Thursday, November 24, 2011

Saturday, November 19, 2011

REVIEW - Of Gods & Men

Via the opening slow pans and absence of dialogue you are already being drawn into a quieter and calmer pace of life. By deft editing, the Director-Xavier Beauvois creates a monastic timescale and atmosphere around you. Slowly you calm down and become one with them, up in the mountains of Algeria.

Based on a true story, its set in the mid-1990's as the Algerian Civil War is about to explode. The French Cistercian monks carry on living peaceably next door to the local village. They support the villagers, by providing free medicine, treatment and counselling. Indeed their lives as monks are carefully woven into the fabric of the villagers. As word starts coming through of atrocities in the area committed by Islamic extremists, the monks have to decide whether they are to stay or go. Initially they are divided, but stay nevertheless because a consensus has not yet been reached. We then see each monk go through all forms of self-questioning and doubt, even a crisis of faith. Lead by their Abbot Christian, played with beautiful understatement by Lambert Wilson, they gradually all decide they have no option but to stay, whatever the outcome may be.

The film has a number of major moments that are decisive. The most crucial and moving takes place before the evening the terrorists turn up. They are sat around their dining table, the monk who is a trained Doctor comes in with two bottles of red wine, and puts a tape on of Swan Lake. As the music plays, the camera moves around the table from face to face. We first read the pleasure and uplift in their faces. Followed by a strong sense of the real love for each other, and the sense of common purpose and brotherhood that has grown up between them. It concludes with a sense of their hearts being visibly broken, as they know they are about to lose everything they value, their life, their practice and their friendship. It gave me a real feeling of their spiritual fellowship, which we'd call Sangha.

The film ends as it began with a final long shot without dialogue, as the abducted monks and their captors stumbling through the snow and fog until they gradually become indistinguishable and disappear into the distance.

FEATURE 99 - Biscuit Base

Fun Stuff, well edited too.

ARTICLES ~ I Let Go - No 8


From time to time I decide to sift through my material possessions with the intention of trimming them down. This desire to physically throw out, give away, or recycle some aspect of my extended family of stuff and things, is familiar territory. When I was younger I lived for several years in the bedsit land that spreads in terraced braids across North London. If you've ever lived in, or visited, a single person bedsit, you'll know that space is at a high premium. There'll be a bed, sink, cooker, wardrobe, armchair and not much else. I had to live with the minimum possessions the room could hold. As an avid reader and music enthusiast I regularly had to prune my bookshelves and record collections, before I ran out of floor or shelf space. It seemed the only way to manage this gradual acquisitive accretion. Unless,of course, I preferred to live with books and records stacked and strewn across the floor like an endlessly shifting tide of scum. I didn't, but some people do.

The motives for this regular purging were mostly practical ones. I knew my interests were often fleeting, passing intoxications. Basically, just personal fads. Much of what I read I knew I'd never read again. The fast moving trends in my musical tastes meant that artists I was passionate about one month, I'd be indifferent towards the next. So to some extent this pruning, refined and adjusted my possessions to keep them up to date. Aligning them with where my current enthusiasms were. It was in the nature of this craving for the new, that it satiated my hunger only for a while. I became used to the shifting impermanence of my musical appetites. As long as I could buy myself a thrill, then I was happy.

This restless craving has been frequently matched by another- a craving for pastures new. The desire to find a place where I could be free from dissatisfaction,disappointment and boredom. To date I've moved house or town not once or twice, but nearly two dozens of times. Only in the process of moving, as the boxes of packed up belongings mounts, that you notice exactly how much you own. Do I own enough to fill a small white van,once, twice or thrice,or is it now measured in the number of transit or full scale removal vans? To move is stressful because of the practical as well as psychological logistics. The difficulties in relocating the external aura of our possessions mirrors that for ourselves. After all, we are packing up and relocating our whole extended identity. As this cardboard haystack gradually fills up the removal van, it can feel like its getting psychically heavier. As though our spirit and ability to be free to spontaneously up sticks and just move, is being seriously hampered by having to cart our beloved possessions along behind us.

We tend to accumulate possessions in situations where we feel settled. Its an essential part of putting down roots - when our belongings find a place to belong too. They fix us to a particular place and way of living. As we filter through what we own, we are bound to review or weigh up who we've been and who we currently are. Should we keep that book – is it time we jettisoned that gift we've never used, but sentimentally still hold onto? We instinctively understand that we could discard forever all the residual memorabilia of who we once were. There are other things perhaps we'd like psychologically to put behind us, but can't. To be rid of the objects that remind us of a difficult period in our lives, to erase all evidence that the pain of it ever existed – might be a seen as a first step in getting over it.

Our possessions are like exhibits in a museum that holds all our past life experiences, a physical memory bank. A person, a place, a snapshot image of us – enshrined in a book, record, picture, ornament, piece of furniture or clothes. These define, but also confine who we are, or can be. Today, the size and range of what I own, I can sometimes find imprisoning. The sense of ownership feeling oppressive. Its as if I'm existentially being held under water. Drowning under the weight of my physical possessions. No longer able to swim freely or unencumbered. Over the years the number of my dependants has grown obese through regular feeding, clothing and emotional support. A drastic diet is nearly always called for.

This weightiness is felt on a gut level. I really don't need them resting so heavily on my shoulders. If I visualise myself as being free, I see myself throwing of clothes as I run naked across an open field. As if I'm casting off all the cares, concerns and obligations my world and I place upon myself. Leaving everything scattered behind me as I run free of all physical, mental or spiritual possessions. This visionary image pre-dates my life as a practising Buddhist, which in a way was begun as a practical way of actuating it. The Buddha himself, described the state of Enlightenment, as feeling like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, as though he'd put down a burden he'd been carrying, How to be truly free, is a question that often drives humanities search for meaning and purpose.

These days, as a 'good Buddhist' I frequently question myself about the whys and wherefores, of whether I should really be owning so much? Wouldn't I feel so much better if I was free of it all? and think that I would. These things, however, are never quite as simple as one might first think. If anything the act of throwing away is the easy bit. What is difficult is examining and scrutinising what ones reasons for doing so are. What was your volition and motive in doing this? Our motives are generally either mixed or conflicted, which is OK, just as long as we know they are. The degree of clear-headedness and purity in our motivation to take action,will define how spiritually effective our renunciation will be. It is, therefore, hard to dispose of our possessions in a vague, superficial or absent minded way. To consciously throw something away, put it down and walk away from it, is a deliberated act.

Tradition says that when the Buddha left behind his princely life of wealth and privilege, he took nothing with him. He let go of owning anything other than the most basic of possessions required to survive - a robe and a bowl. He instinctively knew he had to do this if he was to achieve what he wanted to spiritually. This 'going forth' as its traditionally called, into a homeless, possession-less life became the prerequisite act, an essential foundation for the future spiritual progress of his disciples. It has become synonymous with the beginning of a persons aspiration for liberation.

My past life, my present life, the history of my desires and attachments are preserved in all my material possessions. They represent outwardly who I am. Who I am has a threefold nature – there is the real true me - the me I desire to be - and the me I want the world to see. The Vidyavajra that others see, ranges across a spectrum from the authentic to the artificial. My possessions are hence also a mixture of those that truly represent me and my interests, and those that are window dressing. Contemporary Western consumer culture exploits this threefold nature of - who we currently are - what we'd like to be - and how we want others to see us – in order to get us to buy things. We buy because of the need for one brief moment to transcend our limitations. Quite often we are trying to overcome the dullness of our poor self image. To possess something we imagine will complete who we want to be, or be seen as. To have it - is to be it. This is not just an expression of our individuality, but the living out of a worldly form of liberation. I am free because I can buy whatever I want.

For this to work, one hasn't to care too much about what maybe the exploitative origins in distant lands, where much of what we buy is made. One person's liberty can often come at a cost to someone else's, far far away. Its rare for any material possession to have an origin entirely free of some veins of exploitation, guilt, embarrassment or some level of distaste or regret. Our wealth and need for self-expression can therefore carry with it something uneasy and unethical lurking in the background. So if we can let go and be free of the need to fulfil the craving and desire to buy it can be quite uplifting and insightful, even an ethical release.

Ajahn Brahm, defines freedom in a different way to this, one that is important to our reflections on letting go;~
'Freedom is being content to be where you are.
Prison is wanting to be somewhere else.
The Free World is the world experienced by one who is content.
The real freedom is freedom from desire, never freedom of desire.' 1

So being free to have anything we want, can have its origins in a deep seated, even unconscious discontentment. We often don't care what we do in order to get some relief from this, just so long as we get it. We are imprisoned by our need to be someone else other than who we actually are. So looked at from the perspective of freedom, the process of letting go as outlined in the verses, are pointing towards a way to liberate us from the compulsive following of our desires. First, when we put something down,we are saying we have the intention at least, to be content to stay put, and be with who we are. Secondly, we turn our attention away from any desire or attachment to being anyone else or anywhere other than right here. Thirdly, we conclude by discovering we have developed a contentment with who we actually are, and are no longer pulled all over the place by our desires and attachments. So we have here - setting the intention to be free, the desire to find a way to be free, and to be really free. To put down, to turn aside, to let go.

So finally, we have come to look at our verses, and what is the first thing we notice about them? Well, it is significant that each individual verse is prefaced by the same three phases – I let go – I turn aside – I put down. It would be a mistake perhaps to say these are sequential in how they should be read. We don't necessarily first let go, then turn aside and finally put down. As I've previously suggested, the opposite is experientially more true - that first we put things down, then we learn to turn our attention aside from them, and somewhere further down this road we realise we've let go of them. This is just my way of viewing and couching this. It might equally true be to say that letting go, turning aside and putting down are threefold aspects of one progressive cycle. One we go around and around. Perhaps spiralling upward with each circuit of putting down, turning aside and letting go. It may be the same impulse 'to let go' that is driving it all the way through, but it gradually permeates ever more widely and comprehensively.

Currently I view these threefold stages of letting go, as linked to the Buddha's Threefold Path, of Wisdom, Meditation and Ethics. I put down, seems an ethical impulse to stop doing something because it is in some way spiritually detrimental. It's weighing too heavily upon our spirits. We may not yet fully see the wisdom underpinning this, but we feel its ethical imperative nonetheless. But that compulsion alone is not going to be sufficient. Habit will keep drawing, if not sucking, us back into picking up what we've only recently put down. One has to keep turning aside ones gaze and mental attention from dwelling upon it once more. This requires a kind but vigilant awareness, a disciplined form of mindful attention. Something that is primarily cultivated and deepened through Meditation. This practice of turning ones attention away time after time, will gradually wear out and rub away all trace, and erase the root mechanism of our original attachment.

We leave no track marks in this epic journey. Its a journey that is curiously one of self-forgetting. A form of deliberate amnesia created by repeatedly turning your face away from the ardour of ones love for a thing. Until the ardour vanishes. When these things finally dip well below the conscious radar, when we've truly forgotten our attachment, then we might truly see that we've let go. Perhaps there is real wisdom in this seeing. Though our former love or attachment may still be surrounded by an aura of nostalgia, it is now seen for what it was, and more importantly for what it was not. The wisdom, lies in the seeing through. The process of letting go concludes when we can see right through our former love and attachment to something. What was once seen as a solid tangibly visible object of attention, is now seen as a figment of our fevered imagination. Seeing through the self-conjured nature of our love-filled attachments, is true wisdom.

The moment I start to consider throwing possessions away, is the moment I feel my attachment to them most strongly. This is often the moment,at the first hurdle, that my whole intention of putting things down starts to wobble. In order say, to make the process of disposing of redundant books easier, I've taken to making several piles to represent the full spectrum and degree of my attachment. Starting on one side with the stuff 'I definitely will not bin', the next being 'I would, if I was brave enough', then 'I ought to, but wont' then 'maybe, but not just yet' and ending in 'definitely wont, these are too precious' When these sort of responses emerge my intention to have a thorough clear out, falters badly. If I don't develop some firm resolve to see through my intention, the whole exercise will be a waste of time. I'm not turning aside from my attachment, I'm experiencing it and cuddling up to it, like a teddy I'm still rather too fond of.

This is not a new, nor that unique a response. It's not just me who experiences attachments, we all do, Our becoming attached is part and parcel of our coming into closer relationship with anyone or anything. The issue is really whether we can use this as a means of gaining personal insight or not. To create some distance from our attachments so we have some sense of there being a choice whether to respond or not. Otherwise we simply become ever more tightly enmeshed with and bonded to them? We all need to eat food in order to survive, to have energy for all the things we like to do. We can also enjoy and love good food, without it necessarily becoming a problem. There is no point when living in a world of pain, in prematurely eschewing the little pleasures that life can bring us. But when our love of food becomes more akin to an obsession, or a compulsive behaviour, causing us to balloon in weight and size. When love of food makes us become dangerously obese, then something has gone seriously wrong with this pursuit of pleasure.

Freedom to desire, to buy whatever I want when I want it, will not make me permanently healthy and happy. It may well bring about the opposite. Overtime, my youthful enjoyment of what was new and invigorating in popular music, began to lack depth. It drifted from being a simple pleasurable pastime into something I had to do, no matter what. Art that is genuinely new and innovative, can quite easily slip into being merely novelty. Though thrill inducing it may be thin beer, with no aesthetic life or enjoyment beyond its initial effects. Eventually I did lose not just my perspective, but also my desire and enjoyment of music for quite some time.

When I first became a Buddhist, I mistakenly thought I'd have to forgo enjoyments such as poplar music. However, this side of Enlightenment, when we are not yet free of our desires and attachments, and the depth of our practice is still too shallow to replace more worldly pleasures, we do still need them when things get emotionally difficult. We can do so in full knowledge that that's what we are doing. As Sangharakshita said regarding times when we encounter difficult mental states:~
'When all else fails, distract yourself' 2

1 - Taken from Who Ordered This Truckload Of Dung? by Ajahn Brahm, Published by Wisdom Publishing
2 - taken from Peace Is A Fire by Sangharakshita, Published by Windhorse Publishing.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

REVIEW - Earthquakes In London

Headlong Theatre Company - Cambridge Arts Theatre - Friday 11th 2011

This new play by Mike Bartlett has grand ambitions. Sweeping back and forth across time and in its visionary scope. The back ground to this drama, styled as if in the Brechtian tradition, is the personal and political origins and consequences of climate change. Three sisters, all daughters of an absent but influential climate change scientist, live disparate and hence mutually antagonistic lifestyles. The eldest,Sarah, is a Lib Dem Coalition minister responsible for the environment. The middle daughter, Freya is an anxious,highly strung and very reluctant Mother. The youngest,Jasmine, is a head in the sand hedonist. Their father in the late 60's allowed his environmental research into the possible effects of widespread air travel to be compromised by corporate sponsorship. His personal integrity as both a scientist and a human being, is forever haunted by this self-betrayal. In the eyes of the daughters he's estranged from. he's a complete shit. As this family dynamic is played out, we see how this has influenced their personal ethics, ideals and life choices.

Headlong, under the artistic direction of Rupert Goold, has developed a reputation for boldly executed dramas tackling thorny contemporary issues, such as in the multiple award winning - Enron. All of which are staged with great colour, verve and innovative punch. The original London production had the audience in the midst of the actors and staging. For this National Theatre Touring production, this has been adapted to suit the smaller, more traditional proscenium arched regional theatre. Earthquakes In London, makes extensive use of a double stage revolve. that allows swift and frequently overlapping scenes. This multi-layered visual narrative style frequently achieves quite startling dramatic effects, and gives the production its primary visual dynamism.

The ambitions of both play and the staging of it, are indeed EPIC. At over three hours long, the production needs to keep on the move. In the midst of its sprawling narrative, there were inevitably moments when the production lost focus and momentum. This was often when it fell fowl of its own artistic pretensions, with too many story lines clogging up the narrative arteries like cholesterol. As if we were being forced to eat too much all at once. At times the staging held your breath, whilst the drama caught up.

As the play hurtled towards its finish, it reminded me of a speeding train trying desperately to come to a halt at its designated station, with all its passengers and carriages still intact. It shuddered,stopping and starting like a Mahler Symphony, through a sequence of possible endings. Just when you're prepared for the end, up popped yet another scene. When it finally reached its conclusion, Bartlett had to sidestep the immediacy of the personal, economic, political and practical costs of climate catastrophe, in order to introduce a more mythic level of resolution in the year 2525 (Yes, as in the 60's song by Zager & Evans) In the midst of all this,what punchline there was. got lost.

These quibbles aside, it's undoubtedly a brave, hugely enjoyable and a thought provoking production. One that's rightly been described as carnivalesque in style. It has several truly memorable moments, often found in seemingly fleeting and inconsequential scenes. The Mother's party on Parliament Hill where they are all dressed like Anna Wintour pushing their designer prams and singing about Happiness. Or the scene with the woman who loved the shop Libertys. So much so, that she changed her name to Liberty. Got a job working for Libertys and chooses her cloths so they compliment the Liberty colours. Demonstrating simply how Western Consumer Individualism encourages our self-preoccupation and whims - at liberty to be whatever we want to be. However contrived, bogus or fairytale that may be. This hunger for individual self expression being fed by the very globalised commerce that is having such a huge environmental effect.

The best example of multi-layered visual narrative had Freya the pregnant daughter in birthing agony on a hospital stretcher, in the background, her brother in law and younger sister cavorting drunkenly to a track by Arcade Fire, in the middle ground,whilst the elder sister says goodbye to a lobbyist for an airplane manufacturer she's just had sex with, in the foreground. This showed the personal desperation, infidelity and moral indifference that was earth-shatteringly sad.

The multiple story lines left no time to touch more than lightly on the many issues it raises. Just one quick sideways swipe, rather than a carefully aimed hit at its target. In this sense it didn't quite match its Brectian antecedents. It was never entirely clear what the overarching point Earthquakes In London was trying to make, other than WE ARE ALL DOOMED! IN A BIG WAY!! It ticked all the usual boxes, and pointed a wagging finger at all the usual targets. To be fair, it was being more honest than polemical (polemic often makes for stillborn or deathly drama) Bartlett, like us, has no answers or quick fixes. We're in a mess, and no one knows really if we are really capable of getting ourselves out of it. In the play,the daughters father makes it thunderously clear, that we are already too late. The earthquakes of chaos and catastrophe are already rumbling in the distance.

Saturday, November 05, 2011

ARTICLE ~ I Let Go - No 7


Should I start by thanking my hands? I suppose I should, but not in a polite round of applause thoroughly English way. That might seem a trifle formal, if not patronising attitude to take towards them. It's certainly inadequate considering what they can do, what they have done, and what they still continue doing. They're vastly underrated, consistently overlooked and taken for granted. My hands have served me well. I'm seeing this now, when perhaps it's getting too late, in an evening that has no discernible moonlight. For there are times when my fine hands can't do exactly what I want them to, or can't do things quite as well as formerly, or as I'd presently like. I have this sense of being a passive observer as my body slowly slowly loses its treasured faculties. This is hard to see as ennobling. For in truth they weren't that treasured until they started betraying signs of being impermanent things. Hands can fail to function. Then they become treasured. One must have appreciated and loved, before one can allow these things to pass, and let ones affection go.

So, there is a premonition of their future theft. As though my hands have become these warning oracles. the lines and mounts of palmistry telling my fortune. The feeling of being prematurely bereft is humbling. One is belittled by bereavement. Ought one to bow down out of respect? Should ones heart be swollen with feelings of gratitude? Sorry to hear your leaving, but thanks a million anyway! It's difficult in the midst of a predicted loss, to feel anything other than existentially betrayed, buggered or baying for blood to be spilt. Life should be made to pay for this, or make reparations.
Meanwhile, I still bear on the ends of my arms these ten digits. Fingers and thumbs pivoting on wrists until the bitter end. From these I shall not part, until I too will bereave someone I love. Their warm hands will touch the wintry coldness of my face, and know I am gone, that I am lost to them. No hands could shake me awake from this sleep. When I have relinquished up the flesh and the bones of being loved. Hands will lower me into the ground of my resting place, or push my coffin into the furious heat of a cremation oven. Handkerchiefs will soak up the tears, muffle the sobs and grip tightly the hands of bystanders. They might even wave me off.
Hands can be loving, have a smoothing calming effect on the troubled surfaces of experience. They break through invisible hurts, divorces or barriers. The empty spaces that can emerges between bodies. Hands physically connect with what has become isolated by touching the skin of me, by touching the skins of them. Yes them, the bright haired handymen and women walking the same grey streets, travelling the same road, on the same train, the same bus as me. Imagine embracing them all, in one nocturnal handshake. Hands pressed together in greeting, in collective prayer or supplication. Faithfully devoted. Kissing hands, bottom hugging hands, the entwined clasping of hands that are in love. A light brush down a lovers back, a feathery stroke outlining a silken face, fingers drift sketchily along lips, hands pressing a ruffle across a chest. These are some of the tasks that hands do for me, that bring me pleasure, besides - the raising of a refreshing cup of coffee - the drawing of a line across a piece of paper - the waving to friends across the street – they help me swim.
I cannot speak or enumerate the full range of their qualities. The attributes they bring, enable me to sculpt the world I want to live and love in. Impossible without their ability to actively grasp, hold, form, twist, whip, lunge, catch, throw, break, bow, turn, throw, drop, swing, swim, whirl, pull, drag, lift, bend, or hang. The padding, the petting, the patting, the paddling, the laying on of hands. An immensely courageous kindness of hand and heart, is the caressing back rub that is empathic and compassionate.
Thumb and forefinger have held paintbrushes for me, with just enough of a pinch. Not too much so it would snap, or too little so it would slip between my fingers. They direct the paint filled mop head in smooth washes and swathes across the surfaces of walls, doors, paper, canvas and floors. Hands have maintained for me a lifetime of too many creative flourishes to mention. They've painted out an idea, an approximate representation of who I believe I am. Who I would, like, love, wish, even will myself into being. This is what I portray by portraying. The spontaneous surface of artistry disguises the innate skill required for its execution. I've spent a whole lifetime in pursuit of an elusive goal. Riding on the back of this-then-that artistic rocking horse. Backing the entirely wrong horse, or thrown from the saddle of bucking broncos. Sometimes hands have to take the reins, the strain, and the pain.
They've taken me far, and yet not far enough for my liking or my racing desire. Hands have done my bidding, but nothing to permanently satisfy the hungry jaws of a half empty pit. I carry projects loyally in my minds eye, in a richly coloured portfolio. Much more comprehensive and better executed than the actual ones were, or will be. These are all mind made hand-me-downs kept in a reserve bottom draw. Designs I'll never get round to resolving or bringing to a conclusion. These ideas can stay pristine, unsullied and clean of poor execution, the unimagined obstacles, the compromised or even the lack of opportunity to bring them to fruition. No way to bring them about now, to expose them to the unflinching light of day or the distorted florescence of the night, or nightmare. These things fade.

Talented hands have nevertheless externalised something of what I imagined. Tried to express essentially the inexpressible. To breathe something alive onto a lifeless parchment. Birth as always is an exciting event, painful and a bit of a struggle. A wrestling match between the idea and the limits of my ability. Ending in an expression, an emission, a submission to history however impoverished or small. Creation is a fleeting temporary high, followed by the melodrama of the withdrawal symptoms. However, its always been disappointment that spurred me on to the next 'big thing.' The skill of my hands is in executing flexibly. To get the vision out of the way of the handiwork. I just observe the flustered birds of confidence, the febrile nature of frustration, and I shrug. Palms outstretch expectantly. Palms cupped like petals around a calyx hope to catch some divine nectar. I've drunk from that cup. A vessel that my hands created out of nothing.
Hands can be actors too, they've performed like shadow puppets behind a large screen. Hand gestures have played their part in producing a character, a likable comedy, a black and white version of reality. Blocked out, a stage movement of hands upstage will prompt the dialogue and the expression of the faked emotion. I learnt to portray a love, weakness or power that I do not possess. To be a person I am not, or am only in a theatrical dimension. I have mimed the making of miracles using these hands. I've loved every false hand movement, until I tired of the verisimilitude. My dissembling stumbled in the reciting of other peoples words. Though they were not my words, I sneaked my feelings in through the back door. Through my vocal intonation and the loaned language of my body. Simultaneously shielding and picking at my own sores for raw material, which was handy. Eventually my hands would write and perform their own words.
My hands could also slap out a big beat. Tap on the tables and floors, para diddle upon my thighs. They held my pint, tipped the pint into my mouth, or drunkenly spilt it on the floor. I put down my pint only so I could dance. To pogo like a demented pile-driver let loose across the floors and foil clad walls of Seventies discotheques. They flapped around wildly on the end of my arms. Like the ineffective wings of gosling's in a first attempt at flight. Hands Charleston, hokey cokey and jived, dragging the rest of my bending body with them. Surrendering to the hearts beat, its blood throbbing compulsive thrust. The intoxicating rhythm amplified my life's pulse. Whether the dance floor was in my bedsit, the disco or the concert hall. I clapped hands hard together as though I was experienced in flamenco Both my hands should be applauding loudly a life that has been, and is still being well lived. If they are not, its because they're busy nursing themselves, rubbing Ibuprofen Gel into inflamed thumb joints.