It began when the catch of fish from the big pond started to decline, on the cause of which nobody was any the wiser. Mortality it couldn't be, for dead fish were nowhere afloat. Climate and water level had remained the very same and to the appearance or taste of the fish caught there wasn't anything of note either.
People were left completely in the dark and the worse part of it was, the decline didn't halt. After some time the catch had dropped to half its former size and later on to only a quarter.
Now, there were fishermen who thought they noticed, at times, strange whirlings in the water, stirring the surface from below. Musing on its unfathomable depth, some fancied their pond might have become connected to wide, underground water areas; that the mighty currents in them could sometimes be seen at the upper side, and that by these same currents the greater part of their fish had been sucked into the subterranean.
Until one day, at just such a whirling, a couple of fishermen saw a crest of giant fins rising from the water. This, at once, explained the enigma. There lived in the pond a formidable fish that was devouring all the other fish, fattening itself more and more by this action.
All efforts to catch the 'Convivant', as before long it was commonly called, proved useless.
It must have been lying low or hiding in a cave and it appeared to be very watchful, for every time the men went after it, the pond was still as death. Eventually, their catch of normal fish ran down to such a trifle, that the fishermen might as well stay home to attend to different chores, to mind the sheep, for instance. Having fish for dinner grew into a memory, even in the royal family.
This plight, to which they had somewhat resigned themselves, suddenly changed as another sensational event befell them.
One day a few shepherds, setting out for their flocks early in the morning, happened on the remnants of a freshly devoured sheep. Slivers of bone, bloody tufts of wool, and the extremities: ears, tail, and hooflets were found scattered on the turf, testifying both silently and eloquently of the accomplished fact. From that frightful spot led a peculiar track, a furrow in the turf, as if a heavy sack had been dragged along the ground, and on either side of it the regular imprint of a huge, crooked claw.
After swift deliberation the shepherds decided to follow the trail and how amazed they were and how alarmed when they saw it headed straight for the pond and disappeared into it.
In hot haste they returned to the town, reported their findings, and great was the consternation they engendered by their tale.
The voracious dweller of the pond had never been a mere fish, but rather a beast that could move on land as well and by all means nimbly enough to grab a sheep. Now that, apparently, no more fish was left to satisfy it, they should live in dread for their sheep. A vital common interest was at stake.
New efforts to catch the monster, executed with ampler means and manpower, again proved futile. The pond stayed stock-still. In its unreachable refuge the creature, obviously, lay digesting its prize.
English translation by Ronald Langereis © 2009
from the Dutch, "Sint Joris" by Belcampo, 1983
Monday, 3 August 2009
Monday, 27 July 2009
Saint George - 1. The Oasis
When the Roman Empire had reached its greatest expansion, it lost its fancy for further growth.
Every area that promised gains had been conquered and incorporated. The rest of the world consisted of desolate waste lands not worth development, nor conquest. Still, people were living there and as no one coveted their territory, they enjoyed long stretches of peaceful existence and it showed. Unencumbered by political passions, hubris and self-assertion, characteristic of natives of great, powerful states, they took for granted that the only sense of life was to be merry and love each other much.
Of course, even they needed some level of organisation, but it never amounted to very much, because without high roads a more extended domain would readily prove hard to control and roads in those days were a monopoly of the Romans.
So, on the fringes of the Roman Empire, there existed a lot of small nations. For the greater part they were led by a headman, sometimes called a king, within the confines of natural borders, be they mountain ranges, swamps, primeval forests, tracts of water or of sand.
In the Libyan desert, that stretches from Egypt to the west, there was another such little realm. It all but occupied one of the larger oases and was named Silenia after its capital and only city, Silene, where also resided its king.
That it was surrounded by walls recalled the days when at times a band of Bedouin savages or Berbers would pass by, but ever since Egypt had become a Roman province this didn't happen anymore.
The only foreigners still around were Roman border patrols and these were always welcomed with hospitality and in peace.
Any isolated, tiny realm must be able to provide for its own wants, of course, as was the case here also. Beyond the oasis' natural yields a thriving trade of sheep-farming produced meat, milk and clothing, and besides, near the capital there happened to be a big, rich fish-pond, the depth of which was still for any one to guess. As it was highly valued for its contribution to the food supply, the whole population felt a magical reverence for it as well, because they believed this pond to be the ancient origin of the oasis itself.
How much time since had passed and how many royal dynasties had ruled Silenia from its earliest days nobody knew. History books were unknown, and indeed, what else could have been on record but that they were happy and loved each other much.
That's exactly why every one did remember so well the events that will be the subject of this story and which pulled off this whole affair.
English translation by Ronald Langereis © 2009
from the Dutch, "Sint Joris" by Belcampo, 1983
Every area that promised gains had been conquered and incorporated. The rest of the world consisted of desolate waste lands not worth development, nor conquest. Still, people were living there and as no one coveted their territory, they enjoyed long stretches of peaceful existence and it showed. Unencumbered by political passions, hubris and self-assertion, characteristic of natives of great, powerful states, they took for granted that the only sense of life was to be merry and love each other much.
Of course, even they needed some level of organisation, but it never amounted to very much, because without high roads a more extended domain would readily prove hard to control and roads in those days were a monopoly of the Romans.
So, on the fringes of the Roman Empire, there existed a lot of small nations. For the greater part they were led by a headman, sometimes called a king, within the confines of natural borders, be they mountain ranges, swamps, primeval forests, tracts of water or of sand.
In the Libyan desert, that stretches from Egypt to the west, there was another such little realm. It all but occupied one of the larger oases and was named Silenia after its capital and only city, Silene, where also resided its king.That it was surrounded by walls recalled the days when at times a band of Bedouin savages or Berbers would pass by, but ever since Egypt had become a Roman province this didn't happen anymore.
The only foreigners still around were Roman border patrols and these were always welcomed with hospitality and in peace.
Any isolated, tiny realm must be able to provide for its own wants, of course, as was the case here also. Beyond the oasis' natural yields a thriving trade of sheep-farming produced meat, milk and clothing, and besides, near the capital there happened to be a big, rich fish-pond, the depth of which was still for any one to guess. As it was highly valued for its contribution to the food supply, the whole population felt a magical reverence for it as well, because they believed this pond to be the ancient origin of the oasis itself.
How much time since had passed and how many royal dynasties had ruled Silenia from its earliest days nobody knew. History books were unknown, and indeed, what else could have been on record but that they were happy and loved each other much.
That's exactly why every one did remember so well the events that will be the subject of this story and which pulled off this whole affair.
English translation by Ronald Langereis © 2009
from the Dutch, "Sint Joris" by Belcampo, 1983
Sunday, 26 July 2009
The Dragon is in the details
"When the Roman Empire had reached its greatest expansion, it lost its fancy for further growth."
This is the first sentence of a short story, "Sint Joris" [Saint George], by a maverick Dutch writer from the last century. He called himself 'Belcampo', Italian for his surname, and he certainly was an eccentric. Being born in 1902, he studied law to become a notary after his father, but he never practised the profession, as the times - the thirties - were difficult. Instead of going on the dole, and feel miserable, he hitch-hiked to Italy, and made it to the north of Sicily, providing for his livelihood and lodging by making pencil portraits of the people he met, wisening up quite a lot on the subject of the human psyche along the road.
After the war [WWII] he studied medicine, and settled as a village GP, and after a decade became a students' physician at Groningen University, until his retirement in 1967.
He was a lifelong philosopher. Coming home from his Italian adventure, in his mid-thirties, he had his mind already made up about the great picture of the natural world and that of men and their passions, but it took him till after his retirement to put it to paper. As an individualist, he developed his personal philosophy, and called it 'belcampism', for, of course, none of the other philosophies to date fitted his idiosyncratic sense of life and humour. According to his 'The Philosophy of belcampism' [1972], the essence of human life, in extension of the old adage 'to live, and let live', is the attempt 'to live pleasantly, and let live pleasantly'. The rest he considered hot air.
Though, possibly, something is lost in this translation, and his motto should rather be read: 'To thrive, and let thrive'.
Belcampo died in 1990. He left an oeuvre of scores of short stories and tales of a mostly bizarre nature, written in a peculiar, rather antiquated style, but always intriguing and entertaining for the sake of their slightly ironic, seemingly self-evident, but mind-twisting narrative.
Take the sentence on top of this post. At first sight, it seems little short of ludicrous, and if so, it is meant to be. How should the Empire have fathomed, that it had reached its greatest expanse, when it did?
But before you decide, see the follow up: St. George - 1.
This is the first sentence of a short story, "Sint Joris" [Saint George], by a maverick Dutch writer from the last century. He called himself 'Belcampo', Italian for his surname, and he certainly was an eccentric. Being born in 1902, he studied law to become a notary after his father, but he never practised the profession, as the times - the thirties - were difficult. Instead of going on the dole, and feel miserable, he hitch-hiked to Italy, and made it to the north of Sicily, providing for his livelihood and lodging by making pencil portraits of the people he met, wisening up quite a lot on the subject of the human psyche along the road.
After the war [WWII] he studied medicine, and settled as a village GP, and after a decade became a students' physician at Groningen University, until his retirement in 1967.
He was a lifelong philosopher. Coming home from his Italian adventure, in his mid-thirties, he had his mind already made up about the great picture of the natural world and that of men and their passions, but it took him till after his retirement to put it to paper. As an individualist, he developed his personal philosophy, and called it 'belcampism', for, of course, none of the other philosophies to date fitted his idiosyncratic sense of life and humour. According to his 'The Philosophy of belcampism' [1972], the essence of human life, in extension of the old adage 'to live, and let live', is the attempt 'to live pleasantly, and let live pleasantly'. The rest he considered hot air.Though, possibly, something is lost in this translation, and his motto should rather be read: 'To thrive, and let thrive'.
Belcampo died in 1990. He left an oeuvre of scores of short stories and tales of a mostly bizarre nature, written in a peculiar, rather antiquated style, but always intriguing and entertaining for the sake of their slightly ironic, seemingly self-evident, but mind-twisting narrative.
Take the sentence on top of this post. At first sight, it seems little short of ludicrous, and if so, it is meant to be. How should the Empire have fathomed, that it had reached its greatest expanse, when it did?
But before you decide, see the follow up: St. George - 1.
It's good news week - 1
Poor Gordon Brown, still trudging on, and few to appreciate it. After the landslide defeat of his Labour candidate in the Norwich Nord by-election by a 27-year old Tory beauty-with-brains, his MP backbenchers have stalled their chain-saws half-way into the supports of his ivory tower, before making off for their summer hide-outs.
"We've got work to do to prepare for the autumn," the Prime Minister said. "I'm determined to spend plenty of time with my children during my break from Westminster."
But he also stressed that he would remain focused on the country, currently facing the challenges of swine flu and recession.
"My attention is focused on what I can do for the country. I will not be diverted," he said.
Poor children. When was the last time they enjoyed his undiverted attention? However, when you ponder the dire straits the UK has sailed into with Gordon's full attention span, maybe, his children will be better off without it.
"We've got work to do to prepare for the autumn," the Prime Minister said. "I'm determined to spend plenty of time with my children during my break from Westminster."
But he also stressed that he would remain focused on the country, currently facing the challenges of swine flu and recession.
"My attention is focused on what I can do for the country. I will not be diverted," he said.
Poor children. When was the last time they enjoyed his undiverted attention? However, when you ponder the dire straits the UK has sailed into with Gordon's full attention span, maybe, his children will be better off without it.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Feeling free
Summertime, for many of us the time to go on holiday, and slake the bonds of work and everyday life, a time to feel free.
Feeling free doesn't depend on being on a holiday, of course. The elation freedom invokes may rise from any combination of circumstances, great and small, like taking part in a ritual, or slowly exhaling the smoke of a cigarette, while watching the sun set. It's always an experience of intensity, an upsurge of well-being, joy, and relaxation, and one you're not likely to forget.
I can feel free, when after a swim I'm lying in the sun-stoved sand of a Mediterranean beach, and for a while let the grains slip from my half-closed fist. On another day I may have a fit of freedom from sharing a very juicy peach with someone I love. These are the small joys of life, which can be reiterated as long as a sunny beach is at hand, or a sappy fruit, and someone to share it with.
However, these things can't be done over and over without destroying the thrill. There must be an element of coincidence in it, a taste of surprise, a sudden realisation that everything is just perfect, your state of mind, the person you're with, or without, and the ambiance. Then, a surge from within will lift you up, and make you soar like an eagle.
To be free, for one it is sky-diving, for an other sitting under a tree, no obligations, or eating out with friends. So, bar the obvious, what happens to be your special brand of free?
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
What the world needs now is ...
On June 11, 2009, Dmitry Orlov gave this stunning presentation at the New Emergency Conference in Dublin. On Peak Oil, there's no one like him by far.
However, I wouldn't sync with Sharon [Astyk], who felt inclined to "do Orlov" because of it, but yet, in a way, we're raking the same bed.
It's all about the gooey stuff.
When there was enough oil for everybody, world GDP kept growing steadily. But now production of the stuff is stalling, even declining, which means world GDP must fall, as it has been doing for the past year. As the economies of the developed nations consequently prepare for a nosedive, banks will not lend, how ever much the Central Banks are trying to slosh their funny money into their near-empty vaults. And why should they, if world trade has been dropping off a cliff, as is housing, and default risks are soaring? Liquidity is not the problem, the problem is a dearth of creditworthy borrowers.
As Colin Campbell, founder of the ASPO News Letter, so aptly explained as early as in 1998, crude is the root of all economic growth. No more oil, no more growth; no more growth, a systemic financial crisis, with in its wake, eventually, desintegration of society.
However, I wouldn't sync with Sharon [Astyk], who felt inclined to "do Orlov" because of it, but yet, in a way, we're raking the same bed.
It's all about the gooey stuff.
When there was enough oil for everybody, world GDP kept growing steadily. But now production of the stuff is stalling, even declining, which means world GDP must fall, as it has been doing for the past year. As the economies of the developed nations consequently prepare for a nosedive, banks will not lend, how ever much the Central Banks are trying to slosh their funny money into their near-empty vaults. And why should they, if world trade has been dropping off a cliff, as is housing, and default risks are soaring? Liquidity is not the problem, the problem is a dearth of creditworthy borrowers.
As Colin Campbell, founder of the ASPO News Letter, so aptly explained as early as in 1998, crude is the root of all economic growth. No more oil, no more growth; no more growth, a systemic financial crisis, with in its wake, eventually, desintegration of society.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Heading for home
For people who don't shrink from walking, the name of Santiago de Compostela has an ever-alluring ring. It is, and has been for ages, the ultimate destination for many a pilgrim and soul seeker. The town is situated in Galicia, near the western edge of the old continent, where few would venture, if not pressed by an urge to atone for sins committed inadvertently, but nevertheless gnawing away at their soul's supports for the better part of a lifetime.
In modern times the beaten tracks of the devout are trodden afresh by young and old alike, the former in a last stand of physical prowess against the drudgery of adult life, the latter to savour anew a taste of youthful freedom after a life of toil, and to erect a monument of personal merit and endeavour to become the beacon for the last stretch of their path through life.
In the minds of some who struggle to jump the remaining hurdles of working life without lasting damage to their physical or mental health, the eddies of longings unfulfilled, goals unobtained, and lingering dreams combine into a maelstrom of yearning to leave it all behind, and set out under open skies. For those Santiago offers a self-evident goal and direction.
Having gone the way of the pilgrim for weeks, if not for months, reaching the palpable end of the journey to non-catholics may feel like an anti-climax. Apart from the touristic attractions of Santiago's medieval city, cathedral, and teeming night-life, to the modern mind attending mass or kissing an altar stone is hardly a way to quench the flame of a burning spirit, or placate a worldly soul with its destiny.
To feel on their face the absolving brush strokes of eternity, to experience the utter finality beyond which it seems senseless to proceed, for several days they tramp on toward the setting sun, to the nominal end of the world, Cape Finisterre. There, on naked rock, gazing over the ocean's grey expanse to where the elements solve into a dim horizon, they are redeemed, and for the first time in many weeks do sense a faint stirring of nostalgia. From there on they're bound for home.
In former ages the way home used to be as long as the way onward. Not seldom the elderly and wary of way, who by their pilgrimage had been cleansed, and thus made trustful candidates for entering the Kingdom of Heaven, surrendered on the way back, never to see home again. The more enduring made for their loved ones as fast they could, and having partaken of the miracle of life from death, took up their former trades as wiser men.
A modern pilgrim treads the road to Santiago in quite a different set of mind. Wielding a telescopic gps-stick to beat the track, and flashing a camera, or iPhone at every detail or panorama on the 'camino', his mind is preoccupied by filling a blog with visual fodder and textual tidbits for friends at home, and fellow pilgrims abroad. A modern pilgrim may join the track wherever he likes. No need to set out from home, nor to return to it the laborious way. Once he has reached his goal, and updated his blog, today's pilgrim boards a train, or a plane, and will be home the next day.
Like we all know, being underway is the essence of the quest. Any goal, once attained, in itself doesn't sustain our existential needs for more than a whisper of breath. That's why there'll always be new goals, to keep us engaged, and on the move, for movement is life. I wonder whether the provisional goal should needs be Santiago for ever. Maybe the pilgrim of our time'll benefit by a reversal of directions, flying to the ancient city, or a substitute, and setting out from there, destination home.
Travelling to the end of the world, and being transported into raptures by its unworldly qualities, may be a great experience; coming home from a journey, and feeling the emotions which belong to a 'home-coming', may be an even greater miracle, and more lasting...
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