genetic pools

Reincarnation makes nonsense of standard racist ideas of genetic lineage; i’ve been Sumerian, Egyptian, Jewish Kraut, and Anglo-Indian. But there does seem some kind of genetic continuity, which puzzles me. i have a similar chin, and hair, to my last life, and though i don’t myself see much of a resemblance, others have. The resemblance – which must exist, since people have remarked on it out of total ignorance – is itself strange; how it is possible that we have very few features in common, that – analysed in parts – we have totally different faces, yet at least three people now have supposed there to be some family relationship between Elberry and my last life? Wherein does this resemblance consist, since there seems no part-to-part correspondence?

i am drawn to the correspondences between my life as an Austrian Jew and the Elberry life as half-Indian – i’m not sure if England is becoming less racist, but certainly i was often called a ‘paki’ or ‘bengi’ (Bangladeshi) in my Elberry childhood, as wouldn’t happen in 2009 (perhaps it’s just that i have a mean, mankilling look to me these days – also, just as i didn’t look Jewish a century ago, i don’t look particularly Indian now). To be the son of an Indian doctor is to be kind-of-English, inasmuch as many doctors are Indian and this is accepted, and reputable; but it is not quite English, not quite. So i stand apart from my heimat, as i did then; i belong nowhere. Family wealth and repute only take you so far, if you were Jewish then, or Indian now; especially at school, people will remark unpleasantly on such matters (though, amusingly, one of my schoolfellows in that life, who went on to made a career out of anti-semitism, was himself circumcised).

i was, however, really startled to see how much my last incarnation resembled my two nephews, when he was about their age. i thought maybe i was imagining it but even my mother and stepfather saw it, quite clearly. My nephews are 3/4 English, 1/4 Indian – my last life was (as far as i know) Jewish Bosche. It’s not as surprising as if he were Chinese, but the similarity is nonetheless surprising – it really does look like a family resemblance; one could easily believe my last life was brother to my living nephews. My nephews could be transposed into my last life’s family photographs and anyone would suppose they were his close kin; not merely distant cousins but brothers.

Another oddity: the woman i think was one of my sisters has a very similar chin and nose to my last life – and so we share a chin (which is quite exciting). Her lips in this life are almost exactly as mine were, in my last. So there is this peculiar family resemblance between the four of us: Elberry, the living woman, and our two prior incarnations. Likeness is elusive but yet it is there. She is at least still a deadly Bosche, so it’s reasonable to see some genetic cross-over between herself and my last life; but it is nonetheless a little odd.

All this strangeness suggests that genetics is much more complicated than one would suppose, that similar genetic patterns can form in fairly different pools, so my two largely English nephews somehow look like a Jewish Kraut when he was their age, more than a century ago. And beyond genetics – i’ve noted people can often look quite different but will have a similar kind of body, in terms of size but also beauty; so the sister i mentioned here was beautiful in her last life, and in this; and our eldest sister then was on the pretty side of plain, as if she didn’t dare be beautiful – and so as my Finnish friend, Minna, she wouldn’t stun anyone on first sight, yet there is something pleasing about her, for those who warm to the shy and the gentle.

busy eating ice cream

Today i got an email from my Finnish friend Minna, who was my eldest sister in my last life; someone once said of her then that she lived her life within four walls. In today’s email i learn she has been eating a lot of ice cream, will go on a bicycle ride this week, and is planning to visit a friend who has two dogs. She concludes, seriously: “so my social life will be unusually busy this month.” Splendid. To quote The Matrix Reloaded: “some things do not change” (you have to say it like Lawrence Fishburne, then it sounds profound).

i like the idea of refusing to do annoying chores thus: “i can’t – i’m too busy eating ice cream. Later i may go on a bicycle ride. As you can see, my life is far too busy for mere work.”

profile of Gretl

Profile shot of a fairly elderly Gretl Wittgenstein. Note the nose and chin, and the alert eyes. She died in Vienna in 1958. She had to put up with a lot of suicides, crazies, and geniuses. Her husband was an asshole; when he finally killed himself everyone felt the world had become a better place. There was considerable tension between Gretl and her brother, the famously one-armed Paul Wittgenstein; i get the impression he thought she was full of shit. She was a natural prima donna, bossy, but also generous and kind. i think now she was like a wire drawn too tight, as were her brothers – she had to achieve something, or she would have broken. Such natures seek out adversity, war. i hear she was instrumental in Freud’s escape from the Nazis, not to mention tactfully drawing Ludwig back into cultured Vienna after his teaching career collapsed.

An interesting obituary of one of Gretl’s sons, who died fairly recently. He had two sons and a daughter, so possibly Gretl has some living grandchildren and great-grandchildren. i believe one of her other sisters, the jolly & tubby Helene, had some children with Max Salzer, and also Paul Wittgenstein has a living daughter somewhere. If Ludwig had had children, they would have grown up to be serial killers, so it’s just as well he was queer, not to mention something of a misogynist. i don’t think any of his students are still alive, only Peter Geach, who doesn’t really count; though, now i think of it, the perceptive William Gass is still alive over in the New World. One of his books rests by my desk.

In 2003, i met a robust girl who said she was descended from Keats’ sister; i have no idea if this is true, if Keats even had a sister, or if said sister had children, but the robust girl seemed sane and genuine. She didn’t make much of it; but because she was literate and intelligent, it was a presence in her mind, something she couldn’t entirely forget about. One shouldn’t make too much of such things; lineage of any kind doesn’t really mean that much; the present is what one has to deal with, though it becomes easier when one has some sense of what came before. Wallowing in the past is a bad idea – which is why i distrust psychoanalysis; but likewise, to go into the future blind, without knowing the why that is the past, is foolish beyond belief. One needs a supple grip on the past, to be able to let go; and to grip.

fame…

Incredible article on Wittgenstein. Highly recommended for those after The Truth.

Hollywood Nights

Great song by Bob Seger, previously unknown to this Elberry. It makes me wish i had a 3rd hand Ford Escort again and could career wildly round the farmer’s lanes of West Yorkshire, playing such tunes at maximum volume and beating the dashboard. i hate traffic but i am actually a shit hot driver, surprisingly; i can feel the engine and the gears, and the grip of the tires on the road. i realise this sounds nuts but when i drive my senses extend to include the car, so i have in the past, for example, felt there was something wrong with the engine from sounds inaudible to lesser men. i should probably have been a demolition derby driver but alas fate was cruel and instead chose me to temp then TEFL. However, i have always temped as if i were in reality in a demolition derby, and i shall no doubt TEFL  in the same spirit.

Für den Gott ein Leichtes

Ein Gott vermags. Wie aber, sag mir, soll
ein Mann ihm folgen durch die schmale Leier?
Sein Sinn ist Zwiespalt. An der Kreuzung zweier
Herzwege steht kein Tempel für Apoll.

Gesang, wie du ihn lehrst, ist nicht Begehr,
nicht Werbung um ein endlich noch Erreichtes;
Gesang ist Dasein. Für den Gott ein Leichtes.
Wann aber sind wir? Und wann wendet er

an unser Sein die Erde und die Sterne?
Dies ist nicht, Jüngling, daß du liebst, wenn auch
die Stimme dann den Mund dir aufstößt, – lerne

vergessen, daß du aufsangst. Das verrinnt.
In Wahrheit singen, ist ein andrer Hauch.
Ein Hauch um nichts. Ein Wehn im Gott. Ein Wind.

-

A god can do it. But how, tell me, shall

a man follow him through the narrow lyre?

His mind is torn. At the crossing of two

heartways stands no temple for Apollo.

-

Song, as you teach it, is not desire,

not suing for something yet in the end attained;

song is existence. Easy for the god.

But when do we exist. And when does he

-

spend the earth and stars upon our being?

Youth this is not it, your loving, even

if then your voice thrusts your mouth open, – learn

-

to forget your sudden song.  That will perish.

Real singing is an alien breath.

A breath for nothing. The breath in god. A wind.

-

(Rilke, from Sonnets to Orpheus; mostly translated by M.D. Herter Norton, but i changed a few lines, despite knowing no German)

-

On my last day on the TEFL course by chance i had this great book in my bag, so i took Helen aside and asked her to read the German to me. No doors opened, kein Tempel für Apoll, but it was still highly enjoyable for me. Strange that i could tell her German is very good, though i know none – i suppose it is the lack of hesitancy, a sensed fluency, which communicates nonetheless.

today’s Googling

Sample of some of the Google search terms that led the unwary here:

ishtar

gretl wittgenstein klimt

Hitler

pomegranate

odin

i am not gay

dillinger in police station

i believe there may be a really bad poem in this somewhere, let’s see:

Dillinger in the police station

said “i am not gay”,

Gretl Wittgenstein wasn’t there

she was busy being painted

by Gustav Klimt. She didn’t like pomegranates.

Hitler wrote a poem to Odin

in the First World War

pity it wasn’t Ishtar.

As long as you chanted this while playing the bongos and smearing your face with war paint, you could get away with claiming it’s poetry.

another name

i felt like wasting time on a Facebook application so took the ‘what is your Latin name’ thing. Apparently the Latin name for ‘Walter Aske’ is ‘Luke’, meaning ‘light’. i have no idea how it got this but it’s awfully close to ‘light-bearer’ and a childhood nickname i once had, so not bad for a Facebook app, not bad at all. i’m used to people referring to my Satanic nature, or even unconsciously alluding to my other lives; to have a computer do so is somehow even stranger. i’m reminded that at one of my banks, my computer-generated staff ID was 666. Apparently, the computer had been programmed never to issue this number, and no one could explain why it had done so in my case…

happy birthday, Mr Viking

‘Tis the Viking’s birthday soon. His real name is Jonah but he prefers to be called Olaf. If i had any money i’d buy him some Catholic kitsch, but i don’t so instead i’ve written a special story about his imminent death. Here goes:

It was a typical July in Canada: snowstorms swept across the plains backed by a full-force hurricane; wolves roamed the city in packs, taking down the foolish and the weak; enraged moose broke into houses looking for moss; robber gangs fought with guns and clubs and fists and boots. Law-abiding citizens cowered in basements, weeping and listening to 30s jazz. Only one man stood tall amidst the chaos: Jonah Usher, or ‘the Viking’ as he was known to the newspaper men. He strode stiffly through the riots and blizzards, batting aside giant wolves and robbers with his Spear of Chemistry. A hippy lunged into his path mouthing fashionable pieties about the environment: the hippy was impaled and cast aside; the Viking had no time for nonsense.

Through the blizzard he saw his destination: the Chemical Building, where he worked every day on Matters Chemical, which were incomprehensible and offensive to the uninitiated. He kicked the doors open and entered the foyer. The scientists gathered round the front desk turned and cried out in dread and awe.

The tall, black-clad figure glowered at them from under the brim of his hat. He jabbed at the assembled rabble with his Chemical Spear. Ancient runes glittered along the haft. “You!” he boomed. “Why are you gathered in this place like seditious dogs? Are you discussing heresies? Beware lest ye be led astray and be damned along with Satan, master of heresies!”

“No, we’re waiting for Professor Dawkins,” a scientist said meekly, cowering before the Viking’s maniacal glare; even with only one eye (the other sold to Korean gangsters) he had quite a stare.

“Who the fuck is that?” the Viking demanded. “What is his Chemistry?”

“Richard Dawkins,” the scientist said feebly. “The man who proved that God doesn’t exist and -”

“Oh, that Dawkins,” the Viking muttered. “He sounds like a turd. Death will come upon him and the ravens will pick his eyes. Stupid motherfucker.”

“Here he is!” the scientists shrieked, as Dawkins and his retinue entered the building. A scientist flung himself at Dawkins’ feet: “Professor, welcome to our city! We welcome your wise words and -”

His opening speech was abruptly terminated by the Spear of Chemistry, which had entered his skull. Dawkins looked up, into the impassive face of Jonah Usher, Master of Chemistry.

“And who exactly are you?” Dawkins asked haughtily.

“I am a Chemist and a Christian.” The Viking pulled his spear out of the scientist’s skull and daubed blood all over Dawkins’ fine clothes. “I am a scientist, I am a believer, I am 7 foot tall, I eat nothing but liquorice and mashed potato. I am the Viking and I rule Chemistry in this country.”

Dawkins recoiled, ineffectually swiping at the blood with a silk hankerchief. “My expensive clothes! All ruined! I look like a blood-spattered fool! How dare you? Chemistry is insignificant! Only biology is important! And your God is a lie!”

The Viking took a step back. He lowered his head. “Perhaps you are right. I must go away and rethink my life.” He turned and walked sadly away, leaning heavily on his Spear of Chemistry. Dawkins’ entourage gathered around the great man, fussing at his bloodied suit.

“It’s quite all right, quite all right,” Dawkins reassured them. “It was only a Christian. I have defeated him now – “

His words ended as the Viking, having rethought his life, span on one heel and threw the Spear of Chemistry across the foyer and into Dawkins’ gut, impaling him on the wall. Dawkins’ lackeys fled in terror as the Viking stalked over.

“You can impugn my God,” the Viking boomed, as Dawkins groaned and bled, “but not my Chemistry. Now you die – motherfucker.”

Dawkins reached into his suit and produced a bag of liquorice. “Please – ” he gasped, “have mercy – I have liquorice.”

The Viking grabbed it and gobbled the entire bag in five seconds. “Hmm. Good liquorice. But it is too late for you.”

Dawkins grinned; blood spurted out of his mouth. “Too late for you too – that was poison liquorice!”

The Viking shrugged indifferently, then fell over and died. Dawkins followed seconds later. And so ended an era.

Dillinger in the police station

i went to see Mann’s latest slaughterfest, Public Enemies. Ever since Collateral, a new Mann film means i’m about to move house and enter a world of pain – and so, no doubt, with the Dillinger film also. It isn’t quite as good as Collateral – script is too slack, just lots of action without any real characterisation; that there is some depth is testament to Depp’s acting prowess. The final half an hour or so is very good, which is as it should be. There are two surreal and powerful scenes: one where Dillinger watches a gangster movie, the cinema surrounded by FBI; and before that, he strolls into the Chicago police station and wanders into the nearly empty Dillinger Section, admiring his mugshot and nodding approval at their notes. It is a surreal scene, the more effective as it doesn’t veer into David Lynch territory but is also quite plausible, given Dillinger’s vanity and cockiness. i realised that some of Mann’s best scenes are of this kind, the everyday as surreal, startling. Wigand on the golf course at night in The Insider; the jazz assassination in Collateral, a man’s life decided by a wrong answer about Miles Davis; the nocturnal blues of Heat.

The whole of Manhunter could be seen in this way, as Mann’s sets look like the inside of a space ship, a FBI task force office all gleaming starship white, with lazer-green lights; likewise, he uses a building made almost wholly of glass for Lecter’s high security prison. i realised now why Mann’s pedantic attention to period detail – the gauche 80s clothes, the music – is so important: it grounds the surreal, acts as a recognisable, almost too familiar vessel for some very strange and eerie energies. People often complain of the 80s clothes & music in Manhunter; in fact, it is these very specific – and therefore dated – minutiae which ground and enable the grand and atavistic energies of the film. At its heart, Manhunter is about fundamental questions of good and evil, as is Mallick’s The Thin Red Line – i think any human being at any point in history would respond to these deep currents; and it is precisely because they are so basic that they resist the maker, often coming out either as hokey and simplistic or as overblown and pretentious. It occurs to me that Mann’s method – the everyday surreal – is akin to Kafka’s. You do not speak of dark gods, demons, of primal horror: instead, you have a shy, 6′7″ serial killer with bad taste in clothes and a problem with dental fricatives; or an inexhaustible and shabby bureaucracy, petty officials – all quite familiar, all quite uncanny. In this way you invite these elusively basic energies into your making, by not trying, as it were busying yourself with other matters and avoiding eye contact – the shy beast slowly settles in the room you have made, as long as you do not attempt an ambitious taming.

Watching Dillinger stroll about the police station, i was struck by the man’s vanity, and then my own: it is exactly the kind of thing i would do. Why should he be interested in other people’s opinions? And yet he is. He endangers himself out of vanity, out of an interest in his hunters, in their idea of him. They can know nothing about himself that he does not already know, however dimly; and yet he wants to read their account of him, to consider their judgement of his skill, as if the skill itself were not enough. It is baffling, yet there it is: one is nonetheless interested. It seems that a bank robber of Dillinger’s stature – if you like, the greatest 20th Century bank robber  – should have been so great as to be unconcerned about mere opinion; it seems absurd that one could be so gifted and so petty at the same time. Whether or not this is historical, it belongs in the film: it demonstrates not merely Dillinger’s weakness, but also his allure: for an admixture of vanity & skill seems a recipe for bad fame (there is no other kind). Adulation fuels the famous man’s vanity, which in turn makes him somehow more interesting, in spite of common sense.

Vanity may seem a minor vice, and i suppose it is – compared to sadism or what have you. But it must be energetically opposed. The root of the word is crucial: vanitas, emptiness. If you live in other people’s opinions – however flattering – you live an insubstantial life; you are empty. You will become as superficial as the images you consider, the adulation you falsely desire. And the greater the adulation the greater the temptation.