"WHY NOT NEW YORK? ASK THE WORLD"
Just about everyone who knows about the Olympics dreams of watching the Games live, in person. I’m sure New Yorkers would have loved the chance to do so. Sorry, but apparently the world didn’t bite.
After all, no one outside the United States likes to have people shout “USA! USA! USA!” to his or her face. That was the experience of Salt Lake, or other international events held in the US. That’s an experience no one outside the United States wants repeated, especially where the Olympics are concerned.
Forget stadiums and logistics. It’s about hospitality.
A columnist once observed that hospitality was about making people feel comfortable, and that the opening ceremonies of the Salt Lake Winter Olympics were too much about the red, white and blue. Outside of Berlin, Salt Lake had to be the most politicized of Olympics (winter or summer), from George W. Bush’s statement (“On behalf of a determined nation…”), to the display of the torn flag, to that unending chant of “USA! USA! USA!”
Stupid world. We thought that the Olympics were about THE world.
Unfortunately, Americans tend to turn things around and make it about America. As someone in “Fox and Friends” once said during the lead-up to the Salt Lake Games, “No one cares about the Olympics. But people care about this country.”
Sorry, New York. Let’s have the Olympics somewhere else.
The Olympics are about camaraderie and friendly competition, not about flag-waving and in-your-face gloating. We love our respective nations, but we extend our hands to our competitors. We enjoy a victory. At the same time, we salute those we somehow managed to defeat.
We also welcome them to our land. That’s what being a host is all about.
The Olympics aren’t about fingerprinting and photos at the port of entry. If you’re not among the lucky people who don’t need a visa to get to the US, you’ll have to shelve out $100 just to apply for one…and get rejected. Goodbye $100, an entire month’s earnings for many people in developing nations. And you spend the amount just to get insulted by an embassy official.
Who needs that?
Can you imagine the kind of hype that would have come out of New York in a post-9/11 scenario? The US president, whether Republican or Democrat, would have surely invoked 9/11. Then the crowd would chant that, that, that…
Sorry, I can’t say it anymore.
And the rest of the world just watch in dismay. No one would feel welcome.
Ever been interrogated at a US airport? If you’re an Asian, they look at you and talk to you as if you’re a felon. At Vancouver, on the other hand, they smile at you. They welcome you.
Would New York have welcomed people outside of Europe and a few Asian countries? Perhaps. For Asians, though, the port of entry would be on the West Coast. And there, be prepared to be treated like a criminal.
I’d bet, however, that a lot of money would have been made from rejected visa applications.
“It’s the Olympics, I know, but you’re from the Philippines. You can’t go. You might not return to your country.”
Fine.
I’m sure New York is a lovely place with a lot of beautiful people. But not for the Olympics.
And so it’s London. Great. We’ll watch the Games from our television sets, assuming of course that we’re still alive in 2012. I’m sure the Brits will have a blast at the football (yes, football, not soccer) matches, shouting, “Goooaaaallll!!!!!”
Good for them.
###
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
“The Dancer: A celebration of motion”
For a layman such as myself, sculpture may seem static. It’s often about poses, which could apply even to the best. Look around your home and you’ll probably find pieces with “posed figures.”
Ferdinand R. Cacnio’s “The Dancer,” on the other hand, is all about motion. It celebrates motion through dance. Dance also involves form, but in this case form is secondary. The object is to portray movement in something that doesn’t move.
Mr. Cacnio brings motion to something inanimate.
Because the pieces themselves have no titles, we have to go by description.
For the most part, motion in the pieces is expressed by the way the head, the arms, and the torso are positioned. There is a sense of movement. Another element is the attire. The skirts in some pieces enhance the expression of motion. The forms themselves show little difference in the sense that the bodies depicted are practically the same. The difference lies in how the movements of these bodies are expressed.
The pieces with wild twists may be more attention-getting, There are ballet moves. There are “formal” moves. There are pieces that feature rather wild dancing. Stay a while, however, to contemplate what would perhaps be considered the milder pieces. They’re more interesting because of their sensuality…and their mystery.
Three of the smaller sculptures are particularly seductive.
One features a dancer in a crouching position, with arms spread, her face looking sideways. Another features a dancer with her hands before her–tame compared to the others, but very mysterious. The third depicts a dancer with one arm down and one up, her torso tilted to her right as she looks down.
View these sculptures while alone. Viewing them with friends will get a lot a adjectives, but these pieces are best seen alone, when you can contemplate the motion and perhaps try to delve into the artist’s mind.
Mr. Cacnio’s works are currently on display at the Avellana Art Gallery along F.B.Harrison Street in Pasay City.
For a layman such as myself, sculpture may seem static. It’s often about poses, which could apply even to the best. Look around your home and you’ll probably find pieces with “posed figures.”
Ferdinand R. Cacnio’s “The Dancer,” on the other hand, is all about motion. It celebrates motion through dance. Dance also involves form, but in this case form is secondary. The object is to portray movement in something that doesn’t move.
Mr. Cacnio brings motion to something inanimate.
Because the pieces themselves have no titles, we have to go by description.
For the most part, motion in the pieces is expressed by the way the head, the arms, and the torso are positioned. There is a sense of movement. Another element is the attire. The skirts in some pieces enhance the expression of motion. The forms themselves show little difference in the sense that the bodies depicted are practically the same. The difference lies in how the movements of these bodies are expressed.
The pieces with wild twists may be more attention-getting, There are ballet moves. There are “formal” moves. There are pieces that feature rather wild dancing. Stay a while, however, to contemplate what would perhaps be considered the milder pieces. They’re more interesting because of their sensuality…and their mystery.
Three of the smaller sculptures are particularly seductive.
One features a dancer in a crouching position, with arms spread, her face looking sideways. Another features a dancer with her hands before her–tame compared to the others, but very mysterious. The third depicts a dancer with one arm down and one up, her torso tilted to her right as she looks down.
View these sculptures while alone. Viewing them with friends will get a lot a adjectives, but these pieces are best seen alone, when you can contemplate the motion and perhaps try to delve into the artist’s mind.
Mr. Cacnio’s works are currently on display at the Avellana Art Gallery along F.B.Harrison Street in Pasay City.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
“Dying and dyeing my hair”
On the day my father died, I dyed my hair.
It was getting white all over, and since I worked mostly with young people at the time, I had very practical reasons to keep it black. Still, it was the day my father died, after 16 days in an intensive care unit.
Since then, my hair has gone black and white over and over. And like the changes in the color of my hair, the grieving hasn’t stopped.
What struck me through the whole affair was the wealth of stories that an intensive care unit can present to a writer. For the most part, writers speak of pain. And there are few places where pain is more apparent than in an intensive care unit.
In our time at the hospital, we often saw and at times commiserated with an attractive young woman who was married to an elderly foreigner. Her husband had suffered a stroke, as had my father. She became kind of a friend.
Then there was this large family whose father was confined at the same intensive care unit. He died on the first Sunday night that my father spent at the hospital. I remember how one of his daughters burst into tears when he flatlined, even as several doctors tried to revive him. When they finally gave up, everyone was speaking on a cellphone.
“Tatay [father} is dead.”
While all that was happening, my own father was having trouble breathing, and my mother was in tears. But with the doctors’ care, my father survived that night. He survived more moons after that. Finally, he died.
That was on the 10th day of the 10th month, at 10:10 a.m.
And the thought came to me again, as it had many times during the entire episode: I could write about all this.
What a horrible thought to have at such a time. Even worse, to dye my hair.
Perhaps, till then, I had been at least relatively content with how my life was going. Pain is a writer’s resource. Frankly, despite the material that pain provides, I can do without it.
I’d rather have my father back.
Later that day, at a mid-afternoon meal at the hospital canteen while waiting for my father’s remains to be released, someone chuckled, having noticed that I actually dyed my hair that day, particularly my mustache and my beard.
I chuckled as well, but with a sense of guilt.
Perhaps it was an acknowledgment that life does actually go on, even in the event of death. It sounds flimsy, I know, but still…
###
On the day my father died, I dyed my hair.
It was getting white all over, and since I worked mostly with young people at the time, I had very practical reasons to keep it black. Still, it was the day my father died, after 16 days in an intensive care unit.
Since then, my hair has gone black and white over and over. And like the changes in the color of my hair, the grieving hasn’t stopped.
What struck me through the whole affair was the wealth of stories that an intensive care unit can present to a writer. For the most part, writers speak of pain. And there are few places where pain is more apparent than in an intensive care unit.
In our time at the hospital, we often saw and at times commiserated with an attractive young woman who was married to an elderly foreigner. Her husband had suffered a stroke, as had my father. She became kind of a friend.
Then there was this large family whose father was confined at the same intensive care unit. He died on the first Sunday night that my father spent at the hospital. I remember how one of his daughters burst into tears when he flatlined, even as several doctors tried to revive him. When they finally gave up, everyone was speaking on a cellphone.
“Tatay [father} is dead.”
While all that was happening, my own father was having trouble breathing, and my mother was in tears. But with the doctors’ care, my father survived that night. He survived more moons after that. Finally, he died.
That was on the 10th day of the 10th month, at 10:10 a.m.
And the thought came to me again, as it had many times during the entire episode: I could write about all this.
What a horrible thought to have at such a time. Even worse, to dye my hair.
Perhaps, till then, I had been at least relatively content with how my life was going. Pain is a writer’s resource. Frankly, despite the material that pain provides, I can do without it.
I’d rather have my father back.
Later that day, at a mid-afternoon meal at the hospital canteen while waiting for my father’s remains to be released, someone chuckled, having noticed that I actually dyed my hair that day, particularly my mustache and my beard.
I chuckled as well, but with a sense of guilt.
Perhaps it was an acknowledgment that life does actually go on, even in the event of death. It sounds flimsy, I know, but still…
###
“Death Watch”
Tonight I’m on a death watch.
So close to where I write this now, five puppies, born just a little more than 48 hours ago, are sleeping with their mother. One puppy is dying. He apparently had some accident at birth. He was the last to come out, so I was already asleep by then and thus never saw what actually happened. My vet feels that, in the process of his mother peeling away at the placenta, part of his head’s skin was torn off, thus exposing his skull.
I had hoped we could save him. Just yesterday he was as active as any day-old puppy. Today I came home to find him very weak, despite the remedies my vet had prescribed. He isn’t even suckling anymore. He just sleeps. I guess it is a quiet way of dying. That doesn’t make it any easier.
I’ve already shed my tears, but most probably not all of them yet. In a way, however, I’ve already said goodbye.
Now I wait. Already I grieve.
As a writer for many years now, I’ve always been intrigued by the mystery of death. What actually goes on in the mind of one surely dying during those final moments? Only the dead can say for sure.
Many years ago, at the same time that my writing career was finally making some headway, my uncle, blindfolded and hog-tied in the bathroom of the house of his common-law wife, bled to death from stab wounds inflicted by his own driver and several others.
What were his thoughts then, at that last moment of life, knowing he was dying in a home and in the company of a woman his legal wife never even knew about?
All these years, I’ve never found the words to even describe that moment. I could only imagine, and guess.
Just as I watch over a lovely little puppy dying (dying quietly, thank God for little favors)…and think of how, had he been lucky enough, he could have made some kid or daddy or granddaddy out there so happy.
And me as well.
###
Tonight I’m on a death watch.
So close to where I write this now, five puppies, born just a little more than 48 hours ago, are sleeping with their mother. One puppy is dying. He apparently had some accident at birth. He was the last to come out, so I was already asleep by then and thus never saw what actually happened. My vet feels that, in the process of his mother peeling away at the placenta, part of his head’s skin was torn off, thus exposing his skull.
I had hoped we could save him. Just yesterday he was as active as any day-old puppy. Today I came home to find him very weak, despite the remedies my vet had prescribed. He isn’t even suckling anymore. He just sleeps. I guess it is a quiet way of dying. That doesn’t make it any easier.
I’ve already shed my tears, but most probably not all of them yet. In a way, however, I’ve already said goodbye.
Now I wait. Already I grieve.
As a writer for many years now, I’ve always been intrigued by the mystery of death. What actually goes on in the mind of one surely dying during those final moments? Only the dead can say for sure.
Many years ago, at the same time that my writing career was finally making some headway, my uncle, blindfolded and hog-tied in the bathroom of the house of his common-law wife, bled to death from stab wounds inflicted by his own driver and several others.
What were his thoughts then, at that last moment of life, knowing he was dying in a home and in the company of a woman his legal wife never even knew about?
All these years, I’ve never found the words to even describe that moment. I could only imagine, and guess.
Just as I watch over a lovely little puppy dying (dying quietly, thank God for little favors)…and think of how, had he been lucky enough, he could have made some kid or daddy or granddaddy out there so happy.
And me as well.
###
KILLING WORDS: THE LANGUAGE OF WAR AND OCCUPATION
Were the four Americans who died in Fallujah killed, slain, massacred, murdered or executed? Were they civilians, mercenaries, armed security personnel, or civilian combatants?
Anyone who has lived in a country that’s been occupied knows that there’s no distinction between an occupier in uniform and one in civvies. They’re both legitimate targets. After all, they pursue the same goals. They both benefit from the occupation—the civilian occupiers, whatever their names or designations may be, perhaps even more since they, after all, have a choice.
They can be there or not.
Soldiers, on the other hand, simply obey.
But even where soldiers are concerned, the language of war and occupation seems to tilt toward the occupier’s favor, especially if the occupier is supported by news organizations.
Describing what he felt upon seeing American soldiers inspecting an Iraqi home, CNN correspondent Martin Savidge said that the Marines were “trying to clear a village, a town. And they're trying to control a population, and that there are embedded within that population, people trying to murder them at that moment.”
What a novel concept: invading soldiers being “murdered.”
Now the Japanese can claim that their soldiers were “murdered” as they enforced the occupation in many Asian countries during World War II.
Too bad for the Japanese. They didn’t have CNN or Fox News to promote their “liberation” of Asia.
Had they had that privilege, resistance forces would have been called terrorists.
Today we have GIs in Iraq raiding homes without warrants and “detaining” suspected terrorists and insurgents. Iraqis, however, “abduct” foreign civilians aiding in the occupation.
Coalition forces “detain prisoners.” Iraqis “kidnap hostages.”
If it sounds crazy, well, it is. Many of the heroes of World War II, by the standards of today’s international news organizations, would be considered thugs and terrorists.
There’s more.
A US “civilian administrator” closes down a newspaper in Iraq. Elsewhere, “dictators” do very much the same thing.
The difference? Sorry, can’t find it.
We can perhaps forgive US Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld when he said, “Well, we know the Iranians have been meddling, and it's unhelpful to have neighboring countries meddling in the affairs of Iraq. And I think the Iraqi people are not going to want to be dominated by a neighboring country, any neighboring country. No country wants to be dominated by its neighbors.”
Perhaps it escaped him that the US is in fact dominating Iraq. Then again, the United States is not a neighboring country, so maybe that makes it all right.
But that’s Rumsfeld. The sophistry is expected.
When it comes from respected journalists and news agencies, however, it makes sense for people to switch their channels from Fox News and CNN to, say, Al Jazeera.
That is, if you can get it, and understand Arabic.
###
Were the four Americans who died in Fallujah killed, slain, massacred, murdered or executed? Were they civilians, mercenaries, armed security personnel, or civilian combatants?
Anyone who has lived in a country that’s been occupied knows that there’s no distinction between an occupier in uniform and one in civvies. They’re both legitimate targets. After all, they pursue the same goals. They both benefit from the occupation—the civilian occupiers, whatever their names or designations may be, perhaps even more since they, after all, have a choice.
They can be there or not.
Soldiers, on the other hand, simply obey.
But even where soldiers are concerned, the language of war and occupation seems to tilt toward the occupier’s favor, especially if the occupier is supported by news organizations.
Describing what he felt upon seeing American soldiers inspecting an Iraqi home, CNN correspondent Martin Savidge said that the Marines were “trying to clear a village, a town. And they're trying to control a population, and that there are embedded within that population, people trying to murder them at that moment.”
What a novel concept: invading soldiers being “murdered.”
Now the Japanese can claim that their soldiers were “murdered” as they enforced the occupation in many Asian countries during World War II.
Too bad for the Japanese. They didn’t have CNN or Fox News to promote their “liberation” of Asia.
Had they had that privilege, resistance forces would have been called terrorists.
Today we have GIs in Iraq raiding homes without warrants and “detaining” suspected terrorists and insurgents. Iraqis, however, “abduct” foreign civilians aiding in the occupation.
Coalition forces “detain prisoners.” Iraqis “kidnap hostages.”
If it sounds crazy, well, it is. Many of the heroes of World War II, by the standards of today’s international news organizations, would be considered thugs and terrorists.
There’s more.
A US “civilian administrator” closes down a newspaper in Iraq. Elsewhere, “dictators” do very much the same thing.
The difference? Sorry, can’t find it.
We can perhaps forgive US Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld when he said, “Well, we know the Iranians have been meddling, and it's unhelpful to have neighboring countries meddling in the affairs of Iraq. And I think the Iraqi people are not going to want to be dominated by a neighboring country, any neighboring country. No country wants to be dominated by its neighbors.”
Perhaps it escaped him that the US is in fact dominating Iraq. Then again, the United States is not a neighboring country, so maybe that makes it all right.
But that’s Rumsfeld. The sophistry is expected.
When it comes from respected journalists and news agencies, however, it makes sense for people to switch their channels from Fox News and CNN to, say, Al Jazeera.
That is, if you can get it, and understand Arabic.
###
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
