HI

... this is an expanding selection of pics and of some of my shorter pieces of writing ... and other bits and pieces ... in German and mainly English ... and other strange languages ... COME BACK AND CHECK IT OUT ... COMMENTS WELCOME

wolfgangsperlich@gmail.com


Thursday, August 19, 2010

GEDICHT 1973


GEDICHT, 1973


HEY
HEY, IHR MENSCHEN
HEY, DU MEIN FREUND
WAS GLAUBST DU,
WER ICH BIN
EIN SONDERLING
VON EINEM ANDEREN PLANETEN
DER ERLÖSER AUS DEM NICHTS
ODER NUR EIN ÜBERMENSCH
EIN VERLORENER HELD
EIN KIND
MEIN FREUND, DU WEISST
DU BIST EIN MENSCH ZULETZT
DU VERSTEHST NICHT
WÄRE ICH MENSCH
WÄRE ICH VERLETZT

BALI 19.2.71

B A L I         19.2.71

Bali ist eine magische Insel. Nicht jeder, der Bali besucht kann dies erfahren, sehen oder spüren; es sei denn, er habe Sinn für die Magie. Für den ausgemachten Magier ist Bali sicherlich der verborgene siebte Himmel. Für den magischen Laien eher ein seltsames Wunderland.


BALI, DU INSEL DER REISFELDER
TERASSEN UND ZAUBERHAFTES GRÜN
GÖTTER, TEMPEL, TANZ UND TOURISTEN
STRAND UND SONNE, GELBE BLUMEN BLÜHN
ARMUT, MALARIA, BATIK UND KOMMUNISTEN
BALI, DU INSEL DER SCHATTEN
BALI, DU INSEL DER MAGIE

KUTA BEACH
NOCH LIESSEST DU DICH NICHT AUSBEUTEN
VON DEN KAPITALISTEN
BALD WIRST DU IHNEN DARNIEDERLIEGEN
DEN NECKERMANN TOURISTEN

MANDARA
HAUS DES MAGISCHEN INNENHOFES
SÜSSER RAUCH IM KERZENSCHEIN
WAS BLEIBT, IST EIN SARONG AUS
DENPASSAR

BALI, DU INSEL DER BALINESEN!

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

CHOMSKY




Sperlich, Wolfgang (2006). Noam Chomsky. Reaktion Books, London.

... also published in Spanish, Korean, Turkish, Hebrew and Chinese.

QUANTITY TO QUALITY


... an entry from my MS on The ABC of Neo-feudalism

QUANTITY TO QUALITY


Marx and Engels, following on from Hegel’s law of transformation, famously postulated the leap from quantity to quality, both to explain natural and socialist evolution. The latter seems to have stalled for the time being and instead we are experiencing an interlude of ‘if one does not learn from history one is condemned to repeat it’.

Apart from the trivial application of an increasing quantity acquiring a new quality - drops of water accumulating in an ocean - we have as yet no better explanation for human evolution. We have no idea how masses of brain neurons and associated bits and pieces of chemistry and physics give rise to language and mind. This state of affairs explains the still very powerful recourse to religion, superstition and other supernatural beliefs when it comes to the explanation of human nature as opposed to all other nature - which seems firmly in the grip of empirical sciences. Indeed the human capacity for irrationality - especially when dealing with other humans - is in itself a puzzle worthy of explanation.

One can only speculate. Perhaps the empirical sciences themselves offer a few clues as to the inexplicitness that exists. The aptly named quantum theory in physics together with Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Theory seems to have hit a glass ceiling with respect to the location of sub-atomic particles. If we make this analogous with the human mind, we cannot pinpoint as to where we are - mentally - at any given time but we can arrive at a high level of statistical certainty. Human nature and human evolution seem to follow this principle. There are always certain statistical trends in human populations but no individual can be picked with certainty to represent that trend. Indeed social and socialist theory may be predicated on this observation: the more socially homogenous a society is the more predictable are its operational trends - presumably an argument for socialism. The more heterogeneous a society - with a high degree of individuality - the less predictable its operational trends, resulting in the swings and roundabouts presently experienced. The high success rates of empirical sciences are of course predicated on near perfect statistical certainty of not being able to falsify so-called laws of nature. Gravity rules without exception - as far as we know.

Human language emanates from the human brain and as far as we know it must follow the laws of nature as far as we know them. Communication seems to be predicated in the same way: there is a good statistical reliability that people are able to communicate what they think via what they express through their use of the language. On an individual basis there is no such certainty. Indeed I myself may be a prime example of not being able to communicate what I think. People may not understand what I am trying to say, or if they get an inkling, they may not want to understand because the message is too much to take. I may strike a proverbial chord only in those individuals who, like me, seem to suffer from a certain statistical neglect these days. We are not recognized. We are not commercially viable. We are not trendy. We exist on the periphery. We are never there when society looks for individuals to celebrate. We are invisible to the naked eye of the empiricist. We are like light, unsure if we have substance or if we exist as electromagnetic waves only.   

We certainly lack in numbers - quantity - and as such seem unable to effect changes in quality. We survive in the hope that the reverse will happen: our quality of thought will effect quantitative changes, infecting like a virus all those who hitherto were immune to socialist reason. This effect in turn will create a chain reaction and vast numbers of the human population will make the promised leap to a new socialist quality hitherto unknown in human evolution. Unfortunately in the meantime, as repeated over and again, the current statistical trends point to a reversal of fortunes, namely to the crass elevation of  individuals to the realm of feudal lords and ladies while the masses will have no statistical value despite their strength in numbers.

The interplay between quantity and quality isn’t just a one-way street. Hegel’s law of transition needs further investigation.   




Sunday, August 15, 2010

The way is this way

SIX PACK

SIX PACK

Wolfgang B. Sperlich, 2010

A full moon
Magnified on the horizon
Inspires
Contemplation
Where is he on moonless nights?
Gone the way of Milky Way?

I see the face in the mirror
Answers are forthcoming
Science
Laws of nature
Some the face understands
Others not

The face turns, the mirror dies
Nothing matters
The moon shines again
Pale
Eyes closed forever
Blinded by the sun

Meaningless meaning
Works hard to survive
Wishing never to have been born
Blackmailing mental health
Extracting extra medication
For fake suicide

Night and day
The limelight shines
On your faces
Fame and fortune in the making
Happy to be
Blinded by lightning

Have another one
Until the six pack’s gone
Enjoy the delirium
Struck dumb by words
Coming from the mirror
Without a face 





Friday, August 13, 2010

TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

                                                  TO SPEAK THE UNSPEAKABLE

… spoken by Wolfgang B. Sperlich, 1999



Jacques Derrida, an influential post-modernist and deconstructionist communicator of our time, in a recent lecture in Auckland explored the meaning of the word and concept of ‘to forgive’. He came to the conclusion that ‘to forgive the forgivable’ does not capture the intent of the word ‘to forgive’, rather it must be that ‘to truly forgive’ means ‘to forgive the unforgivable’ (see also Derrida 1997 for his latest book translated into English).

In a similar way I wish to explore the notion that to communicate/to speak the speakable (the conventional, the sanctioned, yesterday’s news, the obvious, the shallow, the acceptable, the thinkable …) does not capture the true intent of the word ‘to communicate’. When we communicate what is already known to us, we merely repeat and reinforce an old message. What is really worth communicating must be new, the unheard of, the yet unknown, the unthinkable, the newly discovered, the unwritten, the taboo.

Marshal McLuhan (1967) who gave us ‘the medium is the message’ which might be changed to ‘the medium is the old message’ when it comes to the overlords of modern communication: the media. Mass communication, as Noam Chomsky (1988) has shown, serves ‘to manufacture consent’ by repeating again and again the commandments of a self-serving economic elite. US President Ronald Reagan, winner of the cold war, was bestowed the title ‘the Great Communicator’ by the mass media: we cannot think of a better example to illustrate the absurdity that those who are masters in saying nothing (new) – such as B-grade Hollywood actors barely being able to repeat the lines of a written script – are appointed great communicators. As many of us have come to suspect, politicians in particular, are the mere mouth pieces of gray operators in the background. Like chiefly orators of the Polynesian tradition speaking for the chief who is always silent in public, they tell us the good old news and the bad old news. The idea is that we better get used to this ‘new order’ which is so rotten and old that it can be easily called neo-feudalism. Welcome to a repeat performance starting 1000 AD. Remember that under feudalism, new or old, everybody is miserable, from bottom to top. In the past the top dog was most worried about his (sometimes her) mortality and spent all his energies (and all the people’s wealth) on monuments to his eternal body. Nowadays the top dogs and increasingly top bitches worry about their hold on global economic empires and how best to spend their vast wealth on inconspicuous mansions in the sky. The unemployed and other mentally ill outcasts of society rely on charities organised by the good ladies and increasingly good men of Remuera and other such holy denominations (Leonard Cohen, a communicator of gloomy lyrics sings in one of his songs aptly titled ‘The future … brother, it is murder’ about the homicidal bitch that comes into the kitchen to determine who will eat and who will starve). Karl Marx was nearly right when he pronounced that religion is the opium of the people: just substitute ‘food’ for opium (cf. the ‘dollar a day’ advertising drives of the charitable Christian children funding organisations … a dollar a day will buy them clean water and food … and those who believe in me will eat and those who do not, will not).

As a sign of resistance I wish to explore in greater detail what it might encompass to communicate the unspeakable. At one level one might begin with a discussion of the alleged problems inherent in ‘cross-cultural communication’ about which a great deal has been written not only in New Zealand/Aotearoa. The now classic Talking Past Each Other by Joan Metge and Patricia Kinloch demonstrates the ‘unspeakable’ due to cultural barriers. Of course the is a myriad of contexts where people ‘talk past each other’ – if they talk to each other at all – and we all know the self-help books on how to improve the situation and get into tune with each other, connect at the same wavelength, celebrate our differences and live in harmony. Sold as a universal panacea, often with religious overtones, up-grading one’s communication skills make us better equipped to figure out what the other guy is on to. It makes us more employable. Especially the young, the unemployed, the criminals, the social outcasts and failures lack in communication skills and they must attend remedial night classes and learn NLP (as an example take Bolstad and Hamblett, 1997, Transforming Communication, Longman). Those who are very successful in public and private enterprise are said to have excellent communication skills.

Quite clearly then, such communication skills are defined within the dominant paradigm and serve the covert aim to maintain cultural, economic and social barriers. The best one can say about such endeavours is that in the upper classes they weed out a certain amount of racism, sexism and other issues affecting the lower classes negatively (the motivation being that such attitudes make no economic sense when you earn five to five thousand times the average wage … hence the celebrity magazines can tell us glibly that the rich suffer fewer social ills than the down and out). Communication barriers remain, and are indeed reinforced at the levels of – and within – culture, race, socio-economic status, class. The well-to-do corporate Maori lawyer does not communicate with the Maori peasant just as the well-to-do corporate Pakeha lawyer does not communicate with the Pakeha peasant (it might be worse among Pakeaha than it is among Maori). Culture, ethnicity, gender, religion and other intra-class differences merely widen the already huge chasm in terms of disposable income and wealth.

To say the unspeakable, on the contrary, is, for example, designed to bridge the gap both within and across endo- and exogamic classes (e.g. translating American Natchez Indian tradition into contemporary practice: every rich man/woman must marry a poor woman/man so as to effect some sort of wealth distribution, cf. Harris, 1983). The unspeakable truth is that what is granted to the few is denied to the many. The unspeakable truth might also be the recognition that a common humanity transcends all mankind and that those who seek to divide it, rule themselves out of the game. We remove the murderer from society. We chastise the thief. We follow the rules of civilized society. Those who break them are penalized. We do not generally question the rules in case they themselves are to blame for the break-down in civilized society. We all now understand the rules of Nazi Germany and how they led to barbarism of the worst sort. What set of rules have led to more recent genocide? East-Timor? What set of rules have led to Maori and Pacific Islanders providing 45% of the prison population in Aotearoa? What set of rules makes poor South Auckland children die unnecessarily from diseases long thought of banished? Who makes the rules? What is the unspeakable truth? The rulers who make these rules must be removed from society! It must be a crime against humanity. Poverty brutalizes people and those who promote poverty by virtue of their wealth are criminal accomplices of those who commit crimes on the street level (of course wealth also brutalizes people in ways that they are prepared to acquire and then defend their wealth by any means). It works in degrees: colossal wealth equals colossal crime.

As educators we have not only the opportunity but also the duty to communicate the unpalatable, to speak the obscene language of poverty, misery, slavery, oppression, injustice. Furthermore as the underprivileged, the disenfranchised, the dysfunctional, the mentally ill lack a voice (and not because they lack communication skills), it falls to us who have a voice and should have a social conscience to speak up and come to the rescue of those who cannot defend themselves.  How easy it is to decry poverty and then wine and dine at the revolving restaurant up in the sky. How easy it is to look down to survey the scenery, to feel sorry, to say it’s not my fault. And yet how many come up here to avoid the scum in the slum?

Even as we all agree that words are cheap (actions speak louder, but see Habermas 1981 who defines action as an important type of communication) we have succumbed to the rule that even talk that is cheap must not speak the truth. Not even the cheap truth. We must only allow ourselves to communicate what we know to be expensive lies, we must engage in small talk that shows how witty we can be, how elegant, how sophisticated, how daring we can be with innuendo. We must not use delicately designed brutish language unless we can afford it (NZ’s literary icon and communicator amongst good keen men, Barry Crump, reputedly asked middle-class ladies of Remuera at parties if they’d care for a fuck, and many of them blushed and accepted the invitation, for what else is there to do in Remuera). We must not talk about sex. We must not even look at it (except when it is sanitized in the movies with Nicole and Tom). We most certainly do it (… and the rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor … sings Leonard Cohen yet again). The Listener (October 23-29, 1999) says 10 year olds are doing it. It is a real worry. The Listener bravely communicates the symptoms, lays bare the wounds, shows us the underbelly, the naked truth (well, not really, even the Listener has to keep up certain standards of ‘acceptable’ journalism). Sex is a dirty business and the less we talk about it the better. Talking about it merely arouses the interest. Shame! And shame on the Listener (ibid.) for quoting a woman from a Maori health organisation as saying that ‘there are some really strong stereotypes that we were close to the jungle, to nature, and that we have bred and had sex like apes almost, and I think a lot of people have unconsciously bought into those stereotypes …’. The voice of an oppressed woman repeating the worst possible racist nonsense imaginable (the oppressed take on the language of the oppressor … yet another feature of neo-feudalism … just as the ‘untouchables’ of Hindu classism chastise themselves for being lowly born). And considering that the Listener is supposed to be a liberal magazine, food for thought even, how much lower can we get?

Can we get right down to it, really, really low down and communicate? I suppose we can if we realize what communication really is. An important part of that realization is that ‘asking critical questions’ is at the heart of it.  Such a concept has been advocated by Habermas 1981 (who together with Adorno, Marcuse, Horkheimer, Benjamin and Fromm of the Frankfurt School of thought developed ‘critical theory’) in his seminal work Theorie des kommunikativen Handelns:

Things that are outside the boundary of ‘doubt’ appear to be without any problems; such un-problematic things are nevertheless the downfall in our life. Only under the situational pressure of an oncoming problem do relevant items of our background knowledge emerge from the comfort zone of the ‘unquestionable’. Only an earthquake will make us aware that the ground we stand on is not a solid foundation. (Vol.2, p.589 my transl. from German)

In other words, those who do not question the status quo, those who do not ‘actively’ communicate will regress to become puppets on a string. Or to use Karl Marx’s famous words ‘those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it’.

To this Julia Kristeva (1981), the noted French post-modernist thinker, added the important idea that ‘critical’ communication also shapes the identity of the communicators:

Questioning is the supreme judicial act, for I who asks the questions, through the very act of asking these questions (apart from the meaning of the request) postulates the existence of the other (p.153).

A newborn child is said to ‘communicate’ its needs by various means, but as these needs are largely instinctive, such communication with those who also largely instinctively provide for those needs is not exactly a deliberate act of communication. Neither are commands, instructions and similar speech acts when we turn to language as communication. Language does however come to be a supremely communicative tool when we realize that we can access crucial knowledge outside ourselves, namely by critically questioning the other. This is in itself a complex procedure inasmuch a child will soon learn that the answers – if at all forthcoming – are subject to considerable interpretation. To naively take an answer at face value may lead to unexpected consequences. The answer may be a lie or the truth or something in between. By clever use of logic we can figure out which direction to take at the Cretan cross roads when we know that all Cretans are liars (hence how easy it is to figure out where our so-called nation is going as we know that all politicians are liars).

The idea that communication is essentially the act of accessing the knowledge of the other leads to the realisation, at least in some, that there is a collective knowledge, and that knowledge shared – via critical questioning - is communication per se. The commodification of knowledge, on the other hand, and the ownership thereof (intellectual property) is designed to undermine communication and restrict it to the realm of the privileged few. The current promotion of a ‘knowledge industry’ is in itself a sign of neo-feudal trends, just as in the Dark Ages the Catholic Church controlled all knowledge by claiming total ownership thereof. Critical questioning, even if glaringly logical à la Galileo, was met by rigorous suppression. Nowadays censorship is effected through commercial publishing and broadcasting, simply by announcing that the ‘unwanted’ is not commercially feasible (notice for example the circular argument that we cannot develop educational resources for small  minority languages because it is not economical to do so, and where the real agenda is to hasten the demise of these languages and cultures). The threats can be extreme: take the Telstra ad on TV which clearly says that if you cannot adapt to present market conditions you will die.

The idea that communication and the media are so closely related is not surprising, as the historical development of language as ‘writing’ became an important extension of communicating with the other on a super-personal level (i.e. the other is not physically present) Perhaps more importantly, through ‘publication’ the ‘writer’ can reach many ‘others’ who will never reply and such mass communication is indeed devoid of any ‘communication’ as it is one-directional. This is not to say that all such one-directional communication lacks any merit. If the written word (published or broadcast, and in a moment we will enter cyberspace) asks critical questions it is still of value, but only second best to ‘direct’ questioning.  Of course this consigns large sections of the written word – and the media – to the scrap heap of a manufactured, violent, pathetic and worthless history.

An extension of the other, explored by postmodern thinkers, is that both individual and collective identity may be based in communication. In the first place we can only establish an identity if we recognize the other: we see ourselves in the other (to only see oneself in oneself is the fate of Narcissus, a fate favoured in today’s star struck society, and the idea that God created man in his own image is the ultimate narcissistic act; the idea of cloning the German race … now a real possibility visited upon NZ sheep … is of course recognized as the ultimate in fascist narcissism). In the beginning the significant other was always ‘real’, in the flesh. As such the idea to communicate with the ‘dead’ and other supernatural beings is also highly narcissistic as all ‘replies’ are supplied by or through ‘self’. When it comes to communicating with ‘virtual’ others we seem to loose out on that earlier function of communication to establish our own identity. However, postmodern thought is making a virtue out of this rather than a problem. Some of our postmodern artists, especially in the area of performance art (Carter 1979, Olalquiaga 1992, Sperlich, 1999), relish the possibility to acquire multiple identities, both in relation to real and virtual others. When communicating with ‘virtual’ others it is no problem to assume any identity one wishes to take on. For example ‘gender-bending’ in Internet chat rooms is now commonplace (for an excellent website for communication studies go to http://www.aber.ac.uk/~dgc/medmenu.html. and for IT and gender issues go to http://www.aber.ac.uk/~dgc/it02.html ). Multi-culturalism can be one source of assuming multiple identities. Today I’m a Maori/woman, tomorrow a Chinese/man, the day after a Pakeha/gay. After all, ethnicity, gender, sexual inclinations are things of the mind – one’s preferred cultural associations – and there is a myriad of evolving possibilities that go beyond and transcend traditional aspects of culture, ethnicity, class, gender, language, locality, sex, art. Part of this new found transcendence is based on critical, postmodern communication which recognizes no absolute truths, no firm yardsticks, no points of absolute reference, where meaning has to be constantly de-constructed and re-constructed. Such fluid relativism sounds like fun , especially in art (and more seriously is backed up by modern scientific theories such as Einstein’s relativity of motion or Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle in quantum physics, see also chaos theory in mathematics). The multiplicity of language itself (the forked tongue, the mother tongues) is celebrated as it affords ever changing perspectives, and as the major tool of communication, allows us to endlessly re-phrase and paraphrase those critical questions whether or not they yield answers, and if they do, will in turn become the material for more questions. The old adage of ‘the more you find out the less you know’ will be turned into a gay quest (or as Nietzsche said ‘fröhliche Wissenschaft/gay science’) of ‘the more you know the more there is to find out’ and one might look with some confidence to our young artistic intellectuals who will turn this world up-side down, part of it in cyberspace, part of it in the native forests of Aotearoa, part of it in the urban jungle where Pasifika music subverts the capitalist system, where Maori and Pacific Island languages save us from the English plague (as the one and only International Language), where plurality, even in religion, takes over from a dreaded singularity (the one and only God), where what, where nothing, this sentence has gone on long enough (to paraphrase Samuel Beckett in First Love). Or as performance artist Laurie Anderson (cited in Howell 1992) puts it:

            I feel this desperate need to get out of myself.

Or perhaps to quote an icon of the 60s, Janis Joplin, desperate for intense communication … ‘Oh Lord, I’m feeling so useless down here, I can’t find someone to love …’)

Such euphoria, however, can induce a state of uncritical thinking. Let us return to earth and communicate. For there is a little bit of bad in everything good (and a bit of good in everything bad). There are warnings from cyberspace: Kali Tal (1996), an American woman of color and cultural activist http://www.kalital.com/ writes:

I have long suspected that the vaunted "freedom" to shed the markers of race and gender on the Internet is illusory, and that it masks a more disturbing phenomenon - the whitenizing of cyberspace. Ironically, African-American critical theory provides very sophisticated tools for the analysis of cyberculture, since African-American critics have been discussing the problem of multiple identities, fragmented personae, and liminality for more than 100 years. http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/4.10/screen.html.

Perhaps one can read something positive into this: something almost biblical: the meek shall inherit the postmodern world, where the formerly oppressed peoples of all shades, genders and color, thanks to their experiences of crises of fractured identity are now well placed to adapt to a potential modernity of different proportions (i.e. where communication takes place and multiple identities reside in each of us … and where talking to oneself, especially in the form of self-criticism, becomes a real possibility rather than a narcissistic one). The descent into a new dark age of glib and glossy neo-feudalism is an alternative scenario too horrible to contemplate, even though the signs are everywhere.

In free fall from the edge I’d like to conclude with a subversion of the ultimate bible of one-directional communication: the Bible: which begins, quite appropriately with ‘in the beginning was the word’. Unfortunately the second line is very illogical (‘and the word was God’), because if in the beginning was the word, then the word must have been ‘word’. In the beginning was the word, and the word was word. Do not be deceived by English syntax and tell me that as the sentence starts with ‘in the beginning …’ the first word must have been ‘in’. After all, this sentence was first written in Greek. Perhaps a better translation (and I’m only making this up), more literal, is: ‘word was the first word’. The final critical question I put to you, the significant others, is, was ‘was’ the second word?




REFERENCES



Beckett, S., (S. Gontarski – editor). 1997. Complete Short Prose, 1929-1989. Grove Press

Bolstad, R. and M. Hamblett. 1997. Transforming Communication. Longman

Carter, A. 1979. The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories. The Bowering Press, London

Chomsky, N. 1988. Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media, with Edward
             Herman, Pantheon Books)

Derrida, J. 1997. Politics of Friendship, trans. George Collins, London: Verso Books

Habermas, J. 1981. Theorie des kommunikativen Handelns. Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main

Harris, M. 1983. Cultural Anthropology. Harper & Row, New York

Howell, J. 1992. Laurie Anderson. Thunder’s Mouth Press, New York

Kristeva, J. 1981. Desire in Language: a Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art. Basil Blackwell

McLuhan, M. 1967. Medium is the Message: An Inventory of Effects  Random House/1989 Simon and
             Schuster)

Metge, J. and P. Kinloch. 1978. Talking Past Each Other. Victoria University Press, Wellington

Nietzsche, F. 1882 (1967). Die fröhliche Wissenschaft. In Werke in zwei Bänden. Carl Hanser Verlag,
             München

Olalquiaga, C. 1992. Megalopolis: Contemporary Cultural Sensibilities. University of Minnesota Press,
Minneapolis

Sperlich, S. 1999. Identity and Performance. Dissertation Essay, Manukau Institute of Technology

Tal, K. 1996. Life Behind the Screen. http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/4.10/screen.html

The Listener. October 23-29, 1999. Age of Consent. p.16







Monday, August 9, 2010

66 – 99 NZ MIGRANT BLUES

                                           66 – 99 NZ MIGRANT BLUES

1999 © Wolfgang B. Sperlich


In 66 I saw you throwing rocks in the air
Jimmy and Janis knew soon was a good time to die
For if you lived another 30 years or so
Her@history was gonna taste a lot like a long soap opera chocolate eclair

With everyone back in chains
Working in line
Making a dime, buying for time

In 77 you saw us working for a baby in Berlin
Stealing tickets to escape the divided air
We jumped the queue and listened to the music being sold
Man, we needed a higher New Zealand English education to get our share

With everyone back in school
Not cutting the grade
Sitting in the shade, waiting to fade

In 89 we taught what we had learned from the banned (in NZ) little red school book
Telling them students all about a French revolution and a Russian sex machine
But, hey man, that generation was lost already on money and glue
So we all collected Polynesian words, beautiful te reo and was feeling blue

With everyone hard at work
Nobody knew how to get back
Tacking the tack, lacking the lack

In 99 everyone’s confused about the end of the line
And all the old geezers are trying to kick start again
Moaning moaning, cloning cloning
Man, was it all a waste of fucking time
Hey baby, en route to NZ
On highway 66 to 99


?


Saturday, August 7, 2010

MY FRIEND, THE FLY

MY FRIEND, THE FLY

2008 © Wolfgang B. Sperlich


My husband was recruited for a 6-months, development aid related teaching contract in a remote country. I followed him there for a three week holiday. The town is located in a desolate landscape, bare mountains and stony, dusty plains, broken only by dry river beds the locals call wadi. My husband’s accommodation, provided by the company, was a flat in a tenement building, three flights of stairs up on the top floor. The building, as all the others in the vicinity, stood in the middle of a moonscape – alas, not pristine but strewn with consumer rubbish that modern life has brought to even the most remote places on earth. Indeed such remote places seem to be affected worst, as they have not developed any strategies to clean up.

The desert environment is arid to such a degree that no visible animal life is sustained other than domestic ones, mainly in the form of goats and camels. Surprisingly, at least to a newcomer like me, there were even only few flies around the numerous open rubbish dumps that litter the landscape like open sores. I was also surprised by the extreme fundamentalism still practiced in that town. Women are not to be seen. The town centre is populated by men only. While the odd local woman, all in black, who scurries across the road, is given the evil eye, any sight of a Western woman, also attired in conservative dress, so as not to offend local custom, and regardless of age, provokes the lurid male attention that is deeply insulting to the woman concerned – and properly intended by the men. Boys and male adolescents are the worst as they freely insult and harass the Western woman, be it by blocking her way, trying to touch her bottom, shouting ‘fuck bitch’ or other such terms they have learnt from the porn industry that is beamed down on them from satellite TV. In other words, it is near impossible for a single woman to leave her accommodation, and go for a walk by herself.

After a week of holiday and sightseeing, my husband had to go back to work, and I was stuck in the flat on the third floor. To make matters worse, I was even unable to walk down the stairs by myself – even if only to dispose of the rubbish bag. As is perhaps typical of extreme sexist fundamentalism anywhere in the world, the contradictions that arise are of equally negative value. Our building had a Thai Massage ‘Health Club’ on the second floor – a brothel by any other name. Seedy looking local men in white distashes walked up and down the stairs, summoning up sufficient courage to ogle a Thai prostitute. Boys and male adolescents congregated in front of the door, and on occasion masturbated in full view of the tenants. When mentioning, indeed complaining about such a shocking state of affairs to the employing company, local dignitaries and police, there was always the counter accusation that such a state of affairs was initiated by the evil Western ways – no doubt a good explanation but hardly a good excuse. In any case no action was taken to remedy the situation – given that the company managers, local dignitaries and police officers were of course the best customers of the Thai Massage.

To repeat, it was virtually impossible to leave my flat without being accompanied by my husband. Not that the flat was dingy or anything. It was in fact quite adequate for local conditions. There was satellite TV with 600 free channels. Mainly advertisements for subscription sex channels, BBC and Al Jazeera included. There were two bathrooms, one with the local version of toilet; the showers had a water pressure that merely dribbled water on your head. The kitchen was rather small with only basic facilities such as a fridge and a gas stove. All the bed and living rooms had air conditioning (very noisy) and/or ceiling fans. Temperatures at night never went below the 30° C mark. I did some work on my husband’s laptop. I watched TV, hypnotized by all the sex. I brewed local coffee. I looked out the windows for any signs of my husband’s return from work. I did connect up the washing machine, which was positioned over the hole in one of the bathrooms, and needed a rigged power line from one of the adjoining rooms. Given that the plumbing leaked water everywhere – and not considering the contradiction of living in a waterless desert – my attempts at connecting power to the washing machine were aligned with my rudimentary knowledge of electricity, i.e. water is a good conductor and likely to shock and kill me. I survived and rigged up a washing line in the spare room. What else could I do? Where I come from, I am an outdoor person, at least pottering around in the garden, going for a walk on the beach at least once a day, going shopping as I pleased. Sure I hated my job, having to go to work five or six days a week, having to earn heaps of money to pay the mortgage and all the bills, but at least when I got back home I was free to do as I pleased. Well, at least according to our evil Western customs.

In my hour of need I found a friend. There was a singular fly, quite a small one, buzzing around my head. A living creature! Interested in me! Not abusing me! I let it settle on my shoulder. It didn’t fly off as I walked to the kitchen to pour myself a gin and tonic. Should I allow my new friend a sip? Better not as it might drown in it. I had flashbacks to our other previous development aid lives in the lush tropics, where whiskey bugs had to be discouraged by one’s covering the glass, lest the bugs dive bombed the desirable fluid and drowned happily in it. This was always odd since there was no shortage of other water sources all around us, including the never ending perspiration one suffered in the constant 90% humidity. Here in the arid desert, my fly was happy to sit on my shoulder. I wondered if I should strike up a conversation. At home I’d talk to our cats, as if they were human, and generally I was not disappointed by the responses, especially as compared to real human conversations which always seemed to end in hopeless confusion, if not tears. My cats always had nice things to say, and snuggled up for a cuddle, purring and playfully scratching. My new friend might have some limitations in this regard but not having had a fly friend before, one would not know what the possibilities were. My new friend seemed to be very loyal. It followed me around the flat, and just when I thought it had deserted me, it buzzed around my nose, so as to remind me of its continued allegiance. This was most impressive, as I seemed to remember that flies in general have a short life span – a matter of days, I thought, as opposed to our human eternity of  many decades – hence they have to accomplish many things during that time, and as such might have very little time to make friends with silly humans. Well, of course time is relative. In any case I was happy with my new friend.

Naturally my allegiance shifted radically when my husband returned from work, not least based on the sexual imagery that was on my mind, and now afforded a practical reality. There was however sufficient time to tell my husband about my new friend, lest he took uncalled-for action. While my husband is generally kind to all living creatures (plants included – he is against picking flowers) he draws a line when it comes to self-defense. In other words, he argues that to protect one’s life and that of one’s loved ones – never mind all the others – against fly-born diseases, one has to eradicate the poor old flies if they enter one’s house. To this extent he is handy with fly spray, and the occasional attempt to emulate the tale of the tailor who swatted seven flies in one foul attempt. There was little force or logic in my counter argument, that if the erstwhile sources of disease were eliminated, the flies would not carry such diseases, and prove quite harmless. My husband, as usual, was not convinced but in order to expedite what was on obvious offer on my part, he listened to my fly story with good humour, and promised not to harm the poor creature even though the fly on the wall metaphor might be somewhat distracting to our private pleasures.

Following our petit mort he was less conciliatory, as the fly kept investigating and annoying him. His attempts to catch the fly were however fruitless - as he admitted with some admiration for the fly’s dexterity. While the fly was very small and seemed to fly at low speed, it evaded capture – and death – by last millisecond flight maneuvers worthy of major aviation awards. Indeed the fly seemed to rely on its uncanny evasive take-offs and flight paths to such a degree that my husband began to consider the possibility that some divine destiny had intervened to save it, and preserve it for the edification of his wife’s company. Since he too was aware of the short life span of a fly, his only concern was to establish the identity of this particular fly, lest there was procession of successors that looked alike. From that point of view he studied the features of my friend, looking for identifiable characteristics, as it rested on my naked shoulder. He even put on his reading glasses to see more clearly. Maybe my friend sensed the unnecessary scrutiny, and took off and was not to be seen for the rest of the day.

The day of my departure arrived and as I tearfully said goodbye to my home of the last three weeks, I also shed a tear for my friend who was no-where to be seen. As we drove off to the airport there was something that caught my eye inside the car. It was my friend. I cried and cried. ‘Don’t be silly’ said my husband with devastating logic, ‘this isn’t the same fly, for heaven’s sake, didn’t you see the rubbish next to the car when we got into it, it came from there!’ ‘It’s my friend, and you know it’, I cried. ‘Ok, it’s your friend’, he tried to console me. By the time we got to the remote airport two hours later, I was sick with sadness, and my husband looked as if he was ready to cry as well. There were no more signs of any fly in the car, or when we got out and made our way to the departure gate. On the plane I only missed my dear husband, and I had forgotten my friend the fly. Back home on the other side of the world, I remembered and told the story to our cats. They were not impressed, especially as our female cat, Gracie, specializes on sneaking up on flies and pouncing on them. ‘Such are the contradictions of life,’ as my husband says. I don’t know why.