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.

‘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.

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.

Always great to be back in Catalunya

From: The Acoustic Properties of Clay (fins quan?)

El Masnou is a municipality rising to the west from the sea: a maze of alleys, staircases and undulating north-south roads has grafted the town onto the hilly terrain...the old steps are too wide to take one at a time, so you must hobble down. A gutter slashes a central drain for late-summer rains which flood the main road below, blocking traffic between Barcelona to the south and France to the north.
You reach that road: hectic and flat, parallel to the beach, but separated from this and the train station by the road. You walk on: one hour north along the boardwalk to a beach café, placed a few metres to the right of the boardwalk on the beach, next to a site of marina construction. A sand dike sustained by rocks is topped with an idle machine, whose cabin and shovel are rusty. The side panel bears graffiti: fins quan? When will it end? Inside the café, cyclists de-helmet and sip coffee, as do walkers who have just fed the wild cats living inside the rock piles. The men perched high on the jetties to catch fish for the cats tend to keep to themselves. (Sit on a bench to take a longer look. ) A frail but impeccably groomed elderly couple is out for a stroll. They cannot travel far and take in every detail on their abbreviated route. A hand-written notice (…when will it end?) has been fastened to the fence separating the boardwalk from road-works. They pause to read the sign, the woman’s hand gripping the man’s forearm...

...to re-enter town from the beach, you brave the tunnels linking the boardwalk and railway lines with the sidewalk. In your mind there are several, one opening to town and the beach and the northbound trains, another with an exit to the train heading south. Each line has its own ticket booth. If you need a ticket for the opposite direction, you must run back into the tunnel and rush (if you can, the tunnels are wide enough for only two people) to the other end, ascend to street level and find the entrance to the alternate tunnel which will take you back to the other platform. This tunnel could also take you back to the beach, so avoid missing the exit, because if you arrive at the beach and think that you were in the wrong tunnel and search for the entrance to the other tunnel and enter there, you will find an exit to the railway line along which you do not want to travel. [fins quan?]

Thanks Everybody

Banned Substances Pt.1

The car stopped just short of the main drag in the old Cuban district of Tampa, Florida. I wanted to visit and walk along in search of José Martí, the Cuban poet and revolutionary who lived in a number of foreign locations in the final years of Spanish colonial rule in his homeland in the late 19th-century. Tampa was one of the most fervently revolutionary sites on Martí’s itinerary, and it was here that he participated in organizing the Cuban Revolutionary Party. The movement was financed in Tampa by cigar revenues, and, however briefly, by proceeds from baseball game ticket sales in Cuba. Appropriately, when the decision was made in Florida in 1895 to launch the revolution, the orders were smuggled into Cuba inside a cigar.

The USA was backing these liberation efforts with significant enthusiasm, and the Cuban Liberation struggle evolved into the Spanish-American War. Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders set sail from Tampa before thundering ashore in Cuba and helping to win the war against Spain, so a main street in this Tampa neighbourhood today bears their name.

My elderly Florida cousin was happier showing me the new Malls, and who could blame him in the heat. He stayed in the car while I strolled down this road of historic importance. I seemed to be the only person on foot. In fact there were hardly any other people at all, and many of the storefronts were boarded up. A Cuban sandwich shop attracted some business, and there was one other brightly lit up establishment: the Santería store.

Several wooden steps led up to the screen door entrance. I entered, all smiles, and asked the woman behind the counter if they sold any José Martí souvenirs. She found one article: a paper cocktail napkin. While I studied the merchandise, a car pulled up outside and jerked to a halt as the hand brake was applied. The driver was a young man who bounded up the stairs and then closed the door carefully and quietly as he came in, evidently completely familiar with local etiquette.

Greetings were exchanged, and he proceeded to ask the woman what he could buy to definitely score on his date that evening. The girl was really worth it, he explained, and he didn’t want her to get away. The shop-keeper listened and nodded, recommending various jars and containers which were in stock. He paid for one of the love potions, ran out to his throbbing car and laid some tracks as he drove off. When the sound of the music blasting out of his car faded entirely, there was not a sound in the Santería store.

Inspired by his absolute faith in the shop-keepers advice, I walked back and forth examining everything on the shelves, and finally came up with two items which were light, unbreakable and easy to pack: Get-Rich-Quick household cleaning solution, and Powerful-Indian-Household Blessing Domination Powder, with a bilingual label, good illustrations and a handy prayer for happiness and victory-over-enemies on the back.

Things being how they are between the United States and Cuba, I was not surprised to see that the powder was from Chicago, but still a tad disappointed. Tampa and Cuba share a great heritage when it comes to contraband. After liberation from Spain, Cuba became one of the main transit points for illegal immigrants from Europe and China. Business was controlled by figures referred to as “Kings.” Small craft delivered people and goods to many Florida inlets, but Tampa was at the hub. The smuggling of whisky and narcotics was a profitable activity in the 1920’s, and Spirits Submerged There is the stuff of newspaper stories about deliveries hidden temporarily in the waters between Cuba and the USA.

Marx got a laugh: Your daughter is with us Pt. 4

Pt 1 - May 31, 2007

Pt 2 - June 25, 2007
Pt 3 - September 14, 2007

Things have been developing favorably for Hua and her family in Paris since their brush with the law some time ago. It was almost a blessing in disguise: when daughter Hua was picked up on the streets and turned over to the police, concerned French neighbors rushed to the aid of these illegal immigrants from China, and suddenly the parents had a new and native source of moral and legal support, outside of the extensive Chinese network. Up to that time, Hua’s parents had been at the mercy of middle-men, such as the ‘Uncle’ figure in their story. The French Solidarity networks say that while authorities will not deport children on their own, they will on occasion wait outside of schools and detain parents who come to meet their children, probably another explanation of why the newly-arrived Hua had to walk home from school alone, as she did on the day when she was spotted by authorities.

Since then, the father has received treatment for a serious illness and appears to have recovered, Hua has a baby brother and, having been forced by the shady landlord (please see LifeBeforeNews September 14, 2007) to leave the premises, they have all moved, presumably with the aid of the local French support group, to a larger home with ‘more light.’ As far as I know, they have occasionally dropped by to greet my friends, who now have access to that almost windowless space that was once home to this Chinese family of three (and then four). The young mother seems optimistic, no longer leaning backwards in a defensive pose when spoken to in French, as she had on the evening of Hua’s detention.

The parents and the uncle were very grateful to everyone for Hua’s return home that night. The next day, the mother brought me a thank-you gift: a pair of shoes. Many people had helped the mother since her arrival from China four years earlier, and numerous shoe-boxes and bottles of whiskey had been distributed around the building. The ‘Uncle’ (eventually confirmed by the French Solidarity workers as the middle-man) made sure she was well-stocked.

The solidarity worker wanted to talk to the mother alone, without the ‘Uncle’ around, even though he, rather than the parents, was the one to comfort Hua in her fear and confusion after an evening in lock-up. This image stays with me: the rough-skinned tough guy, marked as the corrupt boss with power over illegal workers, cradling a scared child in his arms while the couple identified as the child's parents sat in frozen indifference across the room. The remarkable scene raised many questions for the onlookers, including me, the Police social worker and the French woman who had rushed to their aid.

It was this same solidarity worker who was involved when the living space was to be vacated a year later. She was as gruff and suspicious of those outside her network as Hua’s mother was buoyant, always smiling and ready to take the next hurdle.

When the moving trouble started brewing I was in the audience at the PICNIC ‘information event’ in Amsterdam, where a speaker from Beijing was presenting a project on the creative merging of cultures. He laughed along with the audience members when a statement about freedom passed across the screen. No questions were asked there either.