11 Jun 2010
Important Advances in Science
Last year I discovered the wonders of Compeed ‘Invisible relief for blisters’ - surely a modern miracle? This year I have experienced the amazing properties of ‘nail hardener.’ If ever a product description deserved an award for accuracy this is it. My nails were a bit on the flaky side and the split in one (think I’ve told that tale somewhere) was refusing ever to let the two halves unite so with some scepticism I bought a bottle of this wonder worker stuff. Three months of applications later and I suddenly awaken to the need to buy heavy-duty sandpaper rather than a polite emery board to keep the talons to a length that won’t scare young children. I have the impression my nails would soon rival any Chinese Emperor, that were I strong enough in other ways they could pick up a tractor, and certainly no amount of gardening is going to even bend them. If things continue in this way I shall need a rasp, or perhaps a blacksmith.
Apropos the last post...
Thanks to Eileen for using this quote from Kahlil Gibran at the beginning of her book:
“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder,
with a dash of the dictionary.’
And one I found all by myself (i.e. Googled...)
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” ~Leonard Cohen
“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder,
with a dash of the dictionary.’
And one I found all by myself (i.e. Googled...)
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” ~Leonard Cohen
A happy interlude.
I went to a poetry reading last Tuesday. A friend of mine, Eileen Carney Hulme, has just had her second book of poetry published (and not by herself - by a proper publisher, quite a feat these days!) 'The Space Between Rain.' She brought me a copy into the shop one morning and happily it was a quiet time because I read the poems almost in one gulp. I don’t often read poetry. Of course I'm a fan of T.S.Eliot; occasionally someone else hits the right note or amuses me, but generally I just I like to write my own, thinking of it as a therapy for me rather than a creative art form. That said, it’s quite amazing to me how much Eileen’s poems move, excite and lift my spirits, possibly because they are not unlike the ones I would write myself were I able to pull myself out of the need to express gloom and despondancy! Mine would drag folk down into the slurry with me I fear.
Hers are full of the northern skies, the special light of the Scottish coastal plains, of beautiful imagery that stays with me as surely as any painting. They also have what seems to be termed by the critics as 'musicality’ (surely a newly-minted word?) Even when the tone is sad (and she inevitably speaks of love and loss and death) they are never maudlin or depressing. Short, compact, close-grained, they are each a moment of heightened consciousness.
She was sharing the stage with another local poet, Donald Macarthur Ker, whose most recent collection was brought out in 2009 'The Differences Between Women and Men at Funerals in Lethen' Donald was born and bred in Lethen just up the road from here. At question time someone asked him how, after all the sadness in his life, he could have made us laugh so loudly ( a belly laugh isn’t often to be heard from Scottish audiences In my experience.) He didn’t have an answer really. I think he’s just that sort of man, born to make a good story out of every event, be it tragedy or daily nonsense, lightening the mood without obscuring the feelings or experiencing it less himself, only rendering events more poignant. He interspersed his readings with anecdotes, each of which would make (have made?) highly enjoyable short stories peopled with memorably eccentric characters and daftness. I’ve put in my order to Amazon for a collection of short stories: ‘Horses, Stones, Wrecked cars.’ hoping I’ll be able to relive them through it. Above all I’m glad to have met Donald, even for a moment. He’s one of life’s natural flavour enhancers.
Eileen, knowing her own strength for creating mood, read hers straight through with only short introductions or interjections. I enjoyed hearing both poets reading their work very much, but - and this is my experience - I get far more pleasure reading their poems by myself, to myself, watching the spacing chosen by them, each poem like a visual work of art hanging in the white space of the page, bringing space and silence to my own mind.
Maybe poets are embarrassed by their own words; maybe they know them too well. I think they are better presented by another voice (provided it’s a sympathetic one.) But best of all they are to be read straight from the page, by the single ‘listener.’
I told Eileen afterwards that her poems cry out to be set to music before they go on stage. Not as songs, though that might work too, but just set against a background of light sound, almost-music, just something a bit atmospheric (and it will take a sensitive ear to know how to do it) to make the images stand individually s they do when read by the inner eye.
I wish I could post some here but am cowed by copyright.
Hers are full of the northern skies, the special light of the Scottish coastal plains, of beautiful imagery that stays with me as surely as any painting. They also have what seems to be termed by the critics as 'musicality’ (surely a newly-minted word?) Even when the tone is sad (and she inevitably speaks of love and loss and death) they are never maudlin or depressing. Short, compact, close-grained, they are each a moment of heightened consciousness.
She was sharing the stage with another local poet, Donald Macarthur Ker, whose most recent collection was brought out in 2009 'The Differences Between Women and Men at Funerals in Lethen' Donald was born and bred in Lethen just up the road from here. At question time someone asked him how, after all the sadness in his life, he could have made us laugh so loudly ( a belly laugh isn’t often to be heard from Scottish audiences In my experience.) He didn’t have an answer really. I think he’s just that sort of man, born to make a good story out of every event, be it tragedy or daily nonsense, lightening the mood without obscuring the feelings or experiencing it less himself, only rendering events more poignant. He interspersed his readings with anecdotes, each of which would make (have made?) highly enjoyable short stories peopled with memorably eccentric characters and daftness. I’ve put in my order to Amazon for a collection of short stories: ‘Horses, Stones, Wrecked cars.’ hoping I’ll be able to relive them through it. Above all I’m glad to have met Donald, even for a moment. He’s one of life’s natural flavour enhancers.
Eileen, knowing her own strength for creating mood, read hers straight through with only short introductions or interjections. I enjoyed hearing both poets reading their work very much, but - and this is my experience - I get far more pleasure reading their poems by myself, to myself, watching the spacing chosen by them, each poem like a visual work of art hanging in the white space of the page, bringing space and silence to my own mind.
Maybe poets are embarrassed by their own words; maybe they know them too well. I think they are better presented by another voice (provided it’s a sympathetic one.) But best of all they are to be read straight from the page, by the single ‘listener.’
I told Eileen afterwards that her poems cry out to be set to music before they go on stage. Not as songs, though that might work too, but just set against a background of light sound, almost-music, just something a bit atmospheric (and it will take a sensitive ear to know how to do it) to make the images stand individually s they do when read by the inner eye.
I wish I could post some here but am cowed by copyright.
9 Jun 2010
Comment moderation
Does anyone else check their 'comment moderation' place? I just found two comments berating me (or rather 'you cruel people') for holding an ugly pets competition. Eh? What??!
I've been accused of being a bit oblique and obscure and 'unavailable' in my attempts at poetry, but I didn't think my prose style was so obfuscated as to have given the impression I'm handing out awards for ugly pet photos.
Very odd.
I've been accused of being a bit oblique and obscure and 'unavailable' in my attempts at poetry, but I didn't think my prose style was so obfuscated as to have given the impression I'm handing out awards for ugly pet photos.
Very odd.
Therapy.
We’ve all lightened up a bit momentarily, chiefly because the g’son returned to school quite normally Monday and is only grumbling in normal fashion about the exams they are being subjected to this week. H even asked his mum why she and I where so worried, which caused her to splutter rather. ‘But It’s over now for another three weeks,’ he said, reasonably enough. Forgive us, child, for being afraid of the subterranean rumblings in his unconscious - the sort that have caused psychosomatic illnesses over the passed two years.
Maybe he really is learning to cope. Apologies to the tiny counsellor in that case - now could she come and help us two poor raddled ‘grown-ups.’
To survive the horrors I’ve been reading a raft of girly pool-side books. Starting with Joanna Trollope’s “Friday Nights,’ which I hear on her site (my isn’t she a plummy Brit?) was inspired by her vision of the new importance of friendship between women in a fractured society where friends replace family. I moved to a similar, but more souffléd, theme in Carole Matthews’ ‘The Chocolate Lovers’ Club’ which caused me to eat a whole bar of Green & Black’s dark choc with cherry in one morning, so possibly should come with a health warning. I romped through Fay Weldon’s: ‘she my not leave’ (lower case for title because it’s written thus on the cover) which as often with her novels gives the initial impression of being predictable but has a scorpions’ sting in it’s neatly furled tail.
Finally I am just finishing something I never thought to read, Lauren Weisberger’s ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ which I’m finding more satisfying than the film. But that’s usually the way.
There may have been others, taken off now by my daughter for her own therapeutic binge, but I can’t remember them.
Between the marshmallows I’ve digested Karin Slaughter (what a name for a crime-horror writer!) ‘genesis’ (again the lower case title. It must be designer chic with the publishers at present.) That was a lot more readable than Patricia Cornwall’s ‘The Scarpetta Factor’ (upper case... should have known.. ) which I found almost impossible. maybe the timing in my life was wrong but it seemed to me to be full of the minutiae of legal, forensic, political, crime work, which slowed any story to a crawl and lost me completely. Hardly a single italian dish was prepared by the eponymous heroine in all 536 pages. I have come to expect at least a drizzle of extra virgin and some parmigiano reggiano from Scarpetta..
Maybe he really is learning to cope. Apologies to the tiny counsellor in that case - now could she come and help us two poor raddled ‘grown-ups.’
To survive the horrors I’ve been reading a raft of girly pool-side books. Starting with Joanna Trollope’s “Friday Nights,’ which I hear on her site (my isn’t she a plummy Brit?) was inspired by her vision of the new importance of friendship between women in a fractured society where friends replace family. I moved to a similar, but more souffléd, theme in Carole Matthews’ ‘The Chocolate Lovers’ Club’ which caused me to eat a whole bar of Green & Black’s dark choc with cherry in one morning, so possibly should come with a health warning. I romped through Fay Weldon’s: ‘she my not leave’ (lower case for title because it’s written thus on the cover) which as often with her novels gives the initial impression of being predictable but has a scorpions’ sting in it’s neatly furled tail.
Finally I am just finishing something I never thought to read, Lauren Weisberger’s ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ which I’m finding more satisfying than the film. But that’s usually the way.
There may have been others, taken off now by my daughter for her own therapeutic binge, but I can’t remember them.
Between the marshmallows I’ve digested Karin Slaughter (what a name for a crime-horror writer!) ‘genesis’ (again the lower case title. It must be designer chic with the publishers at present.) That was a lot more readable than Patricia Cornwall’s ‘The Scarpetta Factor’ (upper case... should have known.. ) which I found almost impossible. maybe the timing in my life was wrong but it seemed to me to be full of the minutiae of legal, forensic, political, crime work, which slowed any story to a crawl and lost me completely. Hardly a single italian dish was prepared by the eponymous heroine in all 536 pages. I have come to expect at least a drizzle of extra virgin and some parmigiano reggiano from Scarpetta..
6 Jun 2010
Nightmare
The events of the last week would have been disturbing enough but they came just three weeks after my grandson returned home deeply distressed after a visit to his father and was finally coaxed into revealing the reason for his distress: His father had threatened to shoot his mother and her partner.
The child is forced, when visiting this charmer, to call his mother (and all of the rest of us) by obscene names. The charmer’s partner, who seems to be a hot-headed and jealous woman (we already suspect her of hitting S once in the past) helps by prompting S if he fails to speak of us in the required terms. S was shown a pocket full of marbles and a catapult and told these are to be used to smash the windows of my daughter’s car and the house. The death threat will be carried out if the father hears he has three days left to live. What a thoughtful parent to envisage killing his son’s mum just as his son is hypothetically about to lose his other parent! As G is 55 and his health isn’t great, (angina, stents , dodgy heart, etc.) This isn’t so distant a possibility as it might sound, especially to his young son. Dad is always telling him that he might die at any time. Playing the guilt/sympathy card. He’s really good at that.
My daughter was persuaded by two retired policemen to report the threat to the police. She was reluctant to do this because S had told her of the threats in confidence and she is always afraid he will stop confiding in her if she betrays these confidences. S doesn’t want to stop seeing his dad. That’s just about understandable - we all want our fathers to love us, be an OK person, and so on; at least at that age.
The police agreed not to speak to S . One officer was particularly sympathetic because he had been in the same position himself as a child , having to sell one or other parent ‘down the river’ every time the police called after an incident. He remembers how bad that made him feel.
After several long interviews with C & I they uplifted the guns and G’s licence has been revoked until the situation is reviewed. The police told my daughter that they had received similar reports from a source who overheard G sounding off in Tesco! Unfortunately that source was ‘too specific’ to be used in evidence. We don’t understand this.
There’s a lot we don’t understand and a lot that is driving me wild with frustration. It feels as if no-one can or will help. Because there is a legally binding agreement in place, made at the time of the divorce and custody proceedings, S has to see his father every third weekend or his mother is in contempt of court. The visit fell this weekend. He doesn’t stay overnight (that happens only at the mother’s discretion) so I saw him yesterday eve. He told me everything was fine. As soon as he got home to his mum he was frenetic, acting wildly and with extreme jollity, pretending to be OK, whilst we tried to enjoy a barbecue. Bits came out gradually to his mum and her partner. It seems, unsurprisingly, that dad is very angry and has made that anger quite clear. He was sworn to secrecy again so, in effect, must lie to us. A child of 11 really can’t keep that sort of thing to himself and shouldn’t be asked to. This man is evil.
S goes to a counsellor who claims she can do nothing unless he asks her to so would be no help if C did have to withhold visits and was taken to court. The father has legal aid so can go to a solicitor as often as he likes whereas C would have to pay thousands again to defend herself.
I don’t care about the threats. The man is a coward anyway. I do care about the poison he is dripping into my grandson’s ear and the terrible patterns he is building up in him of lying and deceiving, of fear and mistrust... to name but a few. I will also be very surprised if S manages to get to the end of term with all this going around in his head. It separates him from his peers because he feels he’s the only one with so many troubles. The school aren’t much help. I will bet money that he can’t go away with his class on the canoeing expedition because he’ll be too worried about what’s going on at home and if everyone is safe.
I write this in the hope of getting some of it out of my own system. I’m finding it very hard to breath at the moment! Also - if anyone out there has any ideas or views I’d be extremely grateful to hear them. We think we’ve covered all bases and are stuck with the situation,but a fresh eye might see something we’ve missed.
The child is forced, when visiting this charmer, to call his mother (and all of the rest of us) by obscene names. The charmer’s partner, who seems to be a hot-headed and jealous woman (we already suspect her of hitting S once in the past) helps by prompting S if he fails to speak of us in the required terms. S was shown a pocket full of marbles and a catapult and told these are to be used to smash the windows of my daughter’s car and the house. The death threat will be carried out if the father hears he has three days left to live. What a thoughtful parent to envisage killing his son’s mum just as his son is hypothetically about to lose his other parent! As G is 55 and his health isn’t great, (angina, stents , dodgy heart, etc.) This isn’t so distant a possibility as it might sound, especially to his young son. Dad is always telling him that he might die at any time. Playing the guilt/sympathy card. He’s really good at that.
My daughter was persuaded by two retired policemen to report the threat to the police. She was reluctant to do this because S had told her of the threats in confidence and she is always afraid he will stop confiding in her if she betrays these confidences. S doesn’t want to stop seeing his dad. That’s just about understandable - we all want our fathers to love us, be an OK person, and so on; at least at that age.
The police agreed not to speak to S . One officer was particularly sympathetic because he had been in the same position himself as a child , having to sell one or other parent ‘down the river’ every time the police called after an incident. He remembers how bad that made him feel.
After several long interviews with C & I they uplifted the guns and G’s licence has been revoked until the situation is reviewed. The police told my daughter that they had received similar reports from a source who overheard G sounding off in Tesco! Unfortunately that source was ‘too specific’ to be used in evidence. We don’t understand this.
There’s a lot we don’t understand and a lot that is driving me wild with frustration. It feels as if no-one can or will help. Because there is a legally binding agreement in place, made at the time of the divorce and custody proceedings, S has to see his father every third weekend or his mother is in contempt of court. The visit fell this weekend. He doesn’t stay overnight (that happens only at the mother’s discretion) so I saw him yesterday eve. He told me everything was fine. As soon as he got home to his mum he was frenetic, acting wildly and with extreme jollity, pretending to be OK, whilst we tried to enjoy a barbecue. Bits came out gradually to his mum and her partner. It seems, unsurprisingly, that dad is very angry and has made that anger quite clear. He was sworn to secrecy again so, in effect, must lie to us. A child of 11 really can’t keep that sort of thing to himself and shouldn’t be asked to. This man is evil.
S goes to a counsellor who claims she can do nothing unless he asks her to so would be no help if C did have to withhold visits and was taken to court. The father has legal aid so can go to a solicitor as often as he likes whereas C would have to pay thousands again to defend herself.
I don’t care about the threats. The man is a coward anyway. I do care about the poison he is dripping into my grandson’s ear and the terrible patterns he is building up in him of lying and deceiving, of fear and mistrust... to name but a few. I will also be very surprised if S manages to get to the end of term with all this going around in his head. It separates him from his peers because he feels he’s the only one with so many troubles. The school aren’t much help. I will bet money that he can’t go away with his class on the canoeing expedition because he’ll be too worried about what’s going on at home and if everyone is safe.
I write this in the hope of getting some of it out of my own system. I’m finding it very hard to breath at the moment! Also - if anyone out there has any ideas or views I’d be extremely grateful to hear them. We think we’ve covered all bases and are stuck with the situation,but a fresh eye might see something we’ve missed.
3 Jun 2010
Baroque catharsis
For one wallowing in the Slough of Despond it seemed appropriate to go to a performance of ‘Tears of St. Peter’ verses of Luigi Tansillo set to music by Orlando Lassus in 1595, his last work. It was billed as ‘An emotionally charged sequence of twenty sacred madrigals in seven parts.’ The words of each are agonisingly painful as St. Peter wallows in - self pity? Self castigation and bitterness at ‘life’ which he feels has engulfed him and led him to the final terrible betrayal.
Happily the lyrics were in Italian and the music itself didn’t really seem to reflect this agony of mind. It was a long programme, we arrived early to bag a good spot, (so early we caught the rehearsal which is when I took the photos) the chairs we were sitting on were horribly uncomfortable, but after a while the voices started to flood over me and I got quite lost in it. Nearly three hours passed I believe, and I came away feeling refreshed.
The setting was the wonderful Abbey of Pluscarden, about four miles away. Set in a deep green valley, once very isolated, with a long history that began in 1230 when it was founded by King Alexander of Scotland and housed the Valliscaulins, a strict order akin to the Benedictines. It flourished for a while until it attracted the unwonted attention of local badboy, Alexander Stuart, known now as the Wolf of Badenoch, who, in anger at an unfavourable decision on his marital status by the Bishop of Moray, fired it along with Elgin Cathedral and Forres in 1390. There are still marks of this fire to be seen on the old walls left standing.
Despite this the Priory survived throughout the Reformation struggling on for over a century until it fell into ruin and was almost abandoned around 1662 apart from local worship. In 1948 the work of restoration began and is ongoing to this day with the monks themselves still working on replacing plain glass with gloriously coloured stained glass windows, of which I am an avid fan.
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