Mining contracts in Australia

I often wonder whether my Australian compatriots are aware of the exact contents of the mining contracts that are enabling foreign capitalists to stuff them today and up until the end of time... unless a revolution were to occur (most unlikely in my conservative homeland).

Maybe they are… but I hear little critical fallout about the reasons why all this fabulous wealth has not yet transformed modern Australia into a prosperous nation (on the contrary) with an impeccable infrastructure and defense system. Sadly, as everybody knows, Australia remains a poor banana colony (not even a republic), incapable of defending herself against the least malicious intruder. But nobody seems to be worried…

Meanwhile, my ex-wife, my dear aunt and friendly observers accuse me of being, through my blog, un-Australian! Shit, I merely want to save the nation—my beloved birthplace—from sinking inexorably into the historical sands of forgettable mediocrity.

Talking to destiny

This fabulous photo by Nikki Kahn [published in The Washington Post of 16 March 2010] has been labeled "Life goes on". Why not?

[Click the photo to visit the Pulitzer Prizes website.]

The newborn's name is Destiny Dorival. I erupted in tears (literally) when I first gazed upon that beautiful little nose and mouth, determined to gain their rightful place upon our planet Earth. Welcome! Destiny Dorival was born in a makeshift maternity tent in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, in the days that followed the earthquake of 12 January 2010.

Maybe, at some time in the future, an adult Haitian girl, Destiny Dorival, will come upon my present humble blog post. [Why not? You don't imagine that Google's gonna let its precious live data disappear!] Destiny might read Rilke's Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, especially the episode of the death at Ulsgaard of the chamberlain Christoph Detlev Brigge, evoking an earthquake atmosphere.

For when night had fallen, and those of the over-wearied domestics who were not on duty tried to snatch some sleep, then Christoph Detlev's death shouted, shouted and groaned. It roared so long and so constantly that the dogs, at first howling in concert, were struck dumb and did not dare lie down, but stood on their long, slender, trembling legs, in terror. And when the villagers heard it roaring through the spacious, silvery Danish summer night, they rose from their beds as if there were a thunder-storm, put on their clothes and remained sitting in silence round the lamp until it was over. And women near their time were consigned to the most remote rooms and the most thickly partitioned recesses. But they heard it; they heard it, as if it had cried from their own bodies, and they pled to be allowed to get up too, and came, voluminous and white, to sit with their vacant faces among the others.

Through his evocations of the chamberlain's death, Rilke prepares us, as it were, for the most terrible moment of Malte's notebooks (which Destiny Dorival will appreciate, I hope):

And what a melancholy beauty came to women when they were pregnant, and stood, their slender hands involuntarily resting on their big bodies which bore two fruits: a child and a death. Did not the broad, almost nourishing smile on their quite vacant faces come from their sometimes thinking that both these fruits were growing?

Dear Destiny was born in the midst of death. An ordinary Rilkean affair.

POST SCRIPTUM: French-language readers of my blog who would like to receive a copy of my Rilkean movie script on Malte might send an email request to sky.william [at] orange.fr.

Moving into a troubled city

Last Thursday evening, a fascinating TV program concerning the long and tumultuous career of the former French police chief Maurice Papon [1910-2007] reminded me retrospectively that I was surely a naive and uninformed Antipodean when I first arrived in Paris on Sunday, 4 February 1962. In particular, I was totally unaware that the French nation was in a state of undeclared war with her former colony, Algeria. On Monday, 12 February, a week after my arrival in Paris, I started working as a computer programmer with the European headquarters of IBM. Between these two events in my narrow personal existence, the tragedy of the métro Charonne had unfolded. Papon's police had pushed leftist political demonstrators down the steps towards the underground station (not far from where my daughter now lives), without realizing that the steel grid was closed, resulting in the death of nine individuals.

On that cold day, I was wandering around in the Latin Quarter, searching for an item of clothing that I had never possessed back out in Australia: an overcoat. Since I was incapable of understanding French-language newspapers, and had no access to TV, I was unaware that a tragedy had taken place over on the other side of the Seine. In any case, I was quite unaware of the Algerian conflict in which France had been bogged down for years. Among other things, I had never heard of the bloody events that had occurred in Paris on 17 October of the previous year (at a time when I had just celebrated my 21st birthday, out in Sydney, and was looking forward excitedly to leaving soon for Europe on the Greek vessel Bretagne), when Papon's police simply executed spontaneously and brutally an unknown number (between tens and hundreds) of Algerians who appeared to sympathize with the FLN [National Liberation Front] and tossed their bodies into the Seine.

Within a few days of my settling down in Paris, I was brought face-to-face with the realities of living in a city in which plastic explosives were being detonated by insurrectionists, intending to draw attention to nasty events on the other side of the Mediterranean. One evening, as I opened the door into my tiny hotel room in the Rue des Ecoles (just a few hundred meters away from the Sorbonne), an explosion destroyed a bookshop on the other side of the street. I remember the familiar horn signals of police vehicles against the delicate tinkling (like proverbial Xmas sleigh bells) of glass fragments falling from shattered windows in the vicinity of the targeted bookshop. A few days later, when I arrived at the IBM building in the Cité du Retiro (just near the Elysée Palace), I learned that an explosion had occurred there during the night. A month later, everything calmed down overnight when the president Charles de Gaulle signed a peace agreement with the FLN on 18 March 1962 at Evian-les-Bains, in the French Alps.

Meanwhile, IBM France (whose headquarters were located at the Place Vendôme) had given me an identity card.

By that time, I had moved into a tiny so-called "maid's room" at the top of the Hôtel du Pas de Calais in the Rue des Saints Pères.

An aspect of my professional situation at IBM that amazed me was the effort they were devoting to the challenge of my obtaining a French work permit. The procedure was set in motion by an initial visit to the Préfecture de Police on the Ile de la Cité. This was the headquarters of the domain of de Gaulle's police chief, Maurice Papon: a vast stone building alongside the Seine, just opposite the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, built around a square courtyard.

I was accompanied to the préfecture by a curious Frenchman who was surely being paid by IBM to assist foreigners such as myself. Within the precincts of the police domain, he seemed to be on friendly personal terms with many members of the clerical staff. Consequently, we were never obliged to line up in queues, or even wait to be received by prefectural personnel. I was amused by a trivial gimmick that my guide exploited constantly. In his coat pockets, he seemed to have an ample supply of American filter cigarettes. Whenever he ran into somebody he knew, his initial gesture consisted of offering him/her a cigarette, which was inevitably received with a smile, and immediately lit up. (Office employees all smoked furiously at that time.) Clearly, this gift of a cigarette was some kind of symbolic trick (a code?) intended to indicate that he had a job to do (organize my request for a work permit), and needed help from his friends.

I would not actually receive the desired document for another three months. During that time, IBM arranged a contact for me in London (since only a French consulate in a foreign land could actually instigate the issue of a work permit to a non-French individual), and it was planned that, as soon as this London contact received a consular request demanding my presence for an interview, I was to drop everything I was doing and jump onto an Air France Caravelle bound for London, enabling me to turn up at the consulate as if I had just taken the London Underground to get there. That trick—which necessitated no less than three return trips to London—enabled me to carry on working for IBM in Paris in spite of the fact that I did not yet possess a work permit. Obviously, everybody—both at the Paris prefecture and at the consulate in London—knew that I was playing a silly game, but we were obliged to behave like that in order to obtain the precious document in a manner that was superficially legal… which was finally issued to me on 15 May 1962.

Over the years, since then, I've often thought back to those first three months at IBM in Paris (where I would remain for another four months), and I've always wondered how a US company in Paris might have got around to employing a French fellow such as my guide, whose job consisted of leading me through the curious procedures that would enable me to become a regular employee in France. Well, it was only last Thursday, in the middle of the TV program about Papon, that I finally received a plausible but totally unexpected (and not particularly nice) explanation. At some time after being named Préfet de Police in March 1958, Papon called upon IBM France to develop a modern punched-card system (not yet using a computer, if I understand correctly) to handle the "management" of the tens of thousands of potential FLN activists residing in metropolitan France. In other words, for Charles de Gaulle and the French police hierarchy, IBM may have been considered as more than just an ordinary American business corporation. And there may have been vague reasons of one kind or another for treating foreign IBM personnel as VIP workers.

We must not, however, exaggerate. If the French authorities had really wanted to make it easy for me to work legally in France, they would have simply handed me a work permit, instead of expecting me to wander around in their red-tape world (of the Paris prefecture and the London consulate) for three months before issuing me a lousy temporary work permit. In any case, it's almost certain that many French visionaries (including de Gaulle) sensed that the intriguing computer phenomenon, represented ideally by IBM, would no doubt play a role in the industrial, scientific and economic future of France.

POST SCRIPTUM: It goes without saying that the work for which I was employed by IBM Europe (programming the IBM 1401 computer), from 12 February 1962 up until 28 September 1962, had nothing whatsoever to do with the above-mentioned punched-card project carried out by IBM France with a view to controlling the Algerian population residing in France at that time. IBM was an emanation—as is well known—of the Hollerith punched-card company, whose most celebrated primordial exploit in data processing (as this activity came to be called) entailed the use of punched cards to process the results of the US census of 1890. So, there was nothing particularly exceptional in Papon's use of this same punched-card support, some 70 years later, to store data concerning people in France. As for Maurice Papon, he was finally condemned and jailed for his role in the deportation of Jews from Bordeaux during the Nazi Occupation, and he was also stigmatized (but never actually pursued in a law court) for the murky aspects of his treatment of Algerians. But it would be an absurd deduction to imagine that there might have been anything intrinsically evil, a priori, in the above-mentioned IBM punched-card project. On the other hand, all this precise and well-organized police data concerning FLN suspects, placed conveniently at the fingertips of Papon, would have certainly made it easier for him to perpetrate evil deeds.

Pots and pans

It would be dishonest of me not to admit that, towards the end of winter at Gamone, a certain number of innocent pots and pans tend to pass the final weeks in a state of grubby purgatory, like neglected orphans, awaiting the return of sunny conditions, when the master of the household might at last deign to clean them up and store them away.

For reasons that might have something to do with my childhood out in Australia, I'm particularly fond of being able to leave stuff out in the sun to dry : freshly-washed clothes, above all, and pots and pans. I also get a kick out of sun-drying edible products such as bay leaves and green walnuts (after they've been soaked in brine, with pickling in view).

On the other hand, I've always known that it's not a good idea to envisage leaving myself out in the strong sun for hours on end. I neither bake golden brown nor even dry out. I simply get sunburned. My dear mother would have been enchanted if her son could have been transformed by the rays of the sun into the lovely look of a bronzed Aussie surfer. On one sad occasion, when I was a child, my mother's encouragements at this level led to my ending up in hospital with third-degree burns. She herself belonged to a Down Under generation who apparently admired people with dark brown leathery skins, inevitably crisscrossed by ridges and wrinkles. Maybe my own lifelong fascination for fair girls with a light-olive facial complexion and soft milky skin might be a reaction against my mother's esthetic tastes. In any case, I'm convinced that my personal dermato-genetic inheritance is strictly Scandinavian, probably brought down to Normandy by a fierce red-faced Viking warrior adorned in a broad-rimmed hat, with yucky reindeer fat smeared across his tender nose.

Voltaire never said anything like this

Voltaire [1694-1778] said many marvelous things. But, contrary to what many English-speakers imagine, Voltaire never, in any circumstances, wrote or pronounced words of the following kind:

I wholly disapprove of what you say,
and will defend to the death your right to say it.

This sentence was imagined by the English scholar S G Tallentyre (whose real name was Evelyn Beatrice Hall) in her book entitled The Friends of Voltaire (1906), and later in another book, Voltaire in His Letters (1919). She was merely paraphrasing the attitude of Voltaire in the context of a certain affair, but her publisher erroneously placed the sentence in inverted commas, giving readers the mistaken impression that they are Voltaire's actual words.

I hope that my readers might be able to use this information, one of these days, to win some kind of trivia quiz, or to impress people at a dinner evening. [That last sentence is mine, not Voltaire's.]

Three vague projects

Contrary to what you might imagine, after glancing through my recent blog posts, I've been totally preoccupied, over the last fortnight or so, by no less than three separate projects that I would designate as deep, where this adjective means that they are puzzling challenges that concern me profoundly.

Feudal land registers

Last Monday evening, I was the guest speaker at the monthly meeting of the Royans historical association, for a rapid presentation of my research concerning the six cadastral parchments created here in the Royans during the period 1351-1356. I'm still trying to stir up enthusiasm for these precious documents, in the hope that I might be able to obtain finance enabling us to translate and publish them. On Monday afternoon, I printed out the contents (nine A4 sheets) of a single "page" (the correct term is folio) of one of the registers, and glued them roughly onto a cardboard backing, 60 cm wide and 75 cm tall.

This gives you a rough idea of what the parchments look like. The six registers—for the villages of Pont-en-Royans, Choranche, Châtelus, Rencurel, Echevis and St-Laurent-en-Royans—occupy a total of 59 folios of this size. For the moment, the scanned registers are presented in my French-language website [access], which incorporates password protection. Well, I'm starting to wonder whether it might be a good idea to create an English-language version of my website, in the hope of maybe attracting specialists in medieval Latin in places such as Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard, etc. The thing that bothers me concerning these ancient parchments is that their likely contents (I say "likely", because nobody really knows yet exactly what information they contain) are no doubt quite boring, unless you happen to be standing on the actual lands with which they are associated. In other words, if a doctoral scholar were to work on such a register, he or she would normally obtain fulfillment by comparing constantly the text with the actual site. In any case, I'm convinced that it would be extraordinary to be able to read a description of my Gamone property that was penned in the middle of the 14th century.

Collaboration with Pierre Schaeffer

I was contacted recently by a music specialist at ABC radio [Australian Broadcasting Corporation] who would like to interview me on the subject of my collaboration in 1970-1972 with Pierre Schaeffer [1910-1995], inventor of musique concrète (music composed with real-world sounds, including noises).

The problem, in this domain, is that my personal evaluation of the achievements of Schaeffer may not necessarily coincide with those of a musicologist. My experiences at the research service of the ORTF [French Broadcasting System] were a highly significant chapter of my existence in Paris, but it's a subject that I prefer to handle in detail in my autobiographical writing, rather than in an Antipodean radio interview.

Software development

Concerning my intention of developing a Macintosh tool to access the archives of my Antipodes blog, I've truly been running around in circles for the last few weeks, changing constantly from one approach to another. First, I was thinking purely in terms of a Mac application, but I soon realized any such tool must incorporate the blogger's password. So, I would be able to create this tool for the Antipodes blog, and then give copies of the tool to other people. But I would not be able to envisage a tool that would work for other blogs, for which I don't know the passwords. Then I got around to thinking that a better approach would be to build a website, rather than a Mac app, so that any blogger could use it merely by entering his/her own password. More recently still, I've been looking into the idea of using the PHP language to develop a tool that can analyze the so-called Atom feed, which any blogger can download instantly by clicking a button. Today, though, I've got back to my starting point, in considering that a Mac tool is maybe the best approach. The only thing that's certain is the fact that, whichever approach I finally adopt, it's a much more complex affair than what I had initially imagined. We tend to think that a blog is surely just a simple set of text files with an assortment of images and videos. In fact, the structure of a vast system such as Google's Blogger platform is diabolically complicated.

So, that's a summary of questions that have been running through my mind over the last fortnight or so. The common denominator of these three affairs is that each one seems to be complicated, indeed confusing, in its own way.

Maybe I would be better off sitting out in the sun and admiring the clouds, or watching my fig tree grow.

Oh what a beautiful morning!

The air is warm. From her sunny doorstep, Sophia contemplates the beauty of the Cosmos.

She's probably saying to herself: "Why does the Master never stop taking photos?" That's a good question. One would have thought that we've had time enough to record all the images that need to be recorded. Besides, why do people carry on talking to one another over the phone? And sending e-mails? And writing blogs? Haven't they got around to saying everything that needs to be said? Shouldn't the camera and the telephone soon fade into extinction, along with the computer?

Yes, all is well this morning at Gamone. The world is beautiful. And yet, when I observe that world through the Internet, I can't help feeling that it's Vegemite turtle crap all the way down. It takes a lot of imagination to envisage the global landscape in a positive sense, but Gamone provides me constantly with the necessary force. I'm like a monk who wakes up in his lonely cell, somewhat disillusioned, who needs to be impregnated by the Spirit in order to start his day of prayer.

Dog news

Sophia, more beautiful than ever in her slim female elegance, appears to be coming along fine. OK, she's under medication, but it seems to be working positively.

As for Fitzroy, we must understand that this is his very first spring upon the green grass of the planet Earth, with its delicious aromas. So, he's surely favorably biased. And I share his enthusiasm.

This afternoon, we strolled up together, taking our time (as usual), along the slopes of Gamone. At the top of our path, as we were about to turn towards the neighborhood of Les Nugues, we were suddenly welcomed by the soft tones of cattle bells on the opposite slopes, in the vicinity of the farm of the Bourne family: our mayor Bernard and his athletic son Frédéric, who is rapidly becoming our admirable tribal chief of Choranche. It was a moment of magic.

People write blogs about the hundred or so most important things they should do before dying. And why not? Our time is limited, but our imagination is boundless. Let's not forget the simple idea of setting out with a couple of dogs and strolling lazily up the slopes to a magic spot where the lovely dull sounds of remote cow bells ring out across an ancient valley. That's where I live, with my darling dogs.

Tea for two expats

Over the last few days, my compatriot Badger, blogging from his visibly upper-class residence in the heart of Vienna, has produced memorable celebrations of distinguished Australian food products such as Bushells tea, Sao biscuits, the inevitable Vegemite, Cherry Ripe chocolate bars and the industrial biscuit product designated as the Iced Vo Vo. His first article, My tea would kill a brown dog [display], attracted my attention for the simple reason that the expression "Bushells tea" had apparently disappeared from my memory for half a century, up until Badger revived it. On the other hand, another famous Australian brand had never escaped from my memory, maybe because it bore my childhood name.

My nostalgic recollection of Australian tea concerns a bush beverage prepared by my father, brewed over a eucalyptus fire in a so-called billy can or a quart pot (which could be attached to a horse saddle).

Here at Gamone, I've grown accustomed to fine jasmine-flavored Chinese tea. After much searching, I've discovered an excellent organic tea imported by the Fair trade people, which I consider equal to the highly-priced products available in specialized big-city teashops.

Back at Waterview, my dear mother used to make fun of a refined neighbor who dared to say: "Tea tastes so much better in a fine cup." Sadly, Mum understood nothing. You don't have to be a Japanese potter to know that our Waterview neighbor was spot on.

Badger then attacked with an amazing ode to the Sao biscuit [display]. To my mind, his lyric poetry could well replace Dorothea Mackellar's My Country as an authentic but fuzzy Down Under hymn.


Long ago, out in Bangkok visiting my aunt and uncle (residing there on a professional mission), I remember being most amused by a few words of expat wisdom concerning the scruffy dogs you see everywhere in the Thai capital: "When you suddenly feel like approaching a stray dog in Thailand, patting it fondly and saying 'Nice little dog', then it's time to get the hell back to your home country."

I ran into that nice little dog on the beach at Hua-Hin, where my children and I had been staying for a few days. In any case, we were booked to fly out and return to France a few days later.

With that dog-based precept in mind, I thought it well to warn Badger. When a retired Aussie banker—residing with his globe-trotting trophy wife in the fabulous Austrian capital—starts indulging in poetry about Sao biscuits and Bushells tea, then it's surely time for an Exodus.

AFTERTHOUGHT: In the wake of his revelations concerning our celebrated cuppa and tasteless biscuits, I'm awaiting Badger's judgment concerning our famous Aussie remedial dictum, guaranteed to heal almost all ills: "A cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down." In the Aussie ice-cream domain, when I was a kid, there were only two contenders: Peters and McNivens. I disliked the first, preferring the second. God only knows how I became addicted to one rather than the other. Badger might tell us where he stands on the ancient debate between the equally obnoxious powders of Bex and Vincents. Does he know, for example, that the term "addictive" was finally applied to these celebrated Aussie shit products? Today, shouldn't we—unlike Badger—merely stop perpetrating all this ridiculous nationalistic Vegemite and Bushells rubbish? It fails to honor the sacred memory of the land that my ancestors—including, above all (for me), my father—helped to build. But addicts, alas, will be incapable of reacting to my wise suggestion.

Fine food for donkeys

At Gamone (and in most other places in France, I imagine), we're right in the middle of the dandelion season. That's to say, the slopes—including my lawn—are covered in yellow flowers, and they're about to be metamorphosed into spherical seed heads, ready to be blown into every available square centimeter of the neighborhood.

As usual, I've dragged out my electric lawnmower and made a valiant effort to remove the flowers on my lawn. But I can hear the vast hordes of dandelions on the outskirts of my lawn laughing at me cynically, since they'll be taking off shortly, in kamikaze squadrons, to make amends for their fallen brethren.

The green press often warns us that cattle fart noxious methane into the atmosphere, and that humanity would be much better off if we all resorted to eating kangaroo meat, since these Down Under beasts apparently fart more sweetly.

I don't know what my compatriots—not to mention the kangaroos themselves—might think of that great idea. It's a fact that the kangaroo appears on our national coat of arms, which—in the words of a militant vegetarian and nationalistic Aussie—must not be considered as a menu! Meanwhile, when I observe the huge annual stock of dandelions here at Gamone, I say to myself that it's a pity we can't all get around to eating rabbit meat, since everybody knows that they thrive on dandelions. Here's a photo (found on the web) of a champion Flemish Giant specimen, raised in Germany, capable of producing 8 to 10 kg of meat.

Admittedly, there might be an organizational problem in making sure that the herd of meat-producing rabbits settles down in exactly the places where you have a surplus of dandelions. And you would need to slaughter them all as soon as your dandelions run out… by which time the rabbits would have switched to eating the grass of your lawn. So, I'm not sure that my idea's well thought-out. Meanwhile, I've found that mowed dandelions and grass are fine food for donkeys, particularly when it's seasoned by a sprinkling of oats.

Neither Moshé nor Fanette needs such a supplement to their diet, of course, since they're both as plump as baby mammoths.

Maybe I prepared this fodder for the donkeys to symbolize my destruction of the dandelions… which was indeed a purely symbolic destruction.

Rubbish for all tastes, or lack of taste

If you want to give your front lawn a William & Kate look, nothing could be better than these royal gnomes.

Unfortunately, they're likely to get stolen. If there's a bright teenager in your family, he/she should normally be able to call upon knowledgeable friends capable of rigging out these garden gnomes with a detrimental device controlled by a nice little mobile app, GnastyGnome, with a spectacular IgniteGnome button. You've surely heard of this fine demonstration of the way in which modern technology has put an explosive end to the terrible era of garden gnome kidnapping.

For your small kids, a beautiful work of infantile sculpture will provide them with a global picture of the principal actors in the forthcoming Great Events, including the Royal Dog and the Royal Horse.

I'm thinking of ordering one of these sets through the Internet for my dog Fitzroy, who adores colorful objects. What a pity that nobody seems to be offering an edible version in marzipan for adult royalists.

If you're seeking a royal gift for teenage offspring, to put them in a monarchy mood, let me suggest this elegant box of bedroom gear.

Finally, we must not forget rare and maybe precious friends who are totally uninterested in the Windsor wedding, and don't give a fuck about details. For them, an ideal marriage-celebration offering might be this marvelous mug, from a prestigious manufacturer located in one of the former Far-Eastern colonies of the British Empire, which suggests visually that Kate Middleton will actually be getting wedded to William's red-headed kid brother Andrew.

If you're like me, the greatest gift of all—to be shared between yourself and others—remains the freedom to turn off your TV on the morning of the Great Day, thereby asserting your status as a free-thinking non-robotic citizen of the planet Earth.

Spoil sport

In this delightful philosophical cartoon by the Australian comedian Tim Minchin, the heroine is an unknown female compatriot named Storm who has been invited along to a simple dinner evening among a few friends in a north London flat.



For the irritated narrator, Storm's loudspoken but antiquated hippy ideas are like shit thrown into a fan. Personally, I'm sure I've run into women like Storm, but I can't seem to remember when and where.

Swiveling

I've just purchased a fabulous new TopStar swivel chair, made in Germany, for my computer desk. It's a genuine Porsche. I'll have to get used to wearing a crash helmet when I'm blogging.

[Click the image to download the TopStar video on office chairs.]

In a recent e-mail to my Australian expatriate friend Badger in Austria [blog], I informed him that the presence of this new chair in front of the sturdy walnut-and-steel-framed home-designed desk on which my Macintosh resides is likely to bring about spectacular increases in my personal creativity. I told him, too, that my creativity will be enhanced still further by my acquisition of powerful new computer-screen reading glasses of the celebrated Essilor brand, set into my lovely old gold rims.

Dog destiny

On a whim, at the local supermarket, I bought a dog toy: a brightly-colored ball manufactured in one of those hard-to-define former-Communist countries that might appear, on the surface, to be quite qualified for the production of dog balls. Serious Sophia (seen here in a tense posture, because she was barking at an unidentified aroma that had floated up to her from the creek) has never been fond of toys.

But I was right in supposing that Fitzroy would appreciate this colorful soft ball.

His appreciation didn't last for long, though, because of the blatant manufacturing weaknesses (at least in the dog ball domain) of emerging former-Communist nations. Within five minutes, Fitzroy's teeth had punctured the object, and he had started to remove bits of the fluffy colored coating. Maybe I should go out and snatch the remnants from him, otherwise he'll surely devour them before the day is done. [Since writing that last sentence, I've taken the rubbish away from Fitzroy and packaged it up in its pristine wrappings, to be returned to the supermarket, accompanied by an angry letter.]

At a more serious level, I'm perfectly aware that it's going to be terribly heart-breaking for me to to accept the ineluctable decline of my dear dog Sophia. In general, I avoid making a big thing of this issue. In the purely human arena, I've just observed—from afar—the deaths of certain dear individuals, and I'm aware that it would be wrong of me, and unkind to others, to mix together—even within the narrow and inconsequential scope of my blog—the fate of humans with that of other animals. But circumstances have made me become ill-at-ease with that logic, after having lived here at Gamone for years in the unique presence of non-human friends. In fact, I wonder at times if my self-imposed hermitic existence—well outside the realm of everyday friends, and totally removed from the least presence (except through the Internet) of individuals on the same wavelength as me—might be making me, little by little, insensitive to the very idea of human companionship.

Today, Sophia looks great, particularly since I've forced her (through a restricted diet) to lose weight. But this splendid appearance cannot hide what is going on inevitably inside her body. The problem is that we can't really know the exact nature of what is taking place, except through disturbing signs such as her noisy breathing and, these days, a running nostril. The local veterinarian (who's a friend in whom I have the utmost confidence) has told me bluntly that there would be no point in trying to analyze the situation more deeply, since X-rays (necessitating general anesthesia) might not reveal anything of a significant nature. Even if we knew exactly the cause of Sophia's problems (which became apparent last September, at about the same time that we acquired Fitzroy), it would be out of the question to imagine any kind of surgery. For the moment, I'm relieved to learn (from the vet) that Sophia's health problems are not related to a dental infection. So, she's probably not in great pain, even though she might be discomforted from the presence of something, in her upper nasal region, that might be designated (in spite of our total lack of knowledge on its nature) as a tumor. For the moment, in spite of the recent flow of jelly-like mucus from one of her nostrils, there are no indications whatsoever that it might be a malignant tumor. That's to say, it could well be junk tissue that is simply building up and occupying space in her head. In any case, she is now under a shock treatment of antibiotics and cortisone. That will enable me to judge her reactions. But I'm perfectly aware that this treatment must be designated, in all lucidity, by an ugly adjective (which appeared, a week or so ago, in the context of my dear departed neighbor Françoise): palliative.

Meanwhile, as I said a moment ago, Sophia's inevitable decline is something that will be terribly hard to accept. She has become, for me, the spirit of Gamone, and a kind of wise canine alter-ego. Besides, in all of English linguistics, there are few greater marvels (with due respects to William Shakespeare) than the case of those three magic letters DOG which, when spelled backwards, give GOD.

Churchy physicist hits the jackpot

I often use the term "churchiness" (giving rise to the adjective "churchy") to designate a quaint tradition that consists of treasuring various aspects of the established church of a purely cultural non-theological kind. Today, I'm writing about a spectacular case of Anglican churchiness in Britain, but this phenomenon—which might be described as appreciating the religious icing more than the cake itself—can be found in all faith contexts, even in Judaism (where its adepts often describe themselves as "secular Jews").

In my article of 22 May 2008 entitled Coincidences that appear to be amazing [display], I spoke of one of the nicest little science books I've ever come upon: Just Six Numbers by Martin Rees. In that article, I resorted to humorous irony in a feeble attempt to demonstrate that we often tend to get our thoughts backwards, as it were. It would be ridiculous to assert that chance has caused celebrated rivers to flow precisely through the middle of many great cities. It's the other way round. If the Seine flows through the center of Paris, it's because the founders of the future city decided to settle on the banks of that river, at the propitious geographical site that would later be known as Paris. If a great temple existed at Ephesus, once upon a time, it wasn't the goddess herself who erected it at that particular spot, so that her followers would gather there to worship her; Ephesus was a place where many people just happened to be devout followers of Artemis, and it was normal that they should build a great temple that would soon attract hordes of worshipers of the goddess. Likewise, as Rees says, we should not seek fuzzy metaphysical explanations concerning the precise values of six physical constants that have shaped our universe. While certain observers find it nice to conclude that God alone could have dictated those six values in order to enable us mortals to come into existence and to worship Him (that capital "H" is a remnant of my personal churchiness), the obvious objective explanation—designated as the anthropic principle—is that, in the case of all other theoretical values of those six famous numbers, we humans simply wouldn't be here today, on the planet Earth, to talk of shoes and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.

Telling tale: The celebrated scientist Martin Rees (Astronomer Royal and former President of the Royal Society) was enamored of traditional British values to the point of getting a kick out of being known officially as Baron Rees of Ludlow. And this self-proclaimed atheist has taken churchiness to its extreme limits by declaring that the Church of England is a "force for good", and that we should preserve the choral traditions and architectural legacy of Anglicanism. That's crazy thinking, but brilliantly British! I would not hesitate in labeling Rees as a charming intellectual eccentric… but I prefer by far the healthy language of an authentic (non-eccentric) British intellectual such as Richard Dawkins, whose profound culture consists of dispensing with all convenient subterfuges such as churchy nostalgia. OK, we can maybe allude to churchiness, for literary reasons (as Dawkins does, when he refers fleetingly to All things bright and beautiful), but we shouldn't actually take it seriously, as something that deserves to be preserved, on a par with the findings of science. Let me say, to clarify my personal feelings, that churchiness is certainly the stuff that should be exhibited in cultural museums (which may, or may not, exist today as such), but its intellectual remnants should never be mistaken for good clear thinking.

Today, we are all alarmed to discover that the good lord (Rees, not the other fellow) has apparently sold his soul to the US spiritual force of the Dollar Deity by accepting the notorious Templeton Prize: over a million and a half lovely little tax-free greenbacks. Churchies of the world, let us arise and praise the Lord! Meanwhile, let me give my guide Dawkins the final lighthearted word: "This will look great on Templeton's CV. Not so good on Martin's."

Looking for laicity

I don't know where exactly in France this splendid doorway exists:

The doors might not appear to be open… but maybe it's winter, and visitors merely have to push on a panel marked Entrée to enter, as in the impressive doorways of countless French churches.

Let's talk about the concept of laïcité, subject of the day examined by collaborators of the political party of Nicolas Sarkozy. Let me ask a simple question: If you happened to bump into a laic in the street, would you recognize him/her as a layperson? That, in a nutshell, is the metaphysical problem that besets Sarko's party.

As somebody pointed out recently, looking for laics is much like trying to draw up a list of individuals whose specialty is that they don't collect stamps. Can people be classified according to what they don't do, or don't believe? Simple question: How do we identify ourselves, we global non-accepters of bullshit of all kinds? Maybe we need a recognizable label... but certainly not a party or a club.

Meanwhile, Sarkozy's great assembly on laïcité fizzled out thankfully into a stupendous and forgettable non-event. Fortunately, at the last moment, Sarko was saved (as always) by a happy coincidence.

At the sacred Panthéon in the heart of the Latin Quarter (just across the road from the Lycée Henri IV, where I worked for three years as an English assistant), the president celebrated the introduction of a memorial for the great African poet and politician Aimé Césaire [1913-2008].

Nominated for dumbest-article-of-the-year awards

I know it's far too early to start suggesting nominations for the prestigious awards highlighting the dumbest press articles published in 2011, but I wanted to get in early with this British gem.

[Click the banner to read the unsigned article.]

The gist of the article is that the happiest families are those that comprise exactly two female offspring. Tough luck for Christine and me. We're divorced since 22 November 1977 (an easy-to-remember date, 221177, which I use as the locking code of an elegant leather attaché case that I purchased in Bangkok many years ago), but I'm now frustrated by the idea that a last-minute sex-change (?) applied to our François might have guaranteed us all perpetual happiness.

The funniest aspect of the article is their ironic choice of a photo: Kate Middleton's future brother-in-law Andrew, his ex-wife Fergy and their two daughters Beatrice and Eugenie.

What a fucking beautiful portrait of eternal family bliss!

We're at war for a while

The "we" is France, and that includes me. I'm proud of the performance of our soldiers, both in Libya and in the Ivory Coast, not to mention Afghanistan. The warfare in which French forces are currently engaged is perfectly real, but I hope it won't last for long.

I'm in no way a supporter of the president Nicolas Sarkozy, for countless negative reasons, and I hope that he'll be defeated by the Socialists in next year's presidential elections. But I'm prepared to acknowledge that Sarko has guided our nation rightly in the two operational theaters I've just mentioned: Libya and the Ivory Coast.

He's a bright and dynamic guy, with the necessary intelligence and know-how to lead France correctly in predicaments of the above-mentioned kind. But the nation needs another more-inspired individual to lead us to the planetary status that modern France merits. And my little finger tells me that the individual in question is waiting patiently in the wings… somewhere in the vicinity of Washington.

Blog views with a difference

The Blogger guys—like their Google guides (one big family, if I understand correctly)—are masters in the art of looking at things, up-closely, differently.

They've provided us—as I said recently [display]—with a choice of five marvelous "windows" for meeting up with a blog such as mine. You may have noticed that I've put a series of five buttons in the right-hand sidebar, enabling you to inspect the archives of the Antipodes blog through these various views.

What effect will this unexpected approach have upon my intentions of developing some kind of tool making it easy to find stuff in my blog archives? Well, we can think of it as an added incentive. The Google/Blogger folk realize that blog readers would like to have nice access interfaces into the blog world. Their approach is primarily visual. My future approach would be concept-based in a textual sense. But it's still too early to say what exactly I hope to produce. In any case, it's perfectly possible that the smart Google/Blogger guys will develop and announce "my" perfect tool just a little bit before me. This, methinks, is highly likely. Should I complain about such a state of affairs? Of course not. I love those guys.

Waiting for Sarko

"Nothing to be done."
- Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot.

The French president Nicolas Sarkozy is backed up by a political party named UMP: Union pour un mouvement populaire. At the present moment, there is indeed movement in this right-wing political union, which might be termed popular in the etymological sense: "from the people". But it's electoral movement in a downwards direction.

Next week, this party will be conducting a momentous debate on a subject that is so absurdly esoteric (like the much-disputed Byzantine question of the sex of angels) that I'm not even sure how to say it in English. In French, the theme to be debated this week is laïcité, which has the same linguistic roots as our English term "layperson", designating an individual who's not a member of the clergy. So, laïcité might be translated as "religious neutrality". In other words, the spirit of the laïcité concept, in the English-speaking world no less than in France, is that citizens should be allowed to believe whatever they feel like believing in the domains of religion, faith, belief or… atheism. In other words, it's a theme that has been integrated for ages into our various constitutions.

So, why the fucking hell is Sarko's political party organizing a ridiculous debate on this issue? There is no obvious answer to that question… apart from the fact that Sarko's disciples are all in a state of frenzy, because recent regional elections, along with voting-intention polls, indicate that these UMP guys are moving rapidly, in the wake of their tribal chief, towards a hole in the ground labeled EXIT.

I predict that France will wake up in a perplexed state, one of these mornings, and ask: What on earth made us choose that crazy guy, once upon a time, as president of our République? And, through that obvious autocritique, wise France will have become wiser still. I'm an optimist!