Monday, 6 October 2008
Sunday, 14 September 2008
Prologue
We start in Paris, because that is where I was early July, all four of us in the most beautiful flat in the most beautiful city. Elizabeth Simpson is an artist - about eighty, with a squeaky tremulous voice for a lady who's fairly large - in a rugby way. Not fat. Just large. She's had an operation on her vocal chords, and in other places as well. All this is irrelevant - she spends every winter in India, recently researching Marwari tribal art, or something - a few months in Paris and the rest in England. I have met her once. I showed her around Kota fort and she took photographs of every inch of wallpainting, which was incredible or futile because her hands were shaking like anything. What fascinated me was that all her accent was English except her r's. Her r's were French.
When she was staying with Mum last year she became very ill, and Mum took care of her, and so is credited with saving her life, and so was offered a stay in Elizabeth's flat in Paris. There we go.
It was The Most brilliant living space I have ever been in. I fell in love utterly. More than anything there was just freedom and creativity oozing from every corner. A little rough, a little ramshackle, wooden floorboards, rooms just thrown together (it seems) in an organic sort of layout, meaning there were tiny wee corridors - the French flat version of Edinburgh Old Town, perhaps. But it must have cost a heck of a lot.- oh and balconies, with plantpots. The main 'space', shall we call it, was a long room with great [French windows, are they called?] all down one side, onto the balconies, and divided into two by a curtain. One half, next to the kitchen, had the dining table, and the other half had just a pool table and a couch, that I slept on. Also there were several bookshelves, books, art material, stacks of framed paintings, piles of books, 'objets d'art'...oh, and a large model aeroplane hanging from the ceiling above the dining table, that sort of thing. She collected a heck of a lot - beautiful things from all over the world - little sculptures, paintings on cloth and paper, beaded jewellery draped around lampshades, and the most gorgeous rugs and textiles. It is perfect, so much so that the bathroom is slightly grotty and the showerhead sometimes comes off (you must understand that this is perfect, these are the perfect living conditions, I hate shininess.
This was a long time ago and remembering it, in the light of what I have just said, gives me hope. I have stayed at rich people's houses and have hated it - beautiful houses, family houses. I just can't do it. I can't feel at home there. Now, we must understand that though I said 'rich houses', though richness seems to typify the houses I am thinking of when I am there, I do not think, actually, that the problem is wealth. Because I love Morland House - which is obviously big and ancient and not poor. Is that because I have basically grown up there and the issue is 'feeling I belong'? Also, the Anokhi Farm - where the people have loads of money and the houses are beautifully and intelligently designed. (These people are textile/fashion designers in India and their house is just gorgeous. And I can imagine myself living there.) Perhaps it is just an issue of 'too much carpet'. There are all kinds of things at work here probably, but I really do balk at *too much comfort!* Insular houses and insular lifestyles.
But I was telling you about India.
I'm in Paris, feeling very French, and thinking that perhaps in the future I will be French. I would love to revisit all the wonderful places we saw in Paris - the utter joy of everywhere, the creativity and the marks of so many great men. It was very inspiring. And all French people are beautiful. We left a few days before Bastille Day. We saw the flags up on the Champs-Elysees, and we saw aeroplanes practising flying down it. And then it was time to go to India. I didn't want to go.
The way I got to India was: first on the Eurostar, to London. Then to Heathrow. Then fly to Delhi, overnight. It was very disorientating. At Heathrow after a day of travelling I didn't know where I was, which country, no idea. I take my stash of UK coins out of the secret pocket of my bag - 'lots of 2p coins' I say to myself - the phrase '2p coins' is oddly familiar, which is comforting, and its exhilarating in a small way that something should be familiar. I have to search under piles of obscurity for the meaning of 2p coins - why, where have I been? I have forgotten about Paris.
WH Smith is another of those exhilaratingly comforting places. There is even some territorial pride in what I feel here. Pride in myself that here is something I'm familiar with - it's mine.
...oh, did I not post this? To be continued. I'm probably in the middle of some train of thought here, but zjooppp....
When she was staying with Mum last year she became very ill, and Mum took care of her, and so is credited with saving her life, and so was offered a stay in Elizabeth's flat in Paris. There we go.
It was The Most brilliant living space I have ever been in. I fell in love utterly. More than anything there was just freedom and creativity oozing from every corner. A little rough, a little ramshackle, wooden floorboards, rooms just thrown together (it seems) in an organic sort of layout, meaning there were tiny wee corridors - the French flat version of Edinburgh Old Town, perhaps. But it must have cost a heck of a lot.- oh and balconies, with plantpots. The main 'space', shall we call it, was a long room with great [French windows, are they called?] all down one side, onto the balconies, and divided into two by a curtain. One half, next to the kitchen, had the dining table, and the other half had just a pool table and a couch, that I slept on. Also there were several bookshelves, books, art material, stacks of framed paintings, piles of books, 'objets d'art'...oh, and a large model aeroplane hanging from the ceiling above the dining table, that sort of thing. She collected a heck of a lot - beautiful things from all over the world - little sculptures, paintings on cloth and paper, beaded jewellery draped around lampshades, and the most gorgeous rugs and textiles. It is perfect, so much so that the bathroom is slightly grotty and the showerhead sometimes comes off (you must understand that this is perfect, these are the perfect living conditions, I hate shininess.
This was a long time ago and remembering it, in the light of what I have just said, gives me hope. I have stayed at rich people's houses and have hated it - beautiful houses, family houses. I just can't do it. I can't feel at home there. Now, we must understand that though I said 'rich houses', though richness seems to typify the houses I am thinking of when I am there, I do not think, actually, that the problem is wealth. Because I love Morland House - which is obviously big and ancient and not poor. Is that because I have basically grown up there and the issue is 'feeling I belong'? Also, the Anokhi Farm - where the people have loads of money and the houses are beautifully and intelligently designed. (These people are textile/fashion designers in India and their house is just gorgeous. And I can imagine myself living there.) Perhaps it is just an issue of 'too much carpet'. There are all kinds of things at work here probably, but I really do balk at *too much comfort!* Insular houses and insular lifestyles.
But I was telling you about India.
I'm in Paris, feeling very French, and thinking that perhaps in the future I will be French. I would love to revisit all the wonderful places we saw in Paris - the utter joy of everywhere, the creativity and the marks of so many great men. It was very inspiring. And all French people are beautiful. We left a few days before Bastille Day. We saw the flags up on the Champs-Elysees, and we saw aeroplanes practising flying down it. And then it was time to go to India. I didn't want to go.
The way I got to India was: first on the Eurostar, to London. Then to Heathrow. Then fly to Delhi, overnight. It was very disorientating. At Heathrow after a day of travelling I didn't know where I was, which country, no idea. I take my stash of UK coins out of the secret pocket of my bag - 'lots of 2p coins' I say to myself - the phrase '2p coins' is oddly familiar, which is comforting, and its exhilarating in a small way that something should be familiar. I have to search under piles of obscurity for the meaning of 2p coins - why, where have I been? I have forgotten about Paris.
WH Smith is another of those exhilaratingly comforting places. There is even some territorial pride in what I feel here. Pride in myself that here is something I'm familiar with - it's mine.
This part of this airport that I'm in is glamorous in such an Asian way, I feel. All these perfume shops and things. Like Dubai or somewhere. All the attendants and people are also all what people'd call 'Asian', and most of the other passengers-in-waiting are too. Non-glamour: a group of Bulbuls standing two by two in a line giggle and eagerly look and nudge each other at an English guy. They are around fifteen, gawky, uniformed. He is tall, droopy, in shorts, curly lightish hair, scruffy and nondescript and average/less than average-looking and I feel so annoyed at them. And Mr Sir barks 'where's your partner?' because all these teenagers must have partners, and they let themselves, how spastic.
[*One Indian phenomenon - the teenage girl who is unaware of her breasts, bodily hair and appearance in general. Funny, because most Indian women are acutely aware of their femininity, right down to the smallest graceful gorgeous girls in my school in my village, who danced coyly with mehndi proudly on their hands. And there was such a huge understanding of what it is to be a woman, and a being-women-together feel. That was in a village setting.
And I am annoyed that an English muchly-pierced alternative-looking girl is wildly incongruous and stared at in suspicion and distrust.
...oh, did I not post this? To be continued. I'm probably in the middle of some train of thought here, but zjooppp....
Saturday, 13 September 2008
What?!
This is crazy! For months - months, I tell you - have been unable to access this blogger thing. It wouldn't let me sign on.
Well helloooooo.......
triumphant and joyful ladida - as if, for example, the host of a radio show had been held captive in Afghanistan for 7 months and was now back on air.
So, I am listening to the Last Night of the Proms. I have SO much to tell you. Firstly, I was in India for a month very recently and I need to get all that down; I need it processed. In a crazy whatever jumble - like processed cheese rather than fully matured, perhaps, but at least it's there and I am bursting. I've stopped writing in sentences and diary and moleskine are crammed full of snippets that are pretty futile by themselves, unless they were to be displayed /as/ snippets in a glass cabinet, at least with some overall artistic direction, I don't know. I have been clumsy and kamikaze with my thoughts, which are less thoughts and more impressions. Camera-less I took to the conscious release of memories, on the basis that *letting go* is always a good thing. I'm not sure I'd advise it. The idea wasn't really to let go of everything that has ever happened to me, but to Actually Start This Time and get rid of old ideas and unfinished projects. Because what I really want to do - or need to do - is to build something out of the scraps of impression of everything that's happened to me and everything I've ever thought.
The need to create is also the need to communicate, yes? 'Create' in the sense of transferring some sort of meaning, I don't mean welding gates or whatever. How sad is art that's never received/read/audienceless. Although the artist would probably have enough imagination to keep him going.
Patriotism (different subject) - yes, I am very patriotic sometimes. I recall an evening last month when I managed to feel patriotic about India, Scotland and Great Britain. All in one evening. Yay. It was the Edinburgh Military Tattoo. Songs especially are very powerful.
Okay, enough.
I'm reading this book. It's okay. Nothing special. If you were going to write one book, you wouldn't write this one. If you were going to write on book a year, you still wouldn't write this one. Maybe if you were on number 100 and had run out of meaningful things to write about. Three girls, a couple of decades ago, not being very interesting. You know, I hate it when people in books don't speak like real people. She's actually not that bad at description. And she can craft a novel (a bland one, where all the characters are coated in a blandness - like Pat in the Scotland Street novels.Why do people like drawing young girls like this?) And the
romances are predictable and unrealistic.
Restlessness.
And did those feet, in ancient times.
I will not cease from mental strife, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
What a literally awesome tune. "Tune".
'God save the queen' - now there's an uninspiring song.
Oh, I think it was during the national anthem that my heart swelled for the UK - although there were audible groans as we were asked to stand up.
Well helloooooo.......
triumphant and joyful ladida - as if, for example, the host of a radio show had been held captive in Afghanistan for 7 months and was now back on air.
So, I am listening to the Last Night of the Proms. I have SO much to tell you. Firstly, I was in India for a month very recently and I need to get all that down; I need it processed. In a crazy whatever jumble - like processed cheese rather than fully matured, perhaps, but at least it's there and I am bursting. I've stopped writing in sentences and diary and moleskine are crammed full of snippets that are pretty futile by themselves, unless they were to be displayed /as/ snippets in a glass cabinet, at least with some overall artistic direction, I don't know. I have been clumsy and kamikaze with my thoughts, which are less thoughts and more impressions. Camera-less I took to the conscious release of memories, on the basis that *letting go* is always a good thing. I'm not sure I'd advise it. The idea wasn't really to let go of everything that has ever happened to me, but to Actually Start This Time and get rid of old ideas and unfinished projects. Because what I really want to do - or need to do - is to build something out of the scraps of impression of everything that's happened to me and everything I've ever thought.
The need to create is also the need to communicate, yes? 'Create' in the sense of transferring some sort of meaning, I don't mean welding gates or whatever. How sad is art that's never received/read/audienceless. Although the artist would probably have enough imagination to keep him going.
Patriotism (different subject) - yes, I am very patriotic sometimes. I recall an evening last month when I managed to feel patriotic about India, Scotland and Great Britain. All in one evening. Yay. It was the Edinburgh Military Tattoo. Songs especially are very powerful.
Okay, enough.
I'm reading this book. It's okay. Nothing special. If you were going to write one book, you wouldn't write this one. If you were going to write on book a year, you still wouldn't write this one. Maybe if you were on number 100 and had run out of meaningful things to write about. Three girls, a couple of decades ago, not being very interesting. You know, I hate it when people in books don't speak like real people. She's actually not that bad at description. And she can craft a novel (a bland one, where all the characters are coated in a blandness - like Pat in the Scotland Street novels.Why do people like drawing young girls like this?) And the
romances are predictable and unrealistic.
Restlessness.
And did those feet, in ancient times.
I will not cease from mental strife, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
What a literally awesome tune. "Tune".
'God save the queen' - now there's an uninspiring song.
Oh, I think it was during the national anthem that my heart swelled for the UK - although there were audible groans as we were asked to stand up.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
Friday, 4 January 2008
The Story of Christmas
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness about the light, that all might believe through him. He was not the light, but came to bear witness about the light.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. (John bore wotness about him, and cried out, "This was he of whom I said, 'He who comes after me ranks before me, because he was before me.' ") And from his fullness we have all received grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father's side, he has made him known.
Thanks be to God!
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness about the light, that all might believe through him. He was not the light, but came to bear witness about the light.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. (John bore wotness about him, and cried out, "This was he of whom I said, 'He who comes after me ranks before me, because he was before me.' ") And from his fullness we have all received grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father's side, he has made him known.
Thanks be to God!
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Happy New Year for yesterday
This is so ridiculous! The Festival Theatre website said it had e-mailed my password to my e-mail address, but it hasn't! Grrr.
My brother called this morning while I was still in bed, and I as the phone rang I thought 'it's Susie calling to ask me to supper, as it's Friday', and then I realised it wasn't Friday, it's Wednesday. Wednesday was a concept too remote from my life. What the heck is Wednesday? There's no such thing as Wednesday. This is what you think before you are fully awake.
My brother called this morning while I was still in bed, and I as the phone rang I thought 'it's Susie calling to ask me to supper, as it's Friday', and then I realised it wasn't Friday, it's Wednesday. Wednesday was a concept too remote from my life. What the heck is Wednesday? There's no such thing as Wednesday. This is what you think before you are fully awake.
Sunday, 16 December 2007
People.
People on the computer scare me. They are all sunny and bouncy and larger than life and !!!!lol :)hee hee xxx!!! I go on Facebook and think 'I don't know these people, do I have the right to talk to them?' Plus they're obviously busy having conversations with twenty different people and throwing snowballs at Sam and going sleighriding with Lisa, and being magic mushrooms and fiercely competing at pacman, and having the time of their lives dressed as snowmnen in magenta-painted nightclubs.
But no, Anjali, it's just Bob. You know Bob. You know Frodo. You know Lorna.
So this is how I meet people - I go out onto the street, I cross the road, I say to the man with his cap on the ground 'Do you know a guy called Scott? He used to sell the Big Issue here'. We are humans, are we not? With or without favourite quotes and travel map, pictures of Germander posted by others, and hatching christmas trees.
To the Rajasthani musician at the party in Jaipur - what are your favourite TV shows? Would you rather go barefoot, or do you wear sunglasses because the sun never sets over the British Empire? Do you think Christian guys are hotter? Do you appreciate Kerala Toast?
This goes out to all the human beings that I love - the ones of flesh and blood in their pre-make-up faces, who feel blank sometimes, who smile and who sometimes don't smile, and who sometimes are just there. And to the people who I don't know that well and am happy not to, but am content to just exchange smiles with when I see them, because you are a person and I am a person and isn't that cool?
And to the whole category of people who are special to me who I do not keep in regular contact with: people I've bumped into randomly - all my 'Festival friends' I met flyering on the Royal Mile - Danny and Nimesh, my adopted brother and cousin - Ricky and the guys I hung out with in Granada - Vladimir, who kept me entertained for an evening in Paris - and Scott, who seems to have disappeared.
At the end of Big Fish, the main guy gets carried down to the river, and all the people from his life are standing together, lining the way.
There is a work of art by Douglas Gordon in the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art which is just a list of the names of everyone he's ever met, stencilled in black on the wall nest to the stairs. I find this mindblowing and beautiful and moving. I often think that I should write a similar list, and I start to,in my head, and am overwhelmed by the sheer volume, and if you do it systematically you could get very bored. You'd be stuck thinking of the names of your year two classmates and wishing you were at the Delhi Trip. I think that what Douglas Gordon did was put them down as he remembered them.
You should do it. Maybe when you are feeling significant, or insignificant, or existential. Get back to me. It might change your life.
But totally, everybody - and this is a different issue - you should write on your walls in black felt tip. Anything that comes into your head.
I think that would be cool.
What you should do is have a 'graffiti room' - maybe two, one for visitors. You should have ( -she's getting excited now -) buckets of paint by the door. 'Thankyou so much for coming, there's paint by the door'. Perfect family activity! Bring all your friends!
I can just imagine the owner of the house wandering in when she's in need of cheering up and thinking....this is so stupid.
Anyway, back to the everyone-you've-ever-met thing. Imagine if, at the end of your life - or why then? Just randomly - everyone you'd ever met was gathered together. I love imagining this. But say this happened once every somebody's life, you'd probably keep getting called to go to these gatherings. You might not even recognise the person, but that would be cool. It would be an interesting experience. You might know other gathered people. You might meet some again and again at these gatherings. Would they all then come to yours, or would this not count as 'life'? Hmm, interesting question. But what you'd do would be to smile at the Main Person, as they walk past you looking amazed. It would be fun. And it would be accepted that no-one could take precedence or claim superiority as to how significant they were to the MP.
Conversely, it could be like a curtain call, with more significant people coming later, in which case there could be possible scraps between, say, wife and first love. No, I don't like that. The Gathered People would only ever look at the Main Person, so he could be utterly happy looking at both first love and wife, separately.
And before I go off to feel hungry: The Coma, by Alex Garland. Very good.
PS All these ideas are copyright! Copyright!
But no, Anjali, it's just Bob. You know Bob. You know Frodo. You know Lorna.
So this is how I meet people - I go out onto the street, I cross the road, I say to the man with his cap on the ground 'Do you know a guy called Scott? He used to sell the Big Issue here'. We are humans, are we not? With or without favourite quotes and travel map, pictures of Germander posted by others, and hatching christmas trees.
To the Rajasthani musician at the party in Jaipur - what are your favourite TV shows? Would you rather go barefoot, or do you wear sunglasses because the sun never sets over the British Empire? Do you think Christian guys are hotter? Do you appreciate Kerala Toast?
This goes out to all the human beings that I love - the ones of flesh and blood in their pre-make-up faces, who feel blank sometimes, who smile and who sometimes don't smile, and who sometimes are just there. And to the people who I don't know that well and am happy not to, but am content to just exchange smiles with when I see them, because you are a person and I am a person and isn't that cool?
And to the whole category of people who are special to me who I do not keep in regular contact with: people I've bumped into randomly - all my 'Festival friends' I met flyering on the Royal Mile - Danny and Nimesh, my adopted brother and cousin - Ricky and the guys I hung out with in Granada - Vladimir, who kept me entertained for an evening in Paris - and Scott, who seems to have disappeared.
At the end of Big Fish, the main guy gets carried down to the river, and all the people from his life are standing together, lining the way.
There is a work of art by Douglas Gordon in the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art which is just a list of the names of everyone he's ever met, stencilled in black on the wall nest to the stairs. I find this mindblowing and beautiful and moving. I often think that I should write a similar list, and I start to,in my head, and am overwhelmed by the sheer volume, and if you do it systematically you could get very bored. You'd be stuck thinking of the names of your year two classmates and wishing you were at the Delhi Trip. I think that what Douglas Gordon did was put them down as he remembered them.
You should do it. Maybe when you are feeling significant, or insignificant, or existential. Get back to me. It might change your life.
But totally, everybody - and this is a different issue - you should write on your walls in black felt tip. Anything that comes into your head.
I think that would be cool.
What you should do is have a 'graffiti room' - maybe two, one for visitors. You should have ( -she's getting excited now -) buckets of paint by the door. 'Thankyou so much for coming, there's paint by the door'. Perfect family activity! Bring all your friends!
I can just imagine the owner of the house wandering in when she's in need of cheering up and thinking....this is so stupid.
Anyway, back to the everyone-you've-ever-met thing. Imagine if, at the end of your life - or why then? Just randomly - everyone you'd ever met was gathered together. I love imagining this. But say this happened once every somebody's life, you'd probably keep getting called to go to these gatherings. You might not even recognise the person, but that would be cool. It would be an interesting experience. You might know other gathered people. You might meet some again and again at these gatherings. Would they all then come to yours, or would this not count as 'life'? Hmm, interesting question. But what you'd do would be to smile at the Main Person, as they walk past you looking amazed. It would be fun. And it would be accepted that no-one could take precedence or claim superiority as to how significant they were to the MP.
Conversely, it could be like a curtain call, with more significant people coming later, in which case there could be possible scraps between, say, wife and first love. No, I don't like that. The Gathered People would only ever look at the Main Person, so he could be utterly happy looking at both first love and wife, separately.
And before I go off to feel hungry: The Coma, by Alex Garland. Very good.
PS All these ideas are copyright! Copyright!
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