5.41am and you find yourself at an airport, thankful for the wifi, one step closer to what internet will inevitably be: ubiquitously free. 5.41 has a long story to tell. On how the distance from your house to the metro station in town is not 45 minutes of boozed up euphoric walking home, but rather can be a 21 minute walking race on the soundtrack of Daft Punk Alive. Still, that left you another 15 minutes to find the Red Nest Hostel you've been walking by so often, and ask if they would be so kind to print out your boarding pass. You tell them you couldn't find a printer, because really, do you wanna start explaining to the sort-of-cooperative desk clerk that just 4 hours before, you tried to take out 20 euro's from the ATM and it said NO. Not in those words of course. More of a 'Go fuck yourself' kind of way, but then more cryptically polite. That, and you rushed back home to check what you already know through your online backing service. That, and transferring a random total of 5.43eurocents from your savings account (if you can call that) to your current account, reaching just about 21.43 euro's on what you hope will later be functioning ATM machine at the airport. So of course, I don't tell the clerk all that. He says 'help yourself' and I sit down behind the pc and sure, the cool internet-time-pressured-email transfer-external-hard-drive-on-line-booking-boarding-pass situation hasn't escaped your mind while you mac away bit and bytes for a noble cause. Press print, run, welcome on board. Talking to my mate Youri up until 4am was probably not a genius idea either. Pack, run, repeat. Looking back, it wouldn't had been a bad idea to take a bigger sip of my apple juice. Not forgetting my keys on my desk would also make things nicer. Check bag, curse, repeat. Exactly one hour later, you get on board of what you thought was the earliest metro at the closest station from home, but asking the two security guards will inform you that tramline 3 starts way earlier and way closer to where you just ran from. Thank, curse, repeat. Thank the security agents for not taking away your 75cl deodorant. Ask politely for the latest security measures, receive pamphlet while she nags about how the rules are the same still 1997. Shut up, turn around, repeat. 5.54 am, priority boarding will commence. 20 euro's should get me all the way to delft. Finding a dutch student whose discount priced trainticket applies to me as well would make things nicer. I wouldn't mind a bottle of apple juice. But I'll make it one way or another. Save, reboot, repeat.
Tal Benisty
martes, 15 de abril de 2008
jueves, 6 de marzo de 2008
The Trapeze Swinger
Here I sit on the grass with 12 minutes left of battery in the sun.
Behind an old church that is now a public library and I take in the joy of any semi-resident in a beautiful town; that of having discovered yet another gorgeous piece of it. There's a large spanish family some meters away, lunching or just enjoying the weather like I do, having taken a day off, their children at school maybe and a day off them too. As for me, I do what I always do when I get frustrated at something: I treat myself to something nice. And so, when this morning, after having commuted to the other side of town, and being directed back and forth to a museum that wasn't there, I decided that instead of going home and bitch about it, I'd treat myself to something nice. So I took one last metro to the Fnac, took out the lonely planet guides of Bolivia and Peru off the shelves, and sat down at the little café inside, where for the price of a coke, I sat down undistrubed for 2 hours, as I let my mind wander over river rafting options in the north and hamac swinging on any of Lake Titticaca's islands, and maybe, if time allows for it, a quick detour by Sucre's colonial architecture. Michael Franti singing in my ears, I shut myself off of Fnac's poor choice for Nickleback's latest album. Two hours later, I closed both guides, with bus prices and potential day trips scribbled on a tram ticket I still had from Antwerp in my wallet. The price of a single lonely planet, combined with my thirst to consume something, made me instead turn to the helpdesk to inquire about odering Michelin Maps of say... Bolivia? They couldn't, to my surprise, but directed me to Patagonia, a travel shop I'll surely visit again, for it was closing time. But never mind, because, having ventured in a small side street of a peculiar neighbourhood I had never seen before, I stumbled unto this patch of garden behind the old church turned library surrounded by little grown palm trees and medieval pillars. The smell of italian bakery turned my attention to a little pizzeria that sold me one for 3 euro's. I had it to go for the grass was awaiting. And the sun. And a pizza thin like crisp papyrus but soft like clouds, with fresh herbs and flour adhering to your fingertips, I took satisfaction in having discovered a little kiosk where the price per gram of candy still was under a euro and their drinks too. Where students sat down on sunny terraces and the joke of the day was told around. Dogs run free here and my belly is full. I'll take another minute or two of sun in before heading back to uni, where I agreed to meet with Tatiana from Argentina, and we'll continue our conversation about polyamorosity and long distance. But for just one minute more, I'll linger my look around as I imagine a picnic scenario with my girlfriend, coming here soon. I snap one more picture with my webcam and then I'll go.
Tal Benisty
Behind an old church that is now a public library and I take in the joy of any semi-resident in a beautiful town; that of having discovered yet another gorgeous piece of it. There's a large spanish family some meters away, lunching or just enjoying the weather like I do, having taken a day off, their children at school maybe and a day off them too. As for me, I do what I always do when I get frustrated at something: I treat myself to something nice. And so, when this morning, after having commuted to the other side of town, and being directed back and forth to a museum that wasn't there, I decided that instead of going home and bitch about it, I'd treat myself to something nice. So I took one last metro to the Fnac, took out the lonely planet guides of Bolivia and Peru off the shelves, and sat down at the little café inside, where for the price of a coke, I sat down undistrubed for 2 hours, as I let my mind wander over river rafting options in the north and hamac swinging on any of Lake Titticaca's islands, and maybe, if time allows for it, a quick detour by Sucre's colonial architecture. Michael Franti singing in my ears, I shut myself off of Fnac's poor choice for Nickleback's latest album. Two hours later, I closed both guides, with bus prices and potential day trips scribbled on a tram ticket I still had from Antwerp in my wallet. The price of a single lonely planet, combined with my thirst to consume something, made me instead turn to the helpdesk to inquire about odering Michelin Maps of say... Bolivia? They couldn't, to my surprise, but directed me to Patagonia, a travel shop I'll surely visit again, for it was closing time. But never mind, because, having ventured in a small side street of a peculiar neighbourhood I had never seen before, I stumbled unto this patch of garden behind the old church turned library surrounded by little grown palm trees and medieval pillars. The smell of italian bakery turned my attention to a little pizzeria that sold me one for 3 euro's. I had it to go for the grass was awaiting. And the sun. And a pizza thin like crisp papyrus but soft like clouds, with fresh herbs and flour adhering to your fingertips, I took satisfaction in having discovered a little kiosk where the price per gram of candy still was under a euro and their drinks too. Where students sat down on sunny terraces and the joke of the day was told around. Dogs run free here and my belly is full. I'll take another minute or two of sun in before heading back to uni, where I agreed to meet with Tatiana from Argentina, and we'll continue our conversation about polyamorosity and long distance. But for just one minute more, I'll linger my look around as I imagine a picnic scenario with my girlfriend, coming here soon. I snap one more picture with my webcam and then I'll go.
Tal Benisty
lunes, 18 de febrero de 2008
On Kurt Vonnegut
Lacking the time to bother writing about my life (though I promised myself I would do so soon) I instead felt compelled to share this little bit of text I stumbled upon on internet.
For I have always said that Kurt Vonnegut is fucking brilliant, but never managed to prove my point without chucking his books at someone's head. (I actually enjoy doing that and would never imagine any better way, but since we're in the virtual world here... and no virtual book will leave you with a big mark or bump on your head... let alone bleeding...).
So, I shall leave the rest of the space to Kurt Vonnegut's words.
Fucking brilliant...
Tal Benisty
For I have always said that Kurt Vonnegut is fucking brilliant, but never managed to prove my point without chucking his books at someone's head. (I actually enjoy doing that and would never imagine any better way, but since we're in the virtual world here... and no virtual book will leave you with a big mark or bump on your head... let alone bleeding...).
So, I shall leave the rest of the space to Kurt Vonnegut's words.
Fucking brilliant...
Eight rules for writing fiction:
1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
-- Vonnegut, Kurt Vonnegut, Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons 1999), 9-10.
Tal Benisty
miércoles, 23 de enero de 2008
You are here ->
You find yourself biking home late from the city centre's bohemian neighbourhood, where you stuffed yourself with tapas, then drank ridiculously cheap Cava with your close friends, new friends, just met friends and not really but friendly friends, and you suddenly realize you actually understand the lyrics of the spanish song you always liked. Coming home, you feel good. Everything is fine. You're on Erasmus.
Tal Benisty
Tal Benisty
lunes, 14 de enero de 2008
Catch 22.2
PROLOGUE
Quoted script from Fight Club
Edward Norton is at the intenational luggage claim area, it's night. There's no one except Norton and a security force man. The security guy is smirking, holding a receiver to his ear from an official phone on the wall.
Edward Norton
- Was... was it ticking?
Security man (to Edward Norton)
- Actually throwers don't worry about ticking 'cause modern bombs don't tick.
Edward Nortong
- Sorry? Throwers?
Security Man
- Baggage handlers. But when a suitcase vibrates, the throwers have to call the police
Edward Norton
- My suitcase was vibrating?
Security Man
- Nine time out of ten, it's an electric razor. But every once in a while...
(whispers)
... it's a dildo. It's company policy not to imply ownership in the event of a dildo. We use the indefinite article: "A dildo". Never " Your dildo".
Edward Norton
- But I don't own a...
Security man tells Edward to hold as he listens to the phone receiver.
CATCH 22.2
When you arrive here on Erasmus, or anywhere else, there are things you don't expect to really get in contact with. Like the firemen. Or herpes. Or in my case, the police. I mean let's face it, we're here on a big holiday. We expect food to be bought with coupons and entertainment to be provided by the same young and healthy animators who were teaching us the theme song just this afternoon at the beach. So no, I didn't expect to call the French embassy of Valencia to tell them I lost my passport. What I didn't tell them is I THINK I lost t. I haven't seen it since madrid and I can't find it in my tiny room. The advantage of a tiny room is it's like looking for your key in a one-pocket jeans. It doesn't take long to draw conclusions. You stick your hand in the one pocket, feel your thigh, nothing in between, and go 'Yep, it's lost'. I called the hostel too, and they didn't have it. So yep, I think it's lost. That's what I told the embassy. Also I told them I had a flight to catch back home next month. And that I didn't have any other papers. So if they could just start the procedure that'd be great. And get me some temporary papers in the meanwhile. Be helpful and efficient, for once. I'm sure no one would mind the change. I maybe didn't say the last things, but here's what they said; "You have to go to the police station and get a declaration of loss, then come back to us with that, and a birth certificate". I told them I'd get one faxed to me. I heard an administrative snarl on the other side of the receiver and then 'Hmm (more like Grrr), normally you need an original copy of your birth certificate, but ok'. I hung up, looked on internet for police stations. There's aren't too many in valencia. Somehow, there aren't any fucking one in my neighbourhood. Here's a mental excercice: picture the map of Valencia (any imaginary map will do), put a little flag for my house somewhere North-East. Now, if the council has decided that no house should be farther than 5km from the nearest police station, start spreading them all at least 5km or farther away from me. Good! Now here I am, monday morning, on my bike to the police station. In my mind, I'm expecting a 1-2-3 fix. Go in, say 'I've lost my passport', get a piece of paper shoved into my hands, friendly goodbye, and voila. Here's what really happened.
I get inside, and surprise, there's a fucking waiting line. I look around for the familiarly dreaded number-ticket-machine, but there is none. Instead, there's a guy with a coupon booklet to his right. I tell him
- Hello, I've lost my passport and I need to make a declaration about that
And he says
- Sure, can I see some ID?
- Euhm, well no, that's what I'm here for, cuz I lost it.
- Well I can't help you until you identify yourself
- Uhuh, well that's exactly my problem too. Now please, could I fill in the form?
- Now look, this is Spain, and in Spain, the police can't help you without knowing who you are, now can we?
- Listen, the embassy already told me they can't help me, so...
- Well we can't either...
(Fuck shit piss cunt ass grmbleefukcdshifbthc)
I step out, get on my bike and drive back to the French embassy, luckily not too far away from the police station. I swear, I think the two offices are close to each other because it's not the first time they play human ping pong with paperless people)
I get to the building and there are two old people waiting in front of the door. I say 'Aren't you guys gonna go inside?', and they tell me 'The guard won't let us go inside' I say 'what?' and they say 'Yeah, we have to wait for some people to get outside first before we can get it' (I'm sorry, is this the entrance to the ladies room or to my goddamn embassy?). I go 'Uhuh', and sit my ass down, take out my macbook (never enter the adminstrative labyrinth without one) and start watching an episode of How I met your mother, a tv serie whose last episode I luckily and randomly downloaded last night. As I watch my episode, the old man repetitively makes old people's mild guerilla attempts at getting in. Someone leaves the embassy talking on her mobile phone, and the old man peeks inside to see if they can enter yet. Somebody must be saying shouting something from behind the door, because as far as I can understand with my earphones on, the old couple is being told to back off. The old man tries to keep a half-bemused-hal-irritated smile on his face as he comes to terms with the cold fact he might not be be able to sneak in to his own embassy. Meanwhile, the lady with the mobile phone goes back inside. Another couple arrives and they ask who the last one is in the unofficial waiting line outside the mystery door, and the old couple points towards me, as I eat my banana. A bunch of people come out the door while the old couple's face lights up. They make a run for it to the door, but this time a woman guard appears at the entrance (again?) and tells them to back off. She says she only has room for one person. (I'm sorry, is this my goddamn embassy or a fucking luna parc attraction?). I raise my hand and say 'I'm alone' but the old man turns towards me and barks 'We were here first!' and I lift my shoulders, put my earphones back on and continue to watch my serie. It's not like I mind waiting that much, as long as my episode lasts. More people come out and we're finally allowed to enter the holy site.
The woman guard wants to go through my bag first. Tells me to remove any metallic objects before I pass through the gate. Now understand, the gate is INSIDE the office room. I mean, if you ever go to the Israeli Embassy, they'll strip you naked 300 meters from the entrance. They'll probe your cavities with a tiny camera and ask you what you ate for breakfast 4 days from now while measuring your pupil dilatations. Then, they'll ask you what you're here for, and just to be on the safe side, ask you to describe the texture of the last falafel balls you say you ate on your last visit to Israel. The French Embassy, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be too worried. Their worst case scenario is probably a burning Citroen 2CV down the street. They're survival kit for a gas attack is a suitcase with jasmin scented air fresheners. You get the point. I friendly participate in the guard's less than secure search through my bag. She compliments me on my participation, and I tell her I'm Israeli. We're used to these things (well not these, I mean these measures are a kindergarden knock-knock joke, but I mean safety searches in general). She finally lets me in, and I sit my ass down and figure this might take a while still, so I might as well watch the end of my episode. Then it's my turn and I go to the counter and say
- Hi, I've lost my passport and I need to make a new one.
- Alright, do you have a declaration of loss?
- No, look, the police station won't give me one without papers...
(Will they understand the obvious loophole?)
- Ahm, well we need that paper to start the procedure
(OK well I'm obviously dealing with administrative single-braincelled clerks)
- But they won't give me one, they won't even talk to me before I show some ID
Can't you guys fix me some papers that I can show them?
- I have to ask about this...
(Lady walks away to talk to other coworkers behind a corner, comes back and tells me)
- We can't help you without the declaration of loss. Which police station did you go to?
- The one across from here
- Well you have to go try another police station
- I'm sorry, what?!
- Maybe you'll find a nicer policeman there
- Wait, what?! Never mind...
Fuck shit piss dumb goose bighdkùjkdjkmdmjk
Out I go, on my bike, cross the bridge, park my bike, enter same policestation, same policeman. I decide to go for the alzheimer-strategy, maybe induce a collective amnesia on the whole thing and start fresh
- Hello, I need to make a declaration of a loss of passport
- Sure thing, do you have some ID?
(What are you, fucking amnesiac? I already told you I don't!!!)
- No... that's the reason I'm here
(Policeman raises his tone)
- Then we can NOT help you!
- But I went to my embassy and they said they can't help me before you do
- Where are you from?!
- I'm French!
- Well then you go to your French embassy and you have them help you out, it's their problem, not ours
- But I'm also European, and you are the local police, and I lost my papers, so YOU have to help me!
- Not before you identify yourself!
- I can't! that's why I'm here
(there's a line of politely scared people waiting behind me by now)
- Go to your embassy!
(The administrative equivalent of Go to your room!)
- I just come back from there, and I'm gonna keep going back and forth!
- Don't come back before you have some ID!
- I will come back! So SEE YOU LATER!
- No you don't!
-Later, I'll see you later!
- Goodbye!
- LATER!
Off I go :)
I think we're reaching a new level in our relationship, me and mr policeman.
On my bike, cross the bridge, back to embassy.
No line this time, I go inside, the guard is friendly and apologizes for having to look into my bag again. I say 'no problem, you'll probably see more of me today'.
She struggles with my bag's zippers again and decide it's easier if she just digs her hand in there. I smile as she allows me to grab my bag back.
Sit my ass down again, wait for my turn.
Go to desk, say
- Hello, I've lost my passport and I need to make a new one?'
- Did you get that declaration form?'
- No, listen, how about you call the French embassy in Amsterdam and have them send you my file, and you can identify me as being me and voila, we'll be of each other's back in no time?'
- You're matriculated there?
- Yeah, I lost my passport three years ago, same thing, so now I'm registered there, cuz I study in the netherlands.
- Ahm, just a moment
(more waiting, wondering if they'll manage to communicate with their dutch colleagues, and should I offer to do some translation work... A younger woman comes back and says
- I spoke to you this morning, didn't I?
- Yes! (big smile)
- You're still matriculated in Amsterdam
- Yes! (bigger smile)
- Look we can't help you
- Yes!
No excuse me what?!
- We can't ID you without the papers
- Ok, wait, I got some student cards with my picture on it
- Oh can we see them?
- Yeah yeah just a sec
(Rumble through my bag, get wallet out, shove cards through glass window)
- Hmmm, that won't do actually... Listen, you're gonna have to go round by the other police stations. Maybe wait for another shift at the same police station...
- Yeah I'm not very interested in going around Valencia's finest selection of stations
- Hmmm, wait, when you made that student card here in Valencia, didn't you have to present a photocopy of your passport?
- Ahmmmm, yeah, I think so!
- Good, well go get that copy!
- Yeah!
- And try another police station with it
- Oh...
(FUCK SHIT PISS DUMB GIBRLkjdKKLKSHkSl)
- Well I'll be back tomorrow morning then
(Shit piss goddamn mothekjkdjmfjs...)
Out I go, on my bike, to the university, get to my faculty, enter international office, ask for the copy of the copy of my passport (by now the picture on the passport could be anyone's) and out I go again. I figure I better get some food. And then, I'll bike only as far as the metro station, and hit the other police station that's a good 10 minutes metro ride away. I get out at the right stop, walk around, find the police station, there's a huge line of people waiting outside a door with a sign that says 'VISAS, Passeportes' and I think 'shit...' and decide to try the 'Denuncias' door, where people apparently go to denounce crimes. I say 'Hola, I've lost my passport can I fill in the form?' and the guy doesn't even speak a work, and just turns around, flips through some papers, and hands me a form. (I tried to hide my smile as heavenly light shone through the clouds upon me and angel were playing divine horns).
And that's the story of how I got to one tenth of the procedure of getting back my passport. Now all that's left to do is get my brother to scan my birth certificate, send it to me by e-mail, print it out on my housemate's printer, go to the embassy tomorrow, have my bag checked, convince them that a printed scanned birth certificate older than three months is a valid document, groom and shave myself, go back to the city, make 4 passport pictures (no smiling), go back to the embassy, have my bag checked again, hand in 4 pictures, assure them there is no simply way for me to get a better birth certificate document, pay 60 euro's in advance, guess my height at 1.64m, tell them my eyes are brown, ask how long it will take to be ready, insist that I need to catch a ryan air flight next month to go home for my mother's birthday, ask again how long it will take, ask if they'll call me when it's done, insist I can not come by at random times to check if my passport is there, ask again how long it will take, are there any student prices on passports? no? fine, shake hands, say goodbye, go home. Maybe pass by that first police station and give him a european middle finger. Run out, jump on bike, go home for real :)
Tal Benisty
Quoted script from Fight Club
Edward Norton is at the intenational luggage claim area, it's night. There's no one except Norton and a security force man. The security guy is smirking, holding a receiver to his ear from an official phone on the wall.
Edward Norton
- Was... was it ticking?
Security man (to Edward Norton)
- Actually throwers don't worry about ticking 'cause modern bombs don't tick.
Edward Nortong
- Sorry? Throwers?
Security Man
- Baggage handlers. But when a suitcase vibrates, the throwers have to call the police
Edward Norton
- My suitcase was vibrating?
Security Man
- Nine time out of ten, it's an electric razor. But every once in a while...
(whispers)
... it's a dildo. It's company policy not to imply ownership in the event of a dildo. We use the indefinite article: "A dildo". Never " Your dildo".
Edward Norton
- But I don't own a...
Security man tells Edward to hold as he listens to the phone receiver.
CATCH 22.2
When you arrive here on Erasmus, or anywhere else, there are things you don't expect to really get in contact with. Like the firemen. Or herpes. Or in my case, the police. I mean let's face it, we're here on a big holiday. We expect food to be bought with coupons and entertainment to be provided by the same young and healthy animators who were teaching us the theme song just this afternoon at the beach. So no, I didn't expect to call the French embassy of Valencia to tell them I lost my passport. What I didn't tell them is I THINK I lost t. I haven't seen it since madrid and I can't find it in my tiny room. The advantage of a tiny room is it's like looking for your key in a one-pocket jeans. It doesn't take long to draw conclusions. You stick your hand in the one pocket, feel your thigh, nothing in between, and go 'Yep, it's lost'. I called the hostel too, and they didn't have it. So yep, I think it's lost. That's what I told the embassy. Also I told them I had a flight to catch back home next month. And that I didn't have any other papers. So if they could just start the procedure that'd be great. And get me some temporary papers in the meanwhile. Be helpful and efficient, for once. I'm sure no one would mind the change. I maybe didn't say the last things, but here's what they said; "You have to go to the police station and get a declaration of loss, then come back to us with that, and a birth certificate". I told them I'd get one faxed to me. I heard an administrative snarl on the other side of the receiver and then 'Hmm (more like Grrr), normally you need an original copy of your birth certificate, but ok'. I hung up, looked on internet for police stations. There's aren't too many in valencia. Somehow, there aren't any fucking one in my neighbourhood. Here's a mental excercice: picture the map of Valencia (any imaginary map will do), put a little flag for my house somewhere North-East. Now, if the council has decided that no house should be farther than 5km from the nearest police station, start spreading them all at least 5km or farther away from me. Good! Now here I am, monday morning, on my bike to the police station. In my mind, I'm expecting a 1-2-3 fix. Go in, say 'I've lost my passport', get a piece of paper shoved into my hands, friendly goodbye, and voila. Here's what really happened.
I get inside, and surprise, there's a fucking waiting line. I look around for the familiarly dreaded number-ticket-machine, but there is none. Instead, there's a guy with a coupon booklet to his right. I tell him
- Hello, I've lost my passport and I need to make a declaration about that
And he says
- Sure, can I see some ID?
- Euhm, well no, that's what I'm here for, cuz I lost it.
- Well I can't help you until you identify yourself
- Uhuh, well that's exactly my problem too. Now please, could I fill in the form?
- Now look, this is Spain, and in Spain, the police can't help you without knowing who you are, now can we?
- Listen, the embassy already told me they can't help me, so...
- Well we can't either...
(Fuck shit piss cunt ass grmbleefukcdshifbthc)
I step out, get on my bike and drive back to the French embassy, luckily not too far away from the police station. I swear, I think the two offices are close to each other because it's not the first time they play human ping pong with paperless people)
I get to the building and there are two old people waiting in front of the door. I say 'Aren't you guys gonna go inside?', and they tell me 'The guard won't let us go inside' I say 'what?' and they say 'Yeah, we have to wait for some people to get outside first before we can get it' (I'm sorry, is this the entrance to the ladies room or to my goddamn embassy?). I go 'Uhuh', and sit my ass down, take out my macbook (never enter the adminstrative labyrinth without one) and start watching an episode of How I met your mother, a tv serie whose last episode I luckily and randomly downloaded last night. As I watch my episode, the old man repetitively makes old people's mild guerilla attempts at getting in. Someone leaves the embassy talking on her mobile phone, and the old man peeks inside to see if they can enter yet. Somebody must be saying shouting something from behind the door, because as far as I can understand with my earphones on, the old couple is being told to back off. The old man tries to keep a half-bemused-hal-irritated smile on his face as he comes to terms with the cold fact he might not be be able to sneak in to his own embassy. Meanwhile, the lady with the mobile phone goes back inside. Another couple arrives and they ask who the last one is in the unofficial waiting line outside the mystery door, and the old couple points towards me, as I eat my banana. A bunch of people come out the door while the old couple's face lights up. They make a run for it to the door, but this time a woman guard appears at the entrance (again?) and tells them to back off. She says she only has room for one person. (I'm sorry, is this my goddamn embassy or a fucking luna parc attraction?). I raise my hand and say 'I'm alone' but the old man turns towards me and barks 'We were here first!' and I lift my shoulders, put my earphones back on and continue to watch my serie. It's not like I mind waiting that much, as long as my episode lasts. More people come out and we're finally allowed to enter the holy site.
The woman guard wants to go through my bag first. Tells me to remove any metallic objects before I pass through the gate. Now understand, the gate is INSIDE the office room. I mean, if you ever go to the Israeli Embassy, they'll strip you naked 300 meters from the entrance. They'll probe your cavities with a tiny camera and ask you what you ate for breakfast 4 days from now while measuring your pupil dilatations. Then, they'll ask you what you're here for, and just to be on the safe side, ask you to describe the texture of the last falafel balls you say you ate on your last visit to Israel. The French Embassy, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be too worried. Their worst case scenario is probably a burning Citroen 2CV down the street. They're survival kit for a gas attack is a suitcase with jasmin scented air fresheners. You get the point. I friendly participate in the guard's less than secure search through my bag. She compliments me on my participation, and I tell her I'm Israeli. We're used to these things (well not these, I mean these measures are a kindergarden knock-knock joke, but I mean safety searches in general). She finally lets me in, and I sit my ass down and figure this might take a while still, so I might as well watch the end of my episode. Then it's my turn and I go to the counter and say
- Hi, I've lost my passport and I need to make a new one.
- Alright, do you have a declaration of loss?
- No, look, the police station won't give me one without papers...
(Will they understand the obvious loophole?)
- Ahm, well we need that paper to start the procedure
(OK well I'm obviously dealing with administrative single-braincelled clerks)
- But they won't give me one, they won't even talk to me before I show some ID
Can't you guys fix me some papers that I can show them?
- I have to ask about this...
(Lady walks away to talk to other coworkers behind a corner, comes back and tells me)
- We can't help you without the declaration of loss. Which police station did you go to?
- The one across from here
- Well you have to go try another police station
- I'm sorry, what?!
- Maybe you'll find a nicer policeman there
- Wait, what?! Never mind...
Fuck shit piss dumb goose bighdkùjkdjkmdmjk
Out I go, on my bike, cross the bridge, park my bike, enter same policestation, same policeman. I decide to go for the alzheimer-strategy, maybe induce a collective amnesia on the whole thing and start fresh
- Hello, I need to make a declaration of a loss of passport
- Sure thing, do you have some ID?
(What are you, fucking amnesiac? I already told you I don't!!!)
- No... that's the reason I'm here
(Policeman raises his tone)
- Then we can NOT help you!
- But I went to my embassy and they said they can't help me before you do
- Where are you from?!
- I'm French!
- Well then you go to your French embassy and you have them help you out, it's their problem, not ours
- But I'm also European, and you are the local police, and I lost my papers, so YOU have to help me!
- Not before you identify yourself!
- I can't! that's why I'm here
(there's a line of politely scared people waiting behind me by now)
- Go to your embassy!
(The administrative equivalent of Go to your room!)
- I just come back from there, and I'm gonna keep going back and forth!
- Don't come back before you have some ID!
- I will come back! So SEE YOU LATER!
- No you don't!
-Later, I'll see you later!
- Goodbye!
- LATER!
Off I go :)
I think we're reaching a new level in our relationship, me and mr policeman.
On my bike, cross the bridge, back to embassy.
No line this time, I go inside, the guard is friendly and apologizes for having to look into my bag again. I say 'no problem, you'll probably see more of me today'.
She struggles with my bag's zippers again and decide it's easier if she just digs her hand in there. I smile as she allows me to grab my bag back.
Sit my ass down again, wait for my turn.
Go to desk, say
- Hello, I've lost my passport and I need to make a new one?'
- Did you get that declaration form?'
- No, listen, how about you call the French embassy in Amsterdam and have them send you my file, and you can identify me as being me and voila, we'll be of each other's back in no time?'
- You're matriculated there?
- Yeah, I lost my passport three years ago, same thing, so now I'm registered there, cuz I study in the netherlands.
- Ahm, just a moment
(more waiting, wondering if they'll manage to communicate with their dutch colleagues, and should I offer to do some translation work... A younger woman comes back and says
- I spoke to you this morning, didn't I?
- Yes! (big smile)
- You're still matriculated in Amsterdam
- Yes! (bigger smile)
- Look we can't help you
- Yes!
No excuse me what?!
- We can't ID you without the papers
- Ok, wait, I got some student cards with my picture on it
- Oh can we see them?
- Yeah yeah just a sec
(Rumble through my bag, get wallet out, shove cards through glass window)
- Hmmm, that won't do actually... Listen, you're gonna have to go round by the other police stations. Maybe wait for another shift at the same police station...
- Yeah I'm not very interested in going around Valencia's finest selection of stations
- Hmmm, wait, when you made that student card here in Valencia, didn't you have to present a photocopy of your passport?
- Ahmmmm, yeah, I think so!
- Good, well go get that copy!
- Yeah!
- And try another police station with it
- Oh...
(FUCK SHIT PISS DUMB GIBRLkjdKKLKSHkSl)
- Well I'll be back tomorrow morning then
(Shit piss goddamn mothekjkdjmfjs...)
Out I go, on my bike, to the university, get to my faculty, enter international office, ask for the copy of the copy of my passport (by now the picture on the passport could be anyone's) and out I go again. I figure I better get some food. And then, I'll bike only as far as the metro station, and hit the other police station that's a good 10 minutes metro ride away. I get out at the right stop, walk around, find the police station, there's a huge line of people waiting outside a door with a sign that says 'VISAS, Passeportes' and I think 'shit...' and decide to try the 'Denuncias' door, where people apparently go to denounce crimes. I say 'Hola, I've lost my passport can I fill in the form?' and the guy doesn't even speak a work, and just turns around, flips through some papers, and hands me a form. (I tried to hide my smile as heavenly light shone through the clouds upon me and angel were playing divine horns).
And that's the story of how I got to one tenth of the procedure of getting back my passport. Now all that's left to do is get my brother to scan my birth certificate, send it to me by e-mail, print it out on my housemate's printer, go to the embassy tomorrow, have my bag checked, convince them that a printed scanned birth certificate older than three months is a valid document, groom and shave myself, go back to the city, make 4 passport pictures (no smiling), go back to the embassy, have my bag checked again, hand in 4 pictures, assure them there is no simply way for me to get a better birth certificate document, pay 60 euro's in advance, guess my height at 1.64m, tell them my eyes are brown, ask how long it will take to be ready, insist that I need to catch a ryan air flight next month to go home for my mother's birthday, ask again how long it will take, ask if they'll call me when it's done, insist I can not come by at random times to check if my passport is there, ask again how long it will take, are there any student prices on passports? no? fine, shake hands, say goodbye, go home. Maybe pass by that first police station and give him a european middle finger. Run out, jump on bike, go home for real :)
Tal Benisty
domingo, 30 de diciembre de 2007
As good as it gets
So here I am in Madrid and life couldn't be better.
First of all, Madrid rocks.
It doesn't have the glamour or the nose-up attitude of Paris or Barcelona,
but it has substance, you know? It's a city that just is. Vibrantly.
A metropol with no frills. No beach. No big architect name on each postcard.
But I love it here. It's a city to live in.
So here I am.
Madrid seems to be the place to be lately.
Where did it start...
My indian friend from Delft was gonna go to Madrid between the 23rd and the 29th.
I told her I'd come by when she's there. That was a long time ago.
And then, for new year's, my best friend from Belgium, Raphael was supposed to visit me in Valencia.
He couldn't find a flight back on the 1st, so we figured we'd meet up in Madrid.
I came here two days earlier, to meet up with my indian friend on her last days here,
right before Raph would pop by and the bohemian living would start.
Then, I get an e-mail, no a facebook message this week, from Arieh, my school buddy.
He says 'I need a break'. And he says 'Do you still live in Barcelona?'. And, 'Can I come by?'
And I said 'Living in Valencia man, but I'm heading to Madrid for new years'.
He said 'I'll meet you there, then I'll come down to Valencia with you'.
And I said 'Yeah!'.
So here I am in Madrid and life doesn't get as good as this.
My sleeping pattern is fucked ever since the semester ended two weeks ago.
Spent most of my time hanging around with Pascalle and her cousin and brother who were visiting her.
Slept later and later, woke up later and later. There's just only so much you can do in the morning.
Valencia around Christmas is cool. And the thing about having family visiting is that it gives you a reason to stroll around the city centre.
Check out that museum of contemporary art. Eat out. Look up to an unexpected chapel tower and go 'wow'. And take a picture.
Oh and, well...turns out there's a shoot em up game (not unlike Counterstrike) that works perfectly on a macbook.
Urban Terror is the name, and boy had I forgotten about that kind of adrenaline.
The lethal power of a mouse. The curses that come out of your mouth when you get shot in the head.
I couldn't get enough and we played way into the night and it was a lot a lot a lot of fun.
I celebrated christmas with a bunch of other erasmus people that stayed in town for the holiday.
Everyone prepared food and of course there was too much food but it was all tasty and the nice thing is
the people that got together didn't all know each other. It was the good kind of random selection of erasmus students.
Lots of jokes. Lots of food. So much food, in fact, that we agreed to meet up the next day for brunch.
And even then, we could not finish it all. I made burekas which came out real nice and it's kind of a family recipe.
You know how everyone has that one recipe for impressing guests?
And then after dinner we played the dice game to see who would get which gift.
We all bought one for 5 euro's and once they were all unwrapped on the table, people got clear ideas of which one they wanted.
Myself, I aimed for that brilliant old-school bike horn. The kind of horn clowns have at the circus.
Not only that, the gift came together with a big ass red candy cane.
Life really doesn't get as good as this.
And I got it. And pissed everybody off with it's loud sound for the rest of the evening :)
The horn had a sticker that said 'Beware, using this horn too close to a human ear can cause hearing damage'.
They don't fuck around...
And then wake up one early morning, barely slept actually, and take the bus to Madrid.
Ride through Spain's beautiful countryside and you arrive in a city, that also, doesn't fuck around.
Spent my first afternoon strolling through the streets of Madrid with my indian friend.
The equivalent of before sunrise for friendship. For parallel universe magic.
Different cities, different times, all irrelevant. Streets are just streets when conversation is everything but 'just' conversation.
We ended up walking around Madrid's chinatown for most of the day :)
Then met up with her friend for dinner and we ended the night early, as we all needed sleep.
Wake up next day and I have a long breakfast talking to a swedish girl as I wait for Arieh to hit town.
We meet up and we have the incredulous smile on our face that says 'this is fucking unbelievable',
and off we go. Grab a cheap cheap sandwich at this little grocery shop I'm proud to have found the first day.
Sit across from it, on an abandoned couch's pillows and catch up.
I tell him about Before sunrise and about India.
He says the way I tell my story... I haven't changed one bit.
And Arieh is still Arieh, in great shape.
And I'm excited to have him meet my indian friend, her meeting him, all of us in Madrid.
The place to be.
And we walk around town for the afternoon before meeting up with the girls at Puerta Del Sol (Madrid's 0,0 coordinate)
and going to a tapas place. And everybody hits it off real nice and we joke around and then we go see a Flamenco Show.
Typically, you have 5-6 musicians, guys, sitting on plastic chairs around the stage.
And then, early enough, a woman comes on stage. With a killer dress.
We're sitting quite in the back, with out 25euro entrance ticket, and even from far away, you can tell, she's rather old.
An old star. She must have fucked around when she was young and fatale. But on stage, this lady doesn't fuck around.
And her body has the moves engraved in it's curves like cliffs in the grand canyon. The word you're looking for is Majestic.
However, she has a way of pulling weird faces. Dancing passionately, her lips might curl and her face will cringe into an expression of...
inner torture? fundamental repulsion? The word you're looking for is 'convulsed'.
And then it will turn into a smile, a smile of passion, but you can't forget where it came from.
It might be beautiful, but two seconds ago, she was pulling faces like that girl from the exorcist.
So yeah, the first word that comes to mind when she smiles is 'creepy'.
But the music is beautiful, and this man wailing his lungs out, his passionate anguish, we have no idea what he's singing about.
Me and my indian friend start whispering each other the lyric's translation.
- He's singing about his mom
- He says the main ingredient for a perfect tortilla is onion
- Man can he talk about curtains...
And
- By the way, I bought you a gift.
And she says
- I bought you a gift too!
And we order a glass of Sangria because it's included in the price.
And they bring a big ass glass of it. Kind of nice, when you laid 25 euro's down for it.
And we sway and swoon on the music.
And you start wondering if this is the kind of music you could put on during sex.
And then a young guy with a babyface and long hair comes on stage and does his thing too.
Like the other indian girl said 'The man sure hates his suit jacket'.
He kept grabbing pushing pulling and tearing at it as he danced and I respected him for doing something so gay and pulling it off too.
We left the place feeling all sexy and passionate, the way a kid will feel so powerful after watching a karate-kid film.
Madrid is Spain but still a bit cold and so we went for hot chocolate desert at San Gines Chocolateria.
The place I had spotted the first day but couldn't find when me and my indian friend were looking for it.
This time we did, by accident, and went in for thick thick hot chocolate and churros.
The chocolate is so thick that water is for free here.
And the prices are very reasonable too.
The churros have absolutely no taste though.
It's just something to dip into your chocolate.
And we joked around.
And the chocolate was good.
And then we walk back to Puerta Del Sol, the place I've passed 16 times in 24 hours.
From there on, the other indian girl says she has to pack her bags.
Arieh says he's tired and gonna leave us, god bless him for being a good friend.
And we're left alone. Because closure is important.
And good songs require a long fade out.
One must be careful with goodbyes.
It's a lesson I learned the hard way.
She says we have to put the alarm for 2.45, because she has to be back at the hostel at 3.
I look at my watch and it's only maybe 1 am, so I smile and say 'sure'.
We have a sea of time and are gonna spend it talking and walking.
Before Sunrise and no questions asked.
Holding hands because... because...
No questions asked.
And we talk.
And we enjoy this magic moment for all it is and all it's not.
For exactly what it is, and fully aware of the rest.
2 hours later, we said goodbye.
No, we said goodnight.
Exchanged gifts.
Hugged.
Agreed on many things.
Turned around and played Fever Dream on my iPod.
Walking home is something you better not do completely on your own.
Music helps.
And here I am in Madrid.
And my best mate Raph just arrived.
He says "Bring you ass over here, shit is about to hit the fan".
I smile and I close my macbook.
Life is good today.
Tal Benisty
First of all, Madrid rocks.
It doesn't have the glamour or the nose-up attitude of Paris or Barcelona,
but it has substance, you know? It's a city that just is. Vibrantly.
A metropol with no frills. No beach. No big architect name on each postcard.
But I love it here. It's a city to live in.
So here I am.
Madrid seems to be the place to be lately.
Where did it start...
My indian friend from Delft was gonna go to Madrid between the 23rd and the 29th.
I told her I'd come by when she's there. That was a long time ago.
And then, for new year's, my best friend from Belgium, Raphael was supposed to visit me in Valencia.
He couldn't find a flight back on the 1st, so we figured we'd meet up in Madrid.
I came here two days earlier, to meet up with my indian friend on her last days here,
right before Raph would pop by and the bohemian living would start.
Then, I get an e-mail, no a facebook message this week, from Arieh, my school buddy.
He says 'I need a break'. And he says 'Do you still live in Barcelona?'. And, 'Can I come by?'
And I said 'Living in Valencia man, but I'm heading to Madrid for new years'.
He said 'I'll meet you there, then I'll come down to Valencia with you'.
And I said 'Yeah!'.
So here I am in Madrid and life doesn't get as good as this.
My sleeping pattern is fucked ever since the semester ended two weeks ago.
Spent most of my time hanging around with Pascalle and her cousin and brother who were visiting her.
Slept later and later, woke up later and later. There's just only so much you can do in the morning.
Valencia around Christmas is cool. And the thing about having family visiting is that it gives you a reason to stroll around the city centre.
Check out that museum of contemporary art. Eat out. Look up to an unexpected chapel tower and go 'wow'. And take a picture.
Oh and, well...turns out there's a shoot em up game (not unlike Counterstrike) that works perfectly on a macbook.
Urban Terror is the name, and boy had I forgotten about that kind of adrenaline.
The lethal power of a mouse. The curses that come out of your mouth when you get shot in the head.
I couldn't get enough and we played way into the night and it was a lot a lot a lot of fun.
I celebrated christmas with a bunch of other erasmus people that stayed in town for the holiday.
Everyone prepared food and of course there was too much food but it was all tasty and the nice thing is
the people that got together didn't all know each other. It was the good kind of random selection of erasmus students.
Lots of jokes. Lots of food. So much food, in fact, that we agreed to meet up the next day for brunch.
And even then, we could not finish it all. I made burekas which came out real nice and it's kind of a family recipe.
You know how everyone has that one recipe for impressing guests?
And then after dinner we played the dice game to see who would get which gift.
We all bought one for 5 euro's and once they were all unwrapped on the table, people got clear ideas of which one they wanted.
Myself, I aimed for that brilliant old-school bike horn. The kind of horn clowns have at the circus.
Not only that, the gift came together with a big ass red candy cane.
Life really doesn't get as good as this.
And I got it. And pissed everybody off with it's loud sound for the rest of the evening :)
The horn had a sticker that said 'Beware, using this horn too close to a human ear can cause hearing damage'.
They don't fuck around...
And then wake up one early morning, barely slept actually, and take the bus to Madrid.
Ride through Spain's beautiful countryside and you arrive in a city, that also, doesn't fuck around.
Spent my first afternoon strolling through the streets of Madrid with my indian friend.
The equivalent of before sunrise for friendship. For parallel universe magic.
Different cities, different times, all irrelevant. Streets are just streets when conversation is everything but 'just' conversation.
We ended up walking around Madrid's chinatown for most of the day :)
Then met up with her friend for dinner and we ended the night early, as we all needed sleep.
Wake up next day and I have a long breakfast talking to a swedish girl as I wait for Arieh to hit town.
We meet up and we have the incredulous smile on our face that says 'this is fucking unbelievable',
and off we go. Grab a cheap cheap sandwich at this little grocery shop I'm proud to have found the first day.
Sit across from it, on an abandoned couch's pillows and catch up.
I tell him about Before sunrise and about India.
He says the way I tell my story... I haven't changed one bit.
And Arieh is still Arieh, in great shape.
And I'm excited to have him meet my indian friend, her meeting him, all of us in Madrid.
The place to be.
And we walk around town for the afternoon before meeting up with the girls at Puerta Del Sol (Madrid's 0,0 coordinate)
and going to a tapas place. And everybody hits it off real nice and we joke around and then we go see a Flamenco Show.
Typically, you have 5-6 musicians, guys, sitting on plastic chairs around the stage.
And then, early enough, a woman comes on stage. With a killer dress.
We're sitting quite in the back, with out 25euro entrance ticket, and even from far away, you can tell, she's rather old.
An old star. She must have fucked around when she was young and fatale. But on stage, this lady doesn't fuck around.
And her body has the moves engraved in it's curves like cliffs in the grand canyon. The word you're looking for is Majestic.
However, she has a way of pulling weird faces. Dancing passionately, her lips might curl and her face will cringe into an expression of...
inner torture? fundamental repulsion? The word you're looking for is 'convulsed'.
And then it will turn into a smile, a smile of passion, but you can't forget where it came from.
It might be beautiful, but two seconds ago, she was pulling faces like that girl from the exorcist.
So yeah, the first word that comes to mind when she smiles is 'creepy'.
But the music is beautiful, and this man wailing his lungs out, his passionate anguish, we have no idea what he's singing about.
Me and my indian friend start whispering each other the lyric's translation.
- He's singing about his mom
- He says the main ingredient for a perfect tortilla is onion
- Man can he talk about curtains...
And
- By the way, I bought you a gift.
And she says
- I bought you a gift too!
And we order a glass of Sangria because it's included in the price.
And they bring a big ass glass of it. Kind of nice, when you laid 25 euro's down for it.
And we sway and swoon on the music.
And you start wondering if this is the kind of music you could put on during sex.
And then a young guy with a babyface and long hair comes on stage and does his thing too.
Like the other indian girl said 'The man sure hates his suit jacket'.
He kept grabbing pushing pulling and tearing at it as he danced and I respected him for doing something so gay and pulling it off too.
We left the place feeling all sexy and passionate, the way a kid will feel so powerful after watching a karate-kid film.
Madrid is Spain but still a bit cold and so we went for hot chocolate desert at San Gines Chocolateria.
The place I had spotted the first day but couldn't find when me and my indian friend were looking for it.
This time we did, by accident, and went in for thick thick hot chocolate and churros.
The chocolate is so thick that water is for free here.
And the prices are very reasonable too.
The churros have absolutely no taste though.
It's just something to dip into your chocolate.
And we joked around.
And the chocolate was good.
And then we walk back to Puerta Del Sol, the place I've passed 16 times in 24 hours.
From there on, the other indian girl says she has to pack her bags.
Arieh says he's tired and gonna leave us, god bless him for being a good friend.
And we're left alone. Because closure is important.
And good songs require a long fade out.
One must be careful with goodbyes.
It's a lesson I learned the hard way.
She says we have to put the alarm for 2.45, because she has to be back at the hostel at 3.
I look at my watch and it's only maybe 1 am, so I smile and say 'sure'.
We have a sea of time and are gonna spend it talking and walking.
Before Sunrise and no questions asked.
Holding hands because... because...
No questions asked.
And we talk.
And we enjoy this magic moment for all it is and all it's not.
For exactly what it is, and fully aware of the rest.
2 hours later, we said goodbye.
No, we said goodnight.
Exchanged gifts.
Hugged.
Agreed on many things.
Turned around and played Fever Dream on my iPod.
Walking home is something you better not do completely on your own.
Music helps.
And here I am in Madrid.
And my best mate Raph just arrived.
He says "Bring you ass over here, shit is about to hit the fan".
I smile and I close my macbook.
Life is good today.
Tal Benisty
martes, 18 de diciembre de 2007
Happiness TM
(editor's note: if you're here for fun, check out the last chapter of my blog entry called 'Part-time bums'. It's quite funny. The rest of this blog, is for myself)
What the fuck am I doing here?
A valid question, wouldn't you think?
It's not like I really don't have a clue, mind you.
In fact, here's some answers and other ramblings.
It's 3.39 and I can't sleep.
Stomach trouble you see. I thought I learned my lesson two nights ago, when I spend it puking out that mean-ass pizza I ate at midnight, just before hitting the sack. Yeah, I swear, I thought I could just magically shut my eyes and my stomach would empty itself faster and swifter than the Jetsons's zooming garbage disposal of the hopeful future. Well it didn't. You find yourself lying in bed, feeling the food somewhat at throat-height and praying that denial will make everything better again. Plan B: Deny harder. So then, 48 hours later, long past vomitting myself into redemption, I decided I was cured enough to go out for some spanish food with my classmates from Animation. Let me tell you, there is no doctor on this planet that will recommend you Spanish food for curing intestinal flu. No "drink plenty of lime thee, a handful of patatas bravas with alioli and you'll be on your feet by tomorrow". You get what you eat hombre... So here I am. Repenting. Last night I told my spanish friend from Barcelona I was sick, he asked me if I was happy. As in, Happiness happy. Because there's a theory on how particular sicknesses are symptoms of particular mental troubles. I said 'Dude, that's quite a question. I know it can't be all blamed on that mean-ass pizza, but... dude, that's quite a question!'. Besides, am I happy? Yeah. I actually am.
I recently watched a brilliant video about happiness, synthetic happiness and its relationship with choice. It seems that the difference in happiness that we expect to result from two different scenario's, is ultimately much less than we think. In other words, whether you get want you want or don't, you end up being just as happy as you generally are. And that's where I am right now, generally happy. (Oh the video, by the way, is to be seen here: http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/97 . If you feel like today might be your last day, and you've got the vague options of declaring your volcanic love to that one chick, bungee jumping naked, or watching this video with your last 20 minutes, trust me, go for the video).
So anyway. Here I am in Spain. Life's all experimental. Also, I'm getting uber-lazy around here. But, you know, I'm not all that displeased with that. If I really wanted to work hard, I would. If I'd want to make my first million euro's before the age of 25, I'd have watched a few less episodes of Family Guy. Today my teacher said I'm hedonistic. I agree. Also, today she officially acknowledged I'm her favourite student. OK, see we kind of knew, or at least, my fellow classmates and I joked around about it. But coming from her... well some things still make me purr, in a kid-with-an-apple kind of way. See I'm really enjoying myself at Animation class. You must understand, I hate drawing. I came to hate it at Industrial Design, where my dutch teachers found a million ways (see: rules) to make it truly horrible. Perspective, shading, ovals, no pencil, parallel lines, colour combinations, contrast, shiny corners, more ovals (seriously, ovals are the anal medicine plugs of drawn art) and reflective materials... yuck. But check this out, hand drawn animation, has a kind of divine way to reward your hard work. It's exactly the way karma is supposed to make everything good and fair in this world: you pain yourself into drawing, frame by frame (and we're talking 12 frames for a mere second), each frame meaningless in itself, but just a bit different from the previous one, and it builds up, marking their path through the guidance of carefully thought-of key frames... until you're done, and then you capture all your frames, again, one by one, into an insignificant program, who will, ultimately, export an AVI file. Never, has AVI sounded so delightful. Because you see, there's that magic moment when all your frames turn into a moving animation. And the little details or potential flaws you worried about are not to be found in this mesmerizing string of movement. It's so rewarding that you watch it with the Loop function on, in grateful silence. This is Karma. The good way.
It's 4.04, it seems like my food has decided to go down my digestive system rather than up again. Such a powerful image: here's your sins, grease and all, rummaging and rumbling in your stomach, keeping you awake. Will they come back up? Or will they fade out and away, leaving your conscience nirvana-white again? And will you learn your lesson?
Sometimes I make a joke and a person that's close enough to me will say 'Tal, that's not a good joke', and I'll realize I indeed went too far. And that's ok. Woody Allen said; If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative".
Also, I realize some people just want to have a good laugh reading my blog. Don't I know nobody wants to read long blog entries? Of course I do. But this ain't a powerpoint presentation, it's my diary, for myself, for later. You, you're just a guest in my world. In any case, for you pure entertainment, there is a blog entry of mine called 'Part-time bums' which is generally considered to be funny. Go and have fun.
Umpf
Tal
What the fuck am I doing here?
A valid question, wouldn't you think?
It's not like I really don't have a clue, mind you.
In fact, here's some answers and other ramblings.
It's 3.39 and I can't sleep.
Stomach trouble you see. I thought I learned my lesson two nights ago, when I spend it puking out that mean-ass pizza I ate at midnight, just before hitting the sack. Yeah, I swear, I thought I could just magically shut my eyes and my stomach would empty itself faster and swifter than the Jetsons's zooming garbage disposal of the hopeful future. Well it didn't. You find yourself lying in bed, feeling the food somewhat at throat-height and praying that denial will make everything better again. Plan B: Deny harder. So then, 48 hours later, long past vomitting myself into redemption, I decided I was cured enough to go out for some spanish food with my classmates from Animation. Let me tell you, there is no doctor on this planet that will recommend you Spanish food for curing intestinal flu. No "drink plenty of lime thee, a handful of patatas bravas with alioli and you'll be on your feet by tomorrow". You get what you eat hombre... So here I am. Repenting. Last night I told my spanish friend from Barcelona I was sick, he asked me if I was happy. As in, Happiness happy. Because there's a theory on how particular sicknesses are symptoms of particular mental troubles. I said 'Dude, that's quite a question. I know it can't be all blamed on that mean-ass pizza, but... dude, that's quite a question!'. Besides, am I happy? Yeah. I actually am.
I recently watched a brilliant video about happiness, synthetic happiness and its relationship with choice. It seems that the difference in happiness that we expect to result from two different scenario's, is ultimately much less than we think. In other words, whether you get want you want or don't, you end up being just as happy as you generally are. And that's where I am right now, generally happy. (Oh the video, by the way, is to be seen here: http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/97 . If you feel like today might be your last day, and you've got the vague options of declaring your volcanic love to that one chick, bungee jumping naked, or watching this video with your last 20 minutes, trust me, go for the video).
So anyway. Here I am in Spain. Life's all experimental. Also, I'm getting uber-lazy around here. But, you know, I'm not all that displeased with that. If I really wanted to work hard, I would. If I'd want to make my first million euro's before the age of 25, I'd have watched a few less episodes of Family Guy. Today my teacher said I'm hedonistic. I agree. Also, today she officially acknowledged I'm her favourite student. OK, see we kind of knew, or at least, my fellow classmates and I joked around about it. But coming from her... well some things still make me purr, in a kid-with-an-apple kind of way. See I'm really enjoying myself at Animation class. You must understand, I hate drawing. I came to hate it at Industrial Design, where my dutch teachers found a million ways (see: rules) to make it truly horrible. Perspective, shading, ovals, no pencil, parallel lines, colour combinations, contrast, shiny corners, more ovals (seriously, ovals are the anal medicine plugs of drawn art) and reflective materials... yuck. But check this out, hand drawn animation, has a kind of divine way to reward your hard work. It's exactly the way karma is supposed to make everything good and fair in this world: you pain yourself into drawing, frame by frame (and we're talking 12 frames for a mere second), each frame meaningless in itself, but just a bit different from the previous one, and it builds up, marking their path through the guidance of carefully thought-of key frames... until you're done, and then you capture all your frames, again, one by one, into an insignificant program, who will, ultimately, export an AVI file. Never, has AVI sounded so delightful. Because you see, there's that magic moment when all your frames turn into a moving animation. And the little details or potential flaws you worried about are not to be found in this mesmerizing string of movement. It's so rewarding that you watch it with the Loop function on, in grateful silence. This is Karma. The good way.
It's 4.04, it seems like my food has decided to go down my digestive system rather than up again. Such a powerful image: here's your sins, grease and all, rummaging and rumbling in your stomach, keeping you awake. Will they come back up? Or will they fade out and away, leaving your conscience nirvana-white again? And will you learn your lesson?
Sometimes I make a joke and a person that's close enough to me will say 'Tal, that's not a good joke', and I'll realize I indeed went too far. And that's ok. Woody Allen said; If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative".
Also, I realize some people just want to have a good laugh reading my blog. Don't I know nobody wants to read long blog entries? Of course I do. But this ain't a powerpoint presentation, it's my diary, for myself, for later. You, you're just a guest in my world. In any case, for you pure entertainment, there is a blog entry of mine called 'Part-time bums' which is generally considered to be funny. Go and have fun.
Umpf
Tal
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