For a number of years, I’ve quietly watched as our human hatchlings have been struggling to carve themselves into the public eye. Generations, and the characteristics we place upon them, are a compound of many a different ingredient, such as: social stability, changes in demography, fashions and trends, economical development. Global climate may play a part, too.

So what characteristics does Generation Hatchling have, then? What mighty struggles have they overcome, what fabulous rites have been inscribed onto the hallmarks of history? Well, to be honest, not a whole lot. Apart from the habitual faux sturm und drang of identity seeking, parent killing (in a Freudian sense, usually) and general lofty mouthy declaration of their uniqueness, there seems to a lot less substance about than it used to be. In anything, the Hatchlings are a tad bit more confused than Hatchlings used to be. The first real generation to be raised in a dishistorical, unreal, arbitrary content of the global village – is, in short, a pathetic lot to leave your testament to. At least for the time being. Some may recall Neil Postman’s warnings regarding the perils of being brought up in a context high on technology and low on content.

Raised in peaceful, digital, times and nursed to near-death by anxious overcompensating parents, the Hatchling society of Youth has come forth as the Generation Nothing Very Much.

“We’re more ambitious than our parents”, the 19 year old, digitally renowned blogger will say in her interview – on the assumption that going to school just “isn’t enough”. Quite. Intriguing. Do tell.

And she does. She goes on to tell how being bullied at school infused her with a sense to act out. To start a blog and write about it. As a form of revenge. She goes on to describe a more or less insignificant existence, with the same rollercoaster ride of achievements and defeats most children in the west have always faced. In that respect, nothing new.

Except that it somehow catches media attention. Somehow, this lightweight existence is passed off as news. As something grand. The generation born with and on the Net. Yet, confront a Hatchling as to the nature of the Net, the workings, the nuts and the bolts – and you’ll end up with a very confounded customer, not quite sure how the thing works. Just that it does. Oh, and the fact that he wants information to be “free”. Never mind not being able to define “free”. Or even give a reasonable cause as to why information suddenly has issued volition.

To grow up, to become and adult, is all about learning how to stand on the shoulders of giants. If Generation Hatchling is ever to become anything else than Generation Ransom Note, they’d better get savvy to the fact. After all,  there’s that other crowd in the making, quite ready to inherit Youth.

Youth. That traitorous flower you’ll one day find – lying face down in the mud.

“The Committee of Public Safety (Comité de salut public), created in April 1793 by the National Convention and then restructured July 1793, formed the de facto executive government of France during the Reign of Terror (1793-1794), a stage of the French Revolution. Under war conditions and with national survival seemingly at stake, the Jacobins, under Maximilien Robespierre, centralised denunciations, trials, and executions under the supervision of this committee of first nine and later twelve members.

The committee was responsible for thousands of executions, with many high-profile executions at the guillotine, in what was known as the “Reign of Terror”. Frenchmen were executed under the pretext of being a supporter of monarchy or opposing the Revolution. The Committee ceased meeting in 1795. It was set up to organise the defence of France.” (*)

Stockholm, New York, London, etc. 2010.

Boundless mobs of internet-enabled geocitizens cheer, much like the tricoteuses of the French Revolution, as Wikileaks – a sectist Committee of rogue hackers and information apocalyptics, spearheaded by celebrity crypto-rebel Julian Assange, release classified material for public online viewing in an effort to punish the US military for its actions in Afghanistan – with hopes of making the latter withdraw. The release of the stolen documents is justified as to improve transparency in government activities thus leading to reduced corruption, better overall government and stronger democracies.

History, will teach us nothing – is the title of a once performed pop song. Hope as one might that it be not so, the events surrounding the numerous Wikileaks-affairs, unfortunately once again confirm the title rather than dispel it.

But let us return to the The French Revolution for just a moment.

Because it was a bloody, wanton, cruel, unnecessary affair. A painfully clear, object lesson in how badly things can turn out if we strive to change one social system and try to establish a new one while breaking all of the rules at the same time. For some odd reason, it seems that we as human race  need to kill (in a literal sense) whatever was there before to establish something new. There’s some deluded notion that a state has  to go through the Zero Level of Jacobinism, utter treacherous secular fanaticism – to be able to establish a working people’s democracy. We need to commit the worst crimes, to live out all of our taboos, to break anyone and anything in the process. This pattern, this drive, can often be found among the middle classes where there’s an intellectual fashion to propagate the idea that in order to achieve a higher level, we, indeed – need to overthrow all individual rights.

In fact, no one stated it better than the lead slaughterer and mythical figure of the French Revolution, Maximilien Robespierre, when he stated that:

“To punish the oppressors of humanity is clemency; to forgive them is barbarity”

And here’s an interesting parallel. On the surface, there are some striking similarities between the front-men of both aforementioned movements, the French Revolution and what is the debacle of Wikileaks. We cannot be certain that Mr Julian Assange will take any pride in sharing traits with Robespierre, indeed, we cannot be certain he even knew of the man’s existence – but for all intents and purposes – both are, were, very pragmatic. Even relentless, borderline Siberian – and most of all, quite well prepared to manipulate the public in order to achieve personal ends.

But here the kinship between our dubious bureaucrats ends. Because as Robespierre was said to be the incorruptible moralist, displaying an almost uncanny spirit – right up to and including his unfortunate decapitation; his modern counterpart plays the role of liberating, pan-democratic, information-toting hero about as well as a corner lout, leering, mocking the mob that enabled him to rise to power.

The difference between them is in the posture. Robespierre was establishing a framework of morality, even if he in fact was establishing it from that dreaded, horribly zealous, Zero Level. He thoroughly believed that he was an agent for and of the people (even though he displayed terrible selfrighteous traits that in the end – got him executed). He believed that the system of ethics he was setting in place was replacing the old one.

Observing Julian Assange, as he prances through the public relations quagmire that is Modern Global Media – is a tricky task. On the surface, he comes across as a balanced, quiet man. A missionary with a difficult charge. A respected fellow of humanity out on a Quest of Truth and Honour. And indeed. He has captured the hearts and minds of many a citoyen. And until you analyse his cause thoroughly, look at it from a number of perspectives, there’s a ground level attraction there that undeniably calls for an automated blush response of support. People agree simply because they do not find any grounds to disagree, even before they’re obfuscated with the knee jerk political philtre of the Left; that whatever hurts the US, simply must be good business and has to be embraced without asking too many exposing questions.

But as one looks deeper, and even observes Mr Assange personally; ugly things turn up. The flash of anger, quickly subdued. The sneer of the mouth, hastily camouflaged by a smile. And so on. But those are all adventitious – and can be attributed to a man tired of running from the agents of the governments he has angered. What is far worse is that when confronted as to the reasons behind his quest, his response is: Revenge.

Revenge, as anyone standing on decent ethical ground will tell you, is an exceedingly poor motive for action. In almost every case. “Squeeze the bastards”, Mr Assange will sputter in an unguarded moment, deepening the image of himself as rightful crusader of information intelligence.

Revenge, is the key point for analysis of Mr Assange’s actions, and while we shall return to it, it briefly needs to be said that whatever turn the Wikileaks affair will take, few on this planet will ever know the complete truth. Mainly, due to lack of insight. Because truth, is not relative. Truth is absolute. Truth is about counting in all of the right premises and bearing the responsibility for them. And if you have not arrived at truth, then you should restate your premises. If nothing adds up, some of the things you believe; know, even, your premises – are wrong.

In essence, and leaving philosophical arithmetic aside, there is misinformation on both sides of the conflict. A government will absolutely need to be clandestine about some parts of its operation. But as Wikileaks have shown, and contrary to their stated mission goals  – are not above editing material to manipulate the “truth”. This, referring to the video displaying the US operation where a number of people lose their lives.

Certainly, it is an information war going on – that can stress taking sides. And if you happen to be someone, choosing side, or re-evaluating your current position – you might want to ask yourself if you in fact, can handle the truth – and moreover, if you can take a personal responsibility for it. And if the answer to that question is a, truthful, no – then it might well be suggested to look elsewhere for the daily dose of egocentric media salvation.

Helpful phrases such as: “Who would you like to see in charge? And do you really think that war can be avoided even if the information evangelists were to reveal every last single piece of puzzling truth out there?” – might set you on your way towards some enlightenment. However, these are all questions beyond the scope of this brief essay and while certainly being paramount to us on a personal level – these words aim at something else completely.

(Though I strongly suggest that Mr Assange, fellow crusaders and other capricious Company do have a look at Jean Baudrillard’s statement regarding the war on Iraq: “That it doesn’t exist” – and at least try to interpret that through the rotoscopic media lens that they’re very much a part of).

Leaving right’s and wrong’s aside, we can now return to the motive of revenge, that Mr Assange has stated as his credo. Not only should a statement like that ring suspiciously in the ears of the any decent geocitizen, it should be utterly disqualifying were it not for the fact that we live in a time cut off from history, morals and ethics. Julian Assange knows the value of the media and has, up to now, played it well. Though it has for all intents and purposes crippled his organisation, Wikileaks, it is of no apparent concern to him.

Any half-baked terrorist will tell you that the way to a successful act of terror is not to have any targetable leadership. Any number of leaders, or cells rather, should be ready to commit whatever act needs to be done according to the organisation. The invisibility of leaders is what has kept terrorist networks so successfully out of the scope of governments and surveillance. Mr Assange has no need of such hypothesis. Instead, under the very dubious cover story of threats from the US government he has decided to “step forward”, playing the part of media darling to unending crowds of slothful, drooling reporters.

Reporters, that seem to have lost all sense of perspective. Were they still awake and not under fire from the maelstrom of social media citizen-journalism, they should have been able to notice that the last remaining holy grail of the traditional press is… the actual reporting. The ability to send a correspondent to a distant location. The ability to dig for information and put it across, well written and photographed – to the audience. Not as means for revenge, personal ego-time or blog traffic fame. But as a part of The Job.

Alas no. The reporters and media of today seem to be quite content being fed scraps from leaked, nay, stolen (why not call things by their rightful name?) documents that are advertised as war-ending but might well start a bloodshed of their own once the Taliban start to figure things out for themselves. That might, however, take some time – bearing in mind the scale of Taliban ability for reason and analysis. They do however score top marks for persistence. So we might see it happen yet.

Thus, being thoroughly let down by the Media who sponge any source possible, lacking their own merit (some social media shamans as well as a number of ill-advised reporters have even been scribbling contrived models for “the future of journalism” – which might just be the end of both coteries, if we’re lucky enough) – the last gate keeper of ethics would then be the audience itself.

Again, we’re let down rather badly. The Uniform cry of the geocitizen, the daft social media sheep herd, rallies alongside Mr Assange in the quest for “liberating information” – a theme that is as naive as it is improper in itself – and those who are against seem to act simple agents of the opposition, high on disinformation and whatever conspiracy theories are, on an hourly basis, served up by “secret” online forums. There simply seems to be no moderate, balanced, reasonable voice at all. Well, perhaps save this one.

All through this twisted vaudeville, we can imagine Mr Assange to rather find the whole affair pleasant. Propelled to internet famedom and then recently on to becoming the Global Media Mascot of 2010, it is probably a much more enjoyable life than that of the petty hacker and science journalist-nobody in the backwater of Terran consciousness that he used to have. Even if it does entail not really having a home and being fashionably on the run. Who needs a home anyway when you’re playing the part of People’s Hero, Julian Bond?

At least, he was enjoying himself, presumably thoroughly, until two Swedish women recently decided to contact the authorities with rape accusations as People’s Media Liberation Hero presumably rubbed them the wrong way. Or failed to understand the concept of “no more sex, thank you”. A nasty accusation indeed, that would tarnish the reputation of any self proclaimed egotistic PR-maniac, for sure. While said accusations and warrant of arrest were in fact retracted briefly after the matter being publicly reported, the official investigation is still pending a resolve. Needless to say, being an untiring, bold, information crusader clearly is no obstacle if one feels the need to take some time off for casual serial fornication with Swedish females.

Incidentally, when asked to respond to the rape spectacle, Mr Assange is very diligent in protecting his own private life, stating that whatever has taken place is between him and the females involved. How very trite. So, all of the sudden privacy is of the essence, then? Furthermore, confronted as to the identity of the two women – he responds that as they’re not stated by name in the media, he has no clue as to who they are. Which, frankly is not good news. Because either Mr Assange suffers from severe memory loss – or – he’s fornicated with so many a female in the past week that he’s simply discarded the pair.

While we shan’t procrastinate on exactly why two women simultaneously would choose to publicly accuse Mr Assange of that shameful act of rape – or what that, n.b, might tell us of his sexual prowess, mana, and skills of bedroom persuasion – but it does bring a rather interesting idea to mind: What would happen, for instance, if the results from the police investigation and the two girls accounts were publicly “leaked”? What would happen if the true identity of Mr Assange were known? Medical flaws, sexual preferences and toe nail discolouring included? Would it be right? Would it be just? Would it be fair? Would it be beautiful? Would the Mob still cheer happily on? (Of course they would). The first person to start www.julianassangeleaks.com gets a cookie.

Meanwhile, in the Old World, striving for personal motives on the backs of others is very unbecoming to a Hero.

There really is no need to point out any further flaws in Mr Assange’s character or ability to carry himself. Clearly, like any other human being, he enjoys the benefits of being a Media Rock Star. The groupies (albeit partly unwilling ones), the travels – and the fame. And clearly, he is a man desperately out of his depth.

Julian Assange is however – in all essence, not the real culprit.

The Mob and the Media is to blame for this fiasco of human thought. For this sad theatre of human forgetfulness. The former is a guilty of not thinking at all – and the latter for not thinking enough.

The 10th of June, 1794.

Robespierre has supported and helped pass the The Law of 22 Prairial, also known as the loi de la Grande Terreur; letting slip further, sickening, random justice on the people of France. 22 Pririal simplified the judicial process to one of indictment and prosecution. It limited the ability of the accused to defend themselves, broadening the scope of those who might be brought within to scrutiny of revolutionary justice. The penalty for all offences under the jurisdiction of the Revolutionary Tribunal was death.

Julian Assange founded Wikileaks to help a similar event take form, some two hundred years later. Passing designless justice, leaping to conclusions and publicly flaying individuals at a whim by way of the Internet.

Robespierre was subsequently executed for his crimes, at the hands of his own peers. What fate awaits Assange, if he continues on the path of the ones that altogether forgot their history?

(*) Quote partly from Wikipedia.

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.

The 18th century Dandies – history and literature will tell you, were, amongst other things, very much about cultivating equal parts extravagant fashion, an air of careless richesse (inherited, stolen or simulated), a flair for intellectual jousting, a taste for more or less refined melancholy (often dangerously perching on downright whining) and an Balzacian, self-reproaching, emotional detachment. Being dandy was about being rebellious in style. And one chose whatever “style” said rebellion would be best expressed in. A proper Dandy seemed not to care how many people he offended, but at the same time could not exist without the scandalised crowd – so a sly eye on the effects was vital. The paradox between the two is what allowed the Dandy his substance.

Much like the hipsters of today then, right? The ones we see carefully leading their fixed gear bicycles (no proper hipster would ever try riding it in public – imagine the shame and loss of prestige would it be formally known that said person actually hasn’t understood the physics of it) to the ecologically correct grocery store – certainly by way of just-right-dirty-cafe (of the not-so-franchise-variety) and wearing the Ultimate Ironic T-shirt.

They’re also about fashion, in an unsavoury, unfashion-i-dont-care-way. They’re also about cultivating the detached emotion while outwardly exhibiting “happiness”, or “irony” or some other, easily simulated emotion that in no way has to be explained save the fact that it exists. I’m sure you know the kind. At least if you live in a fairly large city. Large enough to allow bike lanes and several cafes.

How come then that absolutely nothing – a big, dry hollow zero – seems to come out of the Hipster Movement whereas its 18th century counterpart managed to produce a very interesting body of work? No great literature, no amazing poetry, no worthwhile music, no agenda except for the adopted one, no formal stance on the Arts, no material that analyses anything save itself?

Worse still – an intellectual vacuum is created where the modern hipster will leave behind him (or her, though hipster females tend to teeter on the fine edge between salope and chienne thus placing them in another category altogether – that of the unpaid sex worker) – a seemingly endless wake of “ironic” photography portraying their disdain for everyone and everything, huge bar bills, flavourless and egocentric blog posts and just about any other thing that will record how it is to be young and carefree.

Apart from the lack of acumen, there is also one other distinct difference between the dandy of today and of yore: The modern variety suffers from an almost hostile view towards truth and reason. The fake is better than the real, the imagined and invented is valued above the honest. There were tendencies towards this with the 18th century crowd as well – but never due to what I presume are the modern reasons of lack of effort, discipline and perhaps even something more unflattering: the simple fact that, frankly, most modern hipster-dandies have in their lifetimes achieved the sum total of a staggering nothing. No wonder that they prefer the fluffy comfort of imagined, pink clouds. Learning, doing, and achieving things is after all rather hard work. And that is not a modern concept at all.

A Swedish blog, Highbrow (sic!) portrays this beautifully in a (presumably) meta-ironic post. A picture of a typical hipster nobody taken somewhere in a public place (is it a bar?) – along with the caption: “What are you?”, followed by the laconic answer, “I’m young”.

On the money. You’re young. And nothing else. At all. Presumably ever – as young doesn’t really denote an actual age anymore. Though I’d agree that by and large, that’s a good thing – if you’re prepared to look past the sad fact that people are likely to live longer and thus cause far more nuisance that they would had their lives ended sooner.

Aforementioned blog also makes elegantly crude fun of the hipster tendency to associate himself with anything with even the smallest whiff of vintage academia, preferably of Ivy League variety. This is where the real comedy starts for people witnessing the movement and have any kind of decent education: The hollowed out shell of the modern dandy has taken every external attribute and matched it to no form of content except the recycling of one-liners, stolen ideas and a very brief understanding of what someone who in fact has an education should have a grasp of. In other words, purchasing a fixed gear bike and and a (ironic) tweed suit is likely to do a lot for your image – but next to nothing for your education. Yet, in our modern world – they are virtually interchangeable.

At least as long as the impostor is not challenged with having to display the knowledge of the air he pretends. Which, in turn, is not likely to happen since modern dandies are (much like their historical counterparts) a rather unsociable lot and prefer to rub backs with like minded, nay, like-looking, individuals.

True comedy indeed, then: The text book equivalent of the Imbecile (or courtly Fool), walking in the clothes of the Scholar. And it is as (involuntarily) funny, as it is inevitable.

Branding – the branch of marketing concerned with creating an image – is constantly looking for new areas to exploit and new victims on which to re-package and furnish ready-wear and other such, very important consumer trinkets. While certainly healthy for the GNP – assumably highly detrimental to both mind and (actual) academia alike. Point illustrated in one of more misled campaigns of the Swedish advertising year: The (ehum) – rowing race between two of the more expensive Swedish private schools that for lack of actual academic merit shall stay nameless (a state probably constant until the inevitable collapse of the solar system) – sponsored by the Swedish impostor brand: Gant.

True meta-comedy indeed: Two sets of teams, as furnished economically as lacking in talent and wit – sponsored by a brand who’s marketing directors are presumably wetting their chinos by the prospect of upmarketing stale apparel previously favoured by 80-something’s to a younger, more discerning crowd. All neatly coloured in the shades of English rowing teams of former times.

It has, incidentally, previously been argued that Gant’s wear is ideal for older men since the hues in which the clothes are produced are second to none in hiding the consequences of a prostate problem. Spelling it out: Pee yourself in a pair of Gant chinos and your mates are none the wiser.

Though one really can’t blame Gant. With a dying demographic, what is one to do? Apart from trying to peddle the stuff to someone else, of course. And as previously noted; it’s a charm for the Swedish GNP.

And so we come full circle. The market, being the market, catches a trend and fuels the already hollow hipster movement, throwing it a spin or two in the barrel of fashion and in turn producing a second generation of hipster, those that did not catch on in the first place – ending up with an even more colourless gang of sad customers, likely to reproduce the chain reaction even further down the economical food chain.

Brilliant!

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.

Here’s a video from the song “For Now” on the, as always excellent alternative, Vimeo:

“Getting close by going far away
Going far by staying here
To the kind of place
Where loneliness’s travelling best”

And here’s a link to Feiner’s own website: www.thomasfeiner.com – you can listen to all of the songs on the album there. The complete recording can also be purchased via David Sylvian’s label, Samadhisound - which in itself is a guarantee for being a choice piece of superbly crafted music.

Enjoy.