By me, after almost a month. Anyway, beloved audience, I'm switching myself over to tumblr because the post editor stresses me out slightly less to look at. So please find yourselves over at
One of my most dedicated and attuned readers has brought to my
attention the Development of Eastern Poland initiative, and its cheeky
ad campaign that seems to be going very sluggishly viral:
The disappointed therapist, the largest and most brilliant jewel in this crown of suave insinuation and guilt.
It's still February. For some this may be a simple fact, or it may be something which requires a more complex strategy of coming-to-grips. So I offer you this, a rhetorical tic that has become my only answer to so much, as daily life begins to resemble nothing so much as the deep and merciless but also inconsequential slush piles which are my constant companion.
Throw yourself into the sea. Have you considered it? When life on land can do nothing but disappoint, demand a constant shaking up of expectations, consider the freshness of a new medium of living. You may die, yes, but you may die if you persist on land. You may yet live, if you begin with the sea.
Where I am, there's about an hour left of Valentine's Day. If you're short on romantic ideas, consider having a picnic inside. Bread, cheese, salads non-standard (such as potato, pasta or cucumber) or the normal kind, or just a large steak on a blanket. Play nature sounds. If you're feeling rich, serve sushi next. Play ocean sounds. This is my dream.
I spent tonight writing a post that I've somehow been writing for months, but cannot finish. Since I've started I've had to change the opening anecdote several times, and the most relevant of the links has expired. But you'll love it even in its bedraggled present state, I promise.
In the ever-fewer minutes I have until I'm not lucid enough to think of words I will make use of the ones I can lay my hands on to say that it took me over a day to find out that the Pope resigned. For some reason this was the moment when I ceased to be my regular, relatively unconnected self and an almost imperceptibly different self, one who thinks she should maybe have a Facebook again. The next threshold is the one between this self, who is terrified of Facebook and its ilk on a very visceral level but realizes it is useful in a lot of ways, and the one who isn't that worried about it.
I'm not sure what to think. I'm tempted to say that I wish I had well-considered reasons for the present state of affairs that drew equally on an abstract ideological perspective and the demands of living a healthy, beautiful, productive but still very driven-by-practicality daily life, you know, just in case, but I don't actually wish that. I think what I actually wish is that I had a very specific, eloquent glint in my eye, preferably my left eye, and when I looked at someone they would just see that glint and know, that's it. That's why she doesn't have a Facebook.
February seems to me like a month that doesn't demand a ton of you
emotionally. It is muddy, in a spiritual sense. However, today is Prešeren Day, the Slovenian Cultural Holiday! Spiritual mud and all, the imperative to celebrate love is constantly reinforced. Let's submit.
My college-student status at my bank is expiring, which reminds me
that about four years ago at this time I was opening a new bank account that would be relatively easy to access in Slovenia, where I would be visiting Marisa. Most of the pictures you see below were taken by her steady hand. It was a fun trip:
Fun. This hostel was full of impudent French teens.
Slovenia is the kind of place that lurks in the back of your (my) mind--it could exist, and you could think about it, but what is there to think?
Spring is coming, kind of, with everything preparing to replicate itself. My house is full of objects that strive to remind me of this.
Regular (czarist? Stay with me) nesting dolls.
When I was first studying Russian, a man named Sasha would very occasionally come sing songs with our class. Apparently, he attempted to come many times, but almost never succeeded. In my memory this is because it was constantly snowing, because it snowed more in the past, and also Russia. I think he lived in Windsor, which was the actual reason.
I am very fortunate to be featured this week on In Bed With Amy Wilson, the blog by a lady of the same name where she shares thoughts, insight and enthusiasm for the music she loves. Go check out a blog by a person who knows how blogging works (and so much more)!
I want to learn trapeze. (I want to learn how to write a sentence about a trapeze: I want to learn to trapeze? I want to learn the trapeze? I want to learn how to use a trapeze? Look this up, somebody else?) But I'll be sure to use a network.
I just finished reading Anne Applebaum's Between East and West, which is an account of a trip she took through Eastern Europe, from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea, in the late 1980s. Travelogues appeal to me, although maybe less acutely than they do to Marisa, who could tell you about some great ones. Mostly I was looking for an informally-written book about Eastern Europe that avoids getting bogged down in either historically-justified horror and despair or an unrelenting rush of quirkiness. This one seemed to settle on mild bewilderment and disgust, which seems like a well-tempered combination of the two but wasn't especially compelling to read. I tend to be easily charmed by an author with an elaborately constructed personal mythology, which was not this book's shortcoming. Anyway, this post is about Olavi Virta.
Look at this man. Look into his eyes.
This is the real king of the Finnish tango, according to a website called "Virtual Finland." (So far, all of my experiences of Finland have been virtual. A friend of mine who visited told me that everyone seemed to have their own lake. I would probably love actual Finland, because I love fish, being in saunas, and being near, but never in, Russia.) This is Olavi Virta.
He was arrested for whatever a DUI is called in Finland in 1962 (rattijuopumus, according to Wikipedia), and alcohol played a major part in his overall undoing, which I think is what this drawing is trying to convey:
Actually, this seems to be roughly the life-narrative of most of the stars of the Finnish tango I have read about so far.
The head of the gramophone library of the Finnish Broadcasting Company quotes Dr. Pirjo Kukkonen as saying that "tango lyrics reflect 'the personality, mentality, and identity of the Finnish people in the same way as folk poetry does.'" Looking at tango as a genre makes me more frustrated than usual with the currency the idea of premature nostalgia seems to have at the moment, but maybe now it's happening at a volume and rate that makes it seem more obvious and worthy of analysis. Can't we use the word 'melancholy' in more self-diagnoses?
Olavi Virta says, whatever you want.
Believe it.
Tango lyrics deal with roughly the same set of themes across
all sorts of cultural and genre boundaries: longing (longing for
home, longing for a woman, longing for woman-as-metaphor for everything
else), sadness, nature, one's mother. The same is true, I guess, for
folk poetry, but in that case often the particulars of the situation
(the specific details of the setting, the characters, the plot, if we're
talking about epic or narrative poetry) take over from the overall
feeling. In this respect tango is more efficient; it is all feeling,
and if all this feeling is expressed in your own language then it is
difficult to deny its power, even when held at a distance.
One phenomena I hope to discover in the course of my life is tangos written by unusually articulate fourteen-year-old girls. I think they would (will) be magnificent. When I know wealthy people I will do my best to convince them to create a scholarship for promising twelve-year-olds to manufacture it for me, if necessary.
1. "Foible" is a word so heavy with the suggestion of being of Yiddish origin, and yet it is not.*
(It is from Latin-via-French (originally from the word for "to weep") and is related to "feeble" in an interesting way I will now relate. It was used around the 17th c. to refer to the top third of a fencing blade, which is the weak part, and extended metaphorically around the second half of that same century to describe a personal weakness. Its meaning has softened slightly since then, depending on where you draw the line between a weakness and a personality trait. The same cannot be said for "feeble," which is still a mean thing to say about someone.)
My mother did warn me in stern tones today over Saturday brunch (let's make it a marathon, yes?) about trusting the Internet too much, so I am also accepting donations of the OED, or very smart people who fit on a bookshelf.
2. And, here's a tune from the original king of the Finnish tango, Olavi Virta, about whom more later (hereafter to be abbreviated AWML). Its title translates into English, I'm told, as "Why I Am Sad."
This was taken during the May 1989 All-Union Beauty Contest, put on by the All-Union Directory for the Organization of Mass Spectacles, an "all-male perestroika-inspired cooperative" that was actually privately owned, commonly known as "Venets," or Crown. 35 finalists were given three weeks of intensive training to make them ready for presentation as potentially the most beautiful (unmarried, childless) women of the Soviet Union. The final event of the contest was originally to be held on International Women's Day, March 8, but there were problems.
There had been earlier beauty pageants in the USSR, beginning with one in Vilnius in March of the previous year, and the existence of uncategorized beautiful women preceded all of these. None of them seem particularly Soviet in intention, and Lenin's averted gaze seems to suggest he knows it too. The New York Times, among others, noted that the bathing suits worn by some of the contestants were remarkably revealing. The women pictured in the set of black-and-white photographs that has made its way around the Internet are beautiful, without necessarily being comprehensively presentable, against the grain of so many a pageant participant.
The pictures are also beautiful, I think, perhaps to the point of being a little misleading; a search for the same event on Russian news websites brings up photos of the same in the garish color that seems to be very much of its time, that is, shortly before my birth.
Even now, or now-ish, though, the idea of a beauty pageant in Russia seems to inevitably inspire skepticism, across venues, in a way that seems incongruous to me with the myth/sporadic truth of the beautiful Russian lady. She is made beautiful by not being in Russia, I guess, where she can only be ridiculous.
I'm not sure he was ever beautiful, but as a subject of kitschy sculpture he seems accustomed to being ridiculous.
My favorite beauty pageant of history, or 20th-century East European history, though, is the one in Firemen's Ball. This is how it's done, as I shall explain another post in the near future.
I'll leave you with this, a passably relevant link between U2's decadent, melancholic Euro-irony phase of the early nineties and its compulsive world-half-awareness/neo-Christian phase of the later, for some reason:
Today I achieved one of my minor goals for the year/the rest of my life, which was to learn how to peel a clementine with one hand (specifically my right hand, which is neither my dominant hand nor my primary driving hand, because I worry about scurvy on the road) while leaving the peel intact.
A week back I started reading Borges, which is a thing I have never really done, except when I read "The Quixote of Pierre Menard" between seven and twelve times for an Aesthetics class. (On the last day of class, we discussed how ugly the statue outside the window was, and had always been, with the full force of our collective correctness.)
Why did I do this? Because I love Argentina. No, this is not true. I know almost nothing about Argentina, and also I have never seen "Evita." Because I dance tango without knowing very much about Argentina, without having feelings about it.
Explaining tango to people who do not dance tango, and so probably do not think about tango, is a risky endeavor. Case in point: since I started dancing tango I have received as gifts three "tango shawls" from friends and relatives. I had no idea that such a thing exists, or is even possible, and even now, as the owner of three tango shawls (one fuzzy white, which can be converted into a cowl by opening it at either end and has for some reason a thick line of fringe on the inside, one a thin strip of pink, purple and green knitted frills, and one in what I imagine is a classic red), I could not give you an account of their definitive characteristics. After a lot of talking and Google Image-searching, though, I determined that what is roughly supposed to happen is that I am supposed to lean back over my partner's right arm and let my body form an appealing arc, as the fringe of my shawl and, optionally, the last half-inch of my hair trails on the slightly dingy black-and-white tiles of the dance floor, before snapping back and continuing on to form new and different appealing arcs.
Sometimes the attempt proceeds along more comprehensible lines. A man with a gorgeous and well-maintained bookshelf recommended to me that I read Borges' essay on the history of the tango, which seemed extremely reasonable. My understanding of the man (Borges, with the many bookshelves, not the man, with his one or two) remained somewhat unearthly, which is more a result of my prodigious non-knowledge than any quality of his. I know he was a librarian in Argentina's national library, I know he was into Old English. I know sometimes I would sit on the floor in the Undergraduate Library and read his advice to young poets, and it would give me great feelings. I know he was blind. I know he is dead. But without excessive knowledge I was also able to understand him as someone who was probably able to explain something about Argentina to me. Most of what I know about Argentina I have learned through the tango, and what this has left me with besides a diminished certainty in my ability to move my own body is for the most part a collection of unfamiliar words, and a little bit more about music.
So I'm not really sure what I was expecting. I think I expected him to be something more like Nabokov, sort of playing with national and linguistic allegiance through recourse to pure proficiency, a little more sublime in the case of Borges, and personal ambiguity--Nabokov's insane accent to Borges' vague evocation of Tiresias. What I actually found when I started reading from parts of "On Argentina," which understandably is a collection of his writings having to do with Argentina, was something I was more familiar with than I had expected. This was not fiction and it had nothing to do with endless libraries and books that sort of write themselves. This was nonfiction, written by a man with a sense of himself, and a sense of the place he lived and cared for, and felt that his primary responsibility as a writer was to present this place to the world beyond its borders. The pieces were all short, and all clustered around the same set of goals; he was trying to define the Argentine national character. At one point he defines the Argentine national character as caring not at all about national characters, or existence as a nation at all, but instead being defined completely by personal relationships. Two separate times he proves this with the example of a crime show where a police agent befriends a criminal in order to turn him into the police, which would be reacted to with rage by his typical Argentinian.
I'm not sure if any of this indicates a contradiction, but I feel like it does. Or maybe I'm just impressed by someone who can believe so deeply and comprehensively in both universal and particular truths, and believes that they can strengthen each other. I was expecting something as unearthly as the stories themselves,
instead I found a man engaged in the same problems of every person who
attempted to live the 20th century, slaving away at the same
categories that are beginning to seem insane to me.
