Ibane’s ramblings
“The biggest danger, that of losing oneself, can pass off in the world as quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc is bound to be noticed.” S. KierkegaardArchive for Literature
memories
Going through one of my messy drawers I found an old wallet that I used to have as teenager. In there I could find some old ski passes, old movie tickets and a note from my father. I had forgotten about these things, and being honest, I don’t remember why I decided to keep them in first place. I was not surprised about the ski passes and the movie tickets, since these two things I love to do, I smiled when I discovered that in the movie tickets that I had written down the title of the movie, the date and the people who I had gone with, anticipating that the time would erase the original printing in the ticket as it had hapenned, now you can’t read anything but my handwriting. Among the people were friends, people did not mean that much, family, friends that are not here any more,…it was a little journey through my memories in that Madrid that seems gone forever. However, among the things found in that wallet, what it really surprised me was the note from my father. He is not very emotional person, it can look even a cold person to the outsider’s eyes, but I always remember that in birthdays and special occasions he used to leave to me and my brothers a note with some quote or poem carefully chosen. This one that I kept is from Antonio Machado, it is not very known poem, or at least it was not known by me, and I don’t know why I decided to keep this one. The only explanation I can imagine is that it talks about dreaming…activity which I am very grateful because it has kept me floating in the absurd reality. I wonder why my father chose it. I will never ask, probably. Here it is anyway.
Yo voy soñando caminos
de la tarde. ¡Las colinas
doradas, los verdes pinos,
las polvorientas encinas!…
¿Adónde el camino irá?
…
Antonio Machado (1875-1939)
What I talk about when I talk about running
No, I will not talk about running or maybe a little, it is about the book of the same title written by Haruki Murakami. I have not finished it yet but I have read through enough to build my opinion about it.
It is not a great book or don’t expect any high literature but I definitely recommend the book, even if you are not a runner. Mr. Murakami explains his big moments in life and link them with the running. His situations might be familiar to many because in my opinion he describes the battle of I think that almost everyone goes through and it is finding ourselves and what we want from life. Running here is just circumstancial, I guess that you can substitute for almost any other activity that define yourself. In my case, it is also running and some times Haruki put in written words what I have thought and felt many times when I am out running.
For me running has become my little island where everything else vanish and there is only left my running shoes, my music and the road. And it is something so deep in me that some times I get scared if some day I will not be able to run. That’s maybe the reason why I am planning to take the bike (also thanks to my blog colleague The Real Bookish) and swimming. But as far as I can I will keep running…
Sydney Australia
Chess Story
I read this short novel last summer, and I found the book among many during my recent moving to my new place. I really enjoyed this novel, not only because I am a mediocre chess player, also Stefan Zweig’s narrative is full of dynamism, everything is rounded and you always have the feeling that he is saying more than you are really catching in the first reading.
The story is taken place in one of those transalantic cruises. I’ve always wondered how it’d be to have been in one of that cruises, having many days ahead and being just in the middle of the Ocean, with no possibility to change your environment, being stuck with certain people and circumstances. In a certain way, I find that attracting. For some odd reason I am always thinking that any past time is better and more interesting that the current one. It does not mean that I am wasting my present living in the past and looking forward to future, it is just that I like to look back some times…
Cultural mediocrity
I don’t know if I am quite alone in my thought that nowadays the mediocrity in the art arena is the majority. I am reviewing the films, books, music,…that lately I have been trying to enjoy with no success in most of the cases. And it is really difficult for me to think about a director today that could be compared to Hitchcock, John Ford, Howard Hawks,…just to mention few. For instance, the marketing machine of Hollywood tried to sell M. Night Shyamalan as the new Hitchcock thanks to the movie “Sixth Sense”, which it is an ok movie. However his last work, “The happening” is so poor that there is nothing to rescue.
Same in the literature, thinking about some writer that could be compared to the great names like James, Dostoevsky, Stendhal or being just remarkable enough that he/she is not forgotten in the next Christmas time is almost impossible.
In the music we are celebrating that bands like the unbearable Led Zeppelin are getting back. It is really an archeological mission to find any fresh or something new in the music scene. Everything sounds like being heard before. It is really boring.
I read from a Spanish philosopher that it is really depressing to attend to the decay of a brilliant period. It feels so right that statement.
Poems and The Sea
O CAPTAIN! my Captain, our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
I am not a often reader of poetry, but the few times I do, I just like it without any reason that can be explained with words. Some poems are just beautiful. For example, this one from Whitman, when I am reading it, it is easy me for to place me in some remote sea. I have said in a previous post my fascination for the sea, and in particular the Mediterranean, that takes me to think about my favourite comic character Corto Maltese, who needs a separate entry…
“…Marin, tu chériras toujours la mer…”
Ibane's ramblings 