Saturday, September 27, 2008

True Crime Pt.1


As a newcomer to the streets of Glasgow, I’ve been charmed by the one the friendliest urban populations I’ve encountered anywhere. If tribal registration standards were applied in Scotland, I would qualify in terms of bloodlines, reinforcing my perception that the willingness of Glaswegians to engage with a stranger is not a mere courtesy extended to an obvious foreigner. A quip on a street corner, chit-chat in shops or a wee bit of banter when caught in the rain – that’s all par for the course. If I do ask for help, the experience generally highlights endearing individuals, from the bus driver who bellowed out the name of my stop in beautifully baroque Glaswegian tones, prompting surrounding passengers to whisk me to the door with smiles, to the young lad who thanked me after he pointed the way to a destination I was seeking.

Another charming soul replied Yes, the handcuffs sell well. Children love them. She was proud, and rightly so, of working in the gift shop at the People’s Palace in Glasgow, a social history museum with powerful displays, ranging from reconstruction of the humblest of dwellings to a lady’s elegant shoes and gloves. Tobacco Lords fuelled Glasgow’s growth in the 1700’s; ship-building followed. Living conditions for working class people were never good, and industrial decline in the 20th-century led to unemployment, urban decay and organized crime. The People’s Palace is surrounded by gentle green slopes bordering the River Clyde, but the city’s most deprived neighbourhoods are not far away.

Glasgow is rich in cutting-edge culture and world-famous architecture. A smattering of reports, however, have cast a shadow: the most unhealthy people in the UK live here, where there’s little sun; life expectancy is the lowest in Western Europe; the majority of Scotland’s poorest areas, with their criminal gangs, are in this city; and the fires of sectarianism are fanned all too frequently at local sporting events. This reference to endemic problems is offensive to inhabitants who believe that local heritage deserves more attention. Regeneration efforts are everywhere, as in the tour organized by one local official who decided it was time to let people see the brighter side of life in the much maligned Easterhouse area: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/7626004.stm

Preview: Pt.2 (October 4, 2008) takes me to the True Crime section of a large bookstore in the center of town, where I set about searching for two books on a case that first rocked Glasgow in the 1980’s. You might be surprised, as I was, to find out why it's hard to get copies of the books today.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

‘Metadata…Wild Type and Poorly Transformable Strains…’


Name-tags, handsewn onto clothing and other household items, are not something I see every day. Here’s one I have read and reread. The excellent quality of both bed sheet and label, the color and strength of their material permit me now, presumably a good long while after manufacture, to speak of their endurance.

Recently an acquaintance of many years placed a suitcase (that briefly belonged to me and then went into storage in her whereabouts) out on the street – common practice in Amsterdam. The story of what happened next, as a result of the fact that she did not remove the name-tag with my name, address and phone number on it, is for another day, but the fortuitous development of that story after its reckless launch has prompted me to display the text found on this sheet. Which, by the way, I did not pick up off the street. But I do not know how it entered my home.

Mr/Mrs/Ms J. Kooistra: I have your sheet. I have no idea how it ended up in my linen closet, but I would be happy to return the white bed sheet with your name on it if you would tell me where to send it.

You might be the author of this thesis from 1974: Fate of donor deoxyribonucleic acid in wild type and poorly transformable strains of haemophilus influenzaeas well as subsequent related articles in medical journals. J. Kooistra is apparently still a Senior Researcher at the Faculty of Social Sciences at Utrecht University, and is the co-author of Metadata as a means for correspondence on digital media (…Metadata derive their action from their association to data and from the relationship they maintain with this data…)

Or are you an Attorney in Wyoming, Michigan? Perhaps Dr. Kooistra, a Pediatric Pulmonary Disease Specialist in Wisconsin in the USA, who also helps children with asthma at a summer camp?

J. Kooistra the poet writes in Frisian, the language of the northern Dutch province of Friesland (and an official EU minority language!): Ik ha dy nedich, dû bist myn lêste treen, ik bin as deze himpen, rûch en rimpen, mar dû bist sêft as simmerreen, simmerreen. J. Kooistra also co-authored A Shorter Introduction to English Literature, a reference work which went through 18 editions but which was originally published in 1937, so I don’t think this sheet belongs to him. (Another Frisian J. Kooistra is locally known as the ‘Frisian Wiesenthal’ for his work on thousands of World War II casualties related to the province) Evidently a good number of Kooistra’s are literary figures in Friesland. And they get around: several years ago, J. Kooistra taught a course in Creative Writing: PROSE FICTION at Nipissing University in North Bay, Canada, where in September 2008 they just held a one-day welcome back powwow – there are hundreds of First Nation, Inuit and Métis students studying at Nipissing!

J. Kooistra is at the same time a veteran fire-fighter in the city of Portland, Maine, in the USA, where he became involved in a defamation suit around a colleague known for looking at women with “elevator eyes” – the court case, I should report, involved more grievous claims. And J. Kooistra is at work as a carpenter in Leeuwarden in Friesland back in the Netherlands, where the surname has its origins. You might want to visit his website if you are fond of sound effects: http://www.timmerbedrijf-jkooistra.nl/index.htm
If you want your sheet back, send me your address.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Wallace is a Good Speaker - Pt. 1




















My neighbour thinks that basically I’m a good person, easy to get along with, probably affectionate with friends. He has never said as much, and he wouldn’t; that would be ungentlemanly, and Wallace is very well-mannered. But I can see the expectation in his eyes. I know how to read drunks, and he knows that I know. So I'm safe: he'll keep trying to bamboozle me; I'll glide through like a fairy. He'll never know I'm real.
From the very first indication of physical violence between Wallace and his friend, or boyfriend, roommate or protégé, whoever he is (I’ve never seen him), our communications have resembled communications between trusted acquaintances - the constructive, hopeful words that fall between pitched battles, the words spoken by the strong, who, however stressed and strained, know about the promise of serenity, know that they should want it. He knows that I want peace and quiet, and somehow I think that part of him (the part that does understand conflict) wants that for me, too. I suppose he uses our brief conversations to regroup. I use them as a security measure, knowing that a well executed sentence can provide protection in more ways than one.

But we are not friends. We rarely speak, and when we do, we are in the hallway of the apartment building. I am on my way in or out and the noise of my keys has drawn him to his door. Wallace is always impeccably groomed. Elegant silk shirts fall gracefully on his slender frame and his shoes gleam. Even the smoke of his thin cigarettes has a certain dash to it as it spirals off towards the staircase. His appearances are almost always for the purpose of apologizing for the most recent eruption. There’s no rhythm to the schedule. I’m out a lot, and I’m sure I miss some of the sparring, but when at home I’m no longer surprised by the shouts and thuds, the crack of a body slamming against a wall. So yes, I would really like to see this come to an end. But another part of Wallace enjoys the spectacle, of course, not the actual fighting, not even witnessing my discomfort, but his role as the eloquent narrator, as though it’s the best tale he can tell, and it will go on and on. Part of the plot is that he is apparently trying to help this other person. This story line has emerged in the notes he has started slipping under my door.