how have i forgetten about it?

Adidas has a really nice advertisement campaign that goes beyond "impossible is nothing". this is indeed itself a good tagline over which i have engaged myself in some kind of argument/ intellectual Auseinandersetzung (discussion) with the French guy, Daniel, who lived next door when i was renting a room temporarily on Senefelderstrasse, Berlin. the conclusion at the time was that in any event, "impossible is nothing" is better than "nothing is impossible", the former makes more sense and puts you to thinking more.

but back to my point: i saw a TV spot with some runner talking about his experiences with running, and with him loving it. he talked about having started as he was a child: it went, something like this, "as a child i was always running-- to school, to this, to that...". he grew up, running all the time, becoming a great professional runner too. between him and running is a kind of passion and intimacy. when people asked him, why he always runs, he asked them in return: "how have you stopped doing it?"

"how have you stopped doing it", or a similar paraphrase, "how have i forgotten about it", are beautiful reminders to me at this time when i am quite new to Berlin that i should not let my fear, my unfamiliarity with the people and the streets, stop me from doing that which i have always enjoyed as i was alone. along comes also the understanding that i should not allow myself to go too deep in any kind of comfort zone and forget to venture out into the world, where i have myself to depend on, alone against the world (cf. two against the world). it is challenging, but how challenging was it really when i was roaming the streets of a certain city and going to clubs alone, as i did in Salzburg, Austria? how have i forgotten about the joy of being in the cinema alone, of being in a coffee shop alone, of silently contemplating stillness and wishing to myself that someone were there next to me? how have i allowed myself to think that whoever, or whatever, i have at present next to me, is ever enough?

good news from the praydonotthrowmeaway

i have actually almost totally given up on the experiment "praydonotthrowmeaway" leaflet distribution act, when Sigurd from Frankfurt actually wrote me back with his very own poetic words to convince me that life really isn't so bad. of course i have Tim to thank who helped me throw those leaflets around. and now i don't feel so bad about having started that experiment, having printed 500 copies of it (what was i thinking?), and upon giving it halfway up made some kind of installation in my own apartment on the wall.

excerpt 2 from letters

starting yesterday i have begun taking things slower, and being less harsh on myself--- i breathed slower, talked slower, walked slower, and suddenly this age-old advice i hear all the time is taking effect: when one takes things slower, one becomes more fused with the environment, one is able to observe more about one's relationship with the environment and the environment itself. i also realized that i tend to complain less about other people, about the fact that nobody really cares to talk to me, about the pecularities of Berlin, when i take things slower and just fucking shut up and enjoy the quiet company of whoever is next to me-- or the company of myself, where sometimes one feels less lonely being alone than being with someone else.

excerpt 1 from letters

and my own "projects"-- well, one thing i know about them is that i stress myself out more about my cynicism/ skepticism/ fear of wasting time more than trying to do some concrete work. i want to write, either my own stuff or in some newspaper, i want to work, somewhere (e.g. in a bistro), and i also want to take lessons in vibraphone (jazz) and drumsets--- right now all these things haven't really begun yet, because most fundamentally i seemed to be at a loss, feeling lonely at heart and not particularly energized by my being here [in Berlin]

Ratatouille

It's been a while since I can just enjoy a movie, believe in the make-believe fantasies, and indulge myself in being touched without having to dip into any dialectical discussions of a film's philosophy and aesthetics...Ratatouille, a beautiful animated movie that stars an American-in-Paris kid/ "cook" Linguini (what a cross-cultural set-up!) who, with the help of the star-culinary creator Remy, the rat hidden in his cap, rewrites the history of the restaurant of legendary cook Gusteau, which is on the downhill after his death, recreates the image of the rat from that as pest to that as creative and helpful beings, and reinforms the agenda of the mean, hard-to-satisfy restaurant critic Anton Ego from thinking hyper-critical to being generous with praise where it is deserved.

Surely, there are the make-believe messages that may have seemed far-fetched in reality but totally in line with the objectives of Disney pictures, such as how the whole clan of rats (starring Remy's brother and father, who lack taste in food, or trust in humans--initially) creates a beautiful meal towards the end, or the worn out ideals of pursuing one's dreams as long as one invests passion (Gusteau says, "Everyone can cook"), or even just how Linguini can communicate with Remy; or, consider the ludicrous images of American cross-culturalism in a French context (the kitchen staff is all mixed with people of different backgrounds or ethnicities), and of all the French English accent. Yet, this film works because it opens one's eyes to the beauty of creativity and, to me personally, because it succeeds in bringing forward inspiring thoughts on the issue of criticism. In many ways, Anton Ego, the critic with a big ego, mirrors myself. A long, emanciated face and a menacing voice, his critique is sharp and pungent, making his opinion effective to the extent that it filters out the nonsense; his acute taste, while working to the advantage of offering judgments, hinders him in being open and positive about that which he is evaluating. When asked by Linguini why a critic who likes food looks so skinny, he says dogmatically, "I don't like food, I love food. If it's food that I don't love, I don't swallow it". The question is, what kind of a love for food is this? What does he love? How much is he appreciating food for food itself, or aware of the value of that which he chooses to spit out and grimace about? What is key is that there is an implicit downside in the nature of criticism if its focus is primarily on digging out the negative sides of the subject matter. After savoring the beautifully crafted ratatouille sensation that Remy and his clan put together, served by Linguini the cook/ waiter on wheels, he reevaluates his criteria for critique; after the unfortunate termination of the restaurant's business due to its unhygienic conditions (N.B. the rats), his credibility is damaged, but he is seen in Linguini's new bistro, enjoying the famed ratatouille, his occupation as a critic something of the past and the mean look of criticism gone from his face. Just as how his face lit up in childhood reminiscence of his mother's ratatouille when he first tastes Remy's creation, now he is rid of the need to be faultfinding, is broadening his love for food and, in that way, is closer to it.

I have found out that I have a tendency to adopt a distant and analytical voice when doing a critique/ review of a certain subject matter, in an attempt to offer a systematic or technical opinion that will appease the reader's need for "critical opinion"; yet, in the process of breaking the subject matter down, I miss the joy of staying close to the medium in question and in finding faults in the subject I seem to have no idea of what I like, only an idea of what to dislike, for the sake of offering some sort of critical argument through the act of negation. The phenomenal human touch at the end of this film touches me to open up myself, and reminds me that the critical taste of an individual comes not only with the act of opting for what is good, but also with embracing what may have seemed bad. To reject something when it does not seem good enough ("If it's food that I don't love, I don't swallow it") ruins the prospects of discovering something better to come, because that negative energy fails to give due credit to anything and alienates one from that which one professes to love.

Note: Ratatouille is a vegetable dish from southen France, made out of eggplants, onions, garlic, green peppers, tomatoes, zucchini, with a variety of spices, simmered in olive oil. Have got to try this dish, and this film has got to be seen.

"Chronicle of a Disappearance"

"CHRONICLE OF A DISAPPEARANCE is a journey in search of what it means to be Palestinian. It is a compilation of possible truths, transgressing genres and blending fact with fiction to explore the intertwined boundaries of storytelling, history and autobiography. The character E.S. is the filmmaker himself. He and the other characters wander through a social and political labyrinth in an attempt to break free from their ghettoized existence. The film explores the effects of ghettoization and marginalization on the Palestinian psyche." -Elia Suleiman/ http://www.itvs.org/pressroom/pressRelease.htm?pressId=13 (ITVS)..

http://www.indiewire.com/people/int_suleiman_elia_970328.html:
iW: Were there things that you felt were sacrificed in the actual making of the film?
Suleiman: Always. I think filmmaking is probably the closest metaphor for comformism. If we try to present it as a tool of resistance, I have too many doubts about that form of resistance. I think it's very digressive, because, in fact, what happens, is you're always inside the system. You're always bought and sold, and you're always packaged and packaging. Of all strategies, actually, that one thought at some point would do something for the world, it did not work for me. Whether it's from the first work or the second work or the third, there's always a no exit situation, and there's always something that torments you about the way you position yourself and the way you're positioned. I don't know how the fight can be taken, in fact . . . . I think what I do is listen, but when I listen, I can only reflect on myself and can only stretch the moral questions to myself. . .
(And not to an audience. . .)
Well, myself will always translate somehow. As long as you're trying to communicate and there's that impulse, there's that desire to actually communicate to others, I think, you're constantly testing yourself, researching yourself and eventually raising the moral questions to yourself about your political positioning in film and the way you want to change the world. And I think if you don't ask those questions to yourself, you'll end up cheating and you know what? The audiences will pick it up when you're being a liar . . . and you're going to be labelled a con-man. I don't want that to happen, not because of my career, I think it's because (can I have my cappuccino now?) because the little rest and peace I derive from this very turbulent world is when I'm honest. . . . Which is what I try to do in the film.
more thoughts to come

slip-ons

so there really is no end to consumerism. and i don't really want or need to end it, because i do need those slip-ons. a half way between sneakers and flip-flops they lend the wearer an air of casual friendliness and serious creativity. please, no socks.