Primary colours

Once a month I have the opportunity to attend to a very interesting seminar at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya, a relatively new institution dedicated to higher education of increasing prestige in our country.

The seminar is dedicated to innovations on health and health care issues and is attended by top-notch health officials including our minister of health and a vast array of other big fish in the health world, both from the administrations and the academy.

The seminar usually starts with a main conference by a distinguish speaker and follow by a very open discussion panel and dialogs that extends over some hours, usually on Thursday evenings.

Last Thursday’s the invited professor was a very distinguish Neurosciences researcher and the topic was recent advances on brain physiology, particularly the time distances between stimuli and brain response, and some recent findings of the pre-emptive stimulation of the brain that takes place just a few milliseconds before the actual stimuli perceived by the sense reaches and is registered by the brain cell. The implication would be that we might only sense what we are ready to sense. And how all this may distort the perception of reality.

Neuroscientists get easily carried away and are certainly prone to jump into conclusions about sense, perception, reality, illusions, Being and Nothingness and what not. The talk kept spiralling upwards into Philosophy and even Theology and somewhere along the line came the statement: “… of course there are no colours. They are just a fiction of our perception. Things are colourless and what we perceive are just reflections of the light that stimuli different tips of the rod cells of our retina, and on and on and on….”

Hold it, there! There we go again. I’m fed up with all those half truths concocted out of fragmental pieces of knowledge just to induce the audiences to understand that nothing is true, nothing is real and we are all living in a dream of disbelieve and unreality. Meanwhile the very same bad guys carry out all their very real misdeeds and horrible crimes and get away with it. Ask Bernard Madoff.

What really pisses me off is that all this is said as something startlingly new. I first heard that there were no colours from my Natural Sciences teacher in Junior High somewhere in the mid fifties, last century. Professor Antonio Arnal, a very knowledgeable botanist, was a nice teacher. We loved his classes held in the auditory of a little Natural Sciences museum in the upper floor of our old high school “Instituto de Enseñanza Media”, the walls lined with display cabinets full of all sort of stuffed animals: birds, lizards, exotic monkeys, boar and even a leopard whose green glass eyes stared at you ferociously. By the way, professor Arnal is still alive and kicking, pushing one hundred years and still walking the old streets of town, sporting his ever-present black broad-brimmed Basque beret. He said that there were no colours but did not elaborate much, so I tucked away that nice piece of useless information and went on with my youthful life.

Few years later, in Medical school, I heard the same from our Physiology professor, Dr. Vidal-Sivilla, a sour and circumspect balding man who gave very boring 08.00 a.m. lectures, most of the class half sleep in the cavernous old Facultad de Medicina of Barcelona. Being in Spain, the tirade usually went on over the fact that bulls were colour blind, and that they only reacted to movement, and therefore there were no reason for the “toreros”, the bullfighters, to use a red rag to entice the bull in the ring.

OK, so bull and cows are colour blind. So was I, as I had recently found out when taking my driver’s license test. I had a partial dischromatopsia. No enough to keep me from getting the driver’s license, but surely enough to prevent me from ever obtaining an air flight pilot license. Not that I had any expectations in that regard. Those days hardly any airplanes crossed the skies of Spain and airplanes were something you only saw in the movies.

But, what about other animals? Many sported bright colours to attract sexual partners. Especially birds do. Those fantastic feathers of a peacock must have some meaning. And butterflies? Are they also “imaging” their coloured wings?

And, what about chameleons? Not only they sport colours in their skin, but also they change them for camouflage. They may melt in their surroundings for safety, so they “sense” their colours and their changes. So do many fishes. But even more primitive organisms, such as the plants react to colour changes and may even be colour conscious, as they change colours to attract insects to stop by and pollinate. They depend on that to survive and reproduce.

Of course that colours are just different wave lengths of energy reflected as we perceive them and that different central nervous systems may perceive them differently, but they definitely exist as such wavelengths reflections. Whatever they are, we gave them the name “colour”. We may perceive only a fraction of the spectrum: what goes from violet to red. Seven colours that, as my computer printer claims, may be broken down to 16 million “shades”.

I’ve heard that some blind people may sense colour as things red fell warmer than green ones. And people feel also differences wearing colours, particularly in extreme temperatures. So is not just only our sight; other senses like tact and thermal perception attest the reality of colour.

That does not mean that our sense may be misled in their perceptions. All the “trompe l’oeil” phenomena play on that. As does camouflage. But we humans have giving colours even a social meaning. Banners, national flags and sports colours raise emotions to their limits.

It affects even the language. In Catalan, the red colour is commonly named “vermell”, as vermilion. No one uses “roig”, red, as that is reserved to the “political” colour of leftists, or the supporters of the Spanish republic in the Spanish Civil War years. Forty years of extreme right dictatorship had made “roig” a “bad” colour. In the U.S. they used to call Communists “pinko”, a notch paler shade of red, while “yellow” and “coward” were synonymous.

“Primary colours”, the movie, played with the idea of the primary colours of the spectrum and the heated colours of the primary elections of the Democratic Party.

Bullfighters sport different colours of silk in theirs suits in a combination of two: one major for the silk base, and a secondary colour for the “caireles y alamares”, the adornments of the jackets. Usually they are described in shades of physical things: “tabaco y oro” for brown and yellow, “azabache y grana” for black and purple, and the like. No colour, no bullfight.

Colours do exist, so, please do not take the colours of life away from me. Those black-(grey)-and white movies of old make me sad and depressed, “Casablanca” notwithstanding.

Republicar

... o sea publicar de nuevo. Igual es más viejo que Carracuca (¿quien, coño, era Carracuca?) pero para mi era un verbo desconocido hasta que se lo oí a Joan Barril en su programa "El café de la república", un excelente progama de radio bastante alternativo que realiza a diario en Catalunya Radio a las 9 de la noche bajo la consigna de "la radio tranquila", notable distanciamiento del griterio mediático habitual.
Pero es que hay que republicar un poco cada día. El pelma del premio Nobel Cela decía que ya está todo escrito, pero que hay que seguir escribiendo porque la gente se olvida. (Lo de pelma esta escrito en plan cariñoso para el Cela de después de Los papeles de Son Armadans. Y es que envejecer es un mal rollo que sólo se resuelve con la muerte. RIP)
Republicar es lo que estoy haciendo en otro blog, el del Sabinoso, que recoje artículos de temas diversos centrados en un personaje y publicados durante más de 15 años en una periódico de Tarragona.
Pero republicar es también un ejercicio diario de coherencia. Y como mañana empieza el año en que hará setenta de la desaparición de la II República, pues que
¡¡¡Viva la República!!! ... y feliz año mejor

Les intencions del “Comandante Rivadulla”

Vaig viure quasi cinquanta anys a la cantonada d’un carrer que tothom en deia “del gasómetre” o Gasómetro, però que oficialment, als papers, a les indicacions de trànsit, als rètols del carrer, obstinadament es deia que era “la calle Comandante Rivadulla”.

Que la cruïlla fos amb el carrer Hermanos Landa que tothom nomenava carrer de la Unió no era més que una peculiarietat de l’epoca. Trenta sis anys van haver de passar per que els noms tornesin al que eren i no sembla que gaire be ningú se’n recordi del noms assignats per la dictadura.

De petit mai em vaig preguntar que o qui podien ser aquests personatjes. Els cognoms sonaven com a forasters: Landa és un relativament comú cognom basc. I Rivadulla sona a asturià o gallec . En algún moment algú va esmentar que els germans Landa eren dos xicots joves que els havien matat durant la guerra, sense més detalls.

Pero del comandante ningú del meu entorn en savía res. Van haver de passar anys fins que, en alguna oportunitat de conèixer la història de la guerra civil vaig saver que al comandante Rivadulla l’havien mort el dia que l’exercit franquista prengés Tarragona.

A bord d’un camió acampanyat pel soldat xòfer Alberto Arbués Labarta i un grapat de soldats a la caixa, va adelantar a les forces que des de ponent s’aproximaven a la ciutat, vençudes les últimes resistències al Coll de Balaguer al costat del mar i al coll de Lilla a les muntanyes.

Unes patrulles d’exploradors amb ordres d’avaluar les resistències a la ciutat i l’estat dels ponts sobre el riu Francoli els advertiren que havia uns nius d’ametralladores que defensaven el pont de la carretera amb foc creuat. No hi va fer cas i continuar avençant cap al riu. A un punt es va detenir i baixà de l’automovil. Instantàneament un ràfaga d’ametralladora impactà en l’automóvil. Els de l’ametralladora eren veterans de la batalla de l’Ebre i savien fer “cantar” la màquina: una presió al disparador deixant-lo anar immediatament lliuraba 4 o, com a molt, cinc trets; mig segon després es repetía el gest. Això permetia afinar la punteria.

La segona ràfaga va deixar al comanadante Rivadulla estés al terra. Al pobre Arbués una ferida a la cama que la miserable cirurgía del exèrcit nacionalista no va saver curar li va deixar coix per sempre, amputat .

La presa del “comandante”

Federico Rivadulla había estat comandant de la guarnició de la Guàrdia Civil a Reus. I també havía estat destinat a a Tarragona. Es coneixia el pais i la seva gent. Estan recollits testimonis de que volía ser el primer en entrar a Tarragona. Tenia presa en arribar-hi. Aquell mateix dia es va conèixer que el govern francés obría les fronteres als refugiats, ara ja un autèntic riu de persones que fugien del desastre.

Quina era la presa del “comandante”? Penjar una bandera al monument a Rotger de Llúria? O a l’ajuntament? Això darrer ho van fer, unes hores després, soldats de la Brigada de Navarra que entraren en la part alta de la ciutat pel Portal del Roser.

O tenia altres intencions?

A setanta anys de distància no m’imagino a un militar i policia, calent des del front, com a un emisari de pau. I amb coneixements de les situacions anteriors a la guerra, encara menys.

A setanta anys vista, els servidors de la ametralladora del Francolí que li van ferir la cama a Alberto Arbués, van resoldre una incógnita sense resposta. I el carrer “Comandante Rivadulla” endevingué un recordatori del que va passar aquell dia, i del que potser no va passar després.

A nuclear war in the foreseeable future

It is not just that the US and the Russian Federation nuclear arsenals are alive and ready. So much talk about the danger of Iran pursuit of becoming a nuclear power and very little on how India and Pakistan got to be such powers in the not so recent past.

India in 1974 carried out its first nuclear bomb test. Pakistan in 1998, although many think they have had operational nuclear devices since the mid 80’s

Up until the early sixties in the US all new buildings were required to provide a fallout shelter. School children and factory workers had occasional drills of evacuation and refuge seeking and posters like the one in the picture abounded, indicating areas where, supposedly, one could be protected from the consequences of a nuclear bombardment.

Hollywood has insisted in make us remember the dangers of a nuclear war. “The day after” is an American television movie, which aired on November 20, 1983, on the ABC Television Network. It was a tremendous recount of what could happen after an attack with intercontinental missiles with nuclear warheads. More recently CBS has shown the series “Jericho” with more of a survivalism undertone.

GW Bush was stupid enough to be nuclear dangerous. Vlad Putin is much smarter, but no one can trust him. And there is no way to know how much he controls of the nuclear arsenals left in Ukraine and some of the other former USSR republics.
I read recently that North Koreans have put an end to their nuclear plans, but with the India and Pakistan conflict in the make, there are just too many nuclear devices around the world susceptible to explode without much warning.

Perhaps I am growing of age so that I do not give a damn what could happen should a nuclear war was ever unleashed. I do not think it would be worth to live in a devastated world. That is why I think, along with my fellow doctors of the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War organisation who won the Nobel Peace price in 1985, that all nuclear devices should be destroyed. I do not want to have the chance to decide what to do should a nuclear holocaust ever happen.

Otro poco más sobre Egan Schmit (Mischa)

Bueno pues por lo menos una imagen. En un archivo fotográfico de las Brigadas Internacionales aparece esta foto identificando a Egan Schmit. Al final resulta que en la Internet está todo, o casi todo.
He recortado la fotografía original que identifica al que está de pie detrás como el comisario político Wally Sabatini y otro soldado.
Cuando tenga un rato (y aprenda) pasaré esta información a Wikipedia y, si todo esto de la red perdura, quedará para la memoria.

Catalans alts i catalans baixets

Porto tota la vida dedicat a mesurar infants. Part de la meva feina és garantir que els xiquets es facin grans, que creixin. Mai però he tingut la sensació de que estava contribuïnt a que, en general, els xiquets creixessin més que els seus pares.

Existeix el fenomen del creixement secular de la població, tot que no que no gaire ben explicat però que, ens permet utilitzar una fórmula per a fer prediccions grolleres de la estatura final dels nens.

Molt simplificat ve a dir que els nois tindran una alçada resultant de la suma de les estatures dels seus pares biològics dividida per dos i sumant-hi 10 centímetres pels nois o restant-los per a les noies.

Així, un nen que els seus pares medeixen 170 cm. el pare i 160 la mare pot arribar a medir (170 + 160)/2 + 10 = 175 cm., es a dir 5 centímetres més que el seu pare. Una noia, per exemple germana seva, podria arribar a medir (170+160)/2 - 10 = 165 cm., es a dir també 5 cm. més alta que la seva mare. Això condueix a un increment generacional de l'alçada de la població.

Òbviament que aquesta és una generalització amb notables excepcions i variabilitats. Cal només que hagin circumstàncies familiars o personals que ho puguin modificar. No menyspreable és la precisió que figura més amunt de que el càlcul es refereix a les estatures del pares BIOLÒGICS, sabent com sabem que fins a un 7% dels fills no ho son dels seus pares reconeguts.

Per citar exemples ben coneguts, sembla que la estatura de la nissaga dels reis Borbons al darrer segle, arrenca de la participació del militar català Enric de Puigmoltó, un xicot molt ben plantat, en la dotació genètica de la família.

A Catalunya hem tingut en els darrers quatre presidents de la Generalitat un bon repartiment d'estatures, essent Tarradelles un tros d'home i Maragall ben plantat i, en canvi, Pujol i Montilla més aviat petitons. No serè jo que equipare estatures amb qualitats personals o polítiques, tot i que tinc marcades preferències, però la llengua i Josep Pla ho permeten quan es pot intercanviar homes grans amb grans homes i homenots.

Quan feia el servei militar, a la meva companyia ocupava el lloc 10 o 11 per estatura, just al costat d'en Miquel Albanell, en aquella època "pivot" del equip del Barça de basquet i després metge de l'equip. I en fèiem 177-178 centímetres d'alçada. A la Catalunya dels germans Gasol representa un canvi notable.

Tot plegat resulta curiós l'enrenou generat per les referències a la estatura dels espanyols aparegudes a la revista "The Economist" en un ample reportatge sobre Espanya aquest mes de novembre 2008. Amb una llengua farcida de dites sobre la confitura que hi ha al pot petit, o quin talós rima amb alt i gros, hauríem de ser capaços d'entendre que, llevat de per a jugar al basquet, la estatura no és una qualitat més que física. I dedicar nos a conrear les altres.

Obama’s inauguration

My friends in Washington DC say that 4 million people are expected in the nation's capital for Obama’s inauguration. No hotel room vacant left as of last week.
Looks like it's gonna’ be a big event. May even be bigger than ever.
It’s just good for that country to have such a celebration every four years. From the back of my mind, way back, come the memories of Queen Elizabeth II coronation, in June 1953. The coronation of a monarch is the type of event you might expect to see only once or twice in a lifetime. I was just a child and obviously I could only see the event in the newsreel they usually showed before the movies in all the movie theaters in Spain: the “No-Do” for “Noticiario Documental”, a compulsory francoist propaganda instrument. Those days there was no TV in Spain yet.

At home there was much talk about it, as my mother was of British ascent and anything British was of importance for the family. More over as one of my mother’s sister, Patrito and her husband Modesto traveled to London for the celebrations. My uncle Modesto had abandoned his career as a dermatologist to become sales representative of the British pharmaceutical Booths in Spain, a much more profitable job in those obscure years of Spanish autocracy.

They brought with them a few souvenirs and trinkets to share with the family. I still remember a beautifully made toy size reproduction of the Queens chariot, with the long train of horses mounted by the all dressed up equarries. The toy sat on one of the library shelves for many years after. One of my cousins who has recently moved with us, says she still has the horses, not the coach, somewhere lost in one of her still unpacked boxes.

Around those days, my English teacher, a very peculiar spinster, used to pester us with a traditional English street song that went:

Oh! on Coronation Day, on Coronation Day
We'll have a spree, a jubilee, and shout, Hip, hip, hooray
For we'll all be merry, drinking whiskey, wine and sherry,
We'll be merry on Coronation Day

the lyrics of which escaped to our then poor language understanding.

She also tried to put into our heads, without success, a Children's Prayer for The Queen on Coronation day, that I later learned had been written by Enid Blyton of “The famous five” fame.

As Queen Elizabeth is still alive and kicking and may well outlive her mother, we may not get to see another British coronation day.

In Spain, our current king Juan Carlos coronation now just 33 years ago, was a rather gloomy affair. A few days after the death of the dictator, the country was still mired by the uncertainties of a difficult political situation. I would say there were more celebrations for Franco’s death than for the king’s inauguration. Much attention was paid to the Cardinal Tarancon speech as he encouraged the new monarch to pay heed to the Spanish people claims for democracy.

By the way, the Spanish kings are not crowned. The crown is laid there in a stool and never sets on the monarch’s head.

Actually being a republican, I do not give a hoot where the damn crown sits. I would not mind it sat on the head, as long as it was possible to separate the head from the body, French style.

Anyway, we all look forward to Obama’s inauguration, but we'll see it on TV. Chilly January is not very enticing to visit Washington DC and my wife hates crowds anyway.

New look

De vez en cuando conviene cambiar de aspecto, o por lo menos es lo que mi natural coqueteria me pide. Para un blog, también algunos aspectos prácticos para la lectura, la posibilidad de "stretch" y, porqué no, poner las cosas en negro sobre blanco. Esta plantilla (Jellyfish de Jason Sutter) me parece más clara que la anterior. Luego veré si soy capaz de añadir "gadgets" y demás "outfittings" a esta bitácora.

On Hanna Jones/Drets dels infants

Els noticiaris d’aquesta setmana que acaba anaven plens de comentaris sobre la publicació de la decisió de la nena Hannah Jones de rebutjar un trasplantament de cor. Aquesta menor anglesa de 13 anys en fa vuit que va ser diagnosticada de leucèmia i actualment la seva malaltia està en remissió, però pels efectes de la quimioteràpia ha desenvolupat una cardiopatia greu que l’ha portat a la insuficiència cardíaca. Els seus metges creuen que la cardiopatia no te possibilitats de revertir i que, sense un trasplantament està abocada a la mort. La nena, molt conscient i òbviament madura, ha expressat clarament els seus sentiment i voluntat de no sotmetre-s a més intervencions quirúrgiques ni tractaments hospitalaris.

Amb l’habitual sensacionalisme de la premsa britànica el relat del cas s’ha extés als mitjans de comunicació de tot el món.

Que un menor rebutgi un tractament no és precisament una novetat. Ràpidament m’ha vingut present el cas de Benito Agrelo, un jove hispano-americà de 15 anys de Coral Springs, Florida, que al 1994 va rebutjar tractament quan un segon trasplantament de fetge va presentar problemes. Benito va morir a casa seva a l’agost de 1994. A l’hospital on el van atendre, uns anys després van crear una fundació amb el seu nom.

Durant els proppassats 18 mesos he participat en el grup de treball del Comitè de Bioètica del Departament de Salut de la Generalitat de Catalunya dedicat a la elaboració d’un document sobre el menor madur per a orientació del personal sanitari. El document, ara en el seu esborrany final, aporta informació legal i ètica que dona suport al reconeixement de les capacitats dels menors per a prendre decisions que afectin la seva salut per sota dels setze anys, que és el que la llei actual contempla. Els aspectes més polèmics rauen en la determinació de la maduresa d’un menor i qui està en condicions de determinar tal maduresa.

En el cas de la jove Hannah Jones, només la contemplació de les entrevistes publicades en televisió, sembla com clar que els seus raonaments mostren un grau de maduresa notable. La seva llarga experiència com a malalta als hospitals on ha estat tractada li donen més que arguments per la presa de decisions series. És evident que han estat suficients per a convèncer als seus pares, als seus metges i als funcionaris d Protecció a la Infància de l’administració britànica que, ja fa un temps, renunciaren a presentar el cas davant de la justícia ordinària.

No hi ha doncs cas per a la polèmica. Però la polèmica s’ha plantejat.

Sense voler portar la discussió a un límit, ara, com vaig fer durant les discussions al grup de treball del menor madur, defenso que qui ha de determinar la maduresa del menor, davant de propostes diagnostiques i terapèutiques, bàsicament és el facultatiu al càrrec. Òbviament que cal escoltar a tothom, especialment als pares, però igual que el metge ha de fer el diagnostic de l’estat general del pacient, també ha de determinar la maduresa i el desenvolupament piscoemocional del malalt.

Aquesta postura queda oberta a discussió.

Obama—I feel like I have seen it on TV already (Lo he visto en la tele!)

I have been quite amazed by the closeness of the recent events in American politics and the much famed TV series “The West Wing”, shown in Spain as “El ala Oeste de la Casa Blanca”. That and how fast is Wikipedia refreshed.

Just as the news of the proposed designation of Rahm Emanuel as Chief of Staff in Obama’s White House, the Wikipedia entry on Mr. Emanuel, using the past tense reads "… after the 2008 presidential victory Emanuel was appointed Chief of Staff…"

There have been less than 36 hours since the election and I was trying to learn more about Mr. Emanuel, just to find that he is also the inspiration for the character Josh Lyman on The West Wing played by Bradley Whitford.

I do not know how many Americans have seen “The West Wing” NBC series. I am pretty sure that few Spaniards have had the opportunity just yet, as the series where shown in a paying cable channel. Now is being replayed in another open one. But one wonders how much the scriptwriters of “The West Wing” have written of Obama`s recent past. Actually they have been a bit more conservative as the character of the new president, played by Jimmy Smits, is a Hispanic and not an Afro-American. Perhaps they were playing safe or just demographically conscious as Hispanics now outnumber Blacks in the US.

Anyway, Rahm Emanuel is a guy to watch in the near future. As interesting is to know his past as an advisor of the Clinton presidency and whatever role he played around the Lewinsky scandal. You know that I have always sustained that Monica Lewinsky was a Mossad operative planted in the White House to, literally, ”get Clinton by the balls”. It was the classical “honey trap” of the old spy trade, and good old Bill fell on it in all fours (or was it standing?)…

Para los lectores en Español:
No os perdáis “El Ala Oeste de la Casa Blanca”. Se puede bajar de la Internet.
Repasad la entrada de Wikipedia sobre Rahm Emanuel, el hijo de un pediatra judío de Chicago que dará que hablar.