Arcs and Arrows: Finding the Line of Flight

Bubble theatre were putting this on in th park - they came to a reading group and I really wanted to go but could not tell anyone (my responsibility) but I'd like to reread the book and post on the subject anyway

and intellectual snobbery

and here 

 cf An attic full of promising books

I assume some form of regret attends every round of Booker judging, even if you feel very happy with the list you produce. But a regret unique to the first round of judging is the disappearance of promising books by first-time authors. It isn't that you think any of these books have been unjustly excluded... and there's nothing dishonourable in their not having made it against such strong competition. It's only that established authors who miss out can fall back on a support system they won't always have. More than once I had the judges equivalent of that dream in which you discover an unused room in your house which solves all your storage problems. I fantasised about an imaginary Booker attic which was reserved solely for the accommodation of promising talent. If we had been able to award a Don't Stop Now special prize I would have been making a case for The Breaking of Eggs by Jim Powell, The Spider Truces by Tom Connolly, The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman, Ruby's Spoon by Anna Lawrence Pietroni and The Still Point by Amy Sackville. Do keep writing. I'd like to read that difficult second novel.

t.sutcliffe@independent.co.uk

illustrate this with Surface versus White Tiger

I am not sure if these are really funny, particularly as the first is something of an "in" joke, but being aware of the absence of any June posts and being the last day of July I wanted to make another.  Also I wanted to broaden from the literary theme of the blog a little and am even thinking maybe there should be a humourous category, except that it makes me want to add a "serious" one to balance things out!

I well remember this post from the past (2008 in fact, which amazes me when it feels really quite recent) where I made some longer jokes and wondered which would inform me best if someone were likely to be spiritually along similar lines to myself.  I have now come up with one of my own - if you can call it a joke when it is a bit self-referential

Anyway - the jokes, if they can be called that:-

q. How many Quakers does it take to change a lightbulb?

a1. They're very discerning, and all have to stand in the light.... but any one can do it

a2. "God Knows!"

 

And I am wondering at this point how to refine the joke with a play on light and god (small G).  If you have any ideas to improve on this then please comment, by all means (And what the hey, add your own "lightbulb joke" if you wish).

conceptual - crate at comm-tech - call it memories

acrylic on canvas

at centre yin yang with eyes in

around that colour wheel

around that rays of the words for colours

some of these read some black and some struck through to varying degrees

For annie - try to involve yellow sausages!

So last weekend we went to see "Polar Bear" by [[Mark Haddon]] and I was really looking forward to it.  I had been quite disappointed to hear initially that we could not get seats, which also surprised me because I had it on good authority that the reviews were quite mixed.  So all the more exciting to be going and even taking a friend along and dinner to follow after the matinee.  Sadly our friend's partner was called away to Mexico City, and I think he missed out on something he may very well have enjoyed a great deal.

There is no interval and the performance is an hour and a half, but after seeing it I can quite see how no break is a necessary part to the entire piece.  The narrative is not chronological and as a result a break could add to any confusion.  I loved the set and the way it worked, it was not quite "in the round" but it had that feeling to it.  No one actor "upstaged" any other, though [[Celia Imrie]]'s performance was masterful, if you can use that word in the context.  I was embarrassed on entering the foyer to get her name wrong and think it was Imelda Staunton.

If I had to single any one actor as impressing me it would actually be the female lead though.  She played the part of Kelly who as it turns out is the manic depressive in the play.  When the play starts she is in fact dead, or at least we are led to believe so. As the narrative moves along and back and forth in time I personally began to wonder if there was some ambiguity on that score, if in fact her husband had become deranged and she was actually in Oslo and not the body in the cellar.

Our friend noticed and we all agreed that since we realise bipolar disorder is a big part of the play then we all thought the husband was the person affected by it (and of course he was, but only indirectly).  It is not until the change in scene that it becomes apparent Kelly is the primary focus for the bipolar, though there is the shadow of her father and his depressive suicide hanging over the whole play menacingly.

Later we have a Jesus figure (several perhaps!), and I especially loved the scene where he said true love is when the person you love does not know your name and went on to itemise the stages of decomposition of a corpse and the associated "symptoms". This was interesting, the husband is a philosophy professor and I felt we were being played with for Mr Haddon to display a knowledge of the subject on a par with mine (IE very amateur!).  Mark Haddon always manages to irritate me at some level, and in this play it was the mention of a coach tour through the philosophers of the ages and the "stopping at Kierkegaard for someone to be sick" which I thought was a cheap laugh (I have a LOT of respect for the Dane).

On leaving the theatre none of us could understand the poor reviews - apparently it was slated by quite a few critics - but since we believed there were good reviews too we settled on the play having "bipolar reviews"!  Over dinner I asked everyone what they thought they would remember from the play (we had all enjoyed it thoroughly).  For me ultimately it is the subject of suicide, mental disorder, family, and the ensuing trauma from the act and ripples down the generations that shall be my abiding interest and memory.

Ah well - it was a nice break but I never did get to visit New Quay and only saw a little of Llanggrog let alone immerse myself in "Under Milk Wood".  It seems like this is a work of literature which is destined to take it's place alongside Ulysses, The Wasteland, and Proust as one which I admore and always intend to get around to fully enjoying but am "saving up" as a treat rather like a child who will not eat the favoured item on the plate until the rest has been consumed.

On occassion I worry that this means I shall never enjoy these, but hopefully that is not the case, because it would be a shame if it were.  Perhaps at least in blogging I have a gentle reminder to myself to get around to it one day (I am sure in making the initial post I was trying to give myself an incentive and motivation for this one.  Perhaps part of the problem is that I "save them up" for a holiday and the fact is that they are more serious works of literature and not "holiday reading" as such?

this is a placeholder - [[Quakers]] to remind me I could write a rant about the lack of feedback and then see if there is any here?  With regard to [[Forest Hill Quaker Meeting]] and then make a wiki page for that also!

The following is an e-mail from the past, 
composed on Monday, October 13, 2008, 
and sent via FutureMe.org
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dear FutureMe, 

wow!  The big five oh!  I really really hope you have a job now,
 or at least something to make life subsistence survivable on
 the dole.  And I sure hope your savings are not all eaten up!

so, happy birthday... did you complete NaNoWriMo OK?
Are you going to do anything with the output?
And has it led to you writing more... 
otherwise what about getting those postcards into the
newsagents so that you can get some black work?

On the other hand - enjoy Isabels Christmas show 
(today?) and make the most of your time with her....

Keep up the blogging - and don't let the buggers grind you down...
 You've still got some of that grand left to spend on
Christmas, right?

get into the Christmas spirit after today!

This was written by my daughter at the weekend, I shall photograph the original text and post it, but this is my version typed as faithfully as I can:-

Look! a leaf
Scrunkling my life away.

Look! a rabbit hole
Like a bowl
Eating my life away.

Look!...a nest
Like a bed
Sleeping my life away

Look at the green grass
Like  a bean
I roll my life away

Isabel Eleanor Amelia Wrighton, November 2009.

At the weekend I visited my father, aged seventy five, and made sure his computer was online.  Although I am quite sure he shall not manage to read this I thought I would put the poem he gave me at the time online:-

J.C.W. October 2009

The older I get the more I see

People

The less they see me

Year by year I am fading

like well worn jeans

At least that is how it seems

One day the invisible man

might see all that he can

of all of the people

doing all of their things

But I can never see

What they are looking at

when they do not see

me!

                       Paul Wrighton October 2009

There seem to be word police inside my head sometimes, with a latent Mr Angry lurking to listen to them too!  This morning on Radio Four the head honcho of some coach company was spouting on about the launch of the Greyhound bus brand here in the UK.  I know what he intended to say.  I know what he meant. I listened to the Stephen Fry program on Radio Four which explained that saying "Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo" makes perfect sense, though somewhat puzzling and missing a possible conjunctive.

Yet it annoyed me intensely that he had used this word.

But anyone using authorship (v.) does not bother me at all and, more worryingly, I am prepared to accept the collective of a readership (n.) without the slightest qualm.... 

The Mr Angry seems to have gone away now, and I remember my earlier mention of the poetry book group, which turned out to only have TWO of us and the librarian.  I cannot remember if I was brave enough to read it out, probably not because it is so well known as an example of type. In any case I had read no Gerald Manley-Hopkins (more's the pity; my library was woefully inadequate in the poetry department and could supply me none of his work, not even anthologised).

Now the Mr Angry is coming back! Can you guess why?  Yes, it is that use of "anthologised"!

Funny business this language stuff!

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
   But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
   Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

For goodness knows what reason I had the idea Marvell was an American poet!

But I did know he was metaphysical, as we clearly see in this oft-quoted example. There's a link to a John Cooper Clark work here, sort of; see if you like it.

Since you have world enough and time
Sir, to admonish me in rhyme,
Pray Mr Marvell, can it be
You think to have persuaded me?
Then let me say: you want the art
To woo, much less to win my heart.
The verse was splendid, all admit,
And, sir, you have a pretty wit.
All that indeed your poem lacked
Was logic, modesty, and tact,
Slight faults and ones to which I own,
Your sex is generally prone;
But though you lose your labour, I
Shall not refuse you a reply:
First, for the language you employ:
A term I deprecate is "coy";
The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill,
May simper and be coy at will;
A lady, sir, as you will find,
Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind,
Means what she says and scorns to fence
And palter with feigned innocence.
The ambiguous "mistress" next you set
Beside this graceless epithet.
"Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave
To wear my heart upon your sleeve?
Or to imply, as sure you do,
I had no other choice than you
And must remain upon the shelf
Unless I should bestir myself?
Shall I be moved to love you, pray,
By hints that I must soon decay?
No woman's won by being told
How quickly she is growing old;
Nor will such ploys, when all is said,
Serve to stampede us into bed.
When from pure blackmail, next you move
To bribe or lure me into love,
No less inept, my rhyming friend,
Snared by the means, you miss your end.
"Times winged chariot", and the rest
As poetry may pass the test;
Readers will quote those lines, I trust,
Till you and I and they are dust;
But I, your destined prey, must look
Less at the bait than at the hook,
Nor, when I do, can fail to see
Just what it is you offer me:
Love on the run, a rough embrace
Snatched in the fury of the chase,
The grave before us and the wheels
Of Time's grim chariot at our heels,
While we, like "am'rous birds of prey",
Tear at each other by the way.
To say the least, the scene you paint
Is, what you call my honour, quaint!
And on this point what prompted you
So crudely, and in public too,
To canvass and , indeed, make free
With my entire anatomy?
Poets have licence, I confess,
To speak of ladies in undress;
Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough,
In verses this is common stuff;
But  well I ask: to draw attention
To worms in  what I blush to mention,
And prate of dust upon it too!
Sir, was this any way to woo?
Now therefore, while male self-regard
Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard,
May I suggest, before we part,
The best way to a woman's heart
Is to be modest, candid, true;
Tell her you love and show you do;
Neither cajole nor condescend
And base the lover on the friend;
Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch:
A suitor looking at his watch
Is not a posture that persuades
Willing, much less reluctant maids.
Remember that she will be stirred
More by the spirit than the word;
For truth and tenderness do more
Than coruscating metaphor.
Had you addressed me in such terms
And prattled less of graves and worms,
I might, who knows, have warmed to you;
But, as things stand, must bid adieu
(Though I am grateful for the rhyme)
And wish you better luck next time.
   -- <a href="http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_H.html#Hope">A. D. Hope</a></pre>

An effective rejoinder to a great poem requires a poet, ideally one who appreciates and respects the poet under attack. How surprising that an Australian poet was "up for it"!  And Mr Hope is a new discovery to me also, along with the "Wondering Minstrels" poem by email service, which could inspire future blogs whereby I tag them also; watch this space!

P.S. Oh dear!  Listening to the radio again after I posted and up popps a portmanteau! There is a media debate concerning [[chuggers]] and possible legislation.  Yet again, how strange that this term, newly minted, does not bother me in the least.  I shall have to think on this and make a spiritual psting, perhaps, someday.  Something to do with [[caritas]] and Greek no doubt.

Today yearly meeting decided on partnerships and I had the idea of trying to earn an extra crust by making "custom cakes" for couples especially but anyone in general under the franchise of tea and therapy, with food for your mood.  I have these great ideas *sigh* but I cannot decorate cakes for toffee so am I wasting my time?  In the context of the posting above this one I should involve this into a spiritual post on "Chuggie", which was the childhood name for flapjack I remember from my first boyhood best friend's family!

Another example of such an idea - you know the way drinking straws will always rise from a carbonated glass and invariably escape as you are nearing the destination?  Well it is not beyond the wit of man to devise a straw that will not do this and I reckon patenting that could make you a tidy sum.

I was recently listening to "prayer for the day" on Radio Four and heard that [[Aung San Suu Kyi]] has been quoted as saying "perfect love casts out fear" and that there is a campaign to wear masks with her face on one side and these words on the other.

Then someone corrected me on the attribution and told me that in the words of Saint John

 James Bible
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.

I've been pondering if this saying can be applied in all contexts, not only spiritual, and still reflect the truth I feel it represents...

The Quaker meeting which I attend has been doing a series of workshops along the lines of "Twelve Quakers and ...." where the ellipsis might be various things including God, Jesus, Equality, Simplicity, and, this month, Evil.

During the closing session on "evil" we were invited to write [[Haiku]] and although many felt the form could only be used in the traditional Japanese way to describe natural beauty, but I had no issues with taking the verse form and mocking the traditional Haiku stereotype with these efforts to capture something of the subject of evil.

There are four, each standing alone, and alternating the traditional with the free format form of Haiku.

Bloody splash

Taking life

Maliciously

No love

Just hurt

Abandon hope you

Held in the thrall of

All that is not love

Child eyes

Behold

Obscenity

Innocence lost

Forever

Mass graves were filled

Without thought or care until

Evil stared back

Addendum

I was concerned with the etymology for clues; which I now realise is really a red herring since the exploration of the spiritual meaning to a Quaker only concerns the modern udeage really.  However I did find what I turned up interesting, and I learned that any ideas of derivation involving "devil" or "Eve" are mistaken.

Look, this was the iniquity of your sister Sodom: She and her daughter had pride, fullness of food, and abundance of idleness; neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy. And they were haughty and committed abominations before Me; therefore, I took them away as I saw fit.

This passage seems to line up very nicely with the original meaning of the word "evil." The modern church generally teaches that the "evil" of Sodom is the height of wickedness and that its fate of destruction by fire is an example of the destruction of the world which has not become a part of the church. However, the Creator says there is a worse condition of "evil" than that of Sodom's. Jerusalem is a type and picture of His own people, the "apple of His eye." Here is how He describes the condition of His own people, those who certainly would not consider "Sodom" as their own sister. Speaking to His own "chosen" people He says:

Samaria did not commit half of your sins; but you have multiplied your abominations more than they, and have justified your sisters by all the abominations which you have done. You who judged your sisters bear your own shame also, because the sins which you committed were more abominable than theirs; they are more righteous than you. Yes, be disgraced also, and bear your own shame because you justified your sisters. When I bring back their captives, the captives of Sodom and her daughters, and the captives of Samaria and her daughters, then I will also bring back the captives of your captivity among them, that you may bear your own shame and be disgraced by all that you did when you comforted them. When your sister Sodom and her daughters return to their former state, then you and your daughters will return to your former state.

It seems the word "uppity" seems like a good definition for the word "evil." It also seems like the "chosen" people are more "uppity" than Sodom and Samaria. It seems almost blasphemous to think that the wickedness of the Creator's own people will justify the likes of Sodom and Samaria and that they will be restored to their former state. That Sodom, in the eyes of God, is a sister to the "chosen" people. It certainly is not a sermon I have ever heard preached in the 200+ churches I have attended. But then I never heard that Sodom's primary sin was "uppityness," fullness of food, and abundance of idleness, and not strengthening the hand of the poor and needy. I have been in many churches that are exhibiting the very sins that are ascribed to Sodom. I have never heard a preacher describe their congregation as "sisters to Sodom." Can you imagine what would happen to all the hot air evangelists spew out if we actually believed the plain Word of God that the "uppityness" of God's own people have "justified" the worst sinners in the world? Why, it would completely stop all the hot foul wind coming from these "last days revival" messages preached by thousands of "ministries" trying to raise millions of dollars to save a few more before God finally destroys this "uppity" world. We just might repent of our own "uppityness" and let God restore this whole fallen mankind to its former state. We might then find the time to "strengthen the hand of the poor and the needy."

Credit to Gary Amirault for the above

I have read many more books since my last post, but this is far more worthy I think for a long overdue post.  From my earlier blogging you may know I sing with a Choral Society.

For our next concert on July the Fourth we shall be adopting an American theme, and this has led us to the piece "Harmonium" by John Adams. The poetry he adopted to go with this "choral symphony" will mean a good deal to me, as you can read below.

Apparently he had much of the opening of the piece already in mind and then the poem slotted into place.  I do think the result is striking - these poems are powerful enough in themselves but set to music can add another dimension, perhaps? (I have mixed feelings on that score, but then again the music stands by it's own merit also).

Negative Love or The Nothing

I never stoop'd so low, as they

Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can prey.

Seldom to them, which soar no higher

Than virtue or the mind to admire.

For sense, and understanding may

Know what gives fuel to their fire:

My love, though silly, is more brave,

For may I miss, whene'er I crave,

If I know yet, what I would have.

If that be simply perfectest,

Which can by no way be express'd

But Negatives, my love is so.

To All, which all love, I say no.

If any who deciphers best,

What we know not, our selves, can know,

Let him teach me that nothing; this

As yet my ease and comfort is,

Though I speed not, I cannot miss.

- John Donne

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For his civility.

We passed the school where children played

At wrestling in a ring;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,

We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed

A swelling of the ground:

The roof was scarcely visible,

The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses' heads

Were toward eternity.

- Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights--- Wild Nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our Luxury!

Futile---the winds---

To a Heart in port---

Done with the Compass---

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden---

Ah, the sea!

Might I but moor--- Tonight---

In thee!

- Emily Dickinson

This concert will have tremendous personal resonance for me.  A couple of years ago when I started singing I had just been jilted by a wonderful Canadian woman, who had given me many things.  Not least among these were a renewed passion for poetry (John Donne among our favourites), a brief awakening of youthful passion before I seem to have settled into middle age proper, and in her parting the idea to sing.  So now to be singing of love and these poems almost feels a dedication to her.

The first evokes our relationship so very much for me, since my parting words to her were that she had "given me the greatest gift, myself".  The middle one has more to do with how I feel now, with the brevity of life weighing on me.  The last brings back fond memories of just how passionate our relationship was whilst it lasted.

Singing has been quite a challenge to me, but a rewarding one.  On an amusing side note it felt quite peculiar when I joined the society because one of the Alto singers was strikingly familiar to the lady who I had just been rejected by!  To this day I find myself awkward if I have to talk with her!

If you get a chance to listen to the Harmonium you'll realise it is not the easiest piece to do justice to... I hope I can.  I think you can see from this that it would mean a lot to me.  I am still feeling very much in love with this woman and if there is an opportunity for me to lay this ghost to rest then perhaps this is it... Or perhaps I have to carry my love for her to the grave.  I can think of worse crosses to bear!