A young couple sat down at the table next to mine where I sat sipping Earl Grey tea and reading the mystery novel which arrived in the mail yesterday evening. Trying to read from then on, because the man spoke in one of those radio announcer voices that even at normal volume carry across a large room. And so, while reading the same three sentences on page 23 over and over, and understanding not a word except 'and' and 'the', I began to eavesdrop.
I didn't help. The context of what they were talking about was as mysterious as those three sentences. Until they changed the subject and the man said: "And after all those rejections, by the family, university, work , women, he rejected himself!" What? His companion then asked him the question I wanted to ask: "Rejected himself? What do you mean?" "He moved to Russia, changed his name, his habits, his way of thinking."
That's all I heard. They changed the subject again, or did they? They spoke of family matters, and I don't know why but got the impression that the man who "rejected himself" was a family member or a friend. But maybe he was talking about a movie or a novel.
I couldn't hold it any longer, got up and went to the bathroom in the corner of the cafe. When I returned, the couple was conversing in one of the languages that I fluently don't speak. I recognized it as Dutch. Were they Dutch? Their English was free of a foreign accent. I took a look at their clothes and shoes seeking signs that their foreign make was different from the foreign make of the clothes and shoes we wear in America, but I didn't notice any indications.
But I heard, or thought I heard, in their conversation a few Dutch words that I had managed one way or another to acquire over the years, 'geweer', 'moord', 'vijand', that translate to 'gun', 'murder', 'enemy', respectively.
They finished their cappuccinos, got up, carried their empty cups to the bus tray by the counter, which told me that they knew the routine and had been here before, and stepped out, crossing the street eastward toward the university. I looked around me checking if I was in a dream world, or on some other planet, not believing what I had just witnessed. The table to my right was empty and clean, were these people here a moment ago, did I read it in my mystery novel, or did I make it all up?
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
Theme of a Dream
Where do these themes come from?
A bus goes to the airport every 30 minutes. Unreliably. Sometimes it doesn't show up. There is only one evening flight to London from here (well, at least that's true), that is often booked up. I'm waiting at the bus stop near a young Indian fellow. We miss the streetcar (yes, a streetcar not a bus!) we were supposed to board, while I was explaining the situation to him. We walk to an office to buy airline tickets, but the flight may be overbooked anyway, and we won't know until we arrive at the airport terminal. I'm going to visit a friend of a friend who just moved there (that's true, too). But how is he going to host me if he himself is being hosted by friends of friends? We walk back to the bus stop, when I remember that it'll be cool in London this time of year. I turn to go home to fetch my leather jacket. Will I make it on time?
A bus goes to the airport every 30 minutes. Unreliably. Sometimes it doesn't show up. There is only one evening flight to London from here (well, at least that's true), that is often booked up. I'm waiting at the bus stop near a young Indian fellow. We miss the streetcar (yes, a streetcar not a bus!) we were supposed to board, while I was explaining the situation to him. We walk to an office to buy airline tickets, but the flight may be overbooked anyway, and we won't know until we arrive at the airport terminal. I'm going to visit a friend of a friend who just moved there (that's true, too). But how is he going to host me if he himself is being hosted by friends of friends? We walk back to the bus stop, when I remember that it'll be cool in London this time of year. I turn to go home to fetch my leather jacket. Will I make it on time?
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Displacement
We were talking about Jhumpa Lahiri who has a new novel out ("The Lowland"). As is often the case, I haven't read the works of the writer, but have read plenty about her. She was born in England, grew up in the United States, her parents traditional Bengali, who spoke their native language at home, she never "lived fully within" America, as she says, married a non-Bengali against the wishes of her parents, and now moved her family to Rome, Italy, 'giving her children a taste of the same "loss of place"' (quote from the Wall Stree Journal.)
Her novels are about dislocation, and that is what we spoke about. He told me a story of a Filipino man living in the United States, who traveled to Manila, shot two people to death there, then boarded a plane to Los Angeles returning to his quiet life as a respectable member of the community. A classic hitman scenario is where the hired killer visits a city, kills a stranger, and quickly returns home. But this wasn't it, our man knew his victims, it was some kind of a family feud, betrayal, revenge.
The story provoked my imagination, but there was too little detail to look it up on Internet. And if the man got away with it, how did his story get out and reached my interlocutor? In any event, it's a seed of a story about displacement and ties to the past that somehow, some way cannot be broken.
Her novels are about dislocation, and that is what we spoke about. He told me a story of a Filipino man living in the United States, who traveled to Manila, shot two people to death there, then boarded a plane to Los Angeles returning to his quiet life as a respectable member of the community. A classic hitman scenario is where the hired killer visits a city, kills a stranger, and quickly returns home. But this wasn't it, our man knew his victims, it was some kind of a family feud, betrayal, revenge.
The story provoked my imagination, but there was too little detail to look it up on Internet. And if the man got away with it, how did his story get out and reached my interlocutor? In any event, it's a seed of a story about displacement and ties to the past that somehow, some way cannot be broken.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Scholarship
- You're a comedian.
- I am?
- At this rate you'll grow up a sad clown!
- Deep down all clowns are sad.
- You'll be nothing but a sad clown.
- What are you?
- I'm a Shakespearean scholar.
- See this stack of money?
- What about it?
- Get me a bottle of tequila in 5 minutes and it's yours!
- I can run to the store in 5, back in 5, how about 15 minutes?
- No, 5 minutes or no deal.
- Gimme an empty bottle and I'll fill it right away for you!
- Excuse me, where does bus number 52 stop around here?
- I'm sorry, I don't take buses, but where are you going?
- To the Village.
- Keep going this way and there at the corner you'll see a bus stop.
- Have you ever seen a situation where there are two families, and due to some outside circumstances, one family's loss is the other's gain, and for one reason or another they must get along with each other.
- That's weird, I don't think I have, give me an example.
- I'll tell you next time we speak. Ponder it in the meantime.
- I am?
- At this rate you'll grow up a sad clown!
- Deep down all clowns are sad.
- You'll be nothing but a sad clown.
- What are you?
- I'm a Shakespearean scholar.
- See this stack of money?
- What about it?
- Get me a bottle of tequila in 5 minutes and it's yours!
- I can run to the store in 5, back in 5, how about 15 minutes?
- No, 5 minutes or no deal.
- Gimme an empty bottle and I'll fill it right away for you!
- Excuse me, where does bus number 52 stop around here?
- I'm sorry, I don't take buses, but where are you going?
- To the Village.
- Keep going this way and there at the corner you'll see a bus stop.
- Have you ever seen a situation where there are two families, and due to some outside circumstances, one family's loss is the other's gain, and for one reason or another they must get along with each other.
- That's weird, I don't think I have, give me an example.
- I'll tell you next time we speak. Ponder it in the meantime.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Name Game
Everybody knows that Tony Curtis was born as Bernie Schwartz, Judy Garland as Frances Ethel Gumm, and Elvis Costello as Declan Patrick MacManus, Ringo Starr as Richard Starkey. Benjamin Black is the nom de plume of literary writer John Banville when he stoops down to writing criminal mysteries. Prince is the artist's actual first name, as is Madonna. Keith Richards was at the beginning of his career Keith Richard. Something to do with a dispute with his father. Keith Moon's birth name was Keith Moon. Did those who did change their names change their names legally? Kirk Douglas, who had two previous names, probably did, because his son is also named Douglas (Michael). Bob Dylan's son is Jacob Dylan, not Jacob Zimmerman.
Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you've been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you've been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows
(Leonard Cohen - birth name Leonard Cohen.)
What interests me today are minor changes to family names. There was a televangelist (TV evangelist) named Jim Baker who conducted his televised sermons and (primarily) money appeals with his wife Tammy Faye Baker, who had been born as Tamara Faye LaValley, and died as Tamara Faye Messner, after divorcing Jim and remarrying, which all happened following a scandal, collapse of their 'ministry', and criminal conviction and jailing of Jim on mail fraud charges. But wait, Jim's family name was 'Baker' but he changed it by adding a second 'k' (before or after the first 'k', that is the question?), and so, both he and Tammy Faye were appearing on TV's religious PTL Club ('Praise The Lord') channel as the Bakkers! What's up with that?
I once knew a rock musician who added a second 's' in the middle of his last name, then years or decades later dropped it, and having discovered his roots changed his first name to an ethnic sounding version of it, so that he was no longer a Jerry.
There have been instances of artists' names being inadvertently misspelled by their agents, managers or publishers, and they stayed that way. (I can't recall the examples when I need to cite them.)
Look up "The Name Game" novelty pop record by Shirley Ellis on YouTube. It went to number 3 on the Billboard Top 100 in 1964.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Unavoidable Staircase of Memory
I'm a slowpoke, slow on the trigger, what are the other clichés for slow reaction time? Oh, yes, Diderot's staircase, L'esprit de l'escalier. But that's not quite that.
I read about an intriguing idea, it catches my attention, and when I finally realize its depth some days or weeks later, I've already lost the source of my read and forgotten all the thoughts behind the idea. Like the idea expressed by a musician, or music historian or ?, in an interview published by a San Francisco newspaper once (but when?), that a musical composition should be heard only once. Or, more recently, a book review in the Wall Street Journal (what book?) where the author, or the reviewer (which?) refers to music as an "unavoidable art". Here at least I happen to remember the reasoning behind it, but as always there was more. All irretrievably lost.
You tell me that Google knows everything? Well, let it locate the source of these two ideas!
I read about an intriguing idea, it catches my attention, and when I finally realize its depth some days or weeks later, I've already lost the source of my read and forgotten all the thoughts behind the idea. Like the idea expressed by a musician, or music historian or ?, in an interview published by a San Francisco newspaper once (but when?), that a musical composition should be heard only once. Or, more recently, a book review in the Wall Street Journal (what book?) where the author, or the reviewer (which?) refers to music as an "unavoidable art". Here at least I happen to remember the reasoning behind it, but as always there was more. All irretrievably lost.
You tell me that Google knows everything? Well, let it locate the source of these two ideas!
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Pancakes
You think you have crazy dreams? Well, listen to this (and interpret, if you must.)
We woke up in a hotel and walked to the room next door still wearing our pajamas. There, we showed something on the computer screen to Vladimir Putin. (Yes, he's been in the news lately, and this week on the cover of TIME magazine's three international editions, but not the US edition - don't want to embarrass main sewer media's domestic hero.) Then we all walk out onto the mall outside following Vladimir. I note to my My companion notes that he is a small man, and I reply that he is strong, and trained in martial arts. Putin goes his own way, we go ours. "Where are we going?" I ask her (don't ask me who she is, I don't know), and she answers "To the Museum of Modern Art, there is something there I want you to see." We are still wearing our nighties.
Next, we return to the hotel. People in Putin's room are looking for him. Russians, Americans, a small crowd. We tell them that he went out, all by himself, and without bodyguards; unlike most others of his stature, he's not afraid to do that. More conversations.
We are hungry and walk toward the counter serving breakfast. Pancakes. The menu hanging above is not clear, prices are not displayed. Other customers are ordering. I ask her, "What do you want?" She, now dressed in an elegant dress, is walking up the stairs, speaks to me, but doesn't answer my question, OK, I'll order for myself, once I talk to the woman behind the counter, and figure out what's what.
We woke up in a hotel and walked to the room next door still wearing our pajamas. There, we showed something on the computer screen to Vladimir Putin. (Yes, he's been in the news lately, and this week on the cover of TIME magazine's three international editions, but not the US edition - don't want to embarrass main sewer media's domestic hero.) Then we all walk out onto the mall outside following Vladimir. I note to my My companion notes that he is a small man, and I reply that he is strong, and trained in martial arts. Putin goes his own way, we go ours. "Where are we going?" I ask her (don't ask me who she is, I don't know), and she answers "To the Museum of Modern Art, there is something there I want you to see." We are still wearing our nighties.
Next, we return to the hotel. People in Putin's room are looking for him. Russians, Americans, a small crowd. We tell them that he went out, all by himself, and without bodyguards; unlike most others of his stature, he's not afraid to do that. More conversations.
We are hungry and walk toward the counter serving breakfast. Pancakes. The menu hanging above is not clear, prices are not displayed. Other customers are ordering. I ask her, "What do you want?" She, now dressed in an elegant dress, is walking up the stairs, speaks to me, but doesn't answer my question, OK, I'll order for myself, once I talk to the woman behind the counter, and figure out what's what.
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