dystopie/paris spleen/unreal city

Une dystopie est un récit de fiction, parfois raccordé à la science-fiction, se déroulant dans une société imaginaire, inventée par les écrivains, afin d'exagérer et ainsi montrer des conséquences probables. La dystopie s'oppose à l'utopie : au lieu de présenter un monde parfait, la dystopie propose le pire qui soit. La différence entre dystopie et utopie tient moins au contenu (car après examen, nombre d'utopies positives peuvent se révéler effrayantes) qu'à la forme littéraire et à l'intention de son auteur.

Cette forme littéraire a été rendue célèbre par Le Meilleur des Mondes (1931) d'Aldous Huxley, 1984 (1948) de George Orwell, Fahrenheit 451 (1954) de Ray Bradbury, et, dans une moindre mesure, par Nous Autres (1920) de Ievgueni Zamiatine.

Les mondes parfois terrifiants décrits dans ces romans, surtout dans 1984, ont laissé à penser qu'une dystopie était, par définition, la description d'une dictature sans égard pour les libertés fondamentales. L'impact que ces romans ont eu sur la science-fiction a souvent amené à qualifier de dystopie tout texte d'anticipation sociale décrivant un avenir sombre.

Okay, let’s get this straight. I have had a lucky little year. Let’s just say that I belong to the big CIM monster that has made over the Highland Complex and the Vine W hotel uprising, and soon will have its way with the Western Hollywood intersection.
I loved the Gershwin Hotel, or The St. Francis. Where else would I meet Will De Los Santos of the crystal meth movie “Spun?” He was basically a genius, other than promptly embezzling my credit cards, but hey, I love artists, and they love me.
All’s fair.
Anyway big mean CIM moved us out of the Gershwin to make way for . . . who knows. Check their website. And frankly it’s been a blast. I was pulled deeper into the nucleus of old Hollywood, and so far I’ve not been mugged, and the clubs are so close, I’m practically over it.
The Gerswhin was a deserted old edifice vintage 1906.
I was all about the youth hostel component. Swedish boys playing pool downstairs, and Japanese hip hop dancers spinning and stretching out. A lot of fun. A great view.
Well, as my history of ill-fated pseudo-friendships was getting me down, in a moment of madness I booked a trip with the hush money from CIM. I looked at it like a life or death situation.
So afraid that the dollar would keep falling to a point of non-existence, it might’ve been a good move. Hell if I know.
Anyway, what a funny coincidence that the global economy was officially collapsing in September 2008 as I walked around the London finance district trying to get a pic of the odd gherkin-shaped architecture (The Sir Norman Foster Building).
At the Tate, a radical exposition of Francis Bacon’s work reified his importance in my mind.
At the portrait gallery, Wyndham Lewis’s portraits of Ezra pound and T. S. Eliot held huge significance for me.
And how odd to actually see the famous painting by Branwell Bronte of his talented sisters, with his own image effaced into a golden aura of invisibility.
Camden, I remembered, was the place to go for the boho set. I failed to find Amy Winehouse or Pete Dougherty, but the free nightly gossip rags kept me abreast of Kate Moss’s breakup with The Kill’s frontman, and what she was wearing as she got over it..
I dreamt last night that Viktor from Viktor and Rolf died of AIDS and I was reading about it in a newspaper. There was a fabulous retrospective at the Barbican Gallery, as if i could love them more. Oh but indeed it tripled my adoration.
Planning seemed to me anathema.
At some point I was permanently anchored to the rainy top floor patio of the new (July 2007) Bibliotheek Amsterdam, Europe’s largest library with spectacular architecture by Jo Coenen.
Talk about inspiring.

From their website:

"The right to information is enshrined in law and in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It is part of the library's purpose to make these rights a reality. By facilitating the free flow of information the library makes its contribution to a democratic and humane society.
To attain this goal and fulfill this task the library divides its services into four main areas. We are a centre for information, for communication, for education, for culture and its associated activities as well as being a meeting place for the community. These functions form together the spearhead of our philosophy and policy.

Increasingly the library is developing away from being a warehouse full of books into an exciting, stimulating and multifarious information source. Once a subdued, still sanctary, now an open house to all who hunger knowledge and recreation.

The new image of the Oosterdokseiland as an 'Island of knowledge' fits this philosophy perfectly. Here the new Central Public Library of Amsterdam, with an expected 7000 visitors per day, will become the supercharger of a world class cultural and informational meeting point: 7 days a week from 10 in the morning till 10 at night!"

The plentitude of computers freely accessible was amazing. The design inside shot light into the mind and heart. Floor after floor of elegance and modern, clean lines. Sci-fi wizardy really. A Spinoza exhibit. A Gay Olympics exhibit.

I had the best tempeh of my life near the Waarmingstraat. And the nicest view of too young for me Swedes in the co-ed youth hostel there . . . and I spent September eleventh in the pub in Amdam, and it seemed the best place to be.

I must be Jewish or something or reincarnated out of the camps because Berlin gave me the creeps. And this is especially bizarre because I love German language, cinema, poetry, music, architecture, etc. I instantly understood why Fassbinder was dead at thirty-seven.
All the Weimar architecture.
I told this cool German dude that it seemed like someone should have bombed all that Reichstag stuff, bombed it flat.
He was like yeah, and Paris and London too.
Which I thought was funny, because I like dark humor, and I hate war.
Maybe I was burnt by the night train. Not to be a hater, but the Germans are as boring as Midwestern Americans, and that’s not funny, it’s just sad. Anyway, I was beyond thrilled to hop off the bus and go to the Bauhaus Archive, where thankfully photography is prohibited. We wouldn’t want anyone to find out how cool it is.
The whole issue of information parsimony irks me. We only have one life to be inspired. And so long as culture is parceled out by greedy capitalists, we can all burn up in a cultural vacuum, and go to the mall, and buy more stuff to fill the emptiness, and let fantastic things like pioneering art movements rot up in museums. In which case, the Bauhaus archive was housed in a gorgeous, though crumbling Walter Gropius building.
What thrilled me was to understand that the vision extended beyond design into the realm of the utopic. The new house of the future would involve communal living with artists and craftsmen pursuing a vision of modernity in their art together.
Next I stumbled on an animal rights action/performance art piece at the Berlin Alexanderplatz. An assemblage of silvery leotard-clad humans coiled in a net sprawled on the courtyard. Huge signs explained that fish feel pain.
Nobody really talked to me, except the nice lady who gave me instructions in English, insulted by my shaky German, like what, I don’t think she can speak English?
The Hare Krishna Deutsch dude humored me by sticking to German. But I mean what’s all the hype with Berlin being the new Brooklyn? Anyway, I was outa there, fast.
Stockholm was so cold it ate up into my converse and I didn’t have a real coat. Almost everybody looked the same, like my uncles and cousins. It felt plain incestuous and inbred and set me to panic.
Edinburgh was green and quiet. Castley.
Lille is a sweet little town close to Belgium.
Copenhagen was full of bicycles and more blond people. They should get around more and realize there is so much more out there. Sorry, Danes.
Paris, ok. I don’t want to talk about it, I just love it so much.
Took a pic of graffiti in the metro “beaucoup racism en france.”
That’s kind of what I was there to see. I’ve been worried about racism in Europe.
You can really walk all over the city. I loved the Louvre or the Musee de Orsay, Colette, or Les Jardin de Tuilleries or Shakespeare and Company. Most of all I loved the Librarie Gallimard near the Clichy metro stop, where I pored over hard to find (rare in the USA) books, and everything philosophical or poetic I already read in English. I haggled over what to get, and soaked up a bookish ambiance.
I was lucky to have a great friend’s tutelage. And a work ethic when it came to sight seeing.
Montmartre is delightful. The Cimitaire Monmartre even more so. I love the Champs Elysees for all its cheesiness. I am thrilled that Sephora Europe carries Viktor and Rolf’s Flowerbomb, And Flowerbomb Extreme.
I’m taking my nightmare about Viktor’s death as a sign that I have to get some Flowerbomb soon, though I’ve been resisting for almost three years now.
So that’s my little travelogue. I’m tired now.
Oh poverty, yeah lots of it. Polite beggars. With little cups. Not as bad as Hollywood though. We’ve got a real epidemic here, and such a weak social safety net. It’s lousy.