Ifn: *huffapuffwheezehuff* “St-Stena . . .” *huffawheeze* “I-I say, STENA!”
Stena: “Yes, Ifn?”
Ifn: “--Why are we running?”
Stena: “We are not running, Ifn. I never run; I ‘hasten’. Therefore, we are not running; we are ‘hastening’.”
(Breathless and perplexed from all of the ‘not running’ that they were doing, Ifn completely overlooked the fact his question had not actually been answered while he and Stena continued ‘hastening’ toward St.Pancras and King’s Cross.)
I realise the image is not of the best quality but as you can fairly plainly see, the Standing Naked Man portion of Large Dark Chimes is not present in the current exhibition space and there is no explanation for his absence; Standing Naked Man has simply ‘gone missing’. Now while I can appreciate that an exhibition of this nature must take significant curatorial maintenance, there really should be some sort of posted notice placed within the exhibition space, clearly explicating the reason for a valuable object’s absence—in this case a notice saying (for example):
Visit to Yorkshire Sculpture Garden (Short Version) from Stena James on Vimeo.
This is a brief visual comment upon the experience of 'silence' and 'sound' during a recent visit to Yorkshire Sculpture Park. There is a longer, 'general impressions' version in the works that I will publish soon.
Originally posted 19 Aug 2009, 15:45, still true . . . :)
Attitudinal Adjustment Time
. . . Somewhere somebody is getting ready for a gig, someplace else someone is drawing pictures, elsewhere they are flippin' pancakes, further still dancing, chasing butterflies, watering flowers, perusing stacks of used books, just making it in time to catch the bus/train/plane . . . go, team humanity, go!
(np: axolotl video with "eye of the leopard"(aavikko) & ten ugly fish video.)
Please note that the above photo was not taken by me--it is from the Banksy website--many thanks.
I was in a training session last week in which we were asked to list things that would help us succeed or not in the PhD research degree process. We were as a group then asked to decide which of the things listed, were either in our control, partially in our control or completely out of our control. The point of the exercise was to show that there are very few challenges and advantages in relation to the PhD research degree process that are completely out of our control. What I found interesting, is how many of the things listed proved problematic for group consensus, that is, how many of the items listed--according to the majority of the group--were only partially 'in their control'.
Perhaps it is because I have lived in places and studied cultures in which the population were genuinely at the mercy of horrible poverty, despair and want--perhaps because of my own life experiences--I am currently very hesitant to accept that any of us at the PhD research development seminar last week, can honestly say that we are not in control of many of the dimensions of our daily life. I think that perhaps the weaving of the fabric of moment-to-moment decision-making process is being taken for granted. Take for example the topic of health--many researchers in the room said they were only in partial control over their health and well-being. In discussion it became clear that in consideration of health and well-being, that it was necessary to separate ‘catastrophic events’ from mundane experience.
Once we as a seminar separated ‘catastrophe’ such as getting cancer or having the sky fall on you, from average daily life experience, I would have personally thought everyone would say that yes, they have a choice about smoking or not smoking, eating a carrot or munching on a bag of crisps, exercising or not exercising etc. But no. Everyone kept saying “Oh, there just isn’t time. I have to balance so many demands!” I do not take issue with people making their own priorities but I think it important to realise that making a choice is what we are, all in fact, doing! We have options--even if we do not like them--and are choosing between those options. We are expressing 'control'.
As an example of making choices about the shape, form and content of one’s life, consider the convener of the seminar I was in. He talked about how realistically, when in his twenties he could have gone anywhere but that these days, as family man, he could not (go anywhere, do anything). I applaud that he is obviously a very responsible 'family man'. But it is within his power to walk away from his 'life' at any time. He CHOOSES not to, precisely because he IS a caring father and husband (and 'walking away' would not be in keeping with his definition of 'caring father and husband').
Yet, if the convener never consciously recognises all of the options he has and that he is proactively committing himself to being a good father and husband (in accordance with his own socialised values system), how is he to receive that gift of self-awareness--of who he is, what he loves and what his own values are? Without recognition of all of his options, even the ones repugnant to his (prescribed) values, would he not run the risk of missing out on the realisation of KNOWING what matters most to him and brings him joy? I think most of us undervalue our lives by not witnessing holistically the dimensions of our personal priorities. Why would anyone deny the accolades of understanding what you and others ‘are about’ and what truly matters (in your own opinion)? What is it that would inspire anyone to ignore, that the value of any choice is not just in what you gain from it but what you do not (gain)?
I do not have a resonant answer (as yet). Certainly there are things we do not have control over and many occasions which necessitate the cooperative sharing of authority with others. Why would anyone want to relinquish or deny whatever amount of ‘absolute’ authority they DO have? In the case, for example, of choosing crisps over carrots on a regular basis and saying that ‘it can’t be helped’ . . . I think that’s a bit rubbish. :) I think the reality there is that one is (possibly) ashamed to admit that they prefer crisps to carrots, because that priority is in conflict with some other goal, like, dropping a kilo or increasing sustained energy levels. Does this then suggest that a lack of interest in taking responsibility for what control one does have in this life, simply comes down to conflicting priorities or is it about something else as well? Is it about fear of having to ‘own’ the impact of the decisions we make--about how what we do in this life, changes the world? Because we certainly cannot avoid that--changing the world by our sheer presence. What we choose to do and what we choose to not do, alters everything . . . but you know . . . no pressure. :D
Today I posted the previous three weeks of diary listings for my studies. It is a terse recital, hereto much less interesting than Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book and is primarily written so that I will not forget the key activities that I have done each day. Time is already speeding by and is full of wonderful activities. The other, 'jog-the-memory' blog is located at: http://orovoco.blogspot.com/
. . . Maybe . . .
Back on 23 Sep 2005 I wrote:
"I was recently told by a friend that my dreams are divorced from reality. I told them that I didn't think it was as serious as all that. At this point, as far as I knew, my dreams and reality were only separated. Unfortunately I do have reason to believe that my dreams have started seeing other realities, so you never know . . ."
Six years ago, I was convinced that my dreams and reality would never come to reconciliation. I am happy to report that I quite recently had a lovely long luncheon with my dreams and reality. Though their relationship continues to be tumultuous, they seem to have finally patched things up. They have renewed their vows and routinely schedule quality time together. My dreams and reality are working diligently on a daily basis to be more constructive in their communication and to be more attentive to each other's needs; so far, so good. :)
Chapter two from Dr. Golding’s book, Learning at the Museum Frontiers discusses long-term collaborative research with the Caribbean Women Writer’s Alliance (CWWA) at the frontiers of the Horniman Museum in London. They aim in cooperations with museums and the Black Body research network to ‘break the museum silence’. Deals with issues of ownership and cultural heritage. Deals with differing interpretations of African social history and with feminist-hermeneutic perspectives of literary and cultural heritage studies.
Things I most enjoyed about the article included its inspiring and cogent quotes, the blending of poetic language and traditional academic writing conventions (I was reminded that there are some truly impressive and wonderful writers in the world), the use of first-person for self-revelation, the observation of Gardner’s eight intelligences, the detailed examples of how the ‘history’ changed depending upon the docent . . . the repeated grounding of the project’s academic and social diversity into museum praxis.
Question . . . are any of us that have been raised within European educational scaffolding completely free from hierarchal and colonialist paradigms of thought and behaviour? Implicit in the article is an answer of ‘no’ to this question, with exciting opportunity and provision for change. I observe within myself and the expressions of the artists/scholars in the article that we are all in a sense at war with our own cultural identity and beliefs--or rather, what we believe to be ‘the truth’ about our own culture and identity! There is a profound internalisation of what is often termed the ‘Western’ perspective teamed with a tendency toward an exclusionary, bifurcated social mentality. Good vs. bad, right vs. wrong, true vs. false . . . there seems to be a strange and very powerful social dictum that there be ‘one’ good-right-truth, one way of being and/or perceiving . . . perhaps based in religious or competitive commercial socialisation patterns? Where is the mutual trust? Where is the mutual expression of respect?The exciting thing about this project and the article, is that this kind of cross-disciplinary discussion fosters the recognition of this deeply entrenched, inadequate interpretation and proposes avenues for how to move on from it, while supporting the use of collections in an active and participatory way. In fact, activity is the the prescribed avenue. :) Simply observing the objects isn’t necessarily transformative. This of course presents challenges for the role of curator as conservationist/guardian . . . but perhaps invites the question, what is it exactly that we are guarding these objects against and preserving them for? It would seem that in order to fully research and understand the meaning of objects we need to actively use and employ objects in creative community.
I've read nothing but good about Steve Jobs on the occasion of his passing. His work fostered such creative possiblity and meant so much to the world. At the Apple page they have the following:
If you would like to share your thoughts, memories, and condolences, please email rememberingsteve@apple.com
I suppose it is natural to reflect on previous experiences when starting new ones. I found this journal entry from 2007 about my time in Bellingham. It seems a lifetime ago!
23 Feb 2007
Heading: Jordan Rain.
Current mood:sleepy
The band broke up, the bulldozers moved in and condos were scheduled to be built where the flop used to be. But I remember staring up at a bedroom ceiling. He'd painted it blue, with sponged on clouds and starry, glow-in-the-dark constellations—just like the real night sky, so that he could point them out to me in the small hours . . . Draconis and Orian, Big Bear and Little Bear . . . before I moved out into a place of my own he painted a star on the ceiling and gave it my name. "See now, I'll always know where to look for you."
There were five people, plus Tim-the-poet-in-residence, officially renting the flop/flat. In actuality, there were always more--even on the nights when the band wasn't shilling an impromtu, in-house gig, rousting for the rent. Some months the coffee can was more full than others but there was always soup on the stove, toast and tea.
There was an old pipe running the span of the doorway between the kitchen and living room which I habitually used to swing across the threshold for luck. Tim laughed at me and said, "You really don't care what anyone thinks of you, do you?" Jordan threw his drumsticks in the air trying to catch and toss them like hacky-sacks from his feet to his elbows, to his knees and back to his hands again, intoning in a strange sing-song voice,"Should she? Should she be like you? Should she be like me?" He missed his footing and fell.
Years later Jordan and I stood in the street together, waiting for the bus headed toward a new university, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his tousled hair hanging in his eyes. Jordan had been the first person I had met when I first arrived in town; we had been on the same bus together. In his case, he had been "travelling" in order to avoid some socio-political situation and was now returning after what was presumably an acceptable cooling-off period. As we walked up the hill he observed that the street clock had stopped. We had walked for hours through trees and past sculpture gardens in the soft grey northwestern stillness. He might have been a serial killer, but I trusted him and we ate wild blackberries and sang songs about spiders and waterspouts, churches and steeples, Jacks and Jills.
During the subsequent days, turned to months, turned to two years, I had variously been considered important and unimportant, sweet, cruel, witty, dull . . . I had played may parts in the ongoing community drama. I had seen so many others appear, deliver their lines and exit but had thought all along that I was different than all of those . . . guest appearances. I thought I belonged. I'd been wrong. I was not one of the constants. I was just another variable in the equation of Bellingham.
Jordan gave me my first place to stay and then later on, as I repeatedly found and lost my own way, we weren't always together. Yet now he was here again, as if we had never been apart. He stood waiting with me for the bus that would take me away. "When you go," he said, "--everyone else here will forget you, because that's what they do . . . but I won't. I remember everyone--I'll remember you." He turned and walked away; I was left to wait on my own. As the bus pulled out of town, I noticed that someone had finally fixed the clock.
I was grateful for the presentation as well as the gifting of a sample of the sort of family oriented merchandise that the museum has available. In other words, Reiji Takayasu brought us toys! They were miniature models representative of some exhibition regions of the museum itself. Some of us received dinosaurs, some contemporary wildlife or models of cultural artefacts . . . I received a fisherman/huntsman and his dog:
This line from an article in Scientific American from 2009 still makes me smile:
NASA wanting to establish a permanent research facility on the moon too farfetched?
"The attack on the Moon is not a declaration of war or act of wanton vandalism. Space scientists want to see if any water ice or vapour is revealed in the cloud of debris."
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=nasas-mission-to-bomb-the-mo...
Well, today's note is less than informative, due to my spending most of the day on 'Photo Walk' with the People's Photography Gallery group! I had a wonderful time, replenished vitamin D and took tons of photos. I'll only visit one of them upon you at this time--a lovely cat door at De Montfort:
Hello,Once again, I’ve been stood up by Jack. That’s good luck, I suppose! It is possible that the promissory bad luck has finally caught up with me though, since Yesterday’s trip to Manchester was a nightmare. The trains were packed and very slow-going. In the first instance, our passenger train somehow managed to get behind ‘a goat transport’ . . . A goat transport? Really? I guess I never thought about it very carefully but of course, British farmers can't readily go shepherding herds of goats across England, of course must transport the beasties somehow and of course the train system is so well developed, that it is the practical thing to use. It was however a miserable situation for everyone on board down the line! There was not enough seating to accomodate passengers by half and with baggage everywhere, there was hardly room to stand or breathe. Maybe it was meant to be some sort of cosmic empathy lesson in ‘now you know how the goats must feel’.
The close quarters and discomfiture was not the only thing that wore on my nerves yesterday. It was if my nerves were wearing on my nerves. I was all defensive and not wanting to deal with anyone. I was nauseous and my head felt like it was going to explode. It was weird. I’m hoping it was just some sort of social anaphylaxis--something like a spiritual allergy attack brought on by the residual stress of unfinished business and whatnot. I have no more absolute ‘whatnots’ until this Saturday. Hopefully things will fall back into balance before then. Well the great offline is beckoning for now. Remind me tomorrow to write 'something about Tuesday’? BTW: I cannot take credit for the goat photo. It is lifted from a carton of goat's milk in my fridge. ^_^/♡
Hello--am once again pressed for time, so in order to keep to my daily post resolution am writing an entry that is based upon something that--like the previous meme--was written on 6 February 2007:
(/_+)/
Current mood:annoyed
Hello World,
I recently got hit with a slew of chain-or-die bulletins. Apparently some ghost named "Jack" has decided to kill me tonight, because I refuse to perpetuate annoying junk posts. I mean, I feel for him, I really do. There must have been something seriously wrong with his home life (and his mother's sense of smell) that it took a week for him to be found dead in the closet, but honestly!
Additionally, I've received in the same batch of junk, a post telling me that I am going to have really bad luck all week. Well I suppose that being murdered by a ghost would be pretty bad luck but I'm having some trouble reconciling these posts; it is hard to imagine that "luck" good or bad has much to do with one after death. Of course it might mean that after I'm dead, I'll be going to a drowsy suburb of Hell, attending a council meeting with an endless agenda which includes such hot topics as "Bieber Fever: Healthy Role Modeling for Troubled Youth or Sure Sign of the Apocalypse?" and which has no tea-with-biscuit breaks . . . but that I only have to attend for the rest of the week.
My general policy when I get these chain-emails is to ditch the "friend" that forwarded it, break my diet, speak my mind and write sappy "I love you man! You rawwwwk" fan posts. I hope I don't get too many of these bulletins/emails—my online social life, waistline, employment status and reputation may never fully recover. ^_^/♡
The train trip to Manchester last Friday was . . . interesting. The weather was good, the city buildings gave way to the fields of suburbia; all-in-all pleasant and unexceptional. We were about five minutes into the journey when things became more eventful. The conductor came on the intercom to request that the owner of the box of pigeons in Coach C, please come and claim them. This announcement was immediately followed by an announcement that while the owner of the pigeons had been found, they were absent a claimant for the penguin. Would the owner of the penguin in Coach C please come forward. “I’m not joking--really!” the conductor intoned.
I drummed my fingers for a few minutes before curiosity got the better of me. I saw the a man with a box of pigeons in the gap between the cars. I entered Coach C just in time to hear a gaggle of men talking convivially in such a fashion that Coach C had turned into an impromptu locker room. I entered on the phrase “Yes, but doesn’t that sort of inhibit the spontaneity of sex?!” Upon reflection I think this question must have been addressed to a person that was wearing a penguin costume. I was at the time, busily confining my gaze toward the back of the coach like a well-trained central park touring Clydesdale with traffic blinders, making my socially precarious way through the midst of a narrow passage between the conversationalists. There was no going back so I hustled swiftly through them to the back of the car and hid for most of the rest of the journey. You would have thought it was spring, the conversations that were flying around that coach! I started looking for the hidden cameras . . . @_@ Speaking of hidden cameras and film, I recently saw Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I’ve been going to a seminar on film for the past month. During that time we have seen a range of films and film clips. Hereto we’ve discussed The Skin I’m In, Jane Eyre, and of course the most recent, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy--which I loved! It was odd though because seminar group made me impromptu representative for the twenty-somethings. Apparently there is a generational gap of patience for this film; there are more people under the age of thirty walking out of theatres than those above the age of thirty? I’m not sure that I buy that age is to blame. I think that patience is to blame--more precisely not having any. Still I found it engaging from the start. It was not the sort of film that needed guns blazing and bombs exploding. It is by far the best crafted and acted film I’ve seen this year. It was better filmed, edited and written (in my opinion) than was Tree of Life. I think it’s a mistake to think of the film as a ‘spy thriller’. The mystery/espionage is to me a vehicle for a bitter romance drama. It is about how in order to do their job and protect the interests of their respective countries, these intelligence operatives must sacrifice their own emotional fulfillment. The symbolism of the protagonist ‘Smiley’ having given his lighter to the arch-nemesis on the other side, ‘Karla’, suggests that he has given his own love and humanity away to ‘the job’; it is a pattern repeated with all of the other characters, who each in different ways, find themselves unable to protect those that they love from the shrapnel of secrecy--from the sharp edges of the daggers/secrets they are sworn to keep cloaked. It is methodical and sensually inundating, like the visual equivalent to a warm walk though New Orleans on a summer night; I loved this film even more the second time around. As for Oldman’s performance as opposed to Guiness’ . . . Well, before Monday’s discussion I told someone there that I felt that Guiness was a more sympathetic ‘Smiley’ but . . . seeing the Oldman performance I think . . . that the difference is not how sympathetic they are, because the are both sympathetic characters. I believe the difference was in how spontaneous the character is portrayed as being. Alec Guiness creates a character visibly impacted by the things he experiences and is motivated to action accordingly. Oldman is all about structure and procedure. He evaluates the world. There is only one region that he is truly demonstrative about and not as procedural--that is regards to his wife . . . whose lack of marital fidelity is used as a distraction to Smiley’s concentration. It speaks to the common thread of the film--that in some sense, the intelligence community is more intimate with colleagues and enemies than they are with their own loved ones.Can you imagine the heartbreak of having to protect someone you truly love by ending the relationship abruptly, without warning and never being able to explain to them why? Or having to assassinate them? Overall a brilliant film from start to finish. BTW, to my knowledge no one ever did come forward to claim that poor lost penguinoid on the train . . .
Mondays are kind of hectic for me and I suspect that a few other days of the week will become hectic as well. For those days I will be drawing on some entries from other times and other 'spaces' . . . Today's post is "Am I Really That Intimidating?" from 6 February 2007:
Current mood:contemplative.
I'd been feeling kinda…I don't know…off, because it seems like no one ever posts any comments to my blog, even though the blog tallies say that the blog is being read regularly. I mentioned this to a friend and they said that they read it everyday, but that they don't post anything because they are afraid to…that they like my writing, but are intimidated by it. They can't think of anything cool to add. So I swung my nunchaku for a while, mulling this whole me-as-intimidating thing over and decided that [my friend was] just making excuses. Then I went and cleaned my gun collection, gave the tank a good waxing, emailed valentines to all my favorite arms dealers and bike clubs and finally began to feel much better about things.
10:42 AM PST
In my dream, Papa and I were seated at a table in the cafe. The waiter brought me a blueberry muffin, ‘on the house’ that the chef wanted my opinion of. There was a lovely blueberry on top of the muffin. Dad and I were having an animated discussion though I don’t remember what it was about really. I absentmindedly cut the muffin in half and bit into one half of it. I nearly spat it out again! I looked at the muffin and it was all full of chocolate chips and coconut shreds. It was tasty but it wasn’t what I was expecting! A blueberry sitting on the top of a chocolate chip coconut muffin does not a blueberry muffin make! I must have made a very comical grimace because Papa laughingly asked me what was wrong and I explained about the muffin and he motioned the waiter over. The waiter looked at us like we are crazy, pointed at the blueberry and said, ‘Sir, that’s a blueberry; ergo, that’s a blueberry muffin”. Papa leaned over, bit the blueberry off the top of the muffin and put the muffin top back on my plate saying ‘What kind of muffin is it now?’ The waiter went red in the face and said ‘Fine. You don’t want the COMPLIMENTARY BLUEBERRY muffin, you don’t have to eat the COMPLIMENTARY BLUEBERRY muffin!’ turned on his heel and strode furiously away. A moment later we heard this tremendous sound of crashing dishes in the kitchen and boisterous shouting in a language I didn’t understand interspersed with the waiter saying: “Heya! Don’t blame me that we can’t even give them away!” :)
Okay. So what does all that have to do with my opinion of film? It has to do with the fact that I go into a film expecting that the structure and content will ‘taste’ like the advertised genre. In the case of ‘Skin I Live In’ I expected that the scenes would support/further the story as a standard narrative, therefore the extensive use of graphic, violent rape scenes seemed to me gratuitous; they didn’t need to be delivered as they were (delivered) in order to tell the story.
Had the film been advertised as a porno flick I’d not be sitting saying “OMG. What does watching numerous extended graphic rape scenes have to do with the development of the plot?!” No, I’d be sitting in the theatre saying “Huh, I suppose that this is pretty conservative for a porno.” Of course, had it been advertised as a feature-length porno flick, I wouldn’t have gone! Maybe that’s why they aren’t calling their films porno; they want general recognition and many people would dismiss their work (if it were called porno). If that’s the case then they are intentionally misrepresenting their films . . . ?
Again, I was grateful for the Monday Movies seminar conversation because it helped me to understand the admirable qualities that many critics keep mentioning about the film. From my own personal perspective it was impossible to see past the overall cold, vengeful negativity of the film. It raises a question I feel all artists/composers/storytellers must ask themselves constantly: how far should I go? How far do I challenge the sensibilities of my audience? For that matter, who is my audience and is the manner of my expression going to reach them? Will they listen/take in what I am trying to communicate? Are my own needs for self-expression and the meeting of my creative objectives at risk of sabotaging my communicative objectives?
Yes. Well. Enough of me and my soapbox! It is Sunday and there is still a huge fair happening in Leicester; maybe I’ll go stall browsing. . . btw, the muffin shown in the photo IS a lovely, wheat-free blueberry muffin, happily populated with blueberries.
Today’s entry isn’t about Leicester . . . although it could be considered as such I suppose, since it is an event that did technically take place in Leicester! Every night I dream about going to a particular cafe/hotel. Last night I dreamed that my father and I were sitting in the cafe when Chris Martin walked in. He was passing briskly through the cafe on his way to the main hotel reception. This woman sipping something frothy and pink at the bar, jumped up off the stool she was seated at and raced towards him. Mr. Martin noticed the trajectory and slowed his pace. The woman almost ran him over in her enthusiasm, stumbling in her VERY high heels and collapsing against him. He carefully helped her to her unsteady feet. “Oh, thank you oh, my, oh--OH MY GOD!” said the woman, who was by then almost hyperventilating. “I’m so sorry really I am, I just, I just--I . . . Oh, Mr. Morrison! I’m your biggest fan, really! I--I started the James Morrison fan club for the whole lower region of Felgary Proper! This is really, really just such an honour!”
Throughout her deluge of adoration Mr. Martin somehow managed to suppress any definite expression. Papa and I exchanged glances, wondering what would happen next! Papa leaned over to me with a little grin saying quietly “Now let’s see what he’s made of!” I know I must have furrowed my brow and was about to object but Papa just put a finger to his lips and nodded to the unfolding scene.
I was sure that Mr. Martin was about to explain to the woman that he wasn’t James Morrison but instead, he gently said “Wow, that’s great! So you like what you’ve heard of the new album? It does sound pretty good so far doesn’t it.” The woman was absolutely gushing about the new single and her hopes for the album. She convinced him to write his autograph on a cafe coaster and then to take a picture with her. She was chatting joyfully the whole time with the bartender (who took the photo for her) saying “Thank you! My friends would never believe me without the photo!” She also thanked 'Mr. Morrison' (Chris) as he swiftly if politely took his leave. The woman collapsed back on the bar chair.
The woman’s friends arrived about a minute later and as she excitedly showed them the photographic evidence of having met her idol, they (her friends) all broke into mirth saying “That isn't James Morrison! That’s Chris Martin!” “NO!” intoned the woman, then she looked at the photo, considering the possibility for a moment. “Well maybe . . .” she said distractedly, before firmly shaking her head and continuing: “No . . . no, look at this--he gave me an autograph too!” She proudly showed them the autograph and they all laughed even more as one of them read the autograph aloud. The coaster read: “With love to Elsie, James Morrison’s biggest fan, best wishes from Chris Martin.” All the women --even ‘James Morrison’s biggest fan Elsie’--were laughing now. Papa was smiling as I woke up.
Today, the astronomers say, is the exact balance of day and night commonly known as the Autumnal Equinox, Harvest Home or Mabon; it is my least favourite calendar day. I’m not entirely sure why . . . I’ve always found this time of year sad. Have I been raised to be this way? Is it some primordial survival instinct kicking it, advising me to dread the potential of scarcity of resources? Is it as simple as the diminishing of daylight? Is my sadness S.A.D.ness? Consciously I don’t mind the impending darkness of winter and I look forward to the shift from green to dazzling red-gold leaves, cascading from sleepy trees. My heart quickens at the prospect of long nights and clear, flatteringly starry-eyed skies!
I suppose it’s possible that some ‘past life trauma’ is to blame. Perhaps in I was in a previous existence sacrificed to ensure better crops. Somehow I don’t think so, though. Nope. I think the basis for the free-floating weirdness is probably the whole ‘hello-goodbye’ thing. I don’t mind any of the crisp ‘hellos’ that the start of each new season generally brings but I hate the goodbyes. With all the enthusiasm of a tomato vine after the first killing frost, here I am, waving a helpless farewell to summer as it cycles away from me, the flapping of an ace of hearts tucked in its bike spokes, ticking down the festival season like a mechanical clock with a stripped winding arbor.
In spite of the pressures of finishing things up with U of M and moving of house in preparation for the start of term at Leicester, it was a lovely summer. It has felt like a bit of a stolen season--no, much more than that. It seems to me that all of Leicester is somehow a stolen season, personified. 'Leicesterians' seem to be even-tempered and interested in the world. People smile at each other in the streets. They talk about social welfare and creative community development while comparing broccoli prices. There always (really, ALWAYS) seems to be something of pleasant interest going on--but not so very many ‘somethings’ that it becomes overwhelming.
Of course I’m fortunate. I’ve found a home in the heart of the Cultural Quarter, a stone’s throw from The Phoenix, The Curve, the town centre, Farmers’ Market, Leicester People’s Photography Gallery and Leicester Train Station. I’m only about a brisk twelve-minute stroll from the New Walk Museum, University of Leicester and De Montfort University. Even when it’s raining, my umbrella hardly has time to get wet in transit from anywhere to anywhere! Again, I feel very, very fortunate to live here.
Still, there is sorrow in the midst of all this circadian balance. I take some comfort in that old adage that all endings are simultaneously fresh beginnings but the platitude rings hollow in the autumnal chill. The heady aroma of sun-drenched recollection is beginning to fill the room. It seems inevitable; my flagging spirits are about to zealously harvest a bumper-crop of overly ripe wistfulness. Yes, just when I’m certain I’m going to be stuck with more ‘conserve of nostalgia’ than I can use or even give away at the holidays, rationalisation comes to my rescue, saying: “The passage of the seasons is a circle; where exactly does a circle begin? Where does it end?”
Watching the leaves softly drift away into the lengthening shadows I can see that I’ve been misguided by a trick of the light. Summertime is not riding away as I’d thought. It is out there right now, in the distance, pedaling as fast as it can to return.
