More magenta? Too much cyan?

Insecurity indeed.

Feh!

I made some simple calculations, and determined that for the cost of three overpriced airline drinks I could but a liter of duty-free Scotch. So I did. I set up a private bar in one of the toilets, where I could stretch out, relax, and sip enough whisky to make the ten-hour flight bearable. Since air travel is becoming intolerable for anyone with a modicum of consciousness, I did my part to avoid that unpleasant situation.

And so, here I am in Madeira, an island in the Atlantic. It’s technically part of Portugal, having been discovered by João Gonçalves Zarco in 1419 or 1421 or thereabouts. (Take that, Columbus, who certainly didn’t “discover” America seventy years later.) I haven’t done my homework, as usual, but I believe that was the first time humans landed—or at least stayed—on this rather large island. I wonder if there were any other uninhabited land masses—except Antarctica—back then? I wonder, but not enough to do any research.

I’ve never been conscious of it before, but I’ve always been vaguely aware that other countries I’ve visited all had a history of indigenous peoples living there once upon a time. This is probably my imagination, but the lack of history seems manifest in Madeira today in the generic European culture here. I’m not sure how long this has been going on, but the island seems to be colonized by tourists. There are so many Brits here that everyone speaks English; all signs and menus have English translations included. It’s easy to be an ugly American here; I address everyone in English and they reply using one of the most difficult languages in the world. Crazy, daddio. There are also hordes of Germans, gaggles of French, and, to judge by the signage, a smattering of Russians buying real estate. The atmosphere here is generic upscale seaside resort; I could be in Monaco or Hawaii.

I was worried before coming here that the place would be overrun by British lager louts, but I needn’t have: the place is full of cauliflowers. (“Cauliflowers” is a travel agent term for one of their most lucrative demographics, little old ladies with puffy white hair.) Sitting with a hundred other people in the breakfast room of my hotel, I’m unnerved that, except for the staff, I’m the youngest person in the place.

I should have known better than to have let money dictate my itinerary.

I am reminded of an apocryphal tale, which, like all of my stories, may or may not be true. Jean Cocteau said the best advice he ever received came from Salvador Dali, of all people.

“The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.”

Huzzah!

I’m thinking of the “news” coverage of recent events in Iran, where President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stole the recent election with combination of crude vote-rigging and violent intimidation. (That raises an interesting philosophical question: is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad the George Walker Bush of Iran, or is Bush is the Ahmadinejad of the United States?)

What’s so funny is that none of the Iranian reportage I’ve seen involves journalists; they were all fired to make the television networks more profitable. And so I’m watching people in distant television studios with nice clothes, expensive haircuts, and very white teeth announce that they’re showing a crude video they pulled off the Internet, or reading excerpts from emails viewers have sent. At least they acknowledge that they don’t know what they’re talking about, since there’s no way of knowing who’s supplying the information and how factual is it.

Lots of people have discussed this medium versus that medium, the future of print, digital versus analog broadcasting, that sort of thing. I haven’t heard too much discussion about the absence of journalists, though. I wonder if that’s because there are no journalists around to report on their eradication?

They looked gobsmacked; I guess none of them could imagine that a worthless artist like myself would have seen a whale a quarter of a century before they did. I wasn’t surprised; dogooders are about the most self-centered and ignorant people I know.

I don’t think I explained that very well. The sidewalk didn’t literally hit me or vice-versa; that’s never happened to me, at least not in connection with a trip to or from the liquor store. I meant to say that I finally realized that the Madeiran sidewalks were the only thing that differentiated this place from any other seaside resort town.

That realization was all I needed to make Twenty-Nine Madeiran Crosses, the rest was just fabrication. It wasn’t until I completed the project—which only took a few hours—that the piece reminded me of something I made a year ago, Eleven Chilean Circles. I don’t think I was plagiarizing myself, and, even if I was, I did so unconsciously. As long as I can fool myself, nothing else really matters, at least when it comes to circles and crosses.