Wasting a good story in such a climate would be the worst of crimes, then, would it not?

But that is precisely what Natasha Illum Berg has done with her offering, “Tea on the Blue Sofa”.

As a writer, I’ve always suspected Illum Berg of teetering on the verge of an unforgivable amateurism, but given the path she has chosen for herself in life, I was quite prepared to give her another try. In case you are not familiar with Illum Berg – she is the contemporary Amazon incarnate. A wonderful sort of anachronism that I, verily cannot bring my self to un-admire, no matter how much effort I put into the task.

Illum Berg was born in a family of Swedish-Danish adventurers – and if there is any truth to the assumption that genes have a memory it might explain how she chose to become a professional hunter in these modern times, where the random hunting of game animals as past time or career is seriously frowned upon. In between (or while?) taking clients hunting in Kenya, she writes.

The combination of hunter and writer is a paragon of mine ever since I read José Ortega y Gasset’s “Meditations on Hunting”, a seminal position that everyone interested in the scorned (often justifiably so) craft of hunting should read well before ever thinking of depriving anyone, or anything of its lifeblood. And to this combination Illum Berg, self professedly places herself.

With “Tea on the Blue Sofa”, Illum Berg returns to world of literature with a promising story indeed. It is the tale of a bereft woman, living in the aftermath of having the love of her life shot to death (through his heart, no less), at dawn, outside the gates of her Kenyan estate. As it happens, the man  in question, one Antonio Trzebinski – painter, bad-boy socialite and wayward aristocrat was at the time still married and their love, as it were, still in that very delicate time – the beginning.

The theme of love is certainly not new in literature. But the theme of love before love is not at all as exploited. And to my mind at least, so very much adventurous ground (you will forgive me, I’m sure, for calling the tragedy of one the adventure of another?). Interesting stakes, to say the least then.

Unfortunately, Illum Berg makes an utter mess of it. The story is thin, ranting and riddled with ridiculous, meaningless, metaphors – inferior choice of vocabulary and other, as inelegant, prose. It reads like a poorly written diary, penned in anger and rancor. Adding insult to injury, the thin volume is poorly proof read – though I won’t attribute this to the writer. Worse still – and of that we can hold the author responsible;  the incoherent story all but relies on the reader having a prior knowledge of the facts of the case – which are not only obscured but purposefully left out of the tale. While such a strategy might work for some writers, it certainly doesn’t do this novel any good. Morever, what props Illum Berg chooses in her African setting only serve to further confuse the reader. A pity, since those have always been her most reliable literary assets.

There really is no need to append the book any further criticism on a literary level as Illum Berg clearly is no writer, in spite of her own personal wish to brand herself so (in all fairness, many less talented “authors” have done the same). Though I suppose some may be entranced by her cryptic musings – a deeper, critical look unveils “Tea on the Blue Sofa” for what it really is: A bucket of unedited despair, emptied in public.

Having finished the book the reader is left with questions that should have, at least in parts, been answered. One is no nearer the essence of who the murdered Tonio in fact was, or any other of the surrounding events. Nor is one any closer to Illum Berg herself as she effectively closes herself off in a bubble of self-pity and mourning. A grave mistake and an indecency towards the reader, as the marketing of the book hinges on the gospel that Natasha recognised that Tonio was the love of her life and in the brief time they spent together presumably got to know him in more sagacious ways than, say his wife, had. A fact endorsed by none other than Tonio’s own mother – at the back cover of the book.

And this is where I must admit that I was intrigued. How can it be that the mother of the murdered Trzebinski endorses the account as told by the mistress – and not the wife?

You will forgive me if I forgo the contemporary right of the Internet – to slander and speculate on the matter. However, while researching the question, I found that the actual setting for the murder was a much more baffling piece of machinery than the blunt advertising of the novel did justice to.

An article in the March 2002 issue of Vanity Fair, A Murder In Kenya – on tragedies occurred in the Happy Valley in Kenya, as it is called, and its white, vintage aristocratic inhabitants – finally filled in the blanks. Little is the reader told that the young Trzebinski who’s short life itself would render one or two Hollywood epics, was killed in exactly the same manner as another notable aristocrat in the very same area – Lord Erroll, assistant military secretary of Kenya, in 1941. Who, by chance, had also been having an extramarital affair with Diana Broughton, the young wife of Sir Jock Delves Broughton.

To confuse matters further – in a bizarre coincidence, Trzebinski’s mother is also named Erroll Trzebinski – and had the previous year written a book on the 1941 murder of Lord Erroll,  the events of which inspired a motion picture, starring Greta Scacchi and Charles Dance: “White Mischief”. A title that would become synonymous with white people living hedonistic lifestyles in Africa. Also, there were other, equally mysterious coincidences, making the story just a tad too good to leave alone. We can stop there. For the purpose of this brief article, there is little point in retelling the entire story – once again. It has been well chronicled and entrancingly written by James Fox (above link).

However, it does seems that the matter exploded in both Kenyan and English press. The link to the murder of Lord Erroll was just too tempting not to become fodder for scandalizing headlines. Given half the knowledge of just how base the press has become, one can but imagine the verbal beating Illum Berg must have been subject to as she was caught in the crossfire of the Kenyan Jet Set, aflame in murder och adultery.

To this date, Antonio Trzebinski’s killer has never been found, and so, it might be natural to assume that Illum Berg, for her own part, could be seeking some sort of closure. In the shape of a novel of love lost, perhaps?

What better way then to both acquit the murdered lover as well as scorn those who hounded her in the aftermath?

In reality, if this is in fact the case, it accomplishes neither.

Perhaps – Illum Berg should have kept her peace on the subject. In the book, she is ever the immaculate gentlewoman – and every angle possible is endeavored not to demean her lover’s name or character. A noble posture that unfortunately serves to create a lifeless picture of Tonio Trezbinski – and ends up just short of drawing a vile caricature of herself.

A sad fact that I prefer to think was purely unintentional and a consequence of, presumably, misguided counsel – and if we in fact dared to speculate just a little bit, we might even suspect Trzebinski’s mother to have been instrumental in this.

A cynic would tell you that the Eternal Champion is sort of a franchise on creativity. Instead of running with one or two main characters, as most authors tend do before their inspiration and story lines dwindle into complete banality – Moorcock cleverly reincarnates his main character from series to series, giving him a new name, complete makeover and a new set of characteristics. Sometimes the character will share traits with whoever was before (or after, or before, then after) and sometimes not. Certainly, an interesting concept at a glance. To a critical eye thought  it does rather look like Moorcock, in spite of his sprawling creativity, is stuck in the “one theme per life”-issue that just about every other of his colleagues seem to helplessly wiggle around in. He’s simply shrewd enough to give his particular version of the sf-epic a better framework than most authors care to (or are able to).

The Dancers at the End of Time, re-issued under Gollancz SF-masterworks series, is a trilogy with a very promising theme. I’m not quite sure if Jherek Carnelian, the protagonist, is supposed to be an Eternal Champion and if so, he’d be forced to be the last one (or first, depending on which way you’d spin Moorcock’s universe) – but that is of no consequence to the plotline in this case. The story revolves around the few remaining people on earth in a universe where all time is literally ending. The planets are collapsing and the few humans that are left have god-like powers at their disposal. The sole enemy (save the collapse of the universe) is boredom. Death, disease and all ills have been abolished.

In short, the flower of Terran civilisation has millions of years down the line conquered everything – save boredom – and, when not involved with incestuous activities (morals and ethics have also been overcome, as it were) – are throwing lavish parties or capturing aliens to add to their personal menageries. The hero of the tale, Jherek Carnelian – curiously enough develops an interest for the Victorian era. As his paths eventually crosses with a (female) time traveller (of that age), he is suddenly beset with the idea of Love (apparently long since extinct). Hilarity, time travel and unending, rants about the rediscovery of Love, Sin and Morality ensue. There you have it, storyline in a nutshell. And if that for some reason did not make sense to you, here’s a good summary of the plot. Admittedly, it is much better, and a lot more fair than mine.

And this is about where I must admit that I got sidetracked. What I meant to write, was a scolding review of aforementioned book – since no one else had obviously noticed the flaws that I did while reading it. And it certainly is riddled with flaws, imperfections, logical blunders, cruel misuse of science and other, as irritating errors and omissions.

But I got stuck reading Moorcock’s own scolding review, named Epic Pooh (yes, Google was involved). How I’ve managed to miss out on it in spite of all my years as an avid reader can only be contributed to chaos theory. In Epic Pooh, Moorcock lets slip the dogs of war on unsuspecting public favourites like Tolkien, A.A Milne, C.S Lewis and Richard Adams. Had he written Epic Pooh more recently I dare to speculate that the list would also encompass prevailing public darlings. Like the unbelievably inadequate J.K Rowling, for instance.

After having finished Epic Pooh, that short, chastising essay – I was all but unable to throw Moorcock a verbal lashing for his own shortcomings. I found that I simply agree too much to do the writer such a grave injustice. I leave it to the author to present my case:

“I never liked A. A. Milne, even when I was very young. There is an element of conspiratorial persuasion in his tone that a suspicious child can detect early in life. Let’s all be cosy, it seems to say (children’s books are, after all, often written by conservative adults anxious to maintain an unreal attitude to childhood); let’s forget about our troubles and go to sleep. At which I would find myself stirring to a sitting position in my little bed and responding with uncivilized bad taste.”

(Entire text can be found here – and is, though dated – still excellent).

Moorcock goes on to criticise the lacking, unimaginative, overly conservative, at times downright crude and disrespectful authors of fantasy and children’s literature, citing numerous examples and giving insights as to why, exactly, the literature is sub par. Essential reading for any parent. Or reader.

The quote above the last paragraph places a very precise finger on why I’ve avoided popular literature, even as a young child. I’ve always had a nagging feeling that I was being lied to. That someone was deceiving me on what life really was. Instead of handing clues on our environment, children’s literature cushions young minds, obfuscating issues that are absolutely central to who we are.

Looking at sales figures for say, Tolkien and Rowling – is quite an appalling pastime. Wasting opportunities for expanding minds they both chew the proverbial word-cabbage, recycle ridiculous luddite notions of anti-technology and mesmerise their audiences into believing that this in fact, is good literature. It most certainly is not. It’s oversimplified and written in contempt of the reader. Never mind that one of this time-separated pair is, thankfully, quite unavailable to make any further nuisance of himself. The same cannot, sadly, be said for his female counterpart who (by design or inability) appears to have some sort of aversion for constructing anything but the simplest, most unvarnished sentences. If easy reading is the death of reading then Rowling is indeed the Grim Reaper.

Literature of the aforementioned kind breeds half-people. Half-knowing and permanently adrift. Destined to pine for simplifications and happy endings, formulaic lives and gravely misunderstood moral codes. As a parent, is it not worth asking yourself if that is what you wish your children to become? Certainly seems a cruel fate to saddle your offspring with.

I, for one, will try not to make the same mistake; of course assuming I’d be given the chance to teach a young mind. I’d much prefer to tell of the little electron that emitted a photon than poison a child with faux-morality by way of Winnie the Pooh, a.k.a Whiny the Reality Denying Cretin.

To me, trying to explain the basics of quantum mechanics in some entertaining way – seems like much more of a fruitful, and accomplished task. Besides, it’s so darned complicated I’m guessing only a ten year old will be able to understand it correctly.

Even without the pictures.

Having said that, I’m not about to review Christian Wallumrød’s album, recorded 2001 – Sofienberg Variations. Just mention the fact that it has entertained me for years. I’ve never really been able to work about exactly what it is that keeps me occupied with it, as I’ve been for almost a decade. Perhaps it’s the flirt on the opening track with the courtly European dance, Sarabande – a musical theme that I’ve enjoyed for some time. Or perhaps it’s the simplicity of it. Perhaps it’s the slow – at times very slow, pace. No idea. But I do know that it’s brilliant.

The Spotify entry for “Sofienberg Variations” is located here.
The label is ECM Records (as ever).
And they’re slightly reminiscent of this gang (In The Country). However only slightly.

Oh, and also, while we’re talking of reviews: This is what Nick Coleman had to say about it, from Independent on Sunday:

“You should hear this record. It moves, but penitentially and quietly – a reverent elision of influences. Variations is partly improvised, partly composed, and it echoes Bach, Schubert, Ornette Coleman, Miles Davis, Paul Bley and the 16th and 17th centuries. But like the breeze, these are only influences, not anchors. The thing is actually driven by the conviction that if energy is to be expended, expend it on leaving stuff out, to create space. The ensemble comprises piano, drums, violin, occasional tenor sax and the extraordinary trumpet of Arve Henriksen. They are, of course, Norwegian.”

I think it means that he thinks the album is really great because of what it doesn’t sound like. Did that make you any wiser? No. I guessed as much. Perhaps really really good music cannot be told, it has to be heard.

I don’t celebrate my own birthdays. And given the choice, I wouldn’t celebrate another’s either. I realise that in general – such a behaviour is considered mean and borderline asocial. But that is a stark under-interpretation of something that on the surface just looks plain old rude to most. Let me try to explain.

Over the years I’ve noticed that someone who refuses, or feels discomfort in joining others in their ceremonies, is often branded with an amateur diagnosis. More often than not – of Asperger or autistic variety. And so I’ve given the situation a lot of thought. After all, I’m not a hermit (even if I often wish I were) as the situation arises fairly often – even in an average life like mine. And more often than not, I tend to be in dead centre of whatever clash is about to take place: A refused wedding invitation, a skipped birthday party – a ceremonious gathering of some sort or other – foregone; to potentially devastating social, or relational effect.

To be able to answer what it is that causes us (me) discomfort, or blankly refuse to take part in a social ceremony, perhaps we need to reverse the question and ask, “What is it that makes us accept it?”.

And what might that be, exactly? A good place as any to start with would be tradition. Ceremonies of many kinds are often rooted in culture. The kind of culture that serves to bond people (or enslave, given your point of view) to one another. The sort that establishes group dynamics and hierarchy. The sort that established an individuals brand value as opposed his fellows, if we’re to speak in modern terms. And we should – because there is no tradition left in the modern world (read that as understood as the northern hemisphere) that has gone unscathed through time. With each new day, the population of Terra states its independence from culture, tradition and heritage alike – as well as whatever historical bonds tie us to our ancestors. I’ve written about why, and how – previously. Have a look if you’re interested (I’d skip it, you don’t need it to follow this text and moreover, its more than vaguely preaching).

So – it seems we have no need of ceremonies from a purely traditional, or cultural standpoint. Yet, the church calendar still rules our time – and it is certainly by far the most popular way to mark the milestones in life. When confronted why irreligious (or just too noncommittal to even “believe”) people opt to marry in church they often state the theatrics as the cause (presumably while trying to make the vicar forgo, “the god part”). The church, putting it simply, still has a monopoly on our grand ceremonies.

There are alternatives. There is the magistrate wedding. Indeed a dreary and administrative affair. Also, we have several – amusing, but utterly ridiculous new age-varieties. Finally there are humanist equivalents to whatever ceremony the church has come up with. Perhaps save the resurrection of Christ. The humanists seem to have taken whatever an actual celebration is and brought it down from the heavens to where they say it belongs – with the individual human.

However, the humanist credo doesn’t hold up to anything but a superficial glance. Scratch the surface, do away with the rationale, the (often faulty) logic, the sickening claims to reason (often expressed unreasonably), and you still have the same old proverbial junk, albeit neatly gift wrapped into a shiny new ceremony.

Where does that place us in the search for the answer to the aforementioned question: “What is it that makes you accept an invitation to a social function?”

Whatever hue a ceremony might have – be it humanist, christian or flower power, and whatever purpose of social dynamic –  it is surely there to mark a milestone in the life of a individual. But why accept the formulaic once-a-year pattern? What significance is there to a birthday? What, exactly – makes that one particular day better, or worse, than another – of your own free choice? The answer is nothing at all. It is a convenient way of pigeonholing your years, achievements, ambitions. To, under cover of a birthday cake, make you smaller than the sum of your parts. I have no wish to subject myself to this kind of treatment – and I feel awkward when I have to participate in it for someone else.

Finally, I understood what makes me uncomfortable at social functions. It is a paradox. We’re never so self-effacing as we are at the times when we’re supposed to be celebrated. At your 18th birthday, you’re supposed to receive the key to adulthood (did you?). At 30 you’re supposed to be successful (are you?) and at 40 everyone will want to know why you’re still not married or why you’re just wrapping up your second divorce (and how did that question make you feel?). At 50, your guests will start to sum up your life like it was almost over in spite the fact that it perhaps hardly has begun (which is it?). In a nutshell: The celebrations that are supposed to elevate us in our ego,  or as members of a community – in reality serve no other purpose other than to erase or diminish us as individuals.

Celebrate whatever you wish, whenever you wish, with whoever you wish – and if you’re fortunate and have the means - where ever you wish. If we are to properly break with tradition in the manner suggested by modern society, we should give this careful thought. Not simply lick the shop windows of Christianity by having church weddings or christening children into a faith we have no intention what so ever in following. The latter is, by the way, highly disrespectful of both the self and the entire christian community (whatever you may think of it, that is not the point). Christening a child in a church without faith proves nothing except that your principles are those of an inchworm. Perhaps less, as an inchworm is not likely to invite guests into his charade, forcing them to playact as well. Or worse, an inchworm will not commit its child to a faith the child has not itself chosen. Consider this before you take up the game of social pseudo-traditions on part of your offspring.

In my world, I’d celebrate whatever I wish in the manner suggested above – at times that would be suitable to me and whatever guests would care to join me. Of their own volition, not as a part of a social must – with the threat of labelling by way of diagnosis in the event that they care not to. I’d ask no gifts (and mean it). I’d ask no honorary speeches (such as those painfully endured by wedding guests world wide), or spoken obituaries (as inflated to suit the family of the deceased). I’d ask guests to be what they are and perhaps, if they wish it – to accept me as I, in turn, am. Without the necessity to underscore social function, status, hierarchy or size of current dwelling, bank account – or cock. Simply be there and whatever you are, nothing is expected of you.

A lot is expected of guests in social functions and ceremonies. It may not look it, but break down the details and you will see a planning so careful its stifling. And it is plain wrong.

I’d propose, if it were up to me – that people set their own milestones and act accordingly. Perhaps you’re 18th birthday would occur when you’re 45. Perhaps at 15. Or never. Perhaps your marriage ceremony will take place on a rainy afternoon in Zürich, just after you crossed the lake, hand in hand walking the secret garden with your lover. You stop and give each other a look, perhaps a kiss – and you realise – that both in fact and for all intents and purposes – you just married. And then perhaps your funeral – might never take place. And your name-giving; the product of the first time you did something worth while. Like fell in love. Or saved the life of a cat. Or earned your first million bucks. You choose.

All you need for this is to realise that there are no deadlines, save a final one – and there are no real points of access – save the first one (and even those two are subject to debate from a strictly quantum point of view). Accidents, good or bad – happen – and they are no tragedy and in the end no cause for customary celebration or mourning. They simply happen. They are stateless. Like the light, they just happen.

Nei varchi di luce.

One foggy morning in early April, on an ill-advised flight enroute to a grim, joyless and historically laden destination in Russia – an equally ill-advised and foolish decision was taken. That decision, along with the usual chaotic assortment of parameters led to the crash of the presidential airplane. As the plane struck the treetops, and seconds later, the ground – all onboard were killed. The fact quickly made media cover stories all over the world. As condoleances from across the planet steadily drifted into Poland, the country itself seemed to grind to a complete halt. For brief hours, the world indeed seemed to hold its breath as possible causes and victims were debated. Within the span of mere  days however, the world – being the world – quickly forgot the whole ordeal. After all, even in our overexposed, near-global society, nothing is news for long. With about the same speed as the incident lost media coverage across the globe, it gained momentum in Poland.

And to be fair, its understandable. To some extent, at least. A significant number of country officials and government highbrows managed to squeeze their inflated personalities into the same, Russian-made airborne deathtrap, Tupolev. As the Poles rushed to commemorate the grim Katyn-anniversary all caution had been abandoned. Never mind being uninvited and late for the official ceremony (said deceased president not being a great protege of the Russian government that hosted the event).

For any company, anywhere in the world, putting all of its executives into one plane (and of ill-reputed, Russian produce) is unthinkable. Obviously, putting most of the proverbial eggs in the proverbial basket – is not of proverb status in Poland (or didn’t use to be, at least). So, the Poles were faced with the tricky, but far from impossible task of replacing said deceased officials. In time that would happen. Even the Poles seem to have contingency plans for these kinds of crises. But it wouldn’t happen before blooming out into a full-blown, tragic, nationwide spectacle of irrationality.

Personal drama, random, altruistic, kindness toward strangers and grieving families aside: We’re talking about politicians. Historically – hardly an irreplacable lot. In fact, they quite often display a rather interesting Medusa-like quality, at least speaking in terms of survivability. And while certainly a tragedy on a personal level, this was hardly a loss of any thoughtful, intellectual elite (the word “elite”, being unfortunately heavily overused immediately following the crash). Not in the grand scheme of things. These were not the scientists, artists and thinkers that would save us all.

But I digress. Because who the passengers of that unlucky flight actually were is of absolutely no consequence. In any way. They could have been important, they could have been just a bunch of right-wing follies and friends of said follies that for all intents and purposes probably wouldn’t have had (politically) survived the upcoming re-election anyway. No, the nature of the problem is the intepretation that the Poles almost collectively pinned to the event. With that nationwide, disgusting habit of theirs, they immediately forgot all about rationality and attributed the accident to God’s work (or the Russians, but even the most paranoid of Poles soon discarded the idea, thankfully) – and to whatever arcane reason said God might have had. Never mind the fact that some prominent personalities of course saw the accident as a way to immortalise, nay, canonise, a mediocre, daft, impopular president. No, The Poles chose not to see the accident for what it actually is, and for what all accidents to some extent are: a case of bad luck. That, and the fact that few things, if any, had been done to stack the odds in favour of that ominous flight.

Statements made in the press by guests of the president that for some reasons couldn’t attend the ceremony, thus escaping the accident were ridiculous, not to mention outright ignorant of their own faith: “I’m guessing God had other plans for me”, said one. “I escaped the ordeal through the providence of God”, said another. Amazing, in truth. And what an affront to all of those, and families of those to whom this providence of God obviously did not extend. Now, that’s the Catholic spirit for you: “Hooray, I live, praise God, never mind that all of my brethren are dead!”. Do the Poles really not see the existentialist nightmare brewing in statements as those?

Or perhaps, might it be so that as humans, we wish to keep our views of things unaltered, unchallenged and rather than accepting facts that would make us change our view of ourselves and the outside world, we simply tune events to become what we wish them to be. And how can a whole country succumb to this sort of magical thinking?

Einstein once said that: “God does not play dice”, but that was said as an outside defence to the mounting evidence that not only does God play dice, there are irrefutable facts pointing to the fact that the dice might be the actual God. And that any intelligent design, fate, and the existence of a human, sentient race is a very minor, very interesting circumstance – amounting to nothing but luck. A shot in the dark with ongoing results, the riddle of which has baffled the world of physics for close to fifty years, ever since the human race arrived at a place where we had the actual means and knowledge to pose the question: Are we – or are we not the product of an intelligent, sentient, design (God)? Obviously, there are things we do not yet know. But we understand the universe. And we understand that it all comes down to quantum decisions, made deep inside the atoms. Not an outside God. Still, the Poles hang on to their metaphysical crutch.

To my mind, few things are worse than hanging onto dead concepts. To pray to Gods, long ago departed – who’s ears are no longer here, but who’s judgment certainly still lingers on, causing irrationality: the murky, cumbersone waters where religion breeds.

Meanwhile the current Polish, mediafuelled hysteria has reached such epic proportions that any number of foolish scenarios have become possible, doing away with the most apparent benefit of the accident: the creation of a space where new ideas and new opportunites can take hold.

And its a shame, really. Instead of intepreting things that are best left uninterpreted (no, there is no need for humans to understand tragedies – save one thing and one thing only – they happen. Frequently), the Poles could try a different approach. If, and everything seems to point that way, we’re here by an near-incredible stroke of luck, that also means that we are indeed free to try and win, or lose, at the gigantic roulette of life. You hold the cards and there is no clandestine, opaque plan for you, manipulated by some deaf, galaxy-wielding, borderline retarded God. You’re in control. And you’re responsible.

This fact alone seems to scare people into any submission available to them.

To the obvious benefit of a dominating part.

So.

Cui Bono?

EDIT: May 19th, 2010

Unfortunately, I feel obliged to add something to this piece.

Ever since the crash, the Polish authorities have been trying to lay the blame for the incident on the pilots. The official investigation as to what actually took place concludes  (hints rather) that they (the airmen) repeatedly ignored warnings from the Russian flight control centre. In so many words, it creates very convenient scapegoats. This in spite of the fact that Mr Kaczynski (or is it St. Kaczynski now?) has a troublesome record of interfering with flight regulations by way of enormous, inflated ego. In spite of the fact that he fired a previous pilot for following security procedure and not landing in a hot zone.

The Russians are doing the Poles an enormous favor in keeping the results from the flight recorder, or black box as it is also known, under wraps. Because what almost most likely happened was the fact that the Polish president once more intervened, forcing the pilot to land the plane in bad weather. This time, unlucky for all of those on board – the pilot did in fact yield to his request, with catastrophic result.

Ultimately, one shouldn’t judge the pilot even though in hindsight, he probably should have just told the willful leprechaun to sit down and get stuffed. But the leprechaun also being the president, he might have been fearful for his job. Especially since said leprechaun has a history of persecuting pilots that insist on following proper flight procedure.

In a way, I suppose blaming the pilot is necessary and has its own twisted logic: After having nothing short of canonised aforementioned leprechaun, I suppose that it would make a bad dent in his glorious halo should the world ever find out that he was an evil little, self-centred, prestige-hungry, thoughtless, imbecille bugger. The part of the world which was not privy to the fact already, that is.

For an outsider, it might be hard to understand the wide eyed Swedish, borderline morbid fascination with the more sickening aspects of European WWII and post WWII-issues. More literature of this kind receives accolades in Sweden than in almost any other country in Europe. Steve Sem-Sandberg’s praised account on the persecution of the Jewish population of Łódź and more notably so, the granting of the Nobel Prize in Literature to the mannerised and overly emotional Herta Müller are but two examples of the trend. None of them are particularly interesting in any novel, scientific or cultural way.

Why are Swedes so fascinated by accounts on the suffering of the Baltic States? And why now?

Could it be the latent guilt of not participating (openly) in WWII? Or is it the plain and simple fact that the nature of the Swedish soul, so succinctly captured by Bergman, has isolated them from the heartland of Europe and now, over fifty years later, they’ve finally mustered some infinitesimal strand of courage and opened the door to peer in what the country’s closest neighbors have been laboring with for decades? Guilt is certainly the most Swedish of emotions. Collective guilt is what they excel in. So, what better when things become too hard to bear on their own soil but to project it onto unsuspecting neighboring states?

It might be that the answer is laughably simple, as most answers regarding human behavior usually are. Simpler still than being about guilt: Swedes discover other countries by way of mouth and groin. What can be eaten (or screwed), can also be adopted and loved. The sheer number of Thai restaurants in the country closely follows the pattern of vacationing Swedes in Thailand (in excess of 350 000 Swedes make their way there each year – a staggering number considering a population total of just above 9 million inhabitants). Similarly, Swedes discovered Estonia because they could go there for a budget vacation, at convenient boat cruise length. And much like in the case of Thailand, for the cheap and moral-free sex (even so accepted as to being culturally parodied). Because after all, what you don’t soil in your own back yard, according to prevailing human morals, you don’t soil at all.

There is no inherent shame in this; it’s just how things work. Consider The Germans, and the incessant drive to dominate and invade things – whether financially or by force. The Americans share a similar enthusiasm, but for other reasons. The Swedes eat and screw their way through the world (which, incidentally, I personally consider a rather innocent, almost childish motive).

It is with no small amusement that one watches the present Swedish society marvel at the horrors of the Second World War, where almost all of Europe toiled and suffered – and then watch them take up a humanitarian and moral stand to it considering why they got interested in the facts to begin with. Now stories need to be told, social trials need to be played out in public and common guilt needs to be accepted by one and all. Amusement borders on tragedy however when prominent culture critics such as Mr. Eklund hail the mediocre, formulaic works of say, Oksanen – while almost entirely foregoing the vast body of work already written on the subject.

Why the insightful, hard to read (and hard to bear), difficult work of Aleksander Wat (the biographical novel, “My Century”, in particular) is never mentioned can only be a testament to the modern sloth where prerequisite knowledge is almost totally subjugated in favor of cheap emotion-ridden ready-to-feel literature. Say that of Oksanen.

Wat was there. In the middle of the internment camps, in the middle of communist Russia. He lived for it and he died from it. It is an affront to intelligence to have to bear the presence of postindustrial, gothrocking Lydia Lunch-lookalikes and the hacks who hail them. Say Mr. Eklund, to name but one – though he is nowhere near alone in his limitless, borderline moronic adoration for Oksanen.

Another factor in play might be the fact that Swedes, while well versed in their ancient, Viking heritage, are almost totally oblivious to their own contemporary history of the last 50-60 years. They live in a housing system they do not understand and complain about it incessantly (mention “Gunnar Sträng” to the common Swede and he will look at you dumbly). They live in an undeserved economy that was founded from the ground up via the Marshall Plan. Money routed to Sweden that was turned down by the Soviet Union. Funds that were supposed to re-build war-ravaged countries in Europe. Not miniscule, unnotable nations of an absolutely war-spared North! The economic aid that was destined for Poland and many of the Baltic States that Swedes now so openly, and laughably, lament – was used to build this very nation’s economy. Again, ask the man on the street and he will, once again, be oblivious to this fact.

It’s a bit late to cowardly dodge the war, steal the victim’s money and now, over fifty years post-fact start some sort of population-wide guilt campaign where they lovingly rediscover the horrible heritage of neighboring countries that they’ve blatantly ignored for an equally long term, if not for longer. And rediscovered it by way of sex-tourism, no less (although this point can be argued at length – I’ve certainly simplified things for the sake of argument). Pathetic, transparent and typically Nordic, behavior.

I shiver to think of the hug-to-death-sessions that might take place when most Swedes, and their cultural prophets, will discover the atrocities made in far less years than those fifty during the second world war. What of the bloody revolution in Poland in the beginning of the 1980’s? While that war-torn land was fighting it’s way out of communism – Sweden didn’t even cast a second glance (actually, some in fact did – but they go on uncheered and unacknowledged to this day). But boy, they were – like totally – there – for the celebrations when the Berlin wall actually fell. You’d think they pushed the damned thing down themselves. I suppose that in those days of freedom frenzy, no one noticed a couple of uninvited Swedish bystanders in the cheering crowd.

The rest of Europe has moved on since the war. There are new troubles and there are new areas to explore. The Swedes, historically at least, stand in the same muddy cesspool that most of their closest neighbors have left long ago. They keep sending one-eyed, crying explorers into the Baltic backwaters of Europe, or their confused senior relatives of Eastern Europe – without a rudimentary understanding of how, why, what, when. Anything that would anchor an understanding to their statements. Then they go on to write politically correct accounts of the historical suffering without the benefit of first-hand experience. Adding insult to injury, the cultural so called elite of this nation goes on to praise campy and stilted authors, such as say, Oksanen.

Here’s a tip. Europe doesn’t need your Swedish guilt or your naive, child-like investigations. Participate – for real, or get the hell out of dodge. In literature, or elsewhere.

So, for the purpose of readability in this brief article, I will refrain from quoting philosophers, prominent marketing professionals, media gurus, notable PR-people and postmodern academics whos views, theories and joint knowledge I could have deliberately inserted in whatever I am about to present in an effort to further my own opinion. I’ll simply not do it this time and you’re going to have to trust me in not doing so.

Setting the scene

Last week a tragedy occured in central Stockholm. A young boy of a mere thirteen years plunged to his own death while “touristing” in one of the cities many underground canals. He had payed a small amount to another boy who, acting as guide, took the former on a stroll through the forbidden (and forbidding) grounds. In the process something went wrong, the young boy slipped to his death and the older, the guide – simply took off, presumably fearful of facing the consequences (a lead motife it will turn out, as it were in this moral tale). He still hasn’t surfaced to this date and the police have little hope of him ever doing so. The dead boy was somehow found and hauled out of the deep drop. I’m not familiar with the exact details of the scene, but there you go. These are the irreputable facts.

Now – media, being media, quickly caught up with the story and it was indeed front page news for a couple of days. Bereft parents were interviewed while concerned city officials and other major players presented their views on the tragic situation – police waving the forbidding stick and the men in charge of security shaking their heads, calling urban exploration a global problem. You get the idea.

Though, what at first glance looked like a freak accident quickly found another avenue for investigation. The setting, a closed off underground canal of some sort, also happened to be a hotspot for the many Urban Explorers that, as a pasttime and passion – visit places just like this particular site. A swift, but not necessarily fair – connecting of the dots all but blamed the UE-movement for inspiring the boy to head off on this fatal adventure.

Somehow, the reporter covering the story for one the tabloids, presumably after some online research, found an internet forum, 28dagarsenare.se (a reflection and play on the name of the english UE-site, 28dayslater.co.uk), where one of the Swedish authorities on Urban Exploration presides as moderator. Jan Jörnmark has written a number of excellent and hugely entertaining books on the subject and is more or less associated with the phenomenon of UE in Sweden.

Furthermore, his view are held in high regard by both readers and probably a great many practitioners of Urban Exploration. Mr. Jörnmark was interviewed in connection to the event and gave off a concerned and very correct and admirably presented statement. Kudos to him.

Pre-emptive strike opportunity lost

In spite of my many other more urgent interests, I’ve always kept a keen, boyish in truth – I suppose, interest on Urban Exploration and, so naturally, this piece of news immediately caught my eye. I concluded that if Mr. Jörnmark was interviewed, chances are that the forum, mentioned in the article – was more or less being raided by media and public alike.

Being a part of the all-pervasive communications industry, its my day-to-day job to navigate my clients through the murky and dangerous waters of public affairs, media exposure and press management – on and more often then not, offline.

In short, and against better judgement, I decided to openly write down a few suggestions to the management of the forum on how to deal with the media. Simple things like arranging a decent FAQ on how to practice UE safely, pulling together a special page for the press with edited details regarding UE and its practitioners, including some useful facts; and the like. The basic stuff for making the job of understanding easy for hard-pressed journalists. While in no way claiming that my advice is a panaceum for all media ills, or even the one rightful path, I did honestly believe that I pitched in an effort to help the forum out of an ill-boding situation.

Because as far as casual advice goes, it is a fact of our overexposed society that there is no better place to hide than in plain view. If you want to disappear your colors have to blend in. You need to inform the press properly if you want them off your back – and you have to do this in a prearranged pattern that they’re likely to understand the contents of without pressing you further for what might not even be a story. This is not selling out and it is not an invasion in any way. Its an informational hygiene that you either adapt to, or stand the risk of misinterpretation. It is the way the game is played if the game is to be played successfully. A pre-emptive strike, as it were.

The response

Not surprisingly, reactions to my suggestions were rather on the negative side. Some members acknowledged the need to communicate with the media and at least partly concurred, but the response from the majority quickly depreciated into less eloquent and at times even unpleasant personal attacks on me (and not my case) followed by a torrent of denials dismissing the  necessity of communication.

A heated debated followed shorty after, with members adding input in the neighbourhood of: “we’re not responsible for the actions of others, all you need is common sense”, “how can we be blamed for something that happens outside of the forum”, “we’re not an official club, we don’t need a spokesperson”, “let’s turn off the Google indexing so that visitors won’t find us again”, “lets close the forum to the public”, “go f*ck yourself and wave your credentials elsewhere”, “lets forget the whole thing, it will blow over, stay calm”, “this isn’t a problem, we all know how media works”, etc.

In all fairness there were moderating voices but these quickly drowned in the deluge of members sticking their heads in the sand or worse, shooting them off in ignorance.

What then, can be learned from this – aside from acknowledging the fact that dishing out unsolicited public relations-advice on the net is not the best pasttime for communication professionals on extended lunchhour breaks?

I began to think through the turns my simple and straightforwardly put suggestion had sparked and found, what I believe to be nothing less than a subculture on the skids.

Dragging subcultures into the open

Urban Explorers, as a demographic, are an industrious, creative, charmingly rebellious – and usually; utterly irresponsible lot. Incidentally, much like any denizens of just about any internet forum out there. But perhaps in this case, even more dangerously so.

Urban exploring is by no means a new phenomena, and while it is not this articles place to examine it in any scienfic manner (moreover, I promised in the beginning that I would refrain from quoting outside sources) – it can be useful to know that sometime during the industrial age man found enough time to reflect on his past, and indeed, become nostalgic of it. Nostalgia, in its purest form – is a ridiculous, cloying and unworthy pasttime for thinking individuals. It is often worsened yet and preceded by its irrational little sister: sentimentalism – the cheapest of human emotions.

Curiosly, Urban Exploring has dubious roots in para-urban exploring – but without said sentimentalism. Romantics have since the dawn of time reveled in the reminiscing of old ages by means of visiting ruins and other man-made relics – more often than not, situated outside settlements.

It is not until fairly recently that UE has exploded onto the scene as the number of relics have grown exponentially. Abandoned factories, sanatariums, powerplants and other colorful, rusty remnants of a rampant globalisation have for years littered both urban and rural landscapes as the ever-advancing armies of trade and capital changed the parameters of survival faster than society could adapt to them.

Over the years – rusty, decaying buildings have attracted both the casual onlooker as well as the amateur photographer. But there have been those that were not satisfied with a perpetual look on the subject matter: Urban Explorers often probe these old sites and buildings for motives of their own. Why? Well – for one, the sheer joy of it. In this shrinking world where borders fall in onto themselves and any place is reachable (in some manner) with a few clicks, it is refreshing to find a place where few set their foot. A simpler explanation would be that humans like to explore. For joy and for discovery alone. Or perhaps for the sheer, rebellious hell of it. After all, any place with restriced access is as much a provocation to trespass as it is a deterrant against trespassing. Great many of these places are, in spite of often being locked into legal battles, owned by someone or something and not legal grounds for anyone save any (mostly absent) caretakers.

No matter the motive and the pattern of discovery – with the arrival of the internet, urban exploring changed in nature. From a solo, almost boyish adventure, on occasion accompanied by a camera – to a form of sport where the actual discovery goes hand in hand with the documentation of it. A not so unimportant factor in the game of UE-credibility is the attitude and relationship of the discoverer to the object that has been discovered. A “virgin” site, hitherto undiscovered (or at least, documented) is worth a lot more attention from the UE crowd than one that has been visited on numerous occasions. Most practitioners of UE would probably deny the fact if you asked them, but there you go, that’s the game of attitudes. Oft visited sites tend to decay inasmuch as they bear evidence of recent trespasses and their popularity vanes over the time on display.

In time, an entire self-fuelling subculture has spawned around these abandoned, fascinating and often mysterious sites. A subculture like any other, save for one small detail. The whole thing hinges on the fact that publicity, while coveted by our modern explorers – just as fast kills the cat. The more prominent the sites, the faster they drop in popularity.

There are other problems, one of which I’ve already mentioned. Trespassing on these sites is often forbidden by law. While seemingly a small crime, I wonder what sort of complicated stories Urban Explorers tell their insurance companies when they fall through floors in places they should not have been in, incapacitating themselves in the process. One mans personal tragedy becomes anothers financial risk. Or perhaps there are insurances to cover this?

And so we’ve involuntarily arrived at the third factor: safety. Safety, as one can imagine is troublesome at best in these circumstances.

From one aspect, what is dangerous is also interesting and so an intrinsic part of the game, but often the risk just cannot be calculated justly and while there are no official statistics (to my knowledge at least) as to how many of our spirited adventurers actually injure themselves in this cumbersome task of documenting the past – it would be a safe bet to say that it would be quite a few more than had they chosen to cast a glance for afar. Of those personally known to me, all have some sort of painful story to tell in that respect.

The young boy that plunged to his death a few days ago certainly underscores the dangers of urban exploration. Moreover, his death might point to the fact that Urban Exploration has grown itself past the point of the favoured pasttime of a daring few, to the joint responsibility of many. I shall try to explain why.

The fall of  Urban Exploration by way of ignorance

Urban Exploration has become all but an institution. Numerous websites, discussion groups, books, magazine features and all the media coverage your run-of-the-mill cult can carry, coupled with overexploitation of digital technology kills trends quicker than you can say URL. And that is certainly the case with UE. It is no longer an elite wink between a select club but something that is overinformationalised, categorised and pegged down to the last Googled, iPhoned coordinate.

UE needs the limelight so that the members can display their findings, but at the same time, that very same light kills the sport as it is not only based on exclusivity (partly because some of the acts are criminal) but also on exposure of the sites that have been visited and documented. Put simply, when you drag a this said subculture into the light, it doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.

And a great deal of the responses I got when posting my advice on how to handle this unexpected limelight confirmed this. In fact, some of the responses were not only outrageous but even borderline juvenile. To debunk some of then: Stating that one bears no responsibility as group or individual for publishing information on a forum that could lead to the endangering of others is a blatant declaration of incapacity. Furthermore, referring to the “common sense” of a thirteen year old in the same sentence is a rather serious mistake, especially since it in this case lead to a young mans death. No adult can count on the “common sense” of a child. No one.

A note on the usage of the term “common sense” in debates. “Common sense” is not an indivisable, lucid term and it is only with some difficulty that a group of people can agree on what common sense actually means. While not claiming to have the absolute answer for this, I’ve noticed a sliding scale of the usage of said term in debates and in particular, online debates. Worse yet is the fact that whenever someone refers to “common sense” it is usually to cover up a rather muddy agenda, as if waving the wand of “common sense” would explain and do away with any unpleasant arguments. This, to me at least, represents a form of “magical thinking”, akin to that used by small children and people suffering serious illnesses. Thats why I always prick my ears a bit further whenever I hear the term being used.

As for the argument of waiting for the whole thing to blow over: again, irresponsibility. The problem of accepting that whenever you publish information about a site that could lead to others visiting it, and injuring themselves in the process – you have a moral and ethical (not yet legal, but this can and in most likely probability will change some time in the future) responsibility. It’s the devils prerogative; he can’t push you to commit the crime, but he sure can instill the desire in you to do so yourself. Afterwards, the devil will of course, rid himself of any lingering guilt. After all, it was you who tread those stairs, was it not?

The members of the forum claim, almost in unisom, that they do not need a spokesperson that the media could talk to (I also read that they don’t need help as they already “know” the media, which is not only untrue but shows an apalling lack of judgment. Just because someone is the recipient of media does not make him anything more that just that. A passive recipient. It is a bit like saying that you know how to pilot a plane based on the fact that you fly regularly – as passenger).

Yet again, a mistake and miscalculation. Media has already selected a spokesperson. The only thing that actually mitigates the whole sad, miserable, affair is that the spokesperson is unusually gifted and apt in handling media attention. For the time being it sufficed. Next time – and there most certainly will be a next time (there have already been other cases, but none involving deaths – again, to my knowledge – I have not duly researched this), the UE community might not be so lucky. Already borderline associated with thugs, graffiti-artists and shady activities of less savoury citizens, UE is nothing short of a media-disaster waiting to happen.

The press, being the press, have  jumbled any fringe cultures, subcultures, trends and groupings and made their own interpretation of UE. And a very unfavourable one as thing stand now. Pinning graffiti artists and Urban Explorers in the same group is just not good research – these are almost opposing factions – but in the public eye, they are one and the same.

In the long run, this unwanted and unmitigated attention, coupled with misinterpretations like the one above – might lead to a lobbying for the passing of certain laws (i’m sure you can imagine the nature of those laws), making the blatant displaying of borderline accepted activities a case for the courts, not admiration. Or worse. Any unwanted, unregulated attention calls for greater scrutiny, particularly in our modern society obsessed with the concept of “security”, “fear” and a systematic eradication of “the unknown”. UE as a concept, group or trend, not ready to accept the outcome of its presence in the limelight, and even already crippled by internal disorder amongst members of opposing factions – will suffer the penalty of any quarrelling group: splintering into fractures, each fracture conviced out their right to exist and promote (or not) their own views.

In short, the fall of public UE as they know it.

Lost opportunities

Which is, all in all – rather a shame, really. What makes Swedish UE so interesting (and about the only thing that makes it interesting – our sites are to say the least – not near as impressive as those over in the U.S.A or the European continent even), is its spokesperson: Mr. Jörnmark. He wasn’t the first Urban Explorer to document the decay. He was, however, the first to put them into a real and vivid context. Explaining the process in words (as it happens, by way of his area of expertise, economics) and captivating it in well-taken pictures turned out to be a public success, spawning three volumes of well-recieved books.

For the first time in a long while – modern history came alive in a way that had hitherto not been explored. In succint, wonderfully crafted text Mr. Jörnmark explains the Swedish, and indeed, global history in a captivating and unrelenting fashion.

Apart from being a terrific read, the works of Mr. Jörnmark are followed by a large group of more or less dedicated fans. And so, the phenomena has been outed in a fashion that in hindsight seems unfit considering its main characteristic: being clandestine.

My effort, to show the UE-practictioners of the forum then under pressure, was not aimed at making them more known or forcing them into institutionalisation (that part they’ve managed all too well themselves as I’m sure they are going to realise in the near future) – but was an effort to hide them in plain sight. We do not ask any deeper questions we can easily find the answers to, the modern, popular, mind is simply to… simple for that. This is in particular true of journalists (yes, that was a jibe). It is an unfavourable situation: Exceedingly few members of society have the power to play such sinister havoc with our passion, lives and indeed; secret groupings – as journalists do. Lately, the social media prophets have unsuccessfully tried to claim this crown-and-staff, but as of yet come off as nothing short of loudmouthed clowns. Much to the leering smiles of professional journalists.

The point – was to make sure that UE would attain the status it deserves and once and for all free itself of its murky past. UE can teach us a great deal of things about our recent past that we need to know in order to attain a decent future. Generalising the matter a bit, but only a bit; around the world, the UE culture is nothing more than a uninteresting and unending display of corrosion. Ironically tragic, when speaking of hiding in plain view – the words behind the very visible corrosion, the explanation behind the entropy is almost always much more interesting, crucial even – than most of the substandard Photoshop-damaged, formulaic photography. It almost makes you long for the times when photography and imaging were not a concern for the general public. That however, is a different gripe altogether.

In conclusion, refusing to take responsibility when in public view is both dangerous and naive. When picked up by the media radar you have a choice to play well or to play badly. Not playing is simply not an option. The idea of the format is visibility. And there are simple, almost selfexplanatory rules how to play this game well. Deluding oneself that one can display something, anything, on the public stage and then wash ones hands of any consequence is a failing strategy, and an attitude that the media loves to tear apart. In full view, of course.

The only other, logical, consequence would be to disappear from the public eye once media attention subsides. It will certainly not undo the bad press, but it will not provide such ample opportunities to make mistakes next time something like the aforementioned tragedy occurs (and it will happen, accidents are patient in nature – much more so than their prey). For all intents and purposes, there are those in the UE community that probably wouldn’t mind slipping back under the radar of media society. Perhaps, that would be for the best. That is however not my case to pass any further judgement upon.

And so, instead of taking a step forward and claiming a rightful place – UE has, as a movement, subculture, hobby – or whatever its dubious, capricious, practitioners would like to call it; proved itself naive, uncapable and to be quite honest, rather uninteresting in their ritualistic narcissicm. There is no standing on the stage and not performing to the rules of the house. Not with the media involved. Try as you might, there is no escaping the laws governing the value of visibility – a value much more liquid and volatile than can be spotted at a glance. Especially so by sticking the proverbial head in the sand.

One of those educative points was a musicloving uncle who handed me a much-played record by “Orchestra of the Eighth Day”, a recording by the ominous-sounding title, “At The Last Gate”. That record, more than any other I recall from my youth shaped my idea of what interesting music could sound like. Orchestra of The Eighth day, in a few words; was an ad-hoc Polish experimental band spearheaded by Jan Kaczmarek. They played a form of crossbreed between avantgarde Polis folk, jazz, ambient and minimal chamber music. It was one of exceedingly (to my knowledge at least) few bands to have made it past the border in communist Poland. The year was 1984. The orchestra seems to have dissolved shortly afterwards. A few scattered records remain here and there. Kaczmarek himself seems to have moved on to the more lucrative field of scoring (american) film music. A shame, perhaps. But we all need to make a living I suppose. It worked for Glass, after all.

To my surprise (I lost the record in a rather dumb incident a few years back), I found this hidden gem of Polish experimental music (ever heard of Fischers Fidola?) on this, rather excellent, jazz-enthusiast blog. It also features a download link that I in no way will tell you what to do or not do with. The author writes in Polish, but there are English summaries below each post. Highly recommended.

Re-listening to the opening tones of “Rondo Con Fuoco” brought back memories, even if I remembered it as a far more powerful composition (I must have been thriteen or fourteen when I first heard it, so I’m guessing I was much easier to impress back then). The years have however treated it kindly, and it still holds up well today. Well worth a listen.

The only trouble with this assumption is that a random shooting of the wolf population does next to nothing to improve the overall genetic health of animals. It does, however, vastly improve the trophy collection of the lucky shooter. Both scientists as well as the general population have agreed on this point: The only realistic way of improving the genetic pool would be to remove flawed cubs and to introduce new individual wolves into the breed. The first is practically undoable (since the only realistic way of finding out if a cub is indeed substandard genetic material is to kill it and do a full autopsy), but in order to sanction the event, the Swedish Hunters association agreed to the second. Something that they’re now backing out of, threatening to kill off the remaning wolves as well.

I won’t go into the public debate or any right or wrongs; because what Guillou so brilliantly describes in his article is the actual heart of the matter:

1. The hunters care nothing for the health of the animals: They covet the trophy alone.
2. In the rethoric employed by the Hunters Association is something infinately worse than any random bloodhunt: The ancient controversy between an everbleeding, dying, rural Sweden and the evergrowing urban population.

For the first point, there is nothing much to be said. Trophies are a fact of hunting. They are however, far less philosophical than they used to be. I will get back to that in a few paragraphs.

And as to the second, the articles in the Hunters Associations periodical, speeches and other public media are statistically biased to the point of outright lies and the rethoric is one seething with anger, humiliation and hate for the urban population of Sweden. The rurals accuse the urbanites of being “ecohuggers” and “idiots”, or even worse, “Stockholmers”, referring to the preposterous idea of living in the nation capital.

The rethoric is understandable, and forgiveable. Rural Sweden has fared exceedingly ill after the economy shifting towards industrialism around the 1950’s, thus leaving a culture based on agriculture, then a few years later moving on to a service economy and in the process almost completely eradicating any basis for economic growth in the rural areas. The best minds, and able hands, left for the cities, or other nations, the factories slowly bled out; what is left are those who would not, or could not adapt – and those violently opposed to the changing times. The conflict of the wolf shooting is not about ecology and it is not about the fate of a few animals, it is the cultural divide between an almost ancient and dying, rural culture – and the urban shift towards an urban one. If one would be that way inclined, it could even be called the rigor mortis of the rural subculture.

What further complicates the conflict is an almost neofeudal, Swedish tax structure. The proceeds and taxes earned in the three major urban areas are redistributed to keep the vast rural areas alive. In essence, levies from wealthy cities pay for investments, healthcare and other municipal expenses in parts of the country unable to sustain themselves. Too few people live rurally and those that do, are statistically at least, further detrimental to the state budget in various, less charming, ways. The system is a yoke put on urbanites and has done little to further the relations of the two groups. For all intents and purposes, this way of governing has furthered the economical divide, seeping into all areas of cohabitation.

Both rural and urban sides struggle with their identities. The ways of one are the camp jokes of another. Urbanites struggle with the reigns of economy in an accelerating pace, demanding an almost pervese attention (Lang’s Metropolis comes to mind); and the rurals struggle with the receeding end of that very same chain. If the past 50 years are indicative of anything I’d say the rurals are at the losing end. Economy isn’t a patient lover at all. The life support of the major cities will continue as long as there is anything to be gained and once even what small progress can be acheived will dwindle, there will no doubt be voices raised, impatiently, proclaiming in so many words, even if they will be more eloquently put: “Fucking die, already”.

A few final words on hunting, and the role of it in any modern society. Hunting, the sport of kings – is in as much ethical turbulence as are the two groups practicing it. The essence of hunting has changed greatly over just a few years. From survival to sport, from sport to… recreation. Because what is blatantly apparent is that hunters of today, care little for ecology or nature. Most of the modern hunters are too absorbed by their rifles than they are in forestry, or ethics. Historically, the best hunters are those that cared for nature and animal alike, understood the delicate balance and when it was their place to intervene – and when to step back. Hunting was as much a scholary activity as it was a necessity. You had to know something about an animal and its life in order to end it. In short, ethics, morality and ecology were in balance.

Today, in order to become a hunter, there are no such requirements. The process is easy and most of the emphasis is on the actual handling of the gun. The Hunter as archetype is dead and what has taken his place is a gleeful individual, much more at home in the NRA (National Rifle Association, the home of gun-toting “freedom-loving”, Americans who just cannot understand the concept of not shooting things) than in the forest. Ecology is biology, ethics and philosophy. These things take time to understand because they affect us in far deeper ways than an instruction in how to clean the muzzle of your rifle. The idea is that by the time you learn the ethics, and the system, you will no longer feel the need to drive out to the woods and kill something and then have a beer over its carcass. I suggest that anyone, absolutely anyone – who feels the need to become a hunter, should be made to undertake a lengthy education into the ecosystem that they’re so eager to pull bounty from. If, by the end of that education, preferrably completed in one of Swedens agricultural universities – that individual has fully understood what it truly means to hunt – then that person should be awarded the rank and license of hunter. I’m betting that we’d see far less hunters in the future than the roughly 270 000 individuals who have a license like this today.

A brilliant starting point for this journey, would be Josè Ortega y Gasset’s “Meditations on hunting”. While pointing out that hunting is in man’s nature, he is often misquoted by the bloodthirsty hunting mob of today as advocating what is a modern hunt. Far from it. What Ortega y gasset in essence writes about is the ethics of hunting and the responsibility of the hunt. This is not to be confused with easy pretexts to go and kill something. Finally – what the author presumably also knew, is that man changes and the premises for what being a man is, also change. Perhaps, we finally need to stop killing for fun.

Now, how about that, rurals?

There is, however, a more troubling and a far more complex issue at hand. The fear that we as a modern civilisation have lost our historical anchor, our historical narrative is affecting us in many, often adverse, ways. If we settle on the fact that the Bible used to be (in the west) our cultural framework, our narrative and that this narrative has over the centuries been supplemented and amended as humanity reached conclusions that were in effect contradictory to it; it can also be concluded that our sum of knowledge is the sum of our findings. Be it from philosophy to history and over to the natural sciences. Every culture needs a book of creation and every culture, be it east or west, has one. Note that it doesn’t need to be an issue of religion, which is essentially a mediator between you and the narrative (and as you reach higher levels of knowledge in history and science, usually a useless one at that). Do not make the mistake of confusing the practice of the narrative with its task, i.e explaining why we’re here in the first place.

In the west, we have demolished our faith in the narrative without ever really replacing it with a sound alternative. Quite simply, we as people are far less sure about who we are and where we came from – then we ever used to be. Couple this with the (often faulty) onslaught of information that the Internet (amongst others) brings us and we are truly at risk of severing all ties to whatever history and science could teach us. For lack of a joint belief or consensus, we create our own stories, our own narrative. Even if the results are nothing short of catastrophic. See, for example, of how media has drained what used to be the symbols of our civilisation of any real meaning. Everything can and will be a joke in AD-land. Satan being used to sell soft drinks? No problem. Newton on a pack of chewing gum? Hey, why not, maybe someone actually heard of the guy?

What has in essence happened is that we no longer live in a culture, we live in an economy. It is evident in the way that we percieve values and transmit them. Just about anything has an economical value and if it hasn’t it is either inconsequential or worse, threatening. Culture is looked upon with much suspicion and what everyone seems to know about it is that it usually “does’nt pay off much”, sneering at its practitioners that at best can hope to perform like dancing bears in the pinnacle of Economys own translation of culture: TV (and, the Net).

When reviving culture – or practising it classically, one is often assaulted with the clever, but essentially faulty argument of: “Why should we listen to dead white males?”, thus putting a gender and class obfuscation on the whole matter. It is a rethoric of the masses and quite alarming as it puts the core of the matter out of focus. Why? Because, class and gender aside (there are ways to explain it, naturally, but that is not the aim of this short text) – we used to have a civilisation built on the best minds that mankind could muster (never mind how these minds were selected!). The fact that these minds are no longer interesting or worse, labeled as “boring” (because a well brought up citizen consumes and wishes to be amused, not taught) has tipped the whole discussion into a sidestreet where those  Judeo-Christian symbols have lost the power to unite.

And thus, each person, each cluster of people, each clan in fact, has to find their own symbols and icons. Sometimes in faux religion, sometimes in pop culture and sometimes in nothing at all. The ball is out there for grabs and it’s up to anyone’s prowess as salesperson to convince the audience as to their particular brand of “truth”.

This, however, is nothing new and we’ve been living with the effects of this ever since Mcluhan first wrote his groundbreaking work. The process has been further described by Postman. The latter also offered a sort of solution for the modern mind.

What IS new, is that the explosion of social media has transferred from being a simple buzz to becoming an accepted form of learning. Social media is educative media in as much as it is a new way of learning: Tribal learning. We trust our tribe to tell us the truth, however vague, unresearched and bland this truth might be. And however cultureless.

This is what happens when you cut a civilisation adrift, far from any narrative that could hold it together or perhaps explain matters more clearly. We, citizens of the Net, find our symbols or make them up from haphazard and superficial result from a search engine. We believe what others say and purchase goods that others believe in. It is a vicious circle that erodes away on the foundation of why and what a little each time we choose to believe (or purchase) something “new”. Economical growth is what defines our existence and the illuminati are those that purchase and consume in the finest of ways.

There is essentially, nothing wrong in consumption. There is essentially nothing wrong with (true) freedom or financial growth for that matter either. It enables us wonderful things. There is however, something terribly wrong with not bothering to understand, on a deep, human level, what it is we are consuming, for what purpose and better still: That we did not come from buying things, we came from a line of ancestors who carried with them the idea of humanity. Not humanity as a function of economy alone, but as a product of history, science, culture AND economy.

I recently visited Rome, Italy. Having high hopes for the Italians as the cradle of European (however bloodthirsty) industry and civilisation both historically and thereafter, I was much disappointed of the state of affairs in old Rome. I recall that after WWII, the Italians, however poor, drew on the fact that they were, historically, a rich country. Culture, again. They knew that they had the works of Raphael in the Sistine chapel and they knew that they were from a country that gave birth to both Da Vinci and Vasari as well as countless other giants of that calibre. It did not matter much that poverty was everywhere because they had a form a dignity that allowed them a slow rebuild without lament.

It turns out however, that culture, has lost its meaning when finally wrung through the mill of television. And what’s even more apalling, Berlusconi-controlled television. Their icons and symbols have been replaced by cheap, mindnumbing propaganda and TV-shows with lightly clad women in place of debate and insight. Geographically, dead centre in that once proud capital, stands a fascist monstrosity called the parliament building. Drawing on the power and repute of old Rome it looks like something Walt Disney would have designed in spiteful caricature of an ancient culture. Berlusconi continues – applauded, and unhindered whatever tradition any fascist ever came up with.

Italy, and the Italians of today struggle with the same societal myopia that pervades much of the west. Once again, cut adrift from a cultural, narrative framework – we’re left with nothing but economy and no means to interpret it properly. Or go beyond the simple transaction of sale and purchase.

And so, it seems that the benefits of an updated, albeit classical education, are once again important. Perhaps more important than ever. In order to consume, citizen, you should really take it upon yourself to answer the question: “Where did you come from?”