Category: in english

Dance on a volcano (thanks to Phil Collins)

In Italy the mood is extremely tense. Thousands of people had yet again taken to the streets, venting their anger, menacing to occupy the institutions. They are called the “pitchfork” protesters, a quickly-coined name which makes you think of some kind of mediaeval rebellion of peasants. But if you take a closer look you realise that, yes, there are some farmers in there, but the composition of these vast numbers of people that have taken to the streets is way more varied. So, who are they? They’re unemployed, small entrepreneurs on the brink of bankruptcy or already bankrupt, truck and cab drivers – the first, these, to start the protest – and many more representatives of the by now generalised condition of “precariat”. In a word, these are the protagonists, or rather the victims, of a generalised increasing proletarianisation of lower-middle to middle class strata that five years of recession are pushing relentlessly into poverty.

These are the classical historical preconditions for some kind of right wing authoritarianism to take over. The signs are there. A lot of these people had been flanked by fascist or para fascist football supporters who have turned the protest into violence. The populist leader Beppe Grillo has invited the police to show their solidarity to the protesters, spreading a palpable sense of panic among institutions and the media. Panic which materialised all too clearly when a policeman took off his helmet, a gesture that openly shows a symbolic way of reaching out to those whose protest he was supposed to stop and possibly suppress. This is also taking place while there is a widespread delegitimisation of the traditional foundation of liberal democracy, based on the party system.

None of the three major protagonists of Italian politics, Berlusconi, Grillo and Renzi, has a seat in Parliament. Those who actually are in Parliament, are completely mistrusted and resented by the general public. The government led by Letta, in a widely despised coalition with the now in tatters Berlusconi party, is a “dead institution walking”. The election of Renzi who is a youthful but quite shallow-sounding harbinger of blairism twenty odd years late, has pretty much signified the end of the major party of the centre-left as we knew it. While his rise to the leadership of the centre left has increasingly fractured and fragmented the PD, it is not really clear how his proposed modernisation, which basically amounts to push even further liberalisation of the economy and the shrinking of the state in order to better accommodate the needs of the market, will be able to rescue this resentful “reserve army” of discontent, who are seemingly ready to attack the institutions.

The situation, in a word, is serious and the risk of some kind of authoritarian development is on the cards. “Italians are not able to rebel” was an often-heard adagio by commentators. Up to a few years ago, maybe, when the postindustrial Western european model that Italy had embraced without having the right numbers to do so seemed to guarantee against any sort of real social revolt. The tragedy is that this still seems true for those on the Left, while the populist Right has always proved more effective to turn desperation into action. As it is clearly doing now.

Magic and Loss

When you pass through the fire, you pass through humble
You pass through a maze of self doubt
When you pass through humble, the lights can blind you
Some people never figure that out
You pass through arrogance, you pass through hurt
You pass through an ever present past
And it’s best not to wait for luck to save you
Pass through the fire to the light
Pass through the fire to the light
Pass through the fire to the light
It’s best not to wait for luck to save you
Pass through the fire to the light
As you pass through the fire, your right hand waving
There are things you have to throw out
That caustic dread inside your head will never help you out
You have to be very strong ’cause you’ll start from zero
over and over again
And as the smoke clears there’s an all consuming fire
Lying straight ahead
Lying straight ahead
Lying straight ahead
As the smoke clears there’s an all consuming fire
Lying straight ahead
They say no one person can do it all
But you want to in your head
But you can’t be Shakespeare and you can’t be Joyce
So what is left instead
You’re stuck with yourself and a rage that can hurt you
You have to start at the beginning again
And just this moment
This wonderful fire started up again
When you pass through humble, when you pass through sickly
When you pass through, I’m better than you all
When you pass through anger and self deprecation
And have the strength to acknowledge it all
When the past makes you laugh and you can savor the magic
That let you survive your own war
You find that that fire is passion
And there’s a door up ahead, not a wall
As you pass through fire, as you pass through fire
Trying to remember its name
When you pass through fire licking at your lips
You cannot remain the same
And if the building’s burning, move towards that door
But don’t put the flames out
There’s a bit of magic in everything
And then some loss to even things out
Some loss to even things out
Some loss to even things out
There’s a bit of magic in everything
And then some loss to even things out
Lou Reed, Magic and Loss (1992)
Writer(s): Michael Rathke, Lou Reed

A sobering wait

In our fantastic media-driven, celebrity-obsessed culture, certain individuals are not even allowed to pass away or to come to life when they want. A case in point are Nelson Mandela and baby Cambridge. Think about it: the former is, disappointedly, despite all those camera crews expensively sent over to South Africa – still alive. The whole world wants to join in the communal ritual of farewell to the great man, but cannot do so. He stubbornly stays with his people.

The latter, despite the universally hyped arrival on the planet, is overdue. The Queen has to take her holidays, so she – perhaps unguardedly – said to a child. And those legions of embedded journalists camping in front of the hospital for days under the ruthless heatwave? Gosh, they are melting away under our very eyes. I almost feel for them. Surely they must hate baby Cambridge’s guts.

So here we are, all stuck, we cannot mourn and we cannot celebrate as we please. A huge world media potential, waiting to be unleashed but sitting for weeks, losing millions by the hour in the process. However, it is a revealing no man’s land, a powerful depiction of how the industry of cynicism turns deeply private and touching events into fodder for millions of strangers spectators, so that they can get on with themselves and their lives.

But it is all good. And, as long as it lasts, we can reflect about this commercialisation of life and death. So it’s a sobering wait.

Pro Bono

9781781680827_FrontmanHarry Browne recounts the (perhaps apocryphal) tale of the singer standing on stage clapping while declaring: “Every time I clap my hands, a child dies.” “Then stop fucking doing it!” yelled a voice from the crowd.

(Tratto da una recensione di Terry Eagleton sul Guardian ad un libro che comincia finalmente a mettere le “i” sotto ai puntini circa l’impostura politico/culturale di una cosiddetta icona)

Still calling the shots

With the impending judgment of the high court dangling over his head, Berlusconi’s exit seems at last within reach. If that happens, it will be for the sake of the whole country, both on a national and an international level, and that’s pretty much out of the question. Continue reading “Still calling the shots”

Kate Middleton

1 2 3 4 [in Deutsch]
We are standing here
Exposing ourselves
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We’re being watched
And we feel our pulse
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We look around
And change our pose
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We start to move
And we break the glass
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We step out
And take a walk through the city
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We go into a club
And there we start to dance
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies

Asteroid

And the 3rd Angel sounded
And a star fell from heaven
Burning as it were a lamp
And it fell upon the 3rd part of the waters

Asteroid

I’m a ball of fire
Fire from heaven
Terror from nowhere
You’ll never shoot me down
Days turns to minutes
5 seconds till it hits us
3 seconds to ground
1 second to ….

Asteroid

Coming in from the void

On the bed of the ocean
Where history lies
Strange civilisations
Vapourised
Days turns to minutes
5 seconds till it hits us
3 seconds to ground
1 second to ….

Asteroid

I.N.R.I
Nature renewed by fire made whole

And I climb to the mountain
Light to dark
Behind time and space
A hole in your Ark
Days turns to minutes
5 seconds till it hits us
3 seconds to ground
1 second to ….

Asteroid

When politics becomes egyptology

when politics becomes egyptology

I can hardly see what the fuss is all about with B.’s uptenth comeback.  The establishment, the very political spectrum now hysterically screaming their horror while tearing their clothes over the departure of “respectable” Monti are, frankly, a bit pathetic. They are, as the same byproduct of a culture that enabled him to flourish. The fact that the party (pun intended) is over gives the situation its tone of dark comedy.

It was his only choice, really, the last desperate move to avert his (just and overdue) demise.  Here’s a man who, despite having an entire party (again, also in its bunga-bunga sense) on his payroll, is still forced to do things by himself. This is because money cannot always buy the best talent on the market. And his associates are a monument to mediocrity.

If anything, it proves that privatisation just doesn’t work.