Back to the land of the living
I’d say that this post is fairly long overdue. Since I started blogging in February 2009, this is the longest I’ve gone between posts, and the first time I’ve missed an entire month altogether. I’ll try not to let it happen again.
I’m going for a wide-encompassing bits and pieces, rambling about this, that and the other style for this one.
In defence of complaining
Or, more specifically, an attack on one of my biggest pet hates (it hits high in my top 10): those who confuse complaints with mere observations, reflections or general commentary.
At the risk of offending some people, I’ll go right out and say it: people who accuse others of complaining when in actual fact they are not, are trying so desperately hard to maintain a positive outlook on every facet of life since their own disposition is so fragile, that anything that comes remotely close to upsetting their delicate balance is automatically misconstrued as a complaint. They’re almost projecting their insecurities onto others. So fragile is their state of mind that any ever-so-slight negative comment is taken as a complaint, and the common accusation of ‘oh God, can’t you stop complaining?’ or ‘why is everybody complaining’ is usually very quick in forthcoming.
There are two problems here. One is that there is absolutely nothing wrong with complaining, when done properly and with good reason, and not for the sake of it. And two, much of the time the person accused of complaining is not complaining at all.
TO COMPLAIN:
to express dissatisfaction, pain, uneasiness, censure, resentment, or grief; find fault
to tell of one's pains, ailments
to express resentment, displeasure, etc, especially habitually; grumble
Looking at those definitions, let’s have a look at some examples:
From one extreme is this: ‘It’s way too hot.’
I uttered this a couple of weeks ago, only to be met with an ‘oh God, why is everybody complaining about the heat?’
Of course, stress, intonation and tone of voice have to be taken into account here. Anything said in a groan-like manner will be taken as a complaint. The above comment was said more in a light-hearted, matter-of-fact way. It was not a complaint, just an observation about the general state of affairs. I didn’t express dissatisfaction or displeasure. I didn’t say I don’t like the heat (though I don’t, that’s not the point here), merely that it is too hot. To clarify: I’m expressing the point of view that I would rather have it cooler.
I can see how that would be taken as a complaint, but people with delicate psyches are always eager to throw the ‘complaint’ accusation at someone to make themselves feel better. It’s the classic ‘build yourself up by bringing others down’ situation.
There’s also the situation where nothing is uttered at all, yet you are accused of complaining. Another recent example: I was suffering from a very sore upper back. Unbeknownst to anybody, and literally without saying a word, I stretched my neck a bit and involuntarily grimaced, only for someone to witness it and complain about the fact that I was in discomfort. ‘Why is everybody in such a bad mood today?’ was the comment I was attacked with. I can’t even add a further comment here.
At the other extreme is something that isn’t even remotely possibly a complaint, though it tends to upset those on the most delicate cusp of human emotion, the person who strives to live life in as happy a manner as possible and has the sunniest disposition imaginable. This is the kind of person who hates the news because it’s always so negative, and can’t bare to be around people who aren’t always smiling and making them feel great about their lousy situation.
Example: ‘You’ll never believe what happened to me, I had the most bizarre experience at the supermarket this morning.’
No further explanation is necessary on that one. A clear observation – potentially very funny even – is interpreted as complaining by someone who can’t bear the slightest possibility of negativity.
But isn’t complaining a good thing?
I think it’s healthy, cathartic and natural. I’m a big defender of it, as long as it doesn’t fall into the category of definition #2 above, or when it becomes a habitual thing about the same issue, as in #3.
I’ll come right out and say it: I do complain. Often. But I’ve got better at it (maybe it’s an art), and I try to limit my complaints about health ailments to those who really care. Like my dear sister. In fact, the more I complain and the more irritated she gets listening to my whingeing, the more tempting it is to continue. I can hardly resist.
Because my point is not to defend complaining too much, but merely to point out my annoyance over those who confuse it with everyday commentary, I’ll leave this issue after two quotations to support my case that the notion of happiness, and thus the absence of any negativity, is not an inherent and realistic part of human nature, and that complaining generally is.
‘There is only one inborn error, and that is the notion that we exist in order to be happy…so long as we persist in this inborn error…the world seems to us full of contradictions. For at every step, in great things and small, we are bound to experience that the world and life are certainly not arranged for the purpose of maintaining a happy existence…what disturbs and renders unhappy…is the hunt for happiness on the firm assumption that it must be met with in life.’
(Schopenhauer)
‘Look at nothing in defiance of ritual, listen to nothing in defiance of ritual, speak of nothing in defiance of ritual, never stir hand or foot in defiance of ritual.’
(Confucius)
And for further confirmation, have a look at ‘Sad People Live Longer’.
It’s what makes us human, and it’s perfectly natural.
Speaking of pet hates, that term probably pops up more in this blog than any other. You might think I’m obsessed with them. Fair enough, and you’re probably right. In fact, I’ve been sufficiently inspired to start compiling a list of my top 100 pet hates. I had originally settled on 50, but I quickly eclipsed that (I’m now on about 65 but have reached an impasse). I’d like to encourage anyone who has a significant pet hate to share it with me and see if it makes my list. And no, I’m not stuck for ideas for this blog – in fact, I’ve got plenty far more substantial than this, and once I get my motivation together…well, we’ll see. My magnum opus is my analysis of relationships in Eastern Europe – I’ve been taking meticulous notes and aim to publish my findings sometime this month.
In the meantime, pet hates my way please!
My recent post expressing my displeasure with spring appears to have jinxed things. The powers-that-be must have noticed my lack of love for spring, and have thus eliminated it from the Ukrainian calendar and gone straight into summer. It seems like spring lasted barely a fortnight here, temperatures going from the mid-teens to high-20s quite rapidly.
Back on stage
I recently made my 2nd appearance on the Kyiv theatre stage with a role as Marshal Herrick in The Crucible. It was a far smaller role than the one I performed back in December, where I had 3 parts in the Grimm Brothers comedy. After that performance, I was eager to try my hand in a more serious and sombre role, but after mulling things over back in early February, I opted to take a break from my fledgling theatre career due to time commitments. I never regretted it, but then in early May, just weeks before the performance, I was drafted in as an emergency replacement and despite the lengthy rehearsals, which sometimes stretched for over 8 hours a day, I was delighted with my performance on the day of the show, and am tempted to try it again, but next time with a more substantial, challenging role.
I must avoid being typecast, though. In December I played Rumpelstiltskin and Slappy the Dwarf, and now Marshal Herrick, who appears drunk at the beginning of the final act, staggering around a prison cell.
For my lucky friends on Facebook, there are a couple of pictures already there, and more are on the way.
Though I’m not sure I should admit this, I will say it anyway. I feel a great sense of accomplishment and relief at having finally finished the entire series of Saw films (seven in total). I couldn’t help it: it’s a guilty pleasure, as absurd and ridiculous as it is. I felt relieved when part seven ended – surely there can’t be another sequel – and have vowed never to watch any of them again.
In my defence:
“The only proof of taste is that one knows how to occasionally appreciate things which do not meet the criteria of good taste – those who follow good taste too strictly only display their own lack of taste.’
(Slavoj Zizek)
Though half my raison d’être in coming to Ukraine was to improve my Russian – was I kidding myself? – my motivation has waned to the point of it barely being a goal and now it’s more like a chore. The thing is, and not to sound defeatist, I know my limitations. I’ll never speak it fluently. I’ll never come remotely close. As it is now, I can just about get by, and that is generally a sufficient, achievable aim that I can be pleased with. My trouble is that my listening skills are so poor. I can string together coherent sentences, I can read fine, my passive vocabulary is decent, but when people jabber at me, unless I know the context of what they’re saying, I’m usually at a bit of a loss.
But then I got to thinking: maybe knowing the language actually serves as a handicap? I remember the time I walked into the bank and was struggling to make myself understood to the receptionist. So instead of having to wait in the lengthy queue, she brought me to the English-speaking manager’s office, where I got to sit in a luxurious chair, was offered coffee, and was in and out in less than 10 minutes. Purely business, I’m talking about, by the way.
Then recently I tried to exchange something in the chemist’s. They blabbered at me in Russian, I think they were telling me that I couldn’t exchange it, but as I stood there obstinately dumbfounded, they eventually gave in, probably just to get rid of me.
It swings in roundabouts. I’ve had my fair share of frustrations and disappointments as well.
I feel slightly guilty when I can pull diplomatic rank. I recently went to the American Embassy to renew my passport. I arrived to find a massive queue of irate Ukrainians jostling for space in the sweltering late morning heat. I calmly walked to the front, flashed my credentials, said in a booming voice that I was an American here to renew my passport, and was ushered in past the throngs. In the main building, I had to meander my way through tightly-packed, stuffy corridors to get to the room for US Citizens, where I was met by a comfortable, air-conditioned room. Again, in and out in 10 minutes, past the same faces glaring at me from before.
Then there was the time at the Uzbek/Kyrgyz border in the blistering July sunshine. I thought, ‘no way in hell am I waiting with this rabble’. I was hardly given a choice as I was accosted by no less than 10 charlatans offering to escort me to the front of the queue for a nominal fee. I barely hesitated before accepting, and I really didn’t feel too bad about it.
It swings in roundabouts. You may remember the time I got ‘Kazakhed’ at the Kazakh/Uzbek border. These things even themselves out. (for the record, one of my favourite posts)
Euro 2012 is coming to Ukraine (and Poland) next June and with the first round of ticket allocations finished, I was disappointed to have received tickets to only one match (a quarterfinal in Kyiv), despite applying for five. But I felt a lot better when a friend of mine applied for eight matches and only got one, and another friend applied for three and got none. So no more complaining out of me.
This has got to be one of the weirdest and most unrelated food associations of all time. I brought back loads of curry paste, chutneys and pickle assortments from my recent visit to the UK and as I was enjoying some brinjal pickle the other day, I couldn’t quite place the aftertaste at first. It invoked all sorts of nostalgic feelings and then it finally hit me: it vaguely reminded me of [American] ballpark hot dogs. I’m not kidding. And I’m not complaining either, it’s a wonderful association, despite the fact that I try to avoid meat these days.
How about this party trick from the 1300s: pluck a live chicken, baste it, rock it to sleep and put it on a serving platter between two roasted chickens. Eventually the poor chicken will wake up and start running around the table, sending the unsuspecting diners into apoplectic fits. I suppose food played more of a theatrical role in those entertainment-starved days of the 14th century.
A quick round-up of various links that interest me
For footie lovers and chronic procrastinators, I’ve recently discovered two excellent sites:
On the business side of the beautiful game: The Swiss Rambler
And if you’re into over-detailed analyses of various matches: European Football Weekends
Another one of my great obsessions, the Luddites. But what did they really stand for and fight against? Find out here.
Though I’m not a big television series devotee, I’m not alone in declaring the Wire to be one of the finest series ever made. I’ve yet to start season 4 – I take my time with these things. In the meantime, this is pure genius
You may have heard of a Ukrainian feminist group called Femen, who are notorious for their bare-breasted public demonstrations. Amongst other things, their primary beefs are sex tourists and the general plight of Ukraine’s women today.
An interesting profile of the group
An interview with the founder of the group, and her views on ‘sex tourism and short skirts in Ukraine’.
This will be of most interest to the guys, but be warned. It’s not safe for work. Proceed with caution.
For book lovers, especially if you’re like me and love reading about reading books, this little blurb is a must-read. And be careful if clicking on the link to The Browser. It’s highly addictive and has been doing a good job preventing me from getting anything productive done.
My all-time favourite band is Suede and so I was pleased to come across this article. No band changed music for me like they did: when I first heard ‘Animal Nitrate’ during high school I was blown away and I express no regrets over my subsequent slavish devotion to the Britpop era. Many argue that they were the most influential band of the early 90s, and Bernard Butler one of the finest guitarists of his generation. We never had it so musically good. After their debut album, ‘The Drowners’ was a must for every mix tape I made for a girl – it’s chorus line of ‘slow down, slow down, you’re taking me over’ was the perfect soundtrack for expressing my feelings, with the raw energy behind it adding to its power.
Just in case you missed it the first time, or want to take a trip down memory lane (be warned, it’s a bit dizzying):
Do you remember the first time?
On the topic of the first time, it’s often the most unexpected first encounters that prove to be the most memorable and influential. Two food-related experiences immediately spring to mind: my love of spicy food and my love of Guinness, two things which at one point in my life I couldn’t stand, as hard as that is for me to believe. When it came to curries, I always opted for the mildest variants possible. Then one fine spring day in Prague, on the last day of my Celta course, a few of us went for a curry. I was suffering through one of the worst colds and bouts of congestion in my life after thoroughly abusing my body with constant nights out over the previous four weeks. My fellow coursemate Mark recommended a Jalfrezi, which he claimed was the spiciest on the menu. I duly obliged and proceeded to sweat like I’ve never sweated before. It also cleared me up to the point of being able to breathe freely. Since then, I’ve been hooked.
With Guinness, I was dragged off to the Littlest Pub in Boston one summer by some Irish friends where all they served was Guinness. We were all 19 and it was one of the few places in Boston to serve underagers. Ten-plus pints later, I was hooked. That night also proved to be one of the most memorable, as I met a lovely Irish lassie and we spent the night in Boston Common (just talking!) until the sun came up, when I had to go straight to work as a waiter in a hotel.
Reverting back to music, and there are few things more special than discovering a new band for the first time, or even better, discovering a new song that so utterly blows you away that you wonder how you managed to get by without it. Sometimes the song is a one-off and the rest of the band’s material is so-so (Florence and the Machine’s ‘Cosmic Love’, for example). Other times the band’s complete oeuvre is astonishing (as in the case of Suede or Spiritualized after I heard ‘Ladies and Gentleman We Are Floating in Space’ in the mid-90s).
I read about a band recently who have just released their 2nd album. I was intrigued enough to check out their material and was mesmerised by the first song of theirs I heard. Some of their other material hasn’t affected me as much, but that might be because they all pale in comparison to the first track I heard.
Harking back to my days as a music writer for the Tufts Daily, I’d describe it thus: though it has a slight tinge of Snow Patrol to it in the early stages (!), the positives quickly outweigh any initial first impressions. It’s eerily reminiscent of U2 when they were actually good (pre-Achtung Baby), there are overtones of the best of Arcade Fire in there, and it has that sometime Pulp-like quality (think ‘This is Hardcore’) of constantly building and building without any discernible chorus. And of course, it touches on the theme of anguish and heartbreak, thus rendering it a sure-fire winner in my book. I imagine this being the perfect, cathartic breakup song, the kind you listen to for hours on end and come away feeling much the better for it. And its final lines are devastatingly penetrating:
‘You just have to see her, and know that she’ll break you in two.’
Magic.
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