Soap Bubbles

It was inevitable that I'd be tempted to post on this. I haven’t read all of it yet. I am not going to buy it, because the excerpts I have read are beige to the point of condescension. Stephen Hawking’s "The Grand Design", a search for an answer to the question “How did the universe begin?” has led him to suggest that the creation of our universe and others simply “does not require the intervention of some supernatural being or god.”
How remarkably original.
He writes: “Until the advent of modern physics it was generally thought  except by mystics and the religious that all knowledge of the world could be obtained through direct observation, that things are what they seem, as perceived through our senses. Puleeze. Most of us got this far when we were sixteen. But the spectacular success of modern physics, which is based upon concepts that clash with everyday experience, has shown that that is not the case. The naive view of reality therefore is not compatible with modern physics. To deal with such paradoxes we shall adopt an approach that we call model-dependent realism. Nice soundbite, but it still looks like a Mobius strip to me. It is based on the idea that our brains interpret the input from our sensory organs by making a model of the world.  Quite so. Our ‘model of God’ is as much of a construct as Schrodinger’s Cat. When such a model is successful at explaining events, we tend to attribute to it and to the elements and concepts that constitute it, the quality of reality or absolute truth. But there may be different ways in which one could model the same physical situation, with each employing different fundamental elements and concepts.” Indeed there are. Part of the problem here is that a knowledge of fantastically difficult mathematics does not – and indeed will not – get us, as Einstein put it – any nearer to the Old One. Probably. “If two such physical theories or models accurately predict the same events, one cannot be said to be more real than the other; rather, we are free to use whichever model is most convenient.” As long as such convenience does not challenge an exclusively rational worldview.

He goes on.. “To understand the universe at the deepest level, we need to know not only how the universe behaves, but why". M theory (of many universes, arising from nothing, some of which may be able to spontaneously generate sentience and ‘life’) purports to answer at least some of these questions.”The image of God blowing vast soap bubbles is irresistible.

Chapter One, at least, of “The Grand Design” is clankingly prosaic. Professor Hawking’s mind is, one assumes, so vast that he resorts to trivia to engage his intellectual inferiors, in other words those who will buy his book. “If you think it is hard to get humans to follow traffic laws,” we read, “imagine convincing an asteroid to move along an ellipse.” Pass the bucket. His co-author is Leonard Mlodinow, (not a million miles from Nimoy, or Spock, is it...Tee hee)  a physicist who worked on “Star Trek: The Next Generation.”  As one critic puts it, "the air inside this literary biosphere is not especially pleasant to breathe", rather like a rubber duck developing synergy with a steam engine. 

Setting up religion and science on yet another blind date, which invariably ends up with tears before bedtime, is ultimately futile. Who is he trying to convince? Believers will believe in any case because their reality constructs do not necessarily need rational explanation and the infidels will say "I told you so." As far as juxtaposing religion and science, high walls make for good neighbours.

Gnomes and Pools

It's still Ramadan. Every year, the traffic gets more manic, the time to drive to the mall gets longer because the queues are so long and there's nowhere to park. People sit like gnomes at the restaurants, waiting for the Iftar prayer. It's odd. They've ordered already, so as soon as the call to prayer comes, they expect the food to be brought without delay. I watched a family of, shall we say, the more devout variant (short dishdashas and uncut beards) where the greybeard patriarch held his knife and fork vertically, waiting.

It feels new and different, and yet, it isn't. My new apartment is a rather more muscular stone's throw from the sea, well-appointed but stupidly designed. It's impossible to fit a new toilet roll on the holder in the master bathroom because the cistern is in the way - a paradigm of existence here. The flatscreen TV doesn't work because the RF aerial has been fitted incorrectly and the signal isn't strong enough. The pool is very small - one not very adventurous plunge bangs my head on the far wall and the water agitator is too powerful so it's like swimming in a jacuzzi. And why do these people love brown so much? It must remind them of the desert. My sofa is light brown and the curtains dark. Perhaps I'm simply becoming a professional whiner. I was cheered by the IKEA brothel light with tasteful red bulbs, however. Should people knock at my door at 4AM I'll know what they want.

I should be grateful. At the airport, a group of frightened looking Sri Lankan women were being herded by some species of oberleutnant towards a desk where they were made to stand in line, clutching pieces of paper while a pen-pusher of some kind 'processed' them. It sent a shiver down my spine - I wonder where I might have seen images like this before - I half expected someone to issue each of them with an armband.
The images are flat. Like my mood. But, the AC is new and works fine.

Unbearably Light Bricks

I was picked up at the airport last night by a good friend. We spent little time in bite-sized small talk, communicating more with the kind of grunts that two guys who know each other quite well tend to do. He said 'You look good" which I took to be complimentary. 

I found myself wanting to review, dissect, reconfigure, deconstruct and otherwise recontextualise the summer, to bounce thoughts off him, to put the emotional toy bricks back in their boxes, properly stacked in order of size. 

But, it doesn't work like that, much as my obsessive-compulsive sock-ordering, library of a mind would like it to. In a world in which lives are shaped by what appear to be random choices and by fortuitous events, a world in which almost everything occurs only once - or appears to - existence seems to lose its substance, its weight. Hence, Kundera's "unbearable lightness of being" spills from conceptual to contextual realities. In other words, it's nice to loosen up a bit, let the dust settle and chill for a spell. In the light of that, a few images. These have no connection, no theme, either chronological or artistic. Like a Rothko painting they're not supposed to be thought about very much, just enjoyed.

A Piece of Cake

The French, and in particular, a certain social category of Parisian are an obsessive people. Particularly about pastries. During the last ten years, pastrychefs have come out of their flour-infested closets and are marketed like fashion icons, bringing out their summer and winter collections and hiring the hippest designers to outfit their showrooms. They're not called 'shops' anymore, apparently. Squadrons of tiny multilingual Japanese hostesses or, being polite, androgynous young men, await your presence, eager to show this season's collection. The clank of Cartier is palpable on expensively attired wrists and the muted buzz of conversation punctuated by the delicate click of the designer cake-forks.

All this, of course is because I went out the other day in search of tea and buns. I was informed that "La Pâtisserie des Rêves" the cakeshop of dreams, was THE place to scoff and more importantly, be seen to be scoffing. Thus, attired casually, I made my way to the rue Longchamp in the rather chic 16^th. I was greeted by perfect and extensive dentition, a tour of the glass-encased delights and a stool so small I could barely sit on it without overbalancing. I waited patiently. Fifteen minutes passed, during which time, I had listened to half a dozen different conversations, heard about three divorces, two drug-related issues and a school refuser, but nobody seemed inclined to offer me a menu.  Picked up my spoon. It was filthy. ‘Khallas’  I muttered. Armed with the spoon, I walked up to the desk, invited the slack-mouth behind the desk to consider the reputation of his establishment, the tardiness of his staff and the cleanliness of his kitchens in the strident and slightly booming tones of a rather ticked-off Englishman. Heads turned like stalks as I made my way with massive dignity out on to the street. Went to ‘Ladurée’ on the Champs-Elysees instead.  Ancienne maison, marbled table, comfortable chair, silver spoon and 'religieuse' chocolate. Class will tell.

Films I Want to See

Cinema frequently disappoints me. Some movies just look better on a big screen, the ones with guns and testosterone, or improbable flying lizards, others, in small constrained settings are comfortable to watch on a laptop monitor. I also find myself weary of predictable plotlines and resent playing guessing games with the director for the next slice of action.

Not much left, it would seem. Or, perhaps not. Quite often, the more a film is hammered by the critics, the more I'd like to see it. It's nice, too to have read the books first, which movie critics seem to do less and less.

For example, "The American". George Clooney. Art house with firearms and the moral dilemmas faced by an executioner. Might be interesting, especially with an unknown cast and filmed in the Abruzzo mountains. A grown-up Jason Bourne, perhaps. The twaddle-merchants (barely pubescent juveniles with little experience and no taste) seemed on the whole to dislike it, which means I'm quite looking forward to seeing it. Perhaps I've seen too many European films - which look different to Hollywood eyes.

According to one critic, the tough-cool tradition of classic French crime dramas lives in Anton Corbijn's thriller adapted from the late Martin Booth's 1991 novel "A Very Private Gentleman". Locals in the southern Italian town where he lives call him Signor Farfalla - Mr. Butterfly - a discreet gentleman who paints rare butterflies. His life is inconspicuous; mornings spent brushing at a canvas, afternoons idling in the cafes, and evening talks with his friend the town priest over a glass of brandy. Yet there are other sides to this gentleman's life: Clara: the young student who moonlights in the town bordello. And another woman who arrives with $100,000 and a commission, but not for a painting of butterflies. With this assignment returns the dark fear that has dogged Signor Farfalla's mysterious life. Almost instantly, he senses a deadly circle closing in on him, one which he may or may not elude. Part thriller, part character study, part drama of deceit and self-betrayal. H'm. Interesting. Novels and films about ageing, the past catching up with you and self doubt are probably not good for me but at least keep me honest.

And Now For Something Completely Different

No. This is not a reference to Monty Python. Be advised, clicking on the above link may be injurious to your mental health.
The eighteenth arrondissement in Paris is quite a paradox. On the one hand, Arab restaurants offer free Ramadan food after sunset - it's late here, 9:10 last night - to those who can produce a valid social security card, hundreds of backsides pointing more or less away from the direction of Mecca ( yes, think about it...) line the pavements at prayer time because the mosques are too small and too full. The image isn't mine - my camera battery died, but this from near the Omar Mosque in  1991 captures the essence of the scene. These days, there's a high police profile and they clear the roads so the faithful are all squashed on to the pavements. Photographed by Jalai Abbas (Children of Abraham).
On the other hand , there are secret hideaways for the very very chic and at 240 euros a night, few of the faithful on the pavements will be able to afford to get through the door of le Kube Hotel, four stars. There's one here and one in St Tropez. It's unique in Paris since it's the only one with an ice bar - called - what else - le Ice Kube. 

On arrival, you pay your 38 euros and are provided with arctic clothing. Inside, the bar and walls are made of ice and the temperature is -10 Celsius. Unless you're Canadian, in which case you might think it quite mellow, your stay is limited to half an hour. In that time, you get to taste four or five different vodkas. In my serious drinking days, I couldn't imagine myself here. Its frequented by rock stars, I am told, plus other well-known faces. Mine will not be photographed along with the frostbitten famous, I'm afraid, but I couldn't resist a few arty-farty shots.

The exterior. White blob on left is a polar bear. Quelle surprise...

The Ice Kube. From without.

A Mystery Worshipper in Paris

Just by way of refreshment of memory, I thought it might be nice to go to Church yesterday. There are zillions to choose from. All Catholic. My views on papist heresies are worthy of a Camisard and will doubtless earn me several thousand years more in Purgatory, probably shovelling incense droppings or some such. It was something of a relief to discover that there were other establishments more in tune with what passes for theological reflection in my fevered brain, and I selected the American Church in Paris as a suitable venue, not least because it advertised a service at 1:30 in the afternoon and I didn't get up till noon. This from their web page.
"Our contemporary services are an exciting and fulfilling way to worship God in a different, less traditional setting. With a relaxed and dressed-down atmosphere, the one-hour contemporary service is led by our pastoral staff and includes modern praise singing, led by a song director. The sermon, which is the same sermon given in the traditional services, is presented by one of our pastors."
I relaxed. I dressed down (principally because I don't remember how to dress up) and presented myself at the appointed hour on the quai d'Orsay. I wasn't altogether encouraged to be greeted by endless rows of creaking Victorian pews, but haemorrhoids notwithstanding, I parked myself and adopted a suitably churchlike expression, amusing myself with the current copy of the church magazine. The worship band wasn't bad, actually, but regrettably, nobody seemed to have quite got the hang of the notion that in a worship service, the idea is to, well, join in and worship a bit. They were using great material, the projection was clearly visible from the back, but the congregation, of variegated age and nationality, had a spectator mentality, hardly sang at all and actually applauded at the end of one of the songs. I know someone whose patience would have worn a bit thin after the second song (Here I Am To Worship) and almost certainly would have, let's say, been a bit forceful with the assembled multitude. The youth pastor was a middle aged woman called Ginger who preached convincingly on the parable of the wedding banquet from Luke 14, which I thought entirely appropriate. 'Coffee Hour' was advertised but I didn't go, simply because nobody actually pointed out where it was. I went to the museum on quai Branly instead.