OF FAILURE AND OTHER MIRAGES

Some mornings the greatest challenge we face is to overcome the sensation caused by our image in the mirror. Not so much for the traces with which time writes its condemnation for our excesses (or even in spite of the generosity with which it has forgiven us those excesses), nor for the hypocrisy that we know lurks at the bottom of our gaze. No, I’m thinking of those mornings in which the Salieri many of us carry inside waves at us from the virtual plane of the left-handed universe in the looking-glass. Those mornings when we step out… no, I must start again in the first person singular because I don’t really know if this happens to you…

On those mornings I step out into the street and the beauty of the world becomes unbearable. On my way to work, treading on that yellow and ochre carpet with which the trees atone before winter for the golden arrogance of their autumn, I can sense Salieri walking by my side. He walks tall and without bitterness because he now understands that everything is the way it is supposed to be. He understands that there can be only one Mozart. That for each Mozart, there are fistfuls of Salieris. That for each Salieri, millions of players… minor, mayor… it doesn’t matter, they’re only players… and for each of those players billions of spectators. Oh yes, and for each spectator… only God, the distant, knows how many zillions of the uninterested there are.

Salieri smiles and taps me on the shoulder. “It doesn’t matter”, he whispers, “it’s all a joke… a big cosmic joke. Be glad to be a part of it”.*

And I am.

The joke is not only long and unfathomable but more than likely it's in very poor taste too. So, whether we are the winner in it, or the butt-end, frankly matters little. Success, when looked at from a sobering distance and without envy, soon looks hollow, ephemeral and, yes, risible. Failure too… especially when both those two impostors are defined in terms of social mores and trends. In any case, let’s not forget that most “victories” are built upon secret defeats, unspoken failures, and that most “failures” carry a wealth of satisfactions that are only waiting for us to look back and collect them.

In the end, like it or not, we’re all participants. Even when we turn our back to the world, our dismissal is part of the event. So we might as well play our parts, the many parts we choose for ourselves at each of the many twists and turns that this longwinded joke brings about. The important thing is that, even if we can’t choose the parts, we play them our way, to the best of our ability… that, if anything, is the only form of success that is real and profound.

A dear friend, when asked whether he saw his glass as half-full or half-empty replied without hesitation: “I’m more of a ¾ empty kind of guy…” Personally, I’m delighted that there is a glass in the first place… ah, the possibilities…

* Those words actually came from my father, in a touching moment of intimacy. And now, as I see him wander into the fog of dementia, I think I begin to understand.

23.10.06

LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA...

Let’s get this clear: there may not be a God, and there may not be Heaven, but Hell most certainly exists… or will do, soon.

I know because I can see how hard and successfully we’ve been working at creating it. The gates are ready. The foundations too. Everything is in place to get the ball rolling. And I can’t see, for the life of me, how we can turn things around.

Hell, you see, is not a place. It is a time. Hell is the future. The immediate future, to be precise. I realised this yesterday, when my daughter asked me to help her with her homework. The task was to speculate about what life would be like in the next 50 years. So we, the family, started to throw ideas on the table, and we watched them spiral and grow into uncomfortable shapes and nightmare scenarios. Not the best accompaniment for pasta, I must add.

I am very sceptical of futurologists because history has shown time and time again that often the largest social events are triggered by unexpected and often random acts or circumstances. Granted that the basic conditions were always there, but consequences don’t always follow the conditions neatly. It takes a very unique mind, and also a lot of luck, to create a model of the future based on what we know of the present.*

History, on the other hand, does teach us that folly, intolerance and ambition will inevitably lead societies to take the wrong path ahead.

And, at the kitchen table, that was what we saw.

We hypothesized and theorised and speculated and tried to balance the good with the bad but in the end we could not get the acrid taste off our mouths. I had this horrible realisation that we, my generation, the 60’s generation, the love and peace generation, had let our children down… badly. I apologised and did the only thing a father could do in such circumstances and told my kids that it all was their mother’s fault and that I had nothing to do with it. But they could see through me. And, joking aside, I genuinely felt ashamed.

Later on that day, my wife and I went to see Mark Thomas talk about freedom of speech and the arms race. Apart from having a good laugh (at the right sort of targets) we came out of the show realising three things that are very important:

That one man can make a difference. Sometimes only a small difference, but put a lot of small differences together and things can be changed dramatically.

That there are more decent people around than we realise. And that they often are in camps, political parties, and even fields and trades where this could seem unthinkable. And that they genuinely want to do good.

That giving up is the worst crime of all.

Hope may be “a waking dream”, to quote Aristotle, or “nature's veil for hiding truth's nakedness”, as Nobel said. It may be a form of self-deception, but if it is the one thing that keeps us going to revert the inheritance of death that we’re leaving behind… let me dream, that dreams may lead my actions.
Otherwise we might as well start everyday reciting, as a mantra, Dante’s words: Lasciate ogni speranza…

* I have to say here that I’m still in awe of Alvin Toffler and the remarkable anticipation he did of most of the social trends that are part of the current socio-economic fabric that clothes the western world. I wonder if he’s still around and whether he’s written anything recently… any help?

ICH NICHT BIN EIN BERLINER, BUT I’M GOING BACK

Cities, and their names, often bring to mind an image or an atmosphere. Berlin, for me, evoked the latter: narrow streets, an overcast sky, cobblestones (wet, of course), and lots of grey. So, I was not prepared for the vast, expansive avenues, the abundance of parks and greenery, the clusters of ultra-modern architecture and, above all, the absence of cars and people in the streets.

I wasn’t prepared either for the outstanding quality and variety of the food. Stupid of me, I know, but, hey, most people still think of Mexico as a place where everything will be done “mañana” (which is unfair, since not everything has to be done in such a rush…).

Anyway, back to Berlin. My friends and I went there for our annual gastro-cultural week-end. Being the least informed about our destination, I wasn’t expecting much from this trip. Not that I was pre-disposed to being disappointed. No, I was simply expecting not to be overwhelmed. And now, three days later, I look back with subdued pleasure at the peculiar collection of events, places and situations that we went through there.

I cannot comment on Berlin as a city because we only visited the central part of it. In any case, I have a tendency to base my impressions of a place on the “feel” of it. And, truth be told, I still can’t get the feel of Berlin right. Furthermore, if Matthias -the voice of all things german, who was born and has lived there most of his life there and professes to love the city so much he wouldn’t live anywhere else (with the possible exceptions of Rome and Seville… (?)), if he cannot bring himself to either like it nor leave it, I guess I’m justified in my lack of definition about it.

There are, nonetheless, some memorable places to visit and things to see. If it was only for the Vermeer of the young woman putting on a pearl necklace in front of a mirror, or the head of some Egyptian official so delicately sculpted on green stone, or Nephertiti’s bust, the trip would have been worth it.

But there are many more joys and pleasures to tempt me back: the best antipasti ever (at Sale e Tabacchi); outstandingly good coffee (and consistently so, too); the inner court of the Potsdamer Platz; some remarkable street lamps; Frank Gery's building within a building; SophieCharlotte Palace, where, in the middle of rococo splendour, there dwelt Queen Louise –a devastatingly beautiful woman; oh, yes, and the duck at the Restoration 1900 restaurant, the pork at the café of the Museum of modern art, and the Goulash almost anywhere you go.

Yet, the icing on the cake must be, without doubt, the warmth and laisser-faire of the Germans we came in close contact with... particularly the museum guards.

Yes, I may not be a sausage, but I’d definitely go back to Berlin.