10 μήνες μετά αυτό το επεισόδιο! Τουλάχιστον δεν κλείσαμε χρόνο. Το γράφημα ημερομηνία λήψης/ημερομηνία δημοσίευσης ξαναπήρε την κατιούσα (αυτό είναι καλό, κι ας ακούγεται το «κατιούσα»–katyusha?–σαν κάτι το κακό)!
Σε αυτό το επεισόδιο που ηχογραφήσαμε σε ένα μπαράκι του Βελιγραδίου με τη Δάφνη, συζητήσαμε και αναρωτηθήκαμε:
γιατί οι Έλληνες σνομπάρουν τους Βαλκάνιους γείτονες και αδερφούς τους.
γιατί αξίζει σαν προορισμός η ευρύτερη περιοχή, και ειδικότερα με το Balkan FlexiPass.
πόσο ειρωνικό που σε κάθε χώρα το μόνο σίγουρο είναι οι εθνικιστές και ότι παντού πιάνονται από τα ίδια αστεία πράγματα.
τι κοινά έχουν οι Βούλγαροι με τους Σέρβους και πώς η Βουλγαρία θα μπορούσε να είχε γίνει μέρος της Γιουγκοσλαβίας.
πέτυχε ο κομμουνισμός της Γιουγκοσλαβίας του Τίτο;
ανήκουν τα Βαλκάνια στην ΕΕ;
γιατί δεν είναι η Σερβία στην ΕΕ;
συγκρίνονται τα τραίνα του ΟΣΕ με τα τραίνα της Ρουμανίας;
γιατί το Βελιγράδι είναι από τις ομορφότερες πόλεις ever.
γιατί η ζωή στα Βαλκάνια μας έκανε να δούμε το κομμάτι της Ελλάδας σε αυτό το μεγάλο παζλ διαφορετικά.
τελικά πού πέρασα καλύτερα, στην Δανία ή στην Βουλγαρία;
πώς μια πολιτική ένωση των Βαλκανικών λαών ή των Νοτιοευρωπαϊκών λαών φαντάζει πιο λογική απ’ότι μία όπου από την μία έχεις την Δανία, την Γερμανία και την Ολλανδία κι απ’την άλλη την Ελλάδα
..και πολλά άλλα, στο πιο πολιτικό επεισόδιο μέχρι τώρα. Απολαύστε! Ο τίτλος σημαίνει «Βαλκανικά αδέρφια», btw. Α, και η λέξη που δεν θυμόμουν: legacy στα ελληνικά: υστεροφημία, θα μπορούσε να είναι μία μετάφραση.
Για περισσότερα, ρίξτε μια ματιά και στο ποστ που έγραψα αφού γυρίσαμε από το ταξίδι μας, Balkan Flexpress.
Και κάτι σχετικά με το μετρό της Αθήνας που αναφέρουμε στο podcast: η Αττικό Μετρό είναι ιδιωτική εταιρία αλλά ήταν απ’ότι φαίνεται μόνο η εταιρία κατασκευής, δεν το διαχειρίζεται αυτή τώρα. Το ερώτημα πάντως παραμένει: θα έπαιρνε λεφτά από την ΕΕ για την κατασκευή της γραμμής 4;
It was 100 pesos for the entrance (~31 pesos to a euro; when I got here 4 weeks ago it was 29—I’m rich!) and another 100 pesos for a strange kind of alcoholic beverage people drink a lot in Uruguay that tastes very much like Fisherman’s Friend. Imagine that, with coke.
A few minutes after I got my drink, her friends started playing their music. The whole concert reminded me of the very first venues in Rock Band, when you first set out and play the easy songs, where supposedly only your friends and some of their friends, at best, come and see you. They were amateur musicians, you could tell: their songs were mostly uncomplicated, and they had a bunch of different instruments, such as unusual percussion (e.g. the lower jaw of a cow, complete with teeth) and types of guitars I would imagine the likes of Inti-Illimani would always keep within arm’s reach. One or two of them were more skilled, but the group as a whole was not. They would go in and out of tune in their polyphonic segments etc. Nevertheless, they left me with a positive impression. I thought they were an interesting group, doing what they enjoy, not caring about perfection and not being scared to experiment in front of an audience.
Then, from the minute I woke up today on, one particular song from yesterday keeps playing in my head. It’s the one in the media player above. It’s a recording I made with my smartphone, that is why the quality is abysmal (I can hear my H2n’s vindictive laugh from the corner—that’s what you get for not having proper sound recording equipment with you ALWAYS ). I can tell that what they’re singing in the chorus is probably “esto no es café” (this isn’t coffee), and I can catch some of the rest of the words but the quality of the recording is so bad and the skill level required for understanding sung language is so high I’m not even bothering.
All that’s nice and good, but something soon dawned on me after listening to his recording a couple of times: I will probably never listen to this song in better quality. This is it.
In this day and age where every original song has a proper recording done in a studio and posted on Youtube, problems like one-off performances, live recordings or poor reproduction quality due to technical reasons seem absurd and things of the lo-tech past. But here we are: an earworm of a song I will never listen to in better quality. If this band never played again, this song would live in posterity in the form of this shitty recording. This realisation gives me similar vibes to listening to the world’s first recording of a song (but not the oldest sound recording in general, that’s too creepy, man). Suddenly you realise it’s a recording; somebody recorded it, it was there and then suddenly thrashed into infinity. It wasn’t born from nothing the way contemporary music makes me think about it sometimes. Somebody was recorded who, after the job was done, left and went on with his or her life. The difference in quality makes me aware of factors I’m sure were invisible for people playing the music. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”, anyone? What about “Any sufficiently advanced observer will be able to distinguish between magic and technology?”
You know what though? At least I’m better off than with that Häxan projection with a live soundtrack by No Clear Mind. That was music that rocked my world. I have no recording of it and I will most probably never have the chance to ever even listen to for a second time in my whole life. It makes you wonder what’s important in the end in this art form which has changed so much and has become so very incredibly complex and meta ever since the internet became speedy for cheap, which is actually true for most about everything humans do.
The song is very catchy. The polyphony is excellent, even if not technically perfect. And what’s this genre of music called, if it even has a name? It must, right? There’s an obscure genre for everything. Anyway, I want more!
The bar’s facebook page linked above says their name is “Rocotó”.
PS: After I finished writing this post, I started looking around for more info about this group, starting from the address of the place, and step by step I actually found their SoundCloud. Okay, now I sure feel stupid for writing this whole post above! But here it stands, perhaps as a testament to my beautiful, romantic self-delusion and my tendency to make a story out of limited data and believe it if it sounds good enough? Maybe, maybe. Enough playing philosopher for tonight; here’s a good recording of Rocotó’s music. Enjoy!
Ah, page, we meet again. Hello. Today I decided to write. Express myself, as it were. I fought the distractions… Avoided starting Battlestar Galactica Season 4, despite the fact that Season 3 ended with a bang, it did; I decided not to play Planescape Torment, even though I’ve just started getting into it (and for this kind of games it means playing 10 hours or so). In typical qb style, I even fought off work! I had a nice, warm shower, lay in my warm bed (it’s winter… still hard to wrap my head around it), put some music on that phone that still hasn’t taken full control—I chose Vangelis’ Cosmos—and now I’m here in this right place. The phone proved its supposed smartness by reminding me not to put the volume too high so as to avoid damaging my hearing. As tonight’s token act of proving to myself I’m an adult, I heeded its advice. Maybe the machines aren’t out for us. Pah, who am I kidding.
OK, let’s go. Today I fucked up.
Or, rather, I should say yesterday. But only today did I realise, so it counts as today. Once again I let my overconfidence that everything will be alright cloud my judgement—that sounds suspiciously like a “write 100 times on blackboard” punishment at Jedi school. Sigh… It is one of my greatest weaknesses, and many have noticed, especially those that know me well enough to have pierced at my essence that is invisible to me, similar to a bird who’s only ever known flight can never imagine what it means not to fly, or what sort of happiness a snail might know. Tell a bird it might be flying a bit too much and it’s gonna cock its head inquisitively at you like birds tend to do.
I just aren’t careful. I either want to move fast to be getting to the next task or activity, or, in the face of what we’d call danger in this case, I take that annoying, solipsistic view: “it won’t happen to me, no need to worry!” This is personhood’s very own little facepalm—no, that’s not a good translation of αυτομούτζωμα. I like to take pride in my care-free attitude, or at least the appearance thereof; don’t I know I’m constantly anxious about an entire small museum’s collection of “must-dos”. But that’s another story. I like to say that people don’t really have “positive and negative aspects of their personality.” They only have a single hunk of personality, and according to what side you look at it from, you see different things and judge to whim. Hey, that’s almost exactly like saying that people have personalities and those personalities have positive and negative aspects.
But let met put it this way. Take for example myself. I’m careless and carefree, right? Yes. But these two aspects of me aren’t separate; they’re one. It’s like those digestive biscuits that have chocolate on top. The chocolate is the carefreeness and the underside the carelessness. The whole thing is part of my personality, and the whole box of carelessfreeness, quielation, friendiculousness or abstrant, openular mind is me. I’m this box of biscuits that look the same, because I look the same no matter which biscuit of mine you’re eating. You smell me and taste me the same, and you either love me or hate me… or you might also not particularly care about me. Do you like chocolate digestives?
When I began writing about boxes of biscuits a few lines ago, the point to which I wanted to conclude was that we all are assorted boxes of still different biscuits down a supermarket aisle. Then, however, I chose to pursue the realisation that came to me while writing that yes! People are like food.
Some are so sweet you get sick of them after just a few bites. Others are simple but fulfilling. Others yet are only to be had at parties or thrice-a-year family dinners. You can find each type of person at the supermarket, but there almost always exist the same kind of foodstuff produced locally and tasting better, like that amazing Greek artisanal Nutella that’s not only better, it’s also cheaper.
Some are fancy, others to be enjoyed as part of a familiar routine, some are fresh and organic, many are rotten and/or appear fresh solely because they’ve been peppered with preservatives. We have changing tastes in people and so do we in food. Maturing tastes, perhaps? Some are hot, some are bland. But! The too-bland ones can always spice themselves up; the hotter ones will probably just leave you in tears and gasping for air. But so do onions, at least the crying part. Similarly, there’s a whole lot you have fond nostalgic memories of, but regret every trying them again 20 years later to see if they taste the same. Others are like heaven consistently forever… I presume, I wouldn’t know.
There are hard people, soft people, sweet, bitter, sour and… salty people. Many, sadly, are just plain meat but, although a selective omnivore I may be, it’s sadder when they’re vegetables instead. This is starting to have a Dr. Seuss rhythm to it.
Finally, you would never, ever consider that it’s the broccoli’s fault that Roberto (that’s my Italian coordinator here), with all his exquisite and discerning palate, hates it. I can’t get my head around it: how is it normal for us to think that a person has anything to do with whether others like them or not? Anyway, broccoli can rest easy: I hated it, HATED it when I was a child, you know, it was the archetypical go-to yuck food. Nooow, however, I sometimes even eat it raw. I love it. Broccoli just used to be too sophisticated for my untrained taste buds. There.
One of Terrence McKenna’s famous quotes goes: “”. qb’s version: “the cost of being sophisticated in this society is being the person-equivalent of broccoli.” Or, while we’re at it: sushi. Lentils with yoghurt. NOT eggs: they could crawl back into the chicken’s ass whence they came and I wouldn’t spill water for the dead. Beans. I was damn near allergic to the things most of my life. Now I can eat them no problem due to my insistence to eat them no matter my stomach’s complaints. I can imagine it quietly giving in after all this time: “okay dude, I get it, you took that little song about beans and the heart a bit too seriously, I don’t agree but I can’t stop you… you should know though that this IS going to put a strain on our relationship.”
Wow. This really worked. Remember? Near the top of this text it says I wrote “I fucked up”. It’s even the title of the post. But I’m better already. All day I’ve felt like shit because the bike I rode yesterday for 25km up and down Montevideo’s Rambla and took the following video,
that is, Laura’s bike she hadn’t rode in years and I paid 1000 pesos to have repaired and use it and got it 4 days ago… well, that bike was stolen. All I did was just leave it outside the Posada. Given, it was locked, but with a lock that cost less than 5€ and could probably only protect anything of any value up to that amount. Only today did I notice that all the locked bikes that had caught my eye on the pedestrian street Calle Pérez Castellano during the day, all those bikes I had subconsciously noticed to give my carefreelessness an excuse to run wild, were nowhere to be seen at night, and so was mine by next morning. I can just imagine it sitting there, alone, singing in the dark: “I’m old and rusty, though orange with some new parts e.g. pedals and handles, I’m safe from harm and theft ♪!”
The worst part is that this bike had sentimental value to Laura, so having to tell her that I almost presented the her old bike to thieves and having to deal with questions such as “really, did you leave it outside?” was less than fun. The second worst part is this makes it the, what, 3rd time I’ve had my bike stolen. Last time was in Denmark, where I idiotically left mt bike unlocked going to Danish class, forgot about it for hours after the lesson, went around town, only remembered about it that evening when I had to ride it back home and was all disappointed that the mere act of remembering about it hadn’t been enough to protect it from theft or bring it back.
August 2011, Denmark. This is like one of those “last selfies.”
And there was this other time somebody vandalised my bike parked at Sapfous in Mytilini. I was totally Anakin bringing back his mother from the sandpeople that evening. Only I didn’t slaughter anyone like an animal. I’m civilized. I only ever hold passive-aggressive grudges.
The carcass of my ride on Minwos and Lavyrinthou. Notive the crooked front only wheel
Anyway, back to today. I went to the police office to report the theft as it was suggested to me I do, because apparently Ciudad Vieja is monitored 24/7 by video surveillance; by checking in their records from last night, the police might be able to find the culprit and track them from camera to camera, if they did stay within the boundaries of the Old Town, that is. I can tell you that if my bike is indeed located by the use of video surveillance tech, I’ll be hit by a small-to-medium-sized train of cognitive dissonance. I hate to be that guy, I know how fashionable it is to hate on the police (I don’t like them myself), but ever since my mum’s handbag was robbed and after declaring the theft and the police guys actually CALLING us home to tell us that the bag had been found at a place where “a lot of τσαντάκηδες leave their discarded prey”, it’s been easier for me to feel a tinge of empathy for people who support the police and are disdainful of anarchy. I mean, suddenly when it happens to you, it doesn’t seem so oppressive, does it?
Anyway №13 or something. I fucked up and writing this relaxed me a lot. Its intent was to be a kind of Post-It for futurue qbs to be wary of carelessfreeness, no matter how many times things turn out to be OK in the end, and to remember that it fucking sucks to let people, friends and yourself down and destroy their trust.
But hey, at the end of the day, I’m a chocolate digestive. Some will like me, some will hate me, some will simply not care about me, forget that I exist until I appear before them (at which point they’ll either choose to munch on me absent-mindedly or ignore me) and some will eat the last part of me that’s left in the box all crumbly and melted, but still like me and recognise that not all chocolate digestives from then on out will be crumbly and melty and that if next time I’m in no condition to eat on my own, just throw me on some ice cream or oats, that would be yummy.
Θα βγω λοιπόν και θα το πω. Σπάνια τα λάιβ αξίζουν. Είναι πολύ δυνατά, κουράζεσαι όρθιος συνέχεια, θες να κάτσεις, να πιεις κάτι, να κατουρήσεις, να δεις τους μουσικούς από κοντά και δεν μπορείς… Δεν είναι ότι η ζωντανή μουσική δεν αξίζει: αυτοκαγχάζω σχεδόν γράφοντας τις παραπάνω λέξεις, σκέφτοντας ότι μέχρι σχετικά πρόσφατα εμείς οι άνθρωποι δεν μπορούσαμε να διαχωρίσουμε τις έννοιες «ζωντανή» και «μουσική» (ούτε είχαμε βέβαια και μικρόφωνα ή ηχεία) και η εφεύρεση της ηχογράφησης για πολλούς σήμαινε το τέλος του πανάρχαιου αυτού είδους τέχνης.
Ξεκάρφωτο διαμάντι από τον οιρμό της σκέψης: πότε θα αποκτήσουν οι βιντεοκασέτες το κύρος που έχουν τα βινύλια;
Όχι, η ζωντανή μουσική έχει τη δική της θέση δίπλα στις ηχογραφήσεις ζωντανές ή περασμένες από πολλές στρώσεις audioshop, στην καρδιά μου και στον κόσμο γενικά. Απλά το αν και κατα πόσο θα απολαύσω μια συναυλία εξαρτάται από πολλούς παράγοντες, αστάθμητους και… σταθμητούς…; Όπως για παράδειγμα αν είμαι γνώριμος με τη μουσική από πριν (δύσκολα θα απολαύσω ένα τραγούδι ή ένα κομμάτι ζωντανά που δεν έχω ξανακούσει ποτέ) ή αν υπάρχει κάτι να κοιτάζω ενώ ακούω, για μια πιο οπτικοακουστική εμπειρία (σημαντικό). Παρακαλούνται οι αναγνώστες μουσικοί να αφήσουν κάτω τα μπουκαλάκια με τα χάπια (προς κατανάλωση και μετά εκσφενδόνιση)!
Γιατί είναι και μερικές φορές που πας σε μια συναυλία και πραγματικά το χαίρεσαι, και αυτές τις μέρες ειδικά έχουν πέσει όλα τα δρώμενα μαζί, είμαι συνέχεια έξω τα βράδια, με τη Δάφνη και με την Greek Team του Rights4Water, τον Αστίκ, την Λάουρα και τον Αντρές. Η Νταϋάνα είναι κι αυτή στο γκρουπ αλλά προτιμά να μένει σπίτι κάθε μέρα, δεν έχει βγει ούτε μια φορά.
Πριν τρεις εβδομάδες πήγαμε στον Θανάση Παπακωνσταντίνου στο Θέατρο Βράχων μετά από μια μικρή Οδύσσεια μέχρι να βρούμε να παρκάρουμε (γκουχκλειστοβενζιναδικογκουχ). Για μένα είναι τελικά ο σύγχρονος έλληνας μουσικός που περισσότερο με εμπνέει και με μαγεύει, που το έχει πιάσει το νόημα μουσικά, στιχουργικά… τι σημαίνει να είσαι έλληνας μουσικός το 2015 με όλη την βαθιά καλλιτεχνική παράδοση αυτού του τόπου αλλά και τι νέο μπορεί να προσφέρει σήμερα. Το όλο ρε παιδί μου.
Κοιτάχτε μόνο εδώ πώς χαμογελάει όταν ΟΛΟ το θέατρο αρχίζει και τραγουδάει—φοβερή εκτέλεση, ε; Επ, μπορείτε να βρείτε όλο το live στο παραπάνω playlist. Νάις… Τσεκάρετε και τον καινούργιο του δίσκο Πρόσκληση σε δείπνο κυανίου, αν συμπαθείτε τα λίγο πιο ψυχεδελικά.
Έπειτα, το περασμένο Σάββατο πήγε το παρεάκι στους Γιαννιώτες Villagers of Ioannina City, στο Resistance Festival στην Γεωπονική. Σχηματίστηκαν το ’07 και έβγαλαν και τους δύο δίσκους τους πέρσι και έχουν γίνει διάσημοι ήδη. Είπαμε, τι σου κάνει η δισκογραφία… Κάπου διάβασα την τέλεια περιγραφή τους: stoner ηπειρώτικα! Ψάχτε αυτές τις δύο λέξεις στο youtube και θα καταλάβετε. Ήταν να πάμε και τον Νοέμβριο αλλά έγιναν sold-out στο Fuzz. Από τα κόμεντς βλέπω ότι θα κάνουν (ήδη κάνουν;) λαμπρή καριέρα στα Βαλκάνια (Βούλγαροι και Σέρβοι εκστασιάζονται!). Μπράβο, μπράβο. Ξεχωρίζω το Nova (το οποίο είναι στα αγγλικά), το Κάλεσμα, το Κρασί και το Τι Κακό.
Την επόμενη βραδιά πήγαμε στους Lemonostifel. Το όνομα τους ταιριάζει πολύ, αυτό έχω να πω! Παίξανε σε έναν δρόμο στον Βοτανικό δίπλα σε μια εκκλησία, στα πλαίσια της Πανευρωπαϊκής Ημέρας Μουσικής. Ο Αστίκ με έπρηξε, μου έλεγε «θέλω να αγοράσω τον δίσκο, θέλω να αγοράσω τον δίσκο!» Δεν προλάβαμε να τους ζητήσουμε, τον έναν από τους δύο δίσκους που έχουν βγάλει τουλάχιστον κι αυτοί, γιατί έπρεπε να προλάβουμε το μετρό. Πάντως είναι κι αυτοί εξαιρετικοί μουσικοί, με γέμισαν ευχάριστα συναισθήματα και μια νοσταλγία για στιγμές που δεν έχουν έρθει. Κι αυτοί είχαν και κάτι να χαζεύω. Ξεχωρίζω τα πρώτα τέσσερα αυτής της playlist (Άνθος Αραβοσίτου, Radiokefalos, Γιαγιά, Γλυκό του Κουταλιού)
Όταν με ρωτάνε αν μου αρέσουν τα ελληνικά, απαντάω όχι. Τι εννοούν; Τι εννοώ;
You don’t automatically have more motivation when you have more free time, but when you get rolling you’re more likely to keep working and keep creating.
The longer you’re away from the internet the less you miss it. Doing my half-hour per day wasn’t as inviting as I thought it would be.
My guess is that that is so because when you have a time limit, you have to prioritize. And prioritizing probably means excluding. It feels safer and easier to just avoid things rather than being forced to make decisions like including/excluding.
Cooking counts as creating. Oooh yes.
Media including movies is a bitch.
Next time we should probably do no books and see what happens. Julia Cameron had something to say about that, didn’t she? In The Artist’s Way, the theme for one of the weeks was not read a single text for a week. Again, back then there was no net.
This thingie below would have never existed if we hadn’t sat down with Daphne and said “okay, let’s make a collage”.
And this would have never existed if we hadn’t said “okay, what should we do now? Let’s paint!” — “OK, what?” — “eachother!”
But motivation is still a limited resource that can be separated into qualitative levels: you can have good motivation, bad (negative?) motivation, pure motivation and unstoppable motivation. All the lack of distraction does is bring forward the standard kind of motivation that under ordinary circumstances simply isn’t strong enough to become a greater priority than habit and addiction (media/internet). I suppose the kind of motivation we’re after is the one that needs no media fasts to rear its elusive head; it just trumps anything and everything!
But then again, you have people like Frank Herbert who just wrote— motivation, inspiration, or no… How about it, qb?
For the past few weeks, I’ve been going to the Alsos almost every day, rotating the bodyweight fitness (push-ups, pull-ups, handstands, L-sits etc) with the running. And it feels grrreat! Daphne has been helping a lot with cooking healthy and nutritious vegetarian meals with lots of protein, not that I’m shy of the stoves, but I tend to cook the same three or four things, not experimenting unless in the mood, and with her in control we’ve been eating like vegetarian kings. It activates me and it’s bringing in some good skills to have. I don’t know if I would be doing it if I didn’t have all the free time I have now, but that’s beyond the point. Having a workout and exercise routine helps me bring some (illusion of) order to my disorganised life, and with some much appreciated visible results.
Nevertheless, what I haven’t been able to organise, discipline and harness at all– seriously, AT ALL — is my mind.
In June last year, apart from running 10k, I posted this little write-up I’m still proud of:
Trouble is, I didn’t go through with what I pledged I would do. As far as I can remember (which isn’t a lot, because, as typically happens when you regress to addictive behaviour, your memory-forming functions give way to the reptilian dopamine-releasing pleasure centres, quite conveniently, too, because you don’t really want to remember in shame the ego-shattering moments when you and your actions fail to hold up to your initial intention), ten days later I was again browsing the web, free as a bird — or, to be more precise, free as a bird enclosed in a cage made of invisible walls.
A few days ago, while I was running no less, the thought came to me: why don’t I try again with this whole less internet, less media thing? I could use the extra time to think and create. I seriously miss creating…
The next 4 days I’m going to be in Loutra doing a media fast with Daphne: each day, we will be allowed to use the internet for just 30 minutes, and that’s just for e-mail, practicalities and Rights4Water. The rest of the time, anything with a screen will be off-limits. No movies, no games, no TV, no smartphones — I will switch mine to battery-saving “dumbphone mode”– no distractions from the interestnet. The only exception will be my Sansa Clip Zip I will be using for audiobooks, podcasts and music for when I’m doing exercise. The idea is to limit options, minimise distractions and allow for deeper thought and even boredom, which will force us to be creative instead of us automatically turning to the mind-numbing net for excitement and stimulation.
Logo I made using Adobe Illustrator for the Rights4Water campaign described in the Uruguay post, in other words, the campaign I’m busy with and will be busy with for the next few months.
It wasn’t chosen as the logo for the campaign, but I’m posting it here anyway because I liked it a lot.
Cheers to Daphne for the Illustrator tips and guidance.
“As an introvert, interacting with other people feels like exercise. I feel better about myself every time I do it; it makes me stronger and healthier. It also exhausts me, and if I do it too much I feel sore and cramped. But if I go too long without it, I feel sluggish and stifled. Ultimately, it is the space between that energizes and sustains me. And some days, I just don’t feel like working out and would rather sit on my ass and read a book by myself.”
“Unique among SF novels… I know nothing comparable to it except The Lord of the Rings.” ~Arthur C. Clarke
I’ll begin with what I saw when I first checked what my Goodreads friends had to say about their experience with Dune:
Thank the gods it was Kivayan, my friend Kuba from Poland, who first made it clear to me how important it was that I read Dune, and not just the first book, no, the whole original series, because only then would I be able to witness the genius of Frank Herbert’s grand image (that there was my attempt to express “big picture” in a more fittingly epic way). Thank the gods it was him and not someone else’s opinion which would have left this book under my personal radar, where it had been for many years.
Scratch that. It hadn’t been under my radar. I’d been aware of it since I was little, mainly from video games or perhaps Karina—I just didn’t know exactly what it was about. All this desert, the sandworms… It looked boring. Like something too slow, deep or intricate for me to enjoy. And let me tell you, I wasn’t wrong: if I had dipped my toes in the spicy sand before I’d reached a certain point in my life, I’m confident I wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all. If I had to say, I’d place the point in question around the time I started watching Game of Thrones, playing alt-history games and reading books like The World Without Us or The Dark Tower.
I had started being able to enjoy books like Dune, only I couldn’t make the connection in my head and notice the switch. There was nobody to suddenly come up to me and tell me that the famous, apparently super-influential old SF book I’ve always thought I wouldn’t enjoy, actually involves loads of topics I’d find very appealing: religion, feudal politics, anthropology, psychology, history, ecology and many others, creating a narrative about how narratives, and historical narratives in particular, work, which I expect to discover further in the next books. Well, there was someone: it was Kuba. But if it hadn’t been for him and a few other people like Amberclock who told me about Jodorowsky’s Dune or JMG who often mentions Dune in his Archdruid Report posts, I’d still have the impression that the book is a boring classic, that it’s to SF what perhaps Proust is to modern literature: supremely influential and important, but not enjoyable.
Of course, I was wrong. I may be wrong about Proust, too. But that’s the point: we’re talking about preconceptions here.
What surprises me is that, for it’s alleged importance, very few people I talked to about Dune while reading it even knew of it. For a book that supposedly played an important role in the popularisation of ecology as a word as well as a term and for one which is among the all-time bestsellers of the genre, it is forgotten today by most. I’ll go down a path I don’t think it’s fair to go down on, but how many people know of Tatooine and how many of Arrakis, Dune, the Desert Planet that surely inspired it?
Nevertheless, I found its ambience as a contemporary read very comfortable, even if 50 years have passed since it was written. Water as a super-valuable commodity (with all related cultural conventions) feels right and is played perfectly. Arrakis is majestic. Reading about the Fremen was very interesting and convincing, and I thoroughly enjoyed discovering the book’s unknown world by looking up the juicy neologisms in the appendix (every book like this should have one!)
Not all’s perfect with Dune, don’t get me wrong. Its characters can feel one-sided or shallow, even Paul, who at times comes off superhumany… but then, hey, he’s supposed to be the one, isn’t he? The various political actors and the role of spice in all of this aren’t very clear, but you know, it’s one of these books you’ll read again and next time it’ll make more sense.
But the weak points don’t matter. Dune is a classic, period, and I’m happy for once to have truly enjoyed a classic because it’s a classic, not despite the fact. What can I say? Herbert’s foreword to the book reads:
“to the people whose labors go beyond ideas into the realm of “real materials” — to the dry-land ecologists, wherever they may be, in whatever time they work, this effort at prediction is dedicated in humility and admiration.”
Το περίπτερο δίπλα στα Starbucks στην πλατεία, που θέλω να το κάνω και Spotted σύντομα, έχει μισόλιτρα μπουκάλια FIX και Βεργίνα με 1€.
Επιστρέφοντας τα μπουκάλια σε σούπερ μάρκετ σου επιστρέφονται 0,14€.
Μπουκάλι μπύρα με 86 λεπτά. Όχι κι άσχημα. Θυμίζει τιμές Βουλγαρίας. Αν και στη Βουλγαρία με λίγα περισσότερα χρήματα (περίπου 2,40lv = 1,2€) παίρνεις 2λιτρη Καμενίτσα.
