Thursday, December 25, 2003
Antidotes
According to a look at Charles Dickens on R4 this morning, his vision of the Victorian Christmas urged us to do charitable works. But not just that, his overriding message was that just goodness was not enough, one should commmunicate the joy of the season as well.
Tonight at midnight service in Bury St Edmunds Cathedral, a fiery Scot, Canon Martin Shaw, really shook up the place with a passionate plea for engagement with life. Live fully, open out the heart, lose inhibition, dare to say what you should, welcome demands. Do it big, do it small, but do it with a lot of joy. Truisms, I suppose, but worth thinking about.
The miserable Old Git of Tuesday therefore wishes you a JOYFUL Christmas.
According to a look at Charles Dickens on R4 this morning, his vision of the Victorian Christmas urged us to do charitable works. But not just that, his overriding message was that just goodness was not enough, one should commmunicate the joy of the season as well.
Tonight at midnight service in Bury St Edmunds Cathedral, a fiery Scot, Canon Martin Shaw, really shook up the place with a passionate plea for engagement with life. Live fully, open out the heart, lose inhibition, dare to say what you should, welcome demands. Do it big, do it small, but do it with a lot of joy. Truisms, I suppose, but worth thinking about.
The miserable Old Git of Tuesday therefore wishes you a JOYFUL Christmas.
| Permanent link
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Ineffectual
Coming home at eight I pulled over to have a damned good cry. For passing by as a I waited to turn onto the Lynn Road came two huge lorries loaded tight with sheep. Along the open bars at the side, furry rumps were pressed, A sideways face briefly registered, an eye. Pretty certainly they were on their way to the docks on this freezing night, for shipping. Journeying afraid.
Back in my warm kitchen there were candles in the window, ivy and holly about, and coffee. I made brandy butter and whizzed up peanuts for the birds, wired up fir cones and soaked oasis for the font. I listened to the radio. An African woman told of her rape by eighteen men, of her house on fire with her children inside, of the things that had been done to her because she tried to help and nurse those that the men had mutilated. She wept, so I cried again.
This afternoon I went the rounds of various old folks who live alone, taking sweeties, spending a little time here and there. They personified the expression 'quiet desperation'. All were warm, fed, relatively safe, but they were achingly lonely. One held tight to my sleeve to stay my departure a little longer. They made me want to cry when the doors closed.
In my comfortable home with my safe little Christmas, is all that I can offer tears, a little time and a few pitiful donations? Why don't I give up the bloody lot of it and do something big that hurts me? For the animals? For the abused and disposessed? For the old ? For the children? For the starving? For the homeless? For the tortured? For the sick? For the dying? For the village, or for the world? Where the hell does one begin?
Coming home at eight I pulled over to have a damned good cry. For passing by as a I waited to turn onto the Lynn Road came two huge lorries loaded tight with sheep. Along the open bars at the side, furry rumps were pressed, A sideways face briefly registered, an eye. Pretty certainly they were on their way to the docks on this freezing night, for shipping. Journeying afraid.
Back in my warm kitchen there were candles in the window, ivy and holly about, and coffee. I made brandy butter and whizzed up peanuts for the birds, wired up fir cones and soaked oasis for the font. I listened to the radio. An African woman told of her rape by eighteen men, of her house on fire with her children inside, of the things that had been done to her because she tried to help and nurse those that the men had mutilated. She wept, so I cried again.
This afternoon I went the rounds of various old folks who live alone, taking sweeties, spending a little time here and there. They personified the expression 'quiet desperation'. All were warm, fed, relatively safe, but they were achingly lonely. One held tight to my sleeve to stay my departure a little longer. They made me want to cry when the doors closed.
In my comfortable home with my safe little Christmas, is all that I can offer tears, a little time and a few pitiful donations? Why don't I give up the bloody lot of it and do something big that hurts me? For the animals? For the abused and disposessed? For the old ? For the children? For the starving? For the homeless? For the tortured? For the sick? For the dying? For the village, or for the world? Where the hell does one begin?
| Permanent link
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Browsing
- J.M. Coetzee's Nobel Lecture (courtesy North Coast Cafe.) I urge you to print off this tour de force and read it at leisure
- I suppose a pod might be preferable to the previously suggested bad mock-up of the original Crystal Palace
- I love the Face Memory Game and Mr. Picassohead
- I took a video recording of the cult movie 'Koyaanisqatsi' back in the 1980's and have lent it to literally dozens of people since then. It is the first in Godfrey Reggio's Quatsi trilogy and has a wonderful score by Philip Glass. Until recently it has been unavailable, but I see at this site that the first two films are available on DVD. I wish I had a player
- I have been intending to do this bowl for my sister's silly Christmas box, but I still haven't got round to it. So she is spared another dust-gatherer
- The Guardian's Best of British Blogging 2003
To boldly go
Apologies for the all bold text - it has suddenly happened and I can't see why. I have referred the matter to my personal adviser who will sort me out. And he did.
- J.M. Coetzee's Nobel Lecture (courtesy North Coast Cafe.) I urge you to print off this tour de force and read it at leisure
- I suppose a pod might be preferable to the previously suggested bad mock-up of the original Crystal Palace
- I love the Face Memory Game and Mr. Picassohead
- I took a video recording of the cult movie 'Koyaanisqatsi' back in the 1980's and have lent it to literally dozens of people since then. It is the first in Godfrey Reggio's Quatsi trilogy and has a wonderful score by Philip Glass. Until recently it has been unavailable, but I see at this site that the first two films are available on DVD. I wish I had a player
- I have been intending to do this bowl for my sister's silly Christmas box, but I still haven't got round to it. So she is spared another dust-gatherer
- The Guardian's Best of British Blogging 2003
To boldly go
Apologies for the all bold text - it has suddenly happened and I can't see why. I have referred the matter to my personal adviser who will sort me out. And he did.
| Permanent link
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
"We are not remotely interested in brown cows."
This article by Valerie Grove is pretty germane to something I'm trying to handle. My fifteen year old friend still pops in most evenings and talks the hind leg off a donkey. He has loads of news, opinions, and ideas, but cannot formulate them. I have learnt to follow him, but to many people he is virtually unintelligible. What emerges is a crowded mass of high-speed, ill-formed, half-swallowed words. Each sentence ends on a dying fall and is usually ended by "Innit?" I have tried tackling the problem by using Gordon's slight deafness as a prod. What results is a louder version of the same verbal minestrone. I think it's vital for someone to help him. Tonight I tried another tack, I don't know if it did any good, but he got a bit interested in the practical benefits of making himself clear.
"You know you want to have your own business one day?"
"Yeah. I will. Well I've got one now, anyway."
"Well, what do you think is the most important thing when you are dealing with other people?"
"What d'you mean?"
"You really need to be able to communicate. The other person has got to understand what you're telling him. Or selling him, Or asking him."
"OK. So what?"
"Well, you often gabble and I can't understand you. Try to sell me some plants as If I were a stranger, and I'll see how well you do it, see if you are a good salesman..."
This article by Valerie Grove is pretty germane to something I'm trying to handle. My fifteen year old friend still pops in most evenings and talks the hind leg off a donkey. He has loads of news, opinions, and ideas, but cannot formulate them. I have learnt to follow him, but to many people he is virtually unintelligible. What emerges is a crowded mass of high-speed, ill-formed, half-swallowed words. Each sentence ends on a dying fall and is usually ended by "Innit?" I have tried tackling the problem by using Gordon's slight deafness as a prod. What results is a louder version of the same verbal minestrone. I think it's vital for someone to help him. Tonight I tried another tack, I don't know if it did any good, but he got a bit interested in the practical benefits of making himself clear.
"You know you want to have your own business one day?"
"Yeah. I will. Well I've got one now, anyway."
"Well, what do you think is the most important thing when you are dealing with other people?"
"What d'you mean?"
"You really need to be able to communicate. The other person has got to understand what you're telling him. Or selling him, Or asking him."
"OK. So what?"
"Well, you often gabble and I can't understand you. Try to sell me some plants as If I were a stranger, and I'll see how well you do it, see if you are a good salesman..."
| Permanent link
Friday, December 12, 2003
SW2
A friend and I were remembering our time working in Brixton in the early 1970's. People used to commiserate. "Isn't it dangerous down there?" I recall 'Time' magazine featuring it as a place of violence and tension which we found unrecognisable, laughable even. We felt at home there, as safe as anywhere in London. I used to go home alone on the Tube when I finished my Friday shift at 9 pm quite unconcerned. The ganja folks were about in Railton Road, but they didn't bother us. It was the disaffected yoof gangs that came much, much later that caused the fear.
I used often to stare down from the windows of the reference library at a garden with its few old benches and shrubs. Many sad people came there, and this is about John who used to borrow a pound for wine most weeks. He always paid me back.
Brixton Afternoon
The bottle, drained, stays tight in your hand,
Your bellowing?s done and comfort found.
I watch you as your head goes down,
Drowsing, deaf to the traffic sound.
What dreams come to haunt and tease?
What plays inside your drunken head?
Does the local tart on the dirty bench
Stir desire that you thought was dead?
The acid wine tastes rich on your tongue?
And the endless clock with its quarter chime,
Does it sing you a song
Of a former time?
With head tipped back you suddenly cry,
?Mother, where are you?" from deep-locked pain.
And the ragged old woman asleep
By the gate stirs to answer, but sleeps again.
The dust-hazed sun sets the streets on fire,
Pavements burn and newsprint blows,
The plane trees stir in the passing fumes.
Nobody cares, nobody knows.
A friend and I were remembering our time working in Brixton in the early 1970's. People used to commiserate. "Isn't it dangerous down there?" I recall 'Time' magazine featuring it as a place of violence and tension which we found unrecognisable, laughable even. We felt at home there, as safe as anywhere in London. I used to go home alone on the Tube when I finished my Friday shift at 9 pm quite unconcerned. The ganja folks were about in Railton Road, but they didn't bother us. It was the disaffected yoof gangs that came much, much later that caused the fear.
I used often to stare down from the windows of the reference library at a garden with its few old benches and shrubs. Many sad people came there, and this is about John who used to borrow a pound for wine most weeks. He always paid me back.
Brixton Afternoon
The bottle, drained, stays tight in your hand,
Your bellowing?s done and comfort found.
I watch you as your head goes down,
Drowsing, deaf to the traffic sound.
What dreams come to haunt and tease?
What plays inside your drunken head?
Does the local tart on the dirty bench
Stir desire that you thought was dead?
The acid wine tastes rich on your tongue?
And the endless clock with its quarter chime,
Does it sing you a song
Of a former time?
With head tipped back you suddenly cry,
?Mother, where are you?" from deep-locked pain.
And the ragged old woman asleep
By the gate stirs to answer, but sleeps again.
The dust-hazed sun sets the streets on fire,
Pavements burn and newsprint blows,
The plane trees stir in the passing fumes.
Nobody cares, nobody knows.
| Permanent link
Thursday, December 11, 2003
No time to blog
143 cards
24 letters
4 parcels
2 pints lentil soup
1 fish pie
4 loaves bird crumbs
4 bird cakes
4 sacks leaves
2 barrows weeds
4 clean sheets
1 watercolour
2 pastel sketches
1 plucked pheasant
4 clean rooms
1 clean car
1 sleeping woman
143 cards
24 letters
4 parcels
2 pints lentil soup
1 fish pie
4 loaves bird crumbs
4 bird cakes
4 sacks leaves
2 barrows weeds
4 clean sheets
1 watercolour
2 pastel sketches
1 plucked pheasant
4 clean rooms
1 clean car
1 sleeping woman
| Permanent link
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
The big conversation
Oh dear, even five years ago I would have thought that this communications exercise was a great idea. My disenchantment with the administration would seem to be complete, the dialogue comes too late.
This section on public transport is indicative of the problem. It huffs and puffs about committment and dedicated expenditure, yet shows up the paucity of any real achievement. The overall lack of effective strategies in so many areas simply reinforces my cynicism.
And yet, and yet...I still want it to work; I can't abandon quite the fading dream of a brave new labour party taking a firm grip and tackling the mess.
Oh dear, even five years ago I would have thought that this communications exercise was a great idea. My disenchantment with the administration would seem to be complete, the dialogue comes too late.
This section on public transport is indicative of the problem. It huffs and puffs about committment and dedicated expenditure, yet shows up the paucity of any real achievement. The overall lack of effective strategies in so many areas simply reinforces my cynicism.
And yet, and yet...I still want it to work; I can't abandon quite the fading dream of a brave new labour party taking a firm grip and tackling the mess.
| Permanent link
Fading away
Have just returned from my third 'Slimming World' meeting waving my second "Slimmer of the Week" certificate and a silver sticker for my little record book to say that I have lost my first half stone. It's like being in kindergarten again and getting stars for being good. But it works, I collected my prize - a basket of fruit and felt very pleased with myself. Now a quarter of the way to my target weight, I'm feeling better for it already. They are a nice bunch of people, too; tonight I sat next to a most beautiful young girl who has lost three stones already and still has three to go. Makes mine seem a simple matter.
Have just returned from my third 'Slimming World' meeting waving my second "Slimmer of the Week" certificate and a silver sticker for my little record book to say that I have lost my first half stone. It's like being in kindergarten again and getting stars for being good. But it works, I collected my prize - a basket of fruit and felt very pleased with myself. Now a quarter of the way to my target weight, I'm feeling better for it already. They are a nice bunch of people, too; tonight I sat next to a most beautiful young girl who has lost three stones already and still has three to go. Makes mine seem a simple matter.