Did I imagine it or did the PM’s advisors tell him that one way to improve the sum of British happiness would be to stop changing the clocks? The clock change has become the starting gun for winter in the collective mind so there will be a multitude of folk waking up this morning feeling more depressed than they need be. As a cog in that collective I would like to support their theory. It takes me months to get used to this change - it’s worse than the Spring forward.
The signs for the onset of winter are so much less poetic than they used to be (sign of the times?) The days shorten and the leaves turn wonderful colours as ever, but there is also the clock change and the ‘flu jab. The jab was Thursday, coffee and biscuits after, and conversation with people I’ve never met before but with whom I was sharing the annual ritual. Then there was a day of feeling a bit shivery. Now it’s all over and hopefully I am fully armed against whatever Mother Nature had in mind for reducing the population overload.
My reading has been a bit haphazard lately, couldn’t settle to anything. Then the autobiography of Kathleen Raine arrived, ordered so long ago I’d almost forgotten about it. She isn’t a favourite poet of mine but she played a major role in the life of Gavin Maxwell who I've always found to be a charismatic and intriguing character. I’ve read his side of their friendship and his biographer’s opinions but wanted to hear hers. I had to wait for that sad tale till very near the end of what is a charting of her inner life rather than a account of the outer mundane events that formed the backdrop to what was more important to her. Her writing style is that of poet of a past era and I’m an impatient reader who doesn’t appreciate too much embroidery so I’m afraid I skipped quite a lot. I might return when I’m in a more tranquil state; she does have some very interesting observations, and the people she was at Cambridge with, like Jacob Bronowski and Malcolm Lowry occasionally get a mention.
Her love for Gavin Maxwell and his inability to love her in return in the way she desperately wanted (not only, I think, because he was homosexual but because he was entangled by his own bipolar condition) was so sad it almost broke my heart. What she saw in him, or as she acknowledged in another context, all the qualities that she endowed him with (as women do) made him everything she wanted in a soul-mate, and though she tried to see the truth of him as a fascinating, gifted, and emotionally flawed human being, she failed to do that, so causing herself the deepest pain she had experienced in her life. Maybe I see too much of myself in her. I certain recognise the intense personal narrative that drowns out any signals from the worlds others are living in.
30 Oct 2011
19 Oct 2011
Ramblings.
All is well. A new iMac laptop is on it's way. Now all I have to do is fire it up. I'm so nervous! So long since i had to launch a new computer and i'm not very adept. This week I have deleted Sandy and I from Facebook somehow. Not that I use it, nor does he, but we like to know we have the option. All I did was voice my opinion on a government site then panic when it said I could link my entry to Facebook. It sounded alarming. I thought S would be credited with my soap-box stuff about planning application for a local development submitted by the Tesco company and, he wouldn't want that ruining his street cred. I pressed 'cancel' and now we are history.
It's extraordinary how topics, people, events collide in my life, in everyone's. We all have examples. I was reading the book 'by' Kim Noble (ghosted) who is a non-existant woman, given that name at birth, but her body was then later inhabited by 100 or so personalities as horrific abuse caused mulitiple fractures. The dominant personality Patricia, began painting to encourage their daughter ( a daughter she doesn't remember giving birth to and who, until the diagnosis, she imagined to be the child of a friend always being left for her to mind). Other personalities found they also enjoyed the opportunity to splash paint around, express themselves or just have fun, and now they have group exhibitions, all except one of them who wants her own exhibitions! It sounds crazy. Staggering to hear just what the brain is capable of. None of Patricia's personalities were aware of the existence of the others and though their lives seemed oddly disjointed they somehow made sense of them, with occasional spells in mental institutions . They did suffer and there were terrible sadnesses, like the woman who gave birth to the baby girl only to have her taken away by social services. Another personality fought to get her back but the birth mother who had lost a newborn couldn't accept the infant and still mourns her baby. There are also the funny sides. One woman has a driving licence, another loves water and always plunges into any she sees, which led to the driver finding herself sitting in her car fully clothed but soaking wet in front of a fountain after the water lover had had her bathe. Years ago I read 'Sybil' about a woman with multiple personalities . It was made into a film, which was gripping but turned out to be a scam cooked up by a therapist. That experience made me wary of 'All of
Me' but it does seem authentic. Nowadays the condition is called Dissociative identity Disorder. I'm tempted to be cross my brain can't come up with something more interesting so that bits of me at least could actually write something worth reading! More seriously, if we could access all our brains have in the way of functions how exciting that might be!
With all this in my head I found out that two siblings I knew as cheerful teenagers in Brussels have been diagnosed schizophrenic and, now
in their 40's are still living with their parents. Their cheerfully normal younger sister came into the shop yesterday, startling me, because she looked like a stranger, by saying 'Carol, it is you isn't it?'.
It's extraordinary how topics, people, events collide in my life, in everyone's. We all have examples. I was reading the book 'by' Kim Noble (ghosted) who is a non-existant woman, given that name at birth, but her body was then later inhabited by 100 or so personalities as horrific abuse caused mulitiple fractures. The dominant personality Patricia, began painting to encourage their daughter ( a daughter she doesn't remember giving birth to and who, until the diagnosis, she imagined to be the child of a friend always being left for her to mind). Other personalities found they also enjoyed the opportunity to splash paint around, express themselves or just have fun, and now they have group exhibitions, all except one of them who wants her own exhibitions! It sounds crazy. Staggering to hear just what the brain is capable of. None of Patricia's personalities were aware of the existence of the others and though their lives seemed oddly disjointed they somehow made sense of them, with occasional spells in mental institutions . They did suffer and there were terrible sadnesses, like the woman who gave birth to the baby girl only to have her taken away by social services. Another personality fought to get her back but the birth mother who had lost a newborn couldn't accept the infant and still mourns her baby. There are also the funny sides. One woman has a driving licence, another loves water and always plunges into any she sees, which led to the driver finding herself sitting in her car fully clothed but soaking wet in front of a fountain after the water lover had had her bathe. Years ago I read 'Sybil' about a woman with multiple personalities . It was made into a film, which was gripping but turned out to be a scam cooked up by a therapist. That experience made me wary of 'All of
Me' but it does seem authentic. Nowadays the condition is called Dissociative identity Disorder. I'm tempted to be cross my brain can't come up with something more interesting so that bits of me at least could actually write something worth reading! More seriously, if we could access all our brains have in the way of functions how exciting that might be!
With all this in my head I found out that two siblings I knew as cheerful teenagers in Brussels have been diagnosed schizophrenic and, now
in their 40's are still living with their parents. Their cheerfully normal younger sister came into the shop yesterday, startling me, because she looked like a stranger, by saying 'Carol, it is you isn't it?'.
17 Oct 2011
I am so sad - my iMac seems to have died, or at least to be in a critical condition. It won't boot up ( is that still the term?). Now I'm faced with a decision that isn't really much of a decision at all because the poor thing was already declared so out-dated as to be ready for the knackers last time I rang the help-line.
I'm going to have to replace it!
In the meantime, whilst I go busking, rob the rich to give to me, sell my body (any Burke and Hare teams out there willing to give me something on account, sort of pay now buy later scheme....) there will be no pics here. Sad.
I'm going to have to replace it!
In the meantime, whilst I go busking, rob the rich to give to me, sell my body (any Burke and Hare teams out there willing to give me something on account, sort of pay now buy later scheme....) there will be no pics here. Sad.
9 Oct 2011
I’ve been going through one of those uncomfortable between-times when I can’t find a book to suit my mood. I have several unreads waiting on my shelves, a Rose Tremain 'Colours' Amitav Ghosh ‘The Glass Palace,’ and ‘Topper takes a Trip’ by Thorne Smith, to name just a few. Raking disconsolately through the Red Cross shelves wasn’t helpful; what they had on offer was same-old same-old, although I do acknowledge the problem is more mine than theirs.
Eventually I grabbed a fat ex-library hardback copy of ‘Joyce and Ginnie’ a collection - selection - of the huge correspondence between Joyce Grenfell and Virginia Graham over Joyce’s lifetime (she dies some 12 years before her friend.) I knew I wouldn’t read it all and thought it might irritate me but it was worth a go. I have one or two fond memories of laughter shared with my ma-in-law (of all people) over recording by Grenfell, ‘George, don’t do that’ amongst them. Also the early St.Trinian’s films, watched on TV with my parents seemed funny in their day. I bought the collection recently and unfortunately my taste, tolerance, and the times have all changed so they were a bit of a disappointment. I greatly prefer the updated versions with Russell Brand, Rupert Everett and Colin Firth.
To my surprise I read about a third of the way through before skipping to the end and her death. From the tone of the letters, said to be very like her manner of speaking, and a few photos, Joyce didn’t have to act much to be the gauche ‘jolly hockey sticks’ gym mistress in St. T. She’s even got a sort of gym slip on in the cover photo. What I did admire is her gutsiness and positivity which, at a guess, were both natural to her but equally might have been a result of the discipline involved in being a Christian Scientist, or, even more probably, the ethos of the time.
My mother-in-law, a contemporary of JG, expressed disgust every time I tried to share my real feelings on any subject. I always used, as one was exhorted to do in counselling and workshops, the ‘I’ word so as to own my emotions. She told me this showed how irredeemably egotistical I was/am. It simply wasn’t done in their day to say ‘I think’ or ‘I feel’. ‘One’ had to be substituted at all times so as to distance oneself! I believe I pointed out to her, in a provoked moment, that every time she said ‘One’ she meant ‘I’ so it came to the same thing in the end.
There is something admirable in the determined bright-brittle cheerfulness of these between-the-wars people. The lost generation. It can be found in ‘The Camomile Lawn’ by Mary Wesley, in ‘Love in a Cold Climate’ by Nancy Mitford, and ‘Cold Comfort Farm’ by Stella Gibbons, three of my favourite novels made long ago into BBC series and films which I bought recently on DVD to spend many hours glued to my couch watching when I should have been doing something more productive,
I learned an interesting fact: at the time their correspondence began there were five posts a day and a letter written early in the morning could reach the recipient by tea-time. So different now!
I also liked this ‘pome’ (yes, she was unfortunately fond of this verbal whimsy!) by JG and shall have it at my funeral. I might change the last two lines. All suggestions welcome.
If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I am gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on
So sing as well.
Eventually I grabbed a fat ex-library hardback copy of ‘Joyce and Ginnie’ a collection - selection - of the huge correspondence between Joyce Grenfell and Virginia Graham over Joyce’s lifetime (she dies some 12 years before her friend.) I knew I wouldn’t read it all and thought it might irritate me but it was worth a go. I have one or two fond memories of laughter shared with my ma-in-law (of all people) over recording by Grenfell, ‘George, don’t do that’ amongst them. Also the early St.Trinian’s films, watched on TV with my parents seemed funny in their day. I bought the collection recently and unfortunately my taste, tolerance, and the times have all changed so they were a bit of a disappointment. I greatly prefer the updated versions with Russell Brand, Rupert Everett and Colin Firth.
To my surprise I read about a third of the way through before skipping to the end and her death. From the tone of the letters, said to be very like her manner of speaking, and a few photos, Joyce didn’t have to act much to be the gauche ‘jolly hockey sticks’ gym mistress in St. T. She’s even got a sort of gym slip on in the cover photo. What I did admire is her gutsiness and positivity which, at a guess, were both natural to her but equally might have been a result of the discipline involved in being a Christian Scientist, or, even more probably, the ethos of the time.
My mother-in-law, a contemporary of JG, expressed disgust every time I tried to share my real feelings on any subject. I always used, as one was exhorted to do in counselling and workshops, the ‘I’ word so as to own my emotions. She told me this showed how irredeemably egotistical I was/am. It simply wasn’t done in their day to say ‘I think’ or ‘I feel’. ‘One’ had to be substituted at all times so as to distance oneself! I believe I pointed out to her, in a provoked moment, that every time she said ‘One’ she meant ‘I’ so it came to the same thing in the end.
There is something admirable in the determined bright-brittle cheerfulness of these between-the-wars people. The lost generation. It can be found in ‘The Camomile Lawn’ by Mary Wesley, in ‘Love in a Cold Climate’ by Nancy Mitford, and ‘Cold Comfort Farm’ by Stella Gibbons, three of my favourite novels made long ago into BBC series and films which I bought recently on DVD to spend many hours glued to my couch watching when I should have been doing something more productive,
I learned an interesting fact: at the time their correspondence began there were five posts a day and a letter written early in the morning could reach the recipient by tea-time. So different now!
I also liked this ‘pome’ (yes, she was unfortunately fond of this verbal whimsy!) by JG and shall have it at my funeral. I might change the last two lines. All suggestions welcome.
If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I am gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on
So sing as well.
8 Oct 2011
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.... and Spring.
N and I watched a very beautiful film by a Korean director Ki-duk Kim, last Sunday, 'Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter..... And Spring' Long title, but it does contain the essence of the film which is the circle of life. Quite apart from the ravishing scenery which was a treat in itself, it coincided nicely with a resurgence of interest in Buddhism chez moi. N always asks me what sort of film I'd like to watch and I always say 'not gloomy, and not one of those Art House films in which nothing happens,' but this time he ignored me because he had decided the evening before what we were going to watch - and I had to say how psychic he had been! I may not have known that's what I wanted, but it was!!
A monk and his disciple, a very young child, live in a tiny monastery on a platform built in the middle of a lake, surrounded by steep tree-covered banks that frame and protect it. The child grows to manhood under the watchful eyes of the monk, learning life lessons as he passes through the stage of growing. His first harsh lesson is brought to him through his own childish play with creatures he catches as he explores the forests alone. The innocent play turns to cruelty when he ties stones to a fish, a frog and a snake. The monk punishes him for this cruelty by tying a heavy rock to his own middle, telling him that if the creatures have come to harm because of his thoughtless actions he will wear the stone in his heart for the rest of his days. Two of them have died and though the child weeps with regret he will never be free of the anguish he has caused.
In his adolescence a sick young woman is brought by her mother to be healed by the monk. She also brings with her the greatest lesson of the young man’s life for he falls in love. The monk tells him that though love is good and their sexual play has helped to cure the girl, if he can’t let her go his desire will lead to killing. He can’t let her go, he leaves the monastery instead, and it and it does lead to a killing.
The student returns to the island, perhaps to seek forgiveness, or sanctuary or perhaps to find peace, but anyway to tell the monk he was right - the Buddha was right! The monk reminds him of the sutras which he sets the student to carve out on the wooden decking before he is arrested by the police. After they have taken him away the old monk commits suicide. His work is done.
Inevitably the student returns to the island monastery, finds his old clothes waiting for him and a book of martial art exercises which he works on to perfect. He remains alone as the seasons turn until the day when a baby is left with him - the baby who will become his charge to teach in the ways of wisdom. There are some strange scenes toward the end that I would like to have explained. They are probably clearer to those who know the mythology of his country.
This director has caused controversy by representing women in a way that looks to be derogatory and mysoginistic; also by the explicit cruelty to animals shown in some of his films. He doesn’t get past the western censors without cuts. None of that is apparent in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn...’ which would indicate sympathy with the Buddhist Way an essentially harmless path that wishes all sentient beings to be happy. It’s difficult to assess how much of what he does is deliberately to shock or if it’s a cultural difference.
A monk and his disciple, a very young child, live in a tiny monastery on a platform built in the middle of a lake, surrounded by steep tree-covered banks that frame and protect it. The child grows to manhood under the watchful eyes of the monk, learning life lessons as he passes through the stage of growing. His first harsh lesson is brought to him through his own childish play with creatures he catches as he explores the forests alone. The innocent play turns to cruelty when he ties stones to a fish, a frog and a snake. The monk punishes him for this cruelty by tying a heavy rock to his own middle, telling him that if the creatures have come to harm because of his thoughtless actions he will wear the stone in his heart for the rest of his days. Two of them have died and though the child weeps with regret he will never be free of the anguish he has caused.
In his adolescence a sick young woman is brought by her mother to be healed by the monk. She also brings with her the greatest lesson of the young man’s life for he falls in love. The monk tells him that though love is good and their sexual play has helped to cure the girl, if he can’t let her go his desire will lead to killing. He can’t let her go, he leaves the monastery instead, and it and it does lead to a killing.
The student returns to the island, perhaps to seek forgiveness, or sanctuary or perhaps to find peace, but anyway to tell the monk he was right - the Buddha was right! The monk reminds him of the sutras which he sets the student to carve out on the wooden decking before he is arrested by the police. After they have taken him away the old monk commits suicide. His work is done.
Inevitably the student returns to the island monastery, finds his old clothes waiting for him and a book of martial art exercises which he works on to perfect. He remains alone as the seasons turn until the day when a baby is left with him - the baby who will become his charge to teach in the ways of wisdom. There are some strange scenes toward the end that I would like to have explained. They are probably clearer to those who know the mythology of his country.
This director has caused controversy by representing women in a way that looks to be derogatory and mysoginistic; also by the explicit cruelty to animals shown in some of his films. He doesn’t get past the western censors without cuts. None of that is apparent in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn...’ which would indicate sympathy with the Buddhist Way an essentially harmless path that wishes all sentient beings to be happy. It’s difficult to assess how much of what he does is deliberately to shock or if it’s a cultural difference.
The Aviator.
Talking of rabbits, I wish I knew the history of this aviator chappie. I've had him for years since being the only one to bid for him at the local auction (Gillian's 'Gladys' made me think of him). He is made in some sort of plastic, not quite resin, lighter, and he's hollow although his very sympatique expression shows he has a soul IMO. The detail is quite remarkable - his face is so furry you can almost feel it and his knitted scarf so very woolly. I feel he was more than a toy. His feet show signs of being stuck to a surface with cement (not concrete).
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