Realism is in the Eye of the Beholder

Yes, that’s my opinion. Realism is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps your philosophical juices are already flowing and you are thinking, “That’s an oxymoron. Isn’t realism about seeing things as they really are? Reality is about what is beheld, not about who is beholding it.”

My answer is this: any person claiming a completely objective view of reality is the oxymoron. Everyone sees the universe, history, eternity and “reality” through the lens of their own values, worldview and experience.

That aside, what I really wanted to discuss is the prevalence of these so-called ‘realists’ in society today; and especially in my own generation (Generation X, that is).

Some people call me an optimist because I think that non-violent social change is possible, and because I think that selfishness, exploitation and oppression can be overcome by breaking vicious cycles with creativity and courage. Why am I labelled an unrealistic optimist while the nay-sayers shake their heads dismissively and accept the status quo?

It seems to me that the favourite pastime of pessimists is to masquerade as realists. “The world sux and I see it as it is. I agree with your ideals in theory, but I know better – they will never work.”

Why is it acceptable for the pessimists to brand themselves 'realists' and everyone else ignorant optimists? (Don't forget to say the word 'optimist' with your best injection of sarcasm). Or, is there really no such thing as realism since reality is always interpreted by subjective beings?

I find it interesting that a generation, which, by and large, does not believe in absolute truths, (let’s face it, we live in a pluralistic society) is so quick to claim absolute knowledge of reality and the state of the universe. Perhaps it is necessary to make this claim in order to justify their proliferation of hopelessness and despair. Or perhaps it is nothing more than a violent reaction to the disappointing maxims of modernity which promised to fix the world, and didn't deliver. Whatever the cause, it is certain that self-professed realism is frequently used as a license to complain without censure.

My generation is particularly guilty of this. Tori Amos (a GenX singer) put it like this:

“Our generation has an incredible amount of realism, yet at the same time, it loves to complain and not really change; because if it does change, then it won’t have anything to complain about.”

Harsh but true, I think.

People called Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Ghandi incurable optimists when they campaigned for the liberation of their respective oppressed people groups. That is, until they succeeded. Then, all of a sudden, their optimistic “pipedreams” were a reality. African-Americans gradually gained equal rights in the U.S. and India regained its independence Ghandi’s way: non-violently. Who had ever heard of a country kicking out its oppressors without a war?!

So what is reality? I'll leave it for you to decide, but I think realism is the ability to understand the state of affairs, imagine a better reality and employ creative strategies to realise it. Realism must lead to practical response, otherwise, in my opinion, it is nothing more than self-indulgent pessimism.

“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.” (William Arthur Ward)

I don’t really care what term gets applied to my life in the end: Pessimist, Optimist, Realist. I just want to be someone who adjusted the sails while everyone else was busy discussing the contrary wind.

Hair Review

Yep. I cried.

A Lap Full of Cornflakes

"What's with today, today?"

- Lucas, in Empire Records

Today seemed like an average day to begin with…

I had a shower, did my hair, put on my bathrobe and sat at my desk with a bowl of cornflakes to do my homework. So far, so good. It’s nice and serene at 8am in Siena. The clear morning sunlight streams into my room through the open window. The streets outside are quiet (once the daily cleaning truck has done its round!) and all you can hear are the sounds of people starting their day. Shoes tap on the gothic pavement as they make their way to work, school or the nearest bar to grab a coffee and some breakfast.

It’s quite warm in Tuscany these days so I decided to get up and move my fan a little closer. Then suddenly, BANG! CRASH! SPLASH!

Serenity: gone.

For a second I had no idea what I had knocked over, but the milk soaking through my robe and the cornflakes toppling into my pockets and onto the floor soon brought home the infuriating realisation.

My breakfast was in my lap.

Oh, and did I mention that I like to have HONEY on top of my cornflakes? Yep. That’s right. The sticky, soggy mess that should have been the morning shift for my stomach acids, was instead meeting its demise on the floor or on me.

After disposing of the flakes and mopping up the milk, I headed straight for the bathroom only to discover my roommate was having a shower. There was milk soaking into my skin and honey-lathered cornflakes decorating my robe – the last thing I felt like doing was WAITING. But alas – what else could I do?

To cut a long and tedious story short, I eventually got out the door (late!) and clandestinely finished my homework at the start of class while the teacher was introducing the new students. Yes, I’m a survivor.

If that were the only thing that went wrong today, I would be stretching it to call it a bad day. However, when I tell you what occurred this afternoon, those of you who know me well, will be text messaging me to make sure I haven’t tossed myself out of a window.

Generally speaking, I aspire to be a person of depth and conviction. I care about social justice, human rights and ethics. However, when it comes to one thing, I admit to being completely and unashamedly superficial. The thing to which I refer is, of course, my hair. I adhere to my three-monthly haircuts religiously and have a very congenial relationship with my hairdresser, Olivia, in Melbourne. She knows exactly what I want and she executes it with all the precision of a surgeon. I’m not exaggerating when I say, I love her!

Anyway, it has now been four months since my last haircut and I was getting desperate. A local Italian lady whom I have befriended, advised me to see her friend; a “very good” hairdresser.

I should mention, at this point, that the last time I had a terrible haircut, I cried. It’s pathetic, I know. It’s shallow. It’s infantile. It’s idiotic. BUT I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY! It’s my hair and I’ll cry if I want to!

So, I suppose you have guessed it by now – the haircut did not go well. She chopped WAAAAAY too much off and I’m not convinced about the layers. I do hold out a small beacon of hope for the fact that your hair is always better when you style it yourself the next day. However, the fact remains… I am shattered! I didn’t cry, but I confess, I came close to shedding a tear when I came home and inspected it in the mirror. The icing on the cake was when I reached in to my handbag and found that much of the hair she had lopped off had stowed itself away amongst my things. You know... just in case I wanted to glue it back on later.

Hmph.

Anyway, I guess you all think I’m a big baby now, but at least having this little vent has helped! There are other frustrating realities associated with sharing an apartment with two 20-year-olds, but I am trying to remain positive! I won’t go there.

Tomorrow I’m going to Firenze (Florence) for the day to see my good friends Cass and Neil, from Melbourne. I also have a couple of interesting things lined up for Friday and Saturday so things are looking up!

I’ll let you know how tomorrow's hair review goes. If I don’t post another blog for the next few months, you can assume that I am busy rocking back and forth in a corner, waiting for it to grow back!

Il Palio di Siena

As promised, I am here to give you my account of the Palio. Unfortunately it is more than a week after the fact because I had a few connection issues; but nevertheless, we are here now! My apologies for the late post. For those of you that have no idea what the heck a Palio is, here is a quick run down…

The actual Palio (apart from referring to the event itself) is a giant banner with a few ornamental medieval flourishes. It is presented to the winner of a bareback horserace held in the main square (Piazza del Campo) in Siena.

Siena is broken up into seventeen areas within the city walls. Each area (or contrada) has it’s own flag depicting their symbol and colours. For example, the contrada in which I live is il nicchio (the shell), represented by the colours blue, red and yellow.

There are two Palio events each year (July 2 and August 16), and for each, only ten of the seventeen contrade can compete. The seven that did not get to compete in last year’s July Palio were a given for this year’s, and to make up the ten they draw lots to determine which will gain entry to the race.

The race itself is planned and executed with the utmost care and strict adherence to its eight-hundred-year-old traditions. The Palio is more than a horse race to the Sienese. Not only does it extract from the locals a level of passion rarely seen elsewhere – or never seen in countries like Australia! – but victory is coveted for a more significant reason than the mere euphoria of winning.

The Palio is extraordinarily meaningful to the Sienese because they have such a deeply ingrained sense of belonging to their contrada (for life) and because they believe that they will live under a promise of favour, protection and prosperity in the year to come if they win. It is also strangely associated with their brand of Catholicism, which is the justification given for the strange practice of having the horse and jockey ‘blessed’ by a priest in the contrada’s local church!

This is serious business! Husbands and wives who come from different contrade separate and return to their respective areas for the pivotal four day period leading up to the race. Loyalty to one's contrada comes before any other allegiance!

The night before the race, the locals of each contrada have dinner together and it is common to see the streets filled with tables and chairs to accommodate the entire community. Forget sleeping peacefully around Palio time! You will be kept up at night by singing and woken up in the morning by drummers in medieval costumes!

The race itself is over in less than two minutes, but all the pageantry leading up to it takes HOURS. All the costumes and props (down to the six oxen pulling a cart filled with some older, official looking men) are as authentic as they can be.

July 2 was a burning hot day and 30-40,000 people filled the main square awaiting the race; which finally commenced at around 8pm. Jockeys hit the ground, horses bled, the crowds went wild and IL NICCHIO…

… came second!

This is even worse than coming last!

The winning contrada was Selva (the Woods), which is represented by a tree and rhinoceros. Why? I have no idea; there are neither woods nor rhinoceroses in Siena. However, this absurdity did not prevent them from waving their orange, green and white flags high and proudly for… well… they’re still waving them. They still hang over houses and around the necks of Selva residents a week later.

It is an event like no other and I highly recommend seeing the spectacular at least once in your life. As for me – yes, I will be at the August one also. Il nicchio is running again, so here’s hoping for a winner next time!