the impulztanz festival is wicked

Grr, said the Chris. What comes to mind when you hear "communications"? Never mind "knowledge management"... the two sets of people have a fortnightly meeting on Wednesday mornings at 9.30.

09.37
Chris (on telephone): Hi, it's Chris, do we have this meeting?
M: Ahh, A's not here.
Chris: As in, not here yet, or not--
M: She's in Turkmenistan.
Chris: Then I guess no meeting.

Which wouldn't bother me so much, indeed would make me smile, but I hate getting up etc. and last night only slept at three after having to publish a (crappy) story (my worst yet) after returning from the last train back from Vienna (we missed the planned one by two minutes, but it left four minutes before we'd thought).

Point being: in Vienna, I saw the Steve Reich Evening show by Anne Teresa de Keermaeker and her Rosas dancers. She the choreography, he the music. When we arrived I didn't know what I was seeing (at all), but I sensibly trusted the judgement of the friend I was there with. This show was hypnotising, the music and dancing precise to the point of being awesome. Very repetitive but never dull, and showed very well the talents of boths artists and all their colleagues.

But talking about dance is always disappointing, so there (or here).

Endless clicks and concatenations

Past the group of screaming, wasted teenagers demanding of their female minority things bound to end in misery, and toward the surreal Slovak lyrical accompaniment to Hit the Road, Jack: my second trip to the Petrzalka racecourse. The first time, a horse called Senita won Ilona 225 crowns and a great feeling of satisfaction. Then, there were large family groups and few wasted people.

This time, Maris and I were in the park next to the track, celebrating Dni Petrzalky - the Petrzalka Days - with a few stars of the Slovak scene. The last group we saw was Hex, who reminded us that today is Fathers Day by singing a song about their dads (as far as I could follow).

Not 'reminded' in the sense that I didn't know, but it made me think to write this, since I know he will read it. I'm super proud of and impressed by my father at the moment. Having retired a few months ago from a job he did for longer than I can think, he's now letting his love of games and invention fill his time, designing, making prototypes and testing them on people, reading up on patents and chasing machinists for quotes about bulk orders, getting business advice from my mum and finding inspiration from the man who invented the wind-up radio.

The current project is a game superficially resembling Rubik's cube, in that it is based around colours and patterns, mathsey underneath but not on top and hand-held with a satisfying feel to it. (The call for anyone who enjoyed the Rubik cube to come froward still satnds.) I've seen it in a couple of incarnations, although I'm told it has come a long way even since April. An early picture, not really doing it justice, is here:

We've disagreed about parts of it, espacilly the gameplay aspects - me thinking it didn't have enough, Dad recently assuring me he's worked on that - and I'm pleased to hear it is still developing well. It willbe nice to have a new toy to play with, but especially pleasing is the excitement in my dad's voice when he talks about it and in his eyes when he hands it around. He's been making things in his spare time for years and it's heartwarming to see him go so enthusiastically about it now he has the time. Although it's a secondary or tertiary concern, I look forward to the result.

So yes: good example of taking your chances, Dad. This is the card that got lost in the post.
Love from Chris
x

Personalising the political

This morning was an utterly normal morning, perhaps because I have finished Fateless. The sounds of air raid sirens and bombings which have characterised eastern Petrzalka in the last couple of days have been banished, since today is the first recently when I won't read a few pages of that book.

In brief, it is the story of a Jewish Hungarian teenager's experience of German camps during the second world war. The author, Imre Kertész, won the nobel prize for literature in 2002, and one of the things that convinced me to buy this over a few other options in a Budapest bookshop last weekend was the quote from the Nobel panel, about the

possibility of continuing to live and think as an individual in an era in which the subjection of human beings to social forces has become increasingly complete... [the author?] upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history.

which, as pretentious as it is to say, are ideas which appeal to me a lot.

At the beginning, after maybe five or ten pages, I thought Ah, another Holocaust book - but I know the Holocaust, so I wish the writing were a little more appealing, which is an arrogant but basically fair reaction from an educated European, many of whom have consumed a masses of information of various forms about the Holocaust, WW2 and the bloody Nazis.

I got used to the writing, and admittedly I sympathise with the habit of constantly qualifying ones words and making clear they are subjective opinions, as annoying as this can be to read. In the case of this book, it was a habit well in line with the author's take on what he went through and ends up giving a good background to his 'conclusion' at the end.

In some sense, my fear was well-founded, in that being a book about life in concentration camps, a fair portion of the content was inevitably about (adjustment to) the hardships and the inhuman parts of the existence which I can gain only so much an appreciation of without going through it (there is no regret in that statement!). But the style of presentation, and the way the author recollects how he thought and felt (published 30 years later) is mind's eye-catching; in places, given What We Know Now, it was painful to read his naive take on what was happening (that of a 14-year-old? or simply of someone whose history books didn't contain examples of anything like the Holocaust and for whom it was therefore unimaginable - while we, having digested the Nazis (he doesn't use that word once), famously see parallels everywhere...). And a good writer can make readable prose out of things as familiar as buses or rain or whatever, so familiarity clearly isn't a deal-killer.

The most notable, for me, among the writing here was his point (as I took it) that life in the labour camps took place a day at a time, and therefore the human experience of it was quite different from what we might imagine from consuming the Holocaust as a single event and viewing it in political terms or as though such a phenomenon could be a policy choice.

In relation to the quote of the Swedish judges, one thing the book does is to uphold the experience of the individual ('of' historical events) against the historical-journalistic focus on whole events and societies to be digested in one go. But then history books and literature have different purposes; arguably one of the latter is to re-present things from non-traditional perspectives, like maybe mental illness or love or such 'individual' phenomena from a structural perspective.

All that said, maybe Primo Levi had the same approach - I haven't read anything by him.

The last page, as well as the rest of the book, recalls Gyorgy Faludy's My Happy Days in Hell, a review of which may follow at another time.

(Another thought was that it is impossible for me to read any book about this - more than any other single topic - in the way I'm accustomed to reading fiction, namely without knowing what happens next: there was the odd surprise, but (ironically, given the place of arbitrariness in this narrative) with such a topic there are a limited number of outcomes and plot devices, and given the basis in historical events and continuing elusiveness of capturing the words of dead people, a fundamental 'unknown' of the story is known through its having been written at all. I wonder what it would be like to read this book without knowing plenty about the events in which the story sits.)

a bit of a day

When I got home last night, there were two cats recalling their human past, just outside the door of my building. They were talking in melancholy and relatively deep voices - like those of forlorn toddlers - perhaps about the days when people had been happy to see them and let them into the warmth.

It's a windy place, Petrzalka. We have several trees, but large areas with only wide roads and tall square buildings, the latter making for brutal sideswiping tunnels of time-is-money, capitalist air in a hurry. (It was quieter before.) On days like today, I feel extra sorry for these chilled felines, although I don't see why they don't hunker down in the trench that has been dug around our building and left. (This illustrates the Petrzalkan way of doing things - in functional stages rather than by area, so we decide to cut all the grass in town over the course of one hellish weekend, and I suspect they have fewer people capable of laying the cable (or whatever) than they have capable of digging the holes. Needless to say, we have got used to it.)

This afternoon, no sign of the cats (one orange), but I shared the small lift with two gentlemen, one lame and becrutched, the other smiling, helpful and siniste (both orange). They were having an animated, friendly conversation, but stopped when we were in the lift, picking it up again as soon as they left two floors up (one was lame, it's okay). I can't decide if this was because they didn't want to share their conversation with me, or if they didn't want to impose it on me. It's a small lift with a charming, sweet-bitter scent, amply filled by the three of us and considerably less scented than usual, most of the air being taken up by bodies; or maybe I was holding my breath in the awkwardness. People don't look one another in the eyes here, even when they're bellying one another in the hips. (So in that sense, at least, it is like being in England.)

My computer has started behaving horribly slowly, so I will curtail this indulgent gaze at my navel (also orange). Good luck to all those who have exam results soon, and I suppose to everyone else as well, since good luck is quite important in general. I'll write about Fateless (previously published as Fatelessness, previously published as Fateless, first published as Sorstalanság) when this aged hunk of poo has cooled off.

give this a proper gander

I just read George Orwell's wonderful essay Politics and the English Language again, having forgotten about it for ages (formatted for online reading here). It is a short, passionate piece (which reads like he's honestly fed up), recommended for every writer's reading. I hesitate to go back through the recent UNDP news pieces with this in mind, but as a good structuralist I take comfort in knowing that I am a victim of the stylistic constraints placed on me by organisational politics. Which means: don't write full pieces including critical aspects, because that isn't our role - which is true, but after reading an impassioned piece by a journalist highlighting the crimes of the propagandist, it's not so nice to realise which I am! (Not that he only goes for propangandists - academics, other journalists and arts luvvies are also in there.)

Among this UN stuff, the tendencies he identifies are worst in the use of language to more or less deliberately obscure meaning or fulfill a formula. Under the section 'Insincere language and its uses', Orwell links the deterioration of language with the broader conditions of existence in dictatorships, as stellar cases of writing where declared and true intentions are different. We are supposed to be promoting democratic governance (another discussion), but we can't mention undemocratic practices; we only work at the invitation of governments so we have to keep them sweet. In public presentation, which is my part of the job, bad things are either left out or euphamised into obscurity. It's not surprising - propaganda, not news, journalism or communications. But I worry that this extends from the way public documents are written to the way that private things are written (I have seen examples of both honesty and obscurity in internal communcations), and even to the way that private communcations are spoken.

I started writing this instead of getting around to writing an acceptable paragraph on UNDP in the Caucasus. In a piece of self-censorship, the clause about ongoing and past conflicts in the region went, because I know it will later be excised and I'm in complaining, not active mood.

Orwell writes ('The invasion of ready-made phrases', near the end):

But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought. A bad usage can spread by tradition and imitation even among people who should and do know better. The debased language that I have been discussing is in some ways very convenient. Phrases like a not unjustifiable assumption, leaves much to be desired, would serve no good purpose, a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind, are a continuous temptation, a packet of aspirins always at one's elbow.

Meetings are full of empty phrases, particularly irritating when these present non-action as action (we will (enthusiastically! with great commitment!) wait for the results of the consultation). The aspirins are most conspicuous (yet unacknowledged) in planning and reporting on activities, although it's maybe a stretch to link this to language. Nobody has time or money to properly judge achievements based on well-designed and measurable indicators(!), but failing to acknowledge this at the front, a set of outcomes and outputs and others is in place, and a project is judged successful if the right number of the right sort of people received training in the right thing. There is no space for meaningful, honest evaluation of activities, so logframes of standard results and indicators - with their own language - are the convenient way of joining the dots. Never mind that the numbers were out of order. (Eyes opened for the next post, A defence of jargon...)

Talking of language: China

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What do you do with a load of dead dolphins? Is it wrong to eat them?

Not being snobbish

From something I read today:

The regional PPP with Coca Cola Company is assisting three remote mountain villages in getting access to safe water as pilots.

Can't you just see them piling into their planes and swooping down on the stream with buckets at the ready? : )

Blue background, white text

What a week. I realise that in addition to the serious absence of empty time, reading a computer screen all the time for work puts me off writing here. I can't be alone in this, so any tips gratefully received. The absence means of course that several things will come all at once, so apologies in advance for the length and non-sequitur nature of this. I will return after a shower. With luck, the heat'll make the lack of hot water bearable. (The shower was an appropriate antidote to the slow sauna of summer; I didn't try shaving.)

On Saturday, I went to my second Hungarian wedding, which was a huge and very enjoyable affair. The happiest couple were those responsible for publishing Calvin and Hobbes in Hungarian, which should endear them to everyone. A good hundred guests each per spouse, lasting ages without getting dull and sunny as the Gulf. They had a fine band, which finally stopped around six in the morning, having played for most of the previous twelve hours to enthusiastic dancers, and about fifteen cakes : ) The blah in the church was of course strange and cultish, but bearable, contrary to what I have heard about high Anglican equivalents (it probably helped that it was in Hungarian, rather than Anglish). The gravity of the whole thing was somewhat undermined by the four (count them) photographers flitting around throughout, videoing from behind when the vicar or whatever did his bit and when Ilona did a reading. I imagine vicars (or whatever) being trained for this the same way horses are trained to deal with crowd noise and backfiring cars for work at football matches and riots. But the couple looked very happy, and kept looking at each other and not at the one between them and the cross, which was sweet to watch.

Games with the bride

The most amusing part of the whole thing came before the church, when according to Hungarian village traditions, the vofej led a procession of the groom's family+ to ask the bride to come out of the house. This vofej addressed the crowd, families and all as the mouthepiece of the bride and groom, and spoke in verse the whole time. I was told he is a history teacher during the week, and most entertaining he would be.
(What is the alternative if you don't want to marry someone in the name of Zeus? Obviously in the name of society is also out, but then the town hall is just a way of having the legal preference for married people once society has developed from having official religion. Ditto humanism etc, unless of course you are actually marrying for the sake of a belief system. Taking the ceremony as given for the sake of argument, the 'moment of joining' is the solemn one, and I guess it helps to have a third party say when that happens. But if you marry just for the sake of professing your forever-commitment to one another, who is invested with that authority? What does the procedure become?

According to a chap from the Department for Work and Pensions who I met in Geneva, British policy is going toward having completely individualised benefit systems. He seemed convinced by the argument that Tatchell's idea of allowing people not in romantic relationships to marry would lead to absurdity. Maybe I misunderstood him, but it seemed that where a married couple have a breadwinner-homemaker relationship, the individualised pension system would mean that the homemaker's lively widowhood would rely on the breadwinner having made voluntary payments into H's pension while alive, i.e. no shared/transferable assets meaning no assumed inheritance, rather everything having to be shared out explicitly in the will. He seemed sure it was good from a gender equality point of view; it seems to make female pensioner poverty more likely, but maybe I didn't fully get him. I had to return to my seat at the start of the next session.)
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Despite what the some may say, earthquakes killing your family is still not good if those people are Chinese. Two weeks before the earthquake in Chengdu, a friend of a friend had just published Dujiangyan: in harmony with nature, the first English language guide to one of the areas which would be badly damaged, and now "irrevocably out of date". If you want to do a little something, you can buy this for 200 renminbi (box on the right), all proceeds to help the recovery of affected children.
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In light of what happened at the election and since, my article on getting rid of family voting in Macedonia seems a little overshadowed. Family voting (basically where the man of the family votes for his wife and others eligible) is as much a violation of human rights as ballot stuffing, all the more so where it is widespread. But it's mostly women and young people who suffer, and anyway, it's a domestic issue...

That's enough for now. Photos as soon as I recover my camera from under the front seat of the car. Goodness, the potholes.