will make video after absurd video to promote it. I still can’t work out whether Lady Gaga is a genius or just very lucky to hit on some untouched artery of the market, but it doesn’t really matter. She’s cemented in pop culture now, and this album is doing nothing to endanger that.

5/10

Standout Tracks:

Bad Romance

Speechless

Telephone (feat. Beyonce)

Podemos dizer que exatamente há 20 anos o Brasil entrava definitivamente na Democracia com as primeiras eleições diretas após o período da Ditadura Militar. Desde 1960 o povo brasileiro não sabia o que era votar e eleger um Presidente da República. O último tinha sido Jânio Quadros que foi eleito em 3 de outubro daquele ano. Após a renúncia de Jânio, veio seu vice João Goulart que foi tirado do poder pelo golpe militar em 1964, trazendo os generais Castelo Branco (1964), Costa e Silva (1967), Garrastazú Médici (1969), Ernesto Geisel (1974) e João Baptista Figueiredo (1979).

Após 20 anos, com a queda do regime militar e a retomada da democracia, tivemos nosso primeiro Presidente civil: Tancredo Neves. Porém, este foi eleito de forma indireta, sendo escolhido pela Assembléia Cosntituinte formada por Deputados e Senadores. O povo não participou da escolha. Infelizmente Tancredo faleceu dias antes de sua posse, nocauteando as esperanças de retomada à liberdade de muitos brasileiros. José Sarney, seu vice e ex-apoiador da Ditadura, assumiu a Presidência. Lá ficou até 1989.

O país vivia um momento de turbulência no fim da década de 80. O governo Sarney foi marcado por dois pontos totalmente distintos. Por um lado foi nesta época que tivemos nossas instituições democráticas reestabelecidas, o Judiciário reformado, as políticas públicas retomadas e principalmente a construção e promulagação da Constituição de 1988. Por outro, o Brasil viveu um dos piores períodos de sua economia, com inflação galopante e planos e mais planos econômicos fracassados. Especialistas da área consideram a década de 80 como a década perdida.

Por estes motivos que a primeira eleição direta para Presidente contou com nada menos que 22 candidatos. Contávamos com nomes de destaque na política nacional como Lula pelo PT, Brizola pelo seu eterno PDT, Mário Covas pelo recém fundado PSDB, Ulysses Guimarães pelo velho PMDB, Paulo Maluf pelo PDS, partido que sustentara a ditadura, Guilherme Afif Domingos pelo PL, Roberto Freire pelo PCB, Aureliano Chaves pelo dissidente PFL, o folclórico Enéas pelo PRONA, entre outros. Dentre todos esses nomes, surgiu um, até então, candidato desconhecido chamado Fernando Collor de Melo, pelo PRN.

Mas quem era Collor?

Collor, filho de um famoso político de Brasília com carreira e reputação manchada por um assassinato de outro parlamentar dentro do Plenário, iniciou sua carreira na ARENA, partido da Ditadura. Em 1979 foi nomeado pelos militares prefeito de Maceió, onde ficou até 1982 após ser eleito deputado federal pelo PDS (antiga ARENA).

Em 1984 votou a favor da campanha das Diretas Já, mas vendo que a proposta havia naufragado, resolveu votar em Paulo Maluf, candidato dos militares. Com a posse de Sarney e o sucesso do Plano Cruzado, Collor se elege governador de Alagoas pelo PMDB, derrotando o senador Guilherme Palmeira, homem que abriu as portas da carreira política.

Em 1989, Collor e Lula eram novidades no cenário eleitoral. Os dois tiveram mais votos no primeiro turno ocorrido em 15 de novembro, indo para o segundo turno. A base de suas campanhas era pura e simplesmente a crítica severa do governo Sarney, seus fracassados planos econômicos e a biografia do então presidente. Chamado de Coronel, corrupto e outros adjetivos pouco amigáveis, Sarney foi o boneco de Judas da campanha de 1989. O final desta disputa entre Lula e Collor, todos já sabem.

Nesses 20 anos, tivemos altos e baixos em nosso proceso democrático. O próprio Collor sofreu um Impeachment, voltou anos depois e está hoje no Senado apoiando Lula e Sarney. Lula tentou mais uma, duas, três vezes até ser eleito Presidente em 2002. Hoje tem como apoiadores justamente Sarney e Collor. Tivemos o lançamento o Plano Real que trouxe estabilidade ao país e afastou o medo da inflação. O Brasil abriu sua economia e entrou no cenário mundial. Atingimos níveis de confiança do mercado internacional e nosso sistema eleitoral é hoje um dos mais confiáveis do mundo.

Nós, do República dos Bananas, acreditamos que devemos fazer uma reflexão sobre esses últimos 20 anos. Nosso sistema político ainda é arcaico, particularista e segregador. A maioria da população ainda sofre com coronéis, compra de votos e está muito distante do processo político. Temos “representantes” que em nada representam nossos interesses. Nossas instituições políticas como o Senado e a Câmara dos Deputados precisam urgente de uma reforma, assim como todo o sistema.

São 20 anos desde a primeira eleição com participação direta do povo, mas ainda temos o enorme desafio de reformar nosso sistema político para que a população efetivamente participe e se enxergue como cidadão.

Há um hotsite criado pelo “O Globo” que conta em detalhes a eleição de 1989. Clique aqui para conferir.

Por fim um momento do Debate de 1989 para divertir esta sexta-feira:

Franz Ferdinand FRANZ FERDINAND Franz Ferdinand FRANZ FERDINAND…

And thus we reach the end of Ulysses. In my last post, I discussed the function of gifts as representing the various offerings (lifestyle, future) Boylan and Bloom both exhibit for/give to Molly and what she ultimately decides, represented by her acquiescence to make breakfast for Bloom (a gift in it’s own right, with a cherry on top) and the gradual phasing out of Boylan despite his propensity to give many, many gifts. This structuring of gifts in the last episode brings up a continuous theme of opposition and elaboration used by Joyce throughout Ulysses – namely, a structuring of several extreme (in my case, gifts) at the beginning and end of each chapter that the main character must navigate through. Molly does this in Penelope, when she slowly shifts from Boylan, the material-giver, to Bloom, the family/love-giver (commercial/surface pleasure vs emotional). The other times gifts reprise as a structuring device is in Lestrygonians (the birds and the meal), Cyclops (the not-giving) and Nausicaa (the giving respite), and elements of Episodes 1, 2, and 4 (probably more than that).

The structuring aspects of gifts often relate to their ability to characterize, as with Boylan and Bloom in Penelope. Certain exchanges are surface-gifts and reflect negatively on the giver, while some are heart-felt and reflect positively, and some are social, reflecting neither here nor there, but highlighting important expectations the characters of Ulysses’ Dublin operate with. Bad transactions are commercial, with little thought for coming out ahead or being respected in any manner. Characters that adhere to this lifestyle are Mulligan, Boylan, Simon Dedalus, while others engage in this “giving” simply because they have to. Good giving, without thought for the repercussions on oneself or means, is exhibited by Bloom and Stephen (who are both capable of the other giving, as well), though Stephen’s dispensing of money for his “friends” shows how he is casting pearls before swine. Bloom mainly indulges in giving to animals, though Stephen and Molly both feature in his thoughts. Social giving, where it isn’t quite commercial but there is an expectation that the favor given will be repaid at a later date, is utilized by every character encountered in Dublin, with some being more reliable than others in keeping their word.

Aside from this, there are several anomaly gifts. There are “bad” gifts such as diseases and bribes, that come with pain and/or strings attached. An example of these would be the narrator of “Cyclops” suffering from disease and Boylan buying Molly a basket of potted meats while lying about his intentions. There is one example of a consciously ungiven gift that I can think of (there may be others, wasn’t looking for this, it just leaped out since we talked about it): Molly’s gift coat for Rudy. Undelivered to Rudy (while alive), Molly makes a conscious decision (or thinks about it afterwards) to not give the coat to some other child who might need it, but rather uses it to wrap her son’s body up. This tinges of selfishness at first scant scant glance, yet Molly’s dedication to her son heralds ideas of making gifts to the dead – something Stephen is incapable of doing for his mother. Unpack that!

Winckel, Fritz. Music, Sound and Sensation: A Modern Exposition. Trans. Thomas Binkley. New York: Dover Publications, 1967. Print.

Fritz Winckel’s Music, Sound and Sensation provides a scientifically rooted though easily accessible analysis of human interaction with sound.  Some of the more interesting and relevant concepts are discussed in the final chapter of the book, “The Effect of Music on the Listener.” One such concept is that music (and sound) only exists through variation—disturbances and modulations.  An example Winckel provides for this concept is the fact that “A continual monotonous hum of a machine in a factory disappears from the consciousness and is noticed only when it is turned off” (157).  This same idea can be applied to Ulysses—if the lyrics to a song appear later, they are inherently linked to the previous occurrence, yet the fact that they have been “turned off” (like the factory noise) only to resume later is also significant.  The fact that certain episodes (Sirens) were so reference-heavy made them overwhelming to pick apart, which following this theory of music as variation, means that each specific reference in Sirens is less significant on its own than a similar reference in a more musically barren episode.

Winckel also provides a differentiation between speech and singing.  He states that: “Singing is the development of utterances of speech into a cultivated sound through the extension of the vowels in time, mostly on a higher pitch level” (159).  There are, of course, more than just two states (singing and speech) present, and the further variation and extension of vowels as well as other factors advance normal speech in varying degrees towards the singing end of the spectrum.

Going back again to Bloom’s concept of “Musemathematics” it turns out that my previous understanding of musical notation, at least in terms of how notes come to sound like notes, was a bit off.  According to Winckel: “. . . the written note value never corresponds accurately to a defined vibration frequency, but rather to a ‘frequency band’ of vibrations, where the written note simply indicates the average pitch” (161).   This would explain the variation in songs as well as understandings of songs, as there exists on the scientific level distinct variations within each note, which is also compounded by acoustical variations both in the environment of the listener, and also within the listener.  This probably would not serve to explain the differing perception of the bells by Stephen and Bloom in Ithaca, but it does bring instances like it into question.

As a final note, the chapter provides an explanation for why music or sound is perceived in a unique way due to interior differences within the listener.  He states: “. . . impulses are not only sent forth through electrochemical transformation, connected with the nerve fibres, but also exist in the form of electrical fields, which go beyond the limits of the individual neurons and influence their excitability positively or negatively . . . which is further influenced by the hormone regulation of the synapses in the transmission network of nerves” (165).  Although this was a long quotation, I found it necessary to include as I lack a firm grasp of anything scientific outside of what I’ve read for my obsession; but what I gather from this is that the experience of a song or sound is absolutely unique to the listener, and in this logic Bloom’s experience in Sirens (recalling past events, etc.) makes perfect sense in that it was patently different from anyone else’s.

Let it be noted, before the start of this tale, that the day is a Tuesday.

I woke up to the very literal sensation of rolling off a couch, for the most part fully clothed, throwing my unzipped flannel sleeping bag off me in an attempt to cool my sweaty self down. When I say “fully clothed” I mean “wearing red flannel pajama bottoms that cuff short above the ankle, a blue lace bra, and a furry, atrocious, yet altogether toasty, zip up hoody”; and what I infer is that this is satisfactory clothing to wear to an 8:35 am class when you hit the couch at 6:30 am. At least, that was my mindset — or rather my body set, as I found myself tying my sneakers before changing my pants and determined that I had very little jurisdiction over the whims of my cloudy body this morning. I then threw a scarf around my neck, a hat on my head, and some Listerine in my mouth to create a sense of self-delusional semblance and, feeling ready to face absolutely nothing, especially not the world, I proceeded to stumble back up the stairs. I fell once. The conversation in the kitchen that followed I am actually a little proud of, mostly for its cohesiveness more than anything remarkable. I mean, I imagine it was cohesive; I got what I wanted from it: a travel mug. And many people cannot say so much for their conversations with others as to get what they desire out of them. In the travel mug I prepared Swiss Miss which I generously tipped off with Kahlua to create a sort of mocha concoction. I still feel I can justify this as not drinking in the morning: it was merely a survival tactic to get me from one all-too-short nap to another. A bridge, or a very late night drink after having dozed off for an hour or two — perfectly respectable (Although, as it turns out, some AA self-help forums would describe such self-justification as a warning signal; but I will allow you to know: I think we’re in the clear). In my fit state of mind I also realized that this morning was indeed following a Wednesday, and was therefore Thursday, and therefore the day that our cleaning staff cleans the kitchen; however, our kitchen likened itself to Dresden this particular morning, and I decided to risk tardiness for clumsily cleaning my dirty dishes in the sink and taking my one soaking mitten out of a cold bowl of water and draping it over a chair before rushing very slowly, as the racing tortoise might, to class. Yes, in such a state, I am generally quite logical.
Upon reaching my French class — yes, French at 8:35 in the morning, abismal I know — I realized that a good deal of the small class had decided that the meteor shower last night, of which I jubulantly participated in veiwing atop Mt. Royal, was valid vindication for an absense. This being the case, I was able to choose from a multitude of empty seats despite my slight lateness; why I chose a lefty-desk, I may never know. Such frustration was coupled with my pen’s (I say “my pen” liberally, here meaning “the pen in my hand that I had grabbed off the dining room table that morning with no thought of property in the least so I probably deserved the following”) lack of ink, forcing me to use a 4H pencil to take down French dictation in an altogether more forceful and less satisfying scrawl than anyone desires. But my drink, pencil, and I managed to stay quite awake, although not altogether content, through the class. I was also impressively quick to answer questions this morning, and hastily told my professor that she must “be a bicycle” to particpate in the Tour de France. It’s a silly language, and I blame the French. Somewhere in that space of time between 8:40 and 9:40 I also put a great deal of analytical thought into realizing that it was not in fact Thursday, but Tuesday, and that somehow in one day the week had already managed to become three days long.
But it was 9:40 when the analytical thought must have been either summed up or stemmed, for with twenty minutes left of class we were given an assignment to create a short French presentation for the class — a rare occurance, actually, for all the disgusting irony of it all. Having just begun a thrilling section on sports, artistic pastimes, and seasons, we had to create an impromptu interveiw for a “famous someone” involved in either music or athletics. I assumed the role of “Famous Person X” and a very nice girl I happened to be sitting next to, who I am pretty sure I have already introduced myself to previously (I conveniently realized this in the middle of my own introduction today, but merely smiled as she shook my hand and told me her name name again, realizing that some people’s names I would just never know and today would be a good day to begin to accept such a fact), asked me various questions about my life as a successful pianist. Then, almost as if Dramatics understood the actions of this morning and felt the need to play themselves up, we were asked to perform last in the class.
Girl: “French, french, french?”
Me: “French, french.”
G: “…debouis… (french-y, french, french)?”
M: “Je…french french french”
My professor, upon my response to our second interveiw question, assumed a rather befuddled expression. And then her eyes lit with a French “Eureka!” and she proceeded to explain the cause of her previous confusion. Kindly imagine, for the following scene, you are standing, as I am, stranded like a lone soggy sailor adrift on shipwreck shrapnel, at the front of the class – looking just as hellish, and with just as little control over my own circumstances: apparently the God damn French decided that “I play” — je juoie, pronounced “Jew-eh” — did not require any solid distinction from “I orgasm” — je jouis (sp?), pronounced “Jew-ee”. Of course, none of our French 101 audience could tell the difference; we are all in a delightful state of mutual confusion and misunderstanding in that class, a lovely that has so often brought groups together in an unequivocal closeness. But do not fret: my professor kindly and bluntly explained to the class, in better English than she has thus far utilized the entire term, that I had orgasmed for a duration of thirteen years. Lovely. God damn French people. That over, we finished our interview, I walked home, and, deciding that The Philadelphia Story had indeed taught me a very important lesson (Uncle Willie: “this is one of those days that the pages of history teach us are best spent lying in bed”), fell asleep on a different couch, under the same flannel sleeping bag.

-Ulysses

Broad overview of Fatherhood:

Stephen obsesses over his mother but there is little or no mention of his father.  Bloom thinks about himself as a father, what that means, and what makes or doesn’t make him a father.  Stephen argues about the consubstantiality of father and son.  Then we get the elevation of androgynous production. Then we see in Eumaeus and Ithaca the actual existence of a father-son relationship.  We see that unfold.  In Penelope something weird happens.  Molly romanticizes her father.  She seems to have made him the epitome of manhood.  She thinks about Bloom “I wish hed even smoke a pipe like father to get the smell of a man”  A good man in her mind is a man like her father.

It’s weird that Molly has this view of fatherhood.  I’m not sure what to do with this.  What does this have to do with her marriage? With her feelings about Rudy? about Stephen? about Milly?  What does this do to our perceptions of Molly? Also, I think there’s more to fatherhood in this episode than just this romanticization of her father… but I’ll try to add more about that when I know more after class on Monday and another read through.

Examination of gifts and giving in Ulysses has revealed a regular path: a certain theme gets introduced in one episode to be elaborated upon in subsequent chapters. Evidenced in the first ten chapters is the characterization of gifts and giving, from crass commercial exchange to sympathetic giving. In this phase, gifts fall under the garb of personal to social, usually with an eye toward some kind of return. This range in turn sheds light on (or underscores) the various characters populating the streets of Dublin. In the second phase, chapters eleven through fifteen, extremes of the earlier types of gifts are realized, both in literary form, character, and situation. In the third phase, episodes sixteen through seventeen, the father-son relationship of giving is explored in-depth. Episode Eighteen, Penelope, explores another facet of family exchanges – the husband-wife association, as well as recapping and transforming previous ideals concerning gifts in the prior chapters.

Within Molly Bloom’s rushing interior monologue we find a multitude of gift-forms scrutinized. The episode begins with Molly’s chafing thoughts on Bloom’s request for breakfast in bed. The husband-wife dynamic is highlighted immediately and ranges throughout the episode, and as guilt and social obligation seem to have little to do with whether the requests (from either party) are adhered to, other reasons must be found. There could be a sense of filial duty involved, and this possibility manifests itself, in Molly’s thoughts, in the put-upon woman form to the fleeting wish of a petticoat government, but these irate thoughts of duty are immediately followed by thoughts infused with feeling, or love, which constantly jumbles sense in a non-extreme way. The gift-giving in this dichotomy, then rests in how much the characters love each other, or are aware of their love for each other (mainly speaking about Molly, but some of Bloom’s actions can be traced throughout the day to have similar motivations). Realize that Molly has to work herself into this loving mood for Bloom throughout the chapter, but it ends with her deciding to adhere to his request for breakfast (she’s decided to put a spin on what “breakfast” might entail, which only proves my point).

Of course, wishes for commercial gifts are rife in this chapter, as Molly fantasizes over the myriad items she can dig out of Boylan’s gold-lined pockets. In the rest of the novel, this desire for the material would place a character into the “bad” category, or at the least unsavory. Boylan the Rich and Mulligan are the poster boys for this culture of giving, something for something. Molly’s place beside these two, however, is complicated. She indulges fleeting desires of clothes and jewels and attention, but the underlying problem resides again in her pauper-like relationship with Bloom, where the filial duty is going unfulfilled. This means more than simply adhering to or indulging the wishes of your spouse. As Molly points out, she sees herself as a good catch for Bloom yet notes that he is squandering her and aiding their poverty by being unable to hold a job down and constantly moving from one house to another. Interestingly, as the “sentences” continue, this commercial concern starts falling away to be replaced by the greater concerns of living with her spouse. Indeed, Molly herself sneers at the thought of riches and fame in the later sentences even as she craves them in the earlier ones.

Oh, what I would give to be so constant
That by only just stealing in some dream
Men bent upon paths of cerulean
Could, weary travelers, find home by me.
Their brass dials could find and fix the spot
Above with anyall* explanation
Just in my existence and their measure.
So they wander and I stay as I am.
Then I may play audience to the sport
Of those small creatures, be bemused, and lie
Distant, upon a bed of freckled night,
Contented in the arms of certainty.
But I am small: another vagrant stray
Who sleeps upon the lull of rocking waves.

* “poetic license”: I make up words

-Ulysses

Twins!  Born to the same mother. Ulysses and Bob. Ulysses is bound  to a path of power, wealth and fame. Bob…. a life far more ordinary.

Twenty-two years after their birth, both brothers apply for medical school. Ulysses finishes his undergrad at the top of his class and is immediately accepted. Bob squeaks in the back door.

Both brothers become doctors and immediately look for work at the local hospitals. Bob finds a placement at VGH. In ten years he is the head physician of the trauma ward.  

Ulysses is turned down for every position he applies for. Ulysses gives up his dream of becoming a physician and goes to work for his father. 

The difference: a small marijuana possession charge.

Don’t let a criminal record interfere with your fate. Talk to Express Pardons about receiving a pardon.

.010 [2004] <-Download

Robert Schneider é o líder do Apples in Stereo, banda que recentemente ficou conhecida do grande público através de um comercial da Pepsi. Desde então, o Apples passou a dividir com o Of Montreal o posto de filho mais popular do coletivo/gravadora Elephant 6. No entanto, a importância de Schneider para a E6 não se restringe a divulgá-la para o mainstream. Além de ter sido um dos seus mentores, foi ele quem produziu In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, do Neutral Milk Hotel, disco mais cultuado do coletivo. Acrescenta-se ainda a sua biografia o Marbles, um projeto solo que remete aos primórdios da panela folk-psicodelia-lo-fi surgida em Denver – e depois fixada em Athens. Mas este post é sobre o desconhecido Ulysses, excelente projeto paralelo que rendeu-lhe um dos melhores álbuns de sua carreira.

Com o término de um relacionamento, Robert foi morar em Lexington, Kentucky, onde deu à luz o primeiro e último álbum do Ulysses. .010 é uma exceção no catálogo E6, renegando a tradição folk para emular as guitar bands americanas dos anos 90 – nem o Chocolate USA foi tão longe nesta direção. Gravado ao vivo, o álbum tem guitarras que sugerem a influência de Pavement, Dinosaur Jr e Wedding Present. Dito desta maneira, parece uma volta à estréia do Apples, marcada por gravações lo-fi e passagens noise. Não é bem assim. Overdubs posteriores deixaram o som mais cheio e polido, de modo que, na discografia da banda principal de Schneider, o disco se encaixaria na transição entre o barulhento Velocity of Sound, de 2002, e o radiofônico New Magnetic Wonder, de 2007.

.010 alterna entre sentimentos extremos decorrentes de uma separação. De um lado, desolação e insegurança; do outro, liberdade e o vislumbramento de uma nova etapa da vida. E como não estamos falando de um divorciado qualquer, mas de Robert Schneider, estes sentimentos vem à tona em canções redondas, na medida para serem usadas em comerciais de refrigerante. A abertura Push You Away tem uma progressão de acordes melancólica e viciante, que desemboca numa redenção pop, com um coro cantado a todos pulmões. Já a agitada The Falcon representa a outra faceta, empolgante do começo ao fim, que funciona para animar festas de apartamento, com os móveis afastados e latas de cerveja pela casa.

Push You Away
The Falcon
 Castles In Spain

OK, it may not be my new all-time favorite food, but it is brilliant:

Oatmeal with banana, honey, milk, and cinnamon.

It makes you feel so warm and comfy and British all at the same time. Which is pretty much an oxymoron unless you are the step father of this kid and you just helped him get through his first 5th grade love crisis.

-Ulysses.

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.

I personally find a lot of inspiration here:

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

annnnnnnnd here:

Erik Desmazières. My new favorite artist; I absolutely adore his work — so full of fantasy, and yet the faces of scholars. His perspectives are also very intriguing. It really exemplifies a sort of youth for me in many of my favorite etchings, such as this one: a dream like questioning.

-Ulysses

Just got this pic and paragraph from the PR flacks at Harley-Davidson. Strange that they’d wait two weeks to send it out, but at least they’re recognizing the moment. First the PR bit and then a comment.

Last Buell Motorcycle Built

On October 30, a Buell Lightning XB12Scg rolled off the company’s East Troy, Wis. assembly line, the last of the 136,923 motorcycles built in the company’s 26 years of operation. Parent Harley-Davidson announced on October 15 that the Buell lineup of motorcycles would be discontinued effective December 18, 2009. Buell motorcycles will continue to be sold through existing dealers until inventory is depleted.

I feel fortunate to have had the chance to ride a handful of Buells. The XB12s is probably on my Top 5 favorite motorcycles list  (I’d also put the Ulysses on there too, but I rode the first model year version that had a bad steering lock issues) as it was a thoroughly fun bike to ride. Wicked and torquey and rumbly … there was no mistaking that you were sitting on a Harley. I also truly appreciate Erik Buell and visionary people like him. The motorcycle industry is filled with the most clever, entrepreneurial and just plain smart people that I’ve ever met or been around. They are tinkerers and engineers and machinists and admen and marketeers and sales people, all full of swagger and spark. Erik is at the top of that list. 

So, yeah, this picture and the accompanying paragraph leave me a bit sad.

Am Montag wird der Marsrover Spirit die ersten Kommandos bekommen, und sich aus der Misere zu befreien, in der er seit April steckt: Der Boden sah so aus wie immer, aber plötzlich war der Rover durch die harte Kruste (duricrust) eingebrochen, und im weichen Material darunter fanden seine Räder einfach keinen Halt mehr. Umfangreiche Experimente in einem Sandkasten haben klar gemacht, dass Spirit in einer sehr schwierigen Situation steckt, bei der ein spitzer Stein unter dem Boden auch nicht gerade hilft, war auf einer Telecon heute abend zu hören, die als “bittersüß” anmoderiert wurde – da fürchteten die ersten Zuhörer schon, die NASA habe aufgegeben.

Aber nein: Am kommenden Montag werden die ersten Kommandos zu Spirit geschickt, um zu versuchen, auf dem gleichen Weg wieder heraus zu kommen, wie der Rover (rückwärts wie immer seit eines der 5 Räder kaputt ist) hineingefahren ist. Man wird jeweils einen Tag die Räder drehen lassen und dann den – vermutlich nur minimalen – Fortschritt ausgiebig analysieren. Nach mehreren solcher Zyklen wird dann beurteilt, ob es so weiter gehen kann. Eine Weiterfahrt in der ursprünglichen Richtung erschien jedenfalls noch viel weniger vielversprechend, da Spirit dann hätte bergauf fahren müssen. Auch wenn alles unternommen werden soll, um aus dem Loch herauszukommen (mindestens bis Februar soll das versucht werden, dann gibt es einen großen Review der Lage): Zumindest ist der Rover an einer besonders interessanten Stelle stecken geblieben, genau einer lokalen geologischen Grenze nämlich.

Der aus dem Boden aufgewühlte grobe Sand (“Ulysses” im Bild der Front-Hazcam) ist der sulfatreichste, auf den irgendein Rover stieß; weiter rechts sieht es ganz anders aus. Und ein technisches Problem scheint zumindest gelöst zu sein: Das Flash Memory funktioniert wieder. Falls also am Ende gar nichts mehr geht: Als ortsfeste Wetterstation wäre Spirit immer noch nützlich. NACHTRAG: ein NASA Press Release anlässlich der Telecon – von einer “high probability”, dass die Befreiung fehlschlägt, war da aber nicht so explizit die Rede gewesen; dieser Artikel gibt den “spirit” m.E. besser wieder. Auch: ein langer Artikel zu Spirits Lage vor der Telecon. NACHTRAG 2: weitere detaillierte Zusammenfassungen der Telecon hier, hier und hier. NACHTRAG 3: noch ein langer und ein mittellanger Artikel.