FEATURE - The Making of a 'Reliquary'

A few years ago Hubby and I were walking the Pilgrim Way back from our first visit to the The Slipper Chapel in Walsingham. At the side of the road we passed a discarded wheel hub. Having walked on I was suddenly struck by an idea for it, so popped back to pick it up. Having seen a few reliquaries of saints and the great catholic good in the Slipper Chapel, I thought I'd make one.

Once home, I primed and painted it a dark red base colour. I ordered ten miniature glass vials from E bay, Thinking they might make suitable receptacles for 'reliquary' objects, whatever they turned out to be. I created a long collage artwork out of painted wood off-cuts to form a suitable background support. Everything then hung about in my workshop draped in plastic, as other events interrupted the creative flow and I lost sight of how I intended to take it forward. So it stayed awaiting the return of time and inspiration, for what turned out to be a number of years.

Fast forward to the most recent lock down. Once we started our regular Art Club day, completing the Reliquary Project resurfaced. I decided what each of the ten vials would contain - things that in some way represented me, my interests and enthusiasms. These turned out to be:~

1) Writing - a poem written by me
2) DNA - beard shavings
3) Gay/Camp -a strip of cut gems in the colour of the gay rainbow flag.
4) Painting - a strip painted in gouache in a geometric design
5) Music - a playlist for my funeral *** (links at bottom of this post )
6) North Norfolk - filled with sand from Sheringham Beach
7) Churches & Architecture - a painting of a pointed arch window
8) Buddhism - a stick of incense
9) Dogen - a written extract from the Genjo Koan
10) Craft Making - a cabled string of yarn

I was surprised how quickly everything came together in the end. It was as if all that time elapsing had narrowed down all the options about how best to complete it. So now its mounted on its background and forms part of my shrine in the craft room / shrine space / spare room.

Reliquary Playlist *** ( with You Tube Links )

1) T Rex - 20th Century Boy 2) Talking Heads - Once in a Lifetime 3) David Bowie - Aladdin Sane 4) A Certain Ratio - Flight 5) Elbow - One Day Like This 6) Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Wonderful Life 7) Sparks - The Decline & Fall of Me 8) Cocteau Twins - Musette & Drums 9) Wild Beasts - End Come Too Soon 10) Strauss - "Beim Schlafengehen" Four Last Songs ( Jesse Norman )

SHERINGHAM DIARY 49 - Everyday Life With Audio Description

As a chronic insomniac I've got used to waking at two in the morning unable to rekindle slumber. So in those early morning arisings, I watch many a boxed set. I've had my Friends phase, my Star Treck derivatives phase, My Schitt's Creek phase, my Vera phase.  In recent weeks, at the same time as working my way through each series of Midnight Diner ( see a previous post ) I've been catching up on a few episodes of the Repair Shop I appear to have missed first time around.

I find it calmly absorbing to watch the skill of a craftmaker at work. Their unhurried careful working methods I emulate only in my dreams. By comparison mine start off being well tidy and ordered but gradually descends into a pile of mess. The enotional tone behind much of my work as if I'm undergoing a productivity review. Its an area of practice just to stay calm and rest easy with taking whatever time is required. 

Many of the older Repair Shop series are audio described. These fill in audible space, where it may be unclear what exactly is happening if your sight is poor on non existent  At present I am non of those things.

This reminded me of going home to stay with my Dad, he was in his late eighties by then. At some point he must have accidentally pressed the audio described button on his TV remote. He complained vociferously about how the BBC were now putting this chap talking over the top of all the programmes, all the time, and how annoying that was. He rarely wore his hearing aids, even though he was a tad deaf, so the TV was on incredibly loud. The audio description bellowed out. Needless to say I switched it off. 

I've unexpectedly been taking huge and unexpected joy from these audio descriptions.  Sometimes the scripts go very flowery and poetic, at other times they have a perhaps unintended humour, or assume the feeling of having been written as a piece of magic realism. 

If you couldn't see what was actually going on, how might you interpret some of these?

- A pigeon perches on a wooden post, as Dom takes his mechanism to Steve.

- At her workstation Julie spoons something from her mug into her mouth.

- Sparks fly as another crafter sharpens a piece of metal.

- The sun rises over the idyllic countryside, a fine mist settles over the trees and drops of morning dew cling to tall blades of grass. Two of the crafter's walk along the gravel path to the barn.

- Jay gives Hannah a friendly pat as he passes her work bench.

- The branches of trees are blown by a gentle breeze, and a bird waddles across the repair shop's thatched roof. Suzie is on the home straight in her work.

- A wren ruffles its feathers, then the craftspeople arrive at the workshop.                                                                                 

Just think how much better life would be if everyday life had a voice constantly explaining what the hell was going on. On second thoughts maybe not.

Lately I've been processing a deeper understanding of the nature and consequences of one self view I've held. One result has been being easily irritated by the smallest thing not going according to plan. A recent re-jigging of the shop layout was a case in point. All was well until I'd made three different attempts at getting a re-hang on one section of wall sorted out. Each time it didn't work, stick on hooks fell off walls, things pranged or fell onto the floor. Though I did eventually succeed, it was done at great cost to my overall quality of equanimity. I'd progressively dug myself deeper into a funk of frustration, then anger.  I returned home so physically tense that my back just went, to be nursed for the next few weeks. Some times I wish that prattitya samutpada wasn't so blatantly co--produced.

On another tack I've been adopting a more lassez faire approach to boredom in the shop. I realised that although 'if all else fails, distract yourself ' can work, it cannot be your first and only port of call. I now get on with some craft making task, but don't necessarily do it to the background accompaniment of music, radio, a film or You Tube video.  All those things, though there to alleviate your response to the boredom, are also a prolongation of it. As you flip from one sound or visual form to another, each one failing to really transform the mood or satisfy the hunger for presence or purpose. Such distractions can simply intensify the connection with the state of boredom. Maybe it is just better to let it be. To stop scratching the itch.

A friend of ours Sam, knowing my liking for things Japanese, bought me a Japanese Stab Bookbinding kit for me to try out. I found I really enjoyed painting the watercolour paper covers and making them up into a little notebook. The process is a relatively simple one, skill wise, but I find it very satisfying. I am already looking into further developing my nascent skills with books about Japanese Bookbinding being sourced, and improving my book binding tools. I can feel a few new stationery lines for the shop will be coming along soon.  I've also bought an introductory set to try out marbling paper or fabric, which might just end up featuring on book covers. Just a few lines of craft inquiry I want to pursue over the next year, along with seeking to improve my general level of upholstery skills.

Oh joy of joys its Eurovision once more. By turns batty, bizarre and bombastic, I love it. This year some contributors having been so deprived of their performance fix last year, have gone all out surreal weird. The Norway entrant has a song about wrestling with his demons. Guess what he's dressed in? A glittery jump suit with a long white fur cost and angel wings, chained to four dark devilish demons who try constantly to pull him off his pedestal. 

And just why are Latvia's three back up singers all dressed in emerald green with black visors like extras escaped from robo cop, whilst the singer is a vampish Egyptian queen?  

There was a song from Denmark which unfortunately didn't make the final, like many of this years entrants channeling mid 80's electro. With an Andy Bell like lead singer whose posturing was seemingly choreographed by an out of work bricklayer - and now shoot your arm up high then push your left hip to one side, and hold. Then grab half a microphone stand in your hand and run around the stage set with it, stop, jump and do air splits, spread your legs. One couldn't help but feel the wardrobe combo of string vest and tiny cerise jacket made for a much smaller man, was not their only mistake.

There are also the attempts at profundity. In these days of worldwide pandemic no self respecting frivolous entertainment can avoid at least attempting to make a pigs ear of sensitive artistic credibility. Mostly this comes down to dance routines to fill out the void between voting and results. In the second semi-final we were presented with an ambitious piece of tosh, reportedly about relationships across boundaries. This consisted of a handsomely bare chested gentleman, dressed in a floor length silver metallic skirt and his hots for a young man. who does acrobatic tricks on a bicycle. I was moved!

One song favourite this year is Moldova's, a country with a well earned reputation these days for putting on a memorable stage routine. This years entrant Sugar did not disappoint, channelling mid period 'kitten' Kylie. Probably the campest thing of the 2021 show. The promo video is actually even better with additional dancing ice cream cones! But be warned she does rip the face off her boyfriend and eat it at the end. I kid you not.

Trends this year - the obligatory borrowing from - everything that Queen Bey has ever done - Lady Gaga lookalikes and soundalikes ( yes someone still does that ) - the shrill melodramatic braying of Florence ( of the Machine ) - and the Bulgarian entrant doing a spookily perfect impersonation of Billie Eillish - without irony. Plagiarism thy name is Eurovision. Claims for music copyright infringement are in the post.

FINISHED READING - The Fall of the Imam by Nawal El Saadawi

I'm not usually one to re-read a novel, even one's I greatly enjoyed the first time around. But when the great Egyptian novelist and feminist campaigner Nawal El Saadawi died a few weeks back I had the urge to re-read The Fall of the Imam. I read this shortly after it was first published in translation in the late 1980's, and remember being mightily impressed by it.

What I remembered from the first time was present still.  Its looping mesmeric narrative that keeps returning to one point in the story - the female protagonist Bint Allah stabbed in the back whilst trying to escape murderous unnamed pursuers. Each time approached from another different angle, background or person's perspective. You hear of this world expressed through the perceptions of a variety of characters - the Imam, his legal wives, his mistresses, his childhood friend The Great Writer, the Official Leader of the Opposition. In some way they all become blurred into the many facets and satellites of the one omnipotent Imam.

Saadawi's great achievement is in creating the feeling of eyes watching you everywhere. The narrative slips from third to first person and back without note. One might say dreamlike in its logic, but this is like inhabiting a oppressive nightmare, where no one, not even the Imam, is who they make themselves out to be. The Imam, whatever he actually is,  has this controlling force upon everyone's lives.

The subservient role allotted to women is justified by a cyclical theological logic. Women cannot be trusted to think nor act for themselves, because they are always to be considered as the instruments of Satan.  From the point of view of the many women he beds, the Imam they know is a sin riddln fallen man. They just cannot reveal that because there would be fatal consequences for them. 

You could murder the Imam, but the Imam is not really one person, he's a constructed demagogue of the imagination, an icon representing eternal religious truths and prohibitions. The incumbent is merely the vessel through whom those are presently enacted. And, of course, the world and power structures upholding the Imam are entirely male dominated ones. No one can win when faced with them, least of all a woman.

The Fall of the Imam, is not then a straightforward nor comfortable novel to read. It has thematic links drawn from The Thousand and One Nights. A magic realist quality of returning to tell the reformulated tale yet again.  I can imagine it testing the patience of anyone looking for a more linear form of writing. I remain touched by the dense dark poetry and imagery. It portrays this unreal reality, a world completely in its own bubble separated and deliberately cut off from ours, cultish, dangerously deluded and cruel. It was certainly worthy of re-reading, sad and brutish as it is, there is some hope there too struggling to break out and be heard, to breath freely with a liberated mind.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

POEM - Here, To Be

Here he discovered it 

because he was ready, prepared
to wear the right hat, to hear
the small smut blackened dragon, seeking revenge
for the cave
and its forced incarceration, within the
pitch dark, loveless stone, home to no one
but itself, wrong and wronged
for a lifetime or more, scorching the pink insides of itself
self-immolating 
within its own heat and moisture
to a crisp charcoaled dust

He decides here, to be

to allow its anger to proceed unchecked
for grief to be expectorated, the betrayal and 
despondent rage, to simmer
and boil, spit and spill out
magma like pools upon the earth, 
before becoming absorbed unseen, 
for dragons, 
must cry out or cry within
for an eternity of sulphur, jaundiced
without sunlight, nothing will evaporate
when there are no clouds, no rain, no rivers, no ocean, no life
everything kettled within a cavern
no way to dissolve, to absolve
no where to fly too or from

Here to place

the suffering, tender it
upon a new bed of grass, 
to rest easy with what is there
harder to remember
when it is all over, that 
that place of despair, that that past time
can have any future purpose
at all.

written April 2021
Stephen Lumb

FEATURE - The Return of Eurovision

 My personal favourites from this years batch. One of these should win, one has already failed to qualify, but which will it be of those remaining? 

Iceland - Nerdy but very knowing, a perfectly judged oddity of a song 

Lithuania - Every song troop needs some silly Dad dancing.

Latvia - The green goddess hits the stage with her three blind minders.

Ukraine - So folksy and insane it does everything but bark like a dog with mange..

Moldova - A camp homage to all the sex kittens of the world.

Switzerland - A really lovely little song sung by a sweet tubby angel.

WATCHED - Oxygene

 

The film opens with a body contained in some sort of shroud like covering, its struggling to breath. A woman gradually forces herself out. She's still restrained by tubes and belts that are holding her inside a high tech pod of some kind. What is unclear, even to her, is whether she is there voluntarily or is imprisoned, but if so where, for what reason and by whom? There has been some type of system failure, oxygen supply is gradually diminishing as the woman simultaneously tries to rebuild her memories of who she is and understand what her real predicament is. But time is running out, and fast.

Though you can sometimes foresee some of the plot developments coming, this feature is nonetheless a very engaging and gripping affair. it has a central very physical performance from Melanie Laurent, which is convincingly maintained. If you are looking for a high concept sci-fi film well acted and realised Oxygene is probably the one for a Saturday night in.

CARROT REVIEW 5/8

FINISHED READING - Dream Work by Mary Oliver

'And now I understand 
something so frightening, and wonderful -
how the mind clings to the road it knows, rushing
through crossroads, sticking
like lint to the familiar.'
from the poem Robert Schumann

Mary Oliver's poetry has kept being introduced to my conscious awareness. She was referenced frequently, along with Kathleen Raine,in the Post-Jungian 'world soul' of Hillman etc at The London Convivium for Archetypal Studies in the late 1980's that I attended. Then much later on in the 'noughties' she appeared to have her moment of being the go to poet for artistic reflection in Triratna Buddhism, before that mantle was handed on to David Whyte. These days extracts from her work crop up regularly as posts on Facebook etc. 

'Sometimes what's wrong does not hurt at all, but rather
shines like a new moon.' 
from the poem Consequences

So I've had many an opportunity to read her poetry and mostly passed it by unconsidered. Don't ask me why, just not ready, not receptive enough yet. Her work undoubtedly is infused with subtler undertows than a casual glance will reveal. Its a bit like crossing a stream, so easy to walk across yet entirely miss the direction and purpose of its flow. So focused can we be on directing our own movement, we neglect what we feel, how we respond, as we walk our nature through nature. As Dogen once expressed it ' If we do not know the walking of the mountains, We do not yet know our own walking'. If there is no larger picture, destination overrides the universal as both our origin and destiny.

All night
the dark buds of dreams
open
richly.
In the centre
of every petal
is a letter,
and you imagine
if you could only remember
and string them all together
they would spell the answer.
from Dreams

Oliver's poetry in Dream Work, first published in 1986, repeatedly touches on an experience of an intimacy and closeness to nature and in particular to landscape. This simultaneously echoes in our humanity, pricks up our psychological ears, reminds us we are part of something that, spiritually speaking, is much greater than our little grey self. Threads of interconnectivity are left lying around in all her work to be lifted up, followed and treasured, or of course we could just walk on by actively intent on some goal or other 

'But who,
not under disaster's seal,
can understand what life is like
when it begins to crumble?'
from Storm in Massachusetts, September 1982.

One can easily forget the potency of the telling image, the resonances of a unique vision that reverberate through us, powered by our recognition of it. It is part of the oblique skill of the remarkable poet, to surprise us by jumping out from behind a concealed curtain unexpectedly. Rationality deliberately misdirected by a line of poetry, towards a deeper level of truth not entirely subservient to logic or the matter of fact. Mary Oliver's poetry can often do that, using the most ordinary of language and inference.

'You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
from Wild Geese

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

STREAMING FAVE RAVE - Midnight Diner

In the opening title sequence your in a car driving through the neon lit flashy wonderland that are the main streets of modern Tokyo. Then you are taken behind all that flash and trash, into a typically scruffy and ramshackle narrow backstreet populated with brothels, gay clubs, karaoke bars and late night cafes. Here is an unassuming small diner, open from midnight till seven in the morning. Its run by a man with a facial scar, the owner and chef only ever referred to as Master, whose real name we never get to know. In each twenty four minute episode he tells you all he knows about a whole range of his regular customers. These stories are mostly quietly understated, but on occasions become quirkily cartoonish, but always non judgemental. All the full diversity of Japanese life can walk into this diner.

In one story a radio DJ customer discovers that a female taxi driver was once an actress who played his favourite ninja character, who was his first love as a teenager.  Another is about the odd couple relationship that develops between the trans owner of a gay club and a yakuza (gangster). Or there's the Ochazuke Sisters, three women who've vowed to keep loyal to the ideal of waiting for their true love to appear. To never go on a marriage interview or to date a much older man. Their friendship shattering as each of their resolve weakens, but one by one they return disillusioned but wiser, bound together even
more securely.

 .

A carefully modulated emotional tone is the defining feature here. Touching and recognisably human, occasionally teetering on the fringes of sentiment or folksy homily without falling all the way in. It tells you a whole bunch of details about the desires and pressures on ordinary people, or of being an outsider, in contemporary Japanese society.  Each fighting to just be who they are, in an individualistic extravagant manner or in a more traditionally muted minor key. Along the way you get recipe tips about the best way to make some of the diner's menu staples. So, win win.

Its quickly becoming favourite TV viewing in the early hours of the morning as I wake up, make porridge, drink coffee and bring myself gradually into fuller consciousness. Bracing myself for whatever the new day will bring. It is Fabulous!

Konnichiwa!

All the series of Midnight Diner & Midnight Diner (Tokyo Stories) are available to stream on Netflix.

CARROT REVIEW - 6//8

FAMILY FRAGMENTS - Part 3 The Dropping Well

Getting It Wrong

Brenda was surprised by the letter from Robert when it arrived on her doormat. She hadn't heard a dickey bird from him in, oh goodness, it must've been decades. And then this. Wanted to come and see her, or at least a phone call, there was something he needed to talk to her about. Joan had been dead for quite a few years and Harold had gone only last year, or was it the year before?. Brenda, was in her nineties, physically frail, but still with all her marbles, though fast becoming the only one left of her generation. She wrote back, picked one of the dates Robert had suggested to visit, and wondered -  why get back in contact now?

As he walked through an unfamiliar town trying to locate Auntie Brenda's flat, that he'd never been to before, Robert felt understandably nervous - what was it exactly he needed to speak to her about?. In the time since his Father died, something had begun to really niggle away at him. Gaps in his understanding over childhood incidents opened up. Then there was his problematic self-esteem, where the hell had that all come from? Into these vacant spaces he was prone to insert plausible explanations, attribute blame, that may or may not be true. He was in danger of creating an entirely false memory simply in order to explain these personal conundrums. Now both his parents were dead there was no one else to ask, only Auntie Brenda.

She might have a clearer perspective, because she was not a blood relation. One of his favourite Aunties and his Mother's closest friend Auntie Brenda was the living antidote to his family - fun and freedom loving, always feisty, opinionated, she spoke honestly and from the hip. He still gravitated toward men or women who were like that, they felt like a breath of fresh air to him. At some point she and his Mother had had a big fall out - hadn't spoken for years. His Mother tended to skip quickly over why, as she did whenever it came to emotionally difficult issues. A veil would be drawn, never to be pulled back, ever ever again. There were passing remarks in the ensuing years like - 'Your Auntie Brenda thought you were self centred and we indulged you too much'  But he'd assumed at the time this was just one of his Mother's tactics of using other people's comments to say what she felt she could not, just to needle him. But he might be wrong there.

When Brenda opened her door, there was this very familiar face. Robert was still recognisably Robert, even though she'd last seen him in his thirties. He was way past middle aged, probably on the cusp of retirement she thought. Shaved head, beard, tall, well dressed, quietly handsome beneath the wrinkles, still with that wry smirk with the playful mischievous glint to it.

Joan used to go on and on about how much like her he was. Brenda could never quite see it, she always saw an awful lot more of Harold there. Whether any of this was true or not, it was Joan's insistence on it that always felt a bit off, not quite right. It had felt cloying and unnecessary.  Robert, as she saw him now, he had a more self possessed air than she remembered him having even thirty years ago. He'd inherited the rock solid square build of his Father and the tall gentlemanly stature of his Grandfather. Only in the eyes could you see faint echoes of his Mother; slightly anxious, awkwardly self-conscious. They looked weary as if the weight of perception itself had grown too much for them.

'Come in ,come in, lovely to see you after all this time. I'm tempted to say you haven't changed much, but that would be untrue, you're a bit fatter than I remember.'

'And you're smaller and your hair colour has gone as steely as your tongue. Lovely to see you too, Auntie Brenda'

They continued to joke and did general social chit chat for a while, but as they settled down with a cup of tea and fruit cake, he needed to somehow turn the conversation in the general direction he wanted it to go.

'How did you originally meet my Mother'

'Oh, that was at secretarial college. We used to say we bonded over the shorthand. Your Mother was a very different person then, extremely quiet, so shy... wouldn't say boo to a goose, had little self confidence to speak of, anything new or unexpected tended to throw her into a spasm of heightened anxiety. That would change really radically later on. Mainly in that you couldn't shut her up or get a word in edge-ways. You know what she could be like'

'When did that change begin to happen do you think?

'After her breakdown, without a doubt.'

'Breakdown! - when was that?'

'She was confined to bed for months, surely you remember'

'I remember the confinement. Dad told us it was 'nervous exhaustion'  But neither of us really understood what that was, we were too young. Susan would've been eight or nine, I was a few years younger'

'Nervous exhaustion' was a convenient euphemism, it saved face. Mental difficulties were kept secret in those days, there was a certain amount of unhelpful shame and prejudice attached to them. Not like today when any minor celebrity wants their psychological problems splashed across the media, like a merit badge to prove their essentially human. Shame has been replaced with shameless, if you ask me. No one appears to know what having a private life is. They ought to try keeping it to themselves more.

'What was it brought this on... the breakdown that is. I've never been clear when exactly that happened.'

'Oh........it happened during the year after..... yes, the year after you flooded the bathroom for the second time....whatever year that was - 1963? 64?.

Robert visibly taken aback, had no recollection of it being quite as close as that - so as to follow on - it made sense.

'I don't know whether either of you really realised how much anxiety your Mother held inside her. She found it hard being a Mother, particularly in your early years. Your Father tried his best, - you know him, kind, thoughtful and loveable - but emotionally incapable of really dealing with it, of talking it through with her. The pressure of Motherhood, the cooking, the cleaning, the general housework, it soon got on top of her. She eventually developed her own way of coping, of overcoming difficulties and set backs. Mostly by trying to control everything and everyone. But the breakdown, well, it was as though she was a runner that ran out of road, and she just ground to a halt, she had to stop... stop everything'

'That was when Susan and I started doing the cooking and cle0aning around the house'

'And that didn't stop after she got better did it?'

'No, we just carried on doing it. It was how the family functioned from then on. I believe it did us both good'

'That was certainly true. But it continued primarily because your Mother couldn't manage it.... emotionally that is. She was a perfectionist who got overwhelmed by the sheer unrelenting nature of maintaining an immaculate home and family, and of feeling judged on it by others. That pressure unbalanced her. Though she'd never have admitted it to anyone. I think she wanted more from her life, but was unable to allow herself to even explore that idea. She didn't have the self confidence or wherewithal to do it. Brought up, like we all were then, to be a very conventional person.  She avoided risky behaviour and disapproval'

'Do you mind if I ask you a direct personal question'

'No, go ahead, you know me, not easily shocked or offended, more likely to cause it myself I've found'

'Why did you and Mum fall out?'

Brenda gazed up at the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration for her recollection. She didn't want to speak ill of Robert's Mother, even if it might be warranted.

'When you gave up your shop and went to live in that commune, or whatever it was. She rang me, giving me all the usual stuff about how I wished you upon her. After thirty plus years of friendship I'd just about had enough of that being thrown back at me every time she got upset or fearful over something you'd decided to do. So, I'm ashamed to say, I let her have it'

'What on earth did you say?

Brenda paused for a moment, should she, should she really tell this?  She sighed-  no more caution and withholding - before any second or third thoughts might recommend maintaining silence - it was out

'I said..... something along the lines of - 'Don't you go blaming me if your son has become self centered, you've over indulged him most of his life because you still feel guilt about the appalling way you treated him in the time after he flooded the bathroom. I'm not going to let you off load responsibility for all that on me any more Joan'.  She slammed the phone down on me. I didn't speak to her again for another ten, fifteen years, no letters, cards, no phone calls, nothing'

'How was she with me in that time ...after I flooded the bathroom?'

'That incident appeared to crush her, to destabilise her spirit. She would not leave you be. Following you around like a bird of prey ready to pounce on anything you might do that might be dangerous to you, to your sister, the house or the entire universe for that matter. She was so on your case, trying to control you every hour, all day and every day. You could hardly breathe without censure or comment. It was painful to observe and impossible to get her to stop doing. In the end it was the breakdown that brought the intensity of it to a halt'

Robert dropped his head, running his hand back and forth across the stubble on his scalp over to his neck. He only vaguely remembered bits of that, but those bits rang clearer now they were in their true setting. Buried somewhere in the messy aftermath of his flooding of the bathroom, his Mother had more than slightly lost the plot. He felt himself mentally grasping for something. At such times he found it better to just open his mouth and start talking. Hoping that once he began giving voice to it, understanding might follow.

'So the constant unbroken talking.....what was that? .....was that a way of.......what? ......jamming the airwaves?'

'Something like that. No one can contradict you if they can't get a word in edge ways, or tell you events weren't really like that, or of things you don't want to hear.....can they?

'Mum used to loath silence - 'it's like a reading room in a library here' - she'd say, as if there was something inherently wrong about that. Then very pointedly launch unto recounting another convoluted story'

'Silence is an uncomfortable space for a lot of people. Things emerge when we fall silent, forgotten things. You can hear the truth of situations. Your Mother kept a tight rein on the telling of the family stories,  afraid they'd literally run out of her control otherwise. I'm certainly of the opinion that she found it hard to see you, in particular, for who you actually were.'

There then followed a long silent pause. Robert looked at his Auntie Brenda, Brenda looked at Robert - he began to cry. She saw then in that face all the painful thoughts and wracked feelings as they briefly flashed across it. Here was one unforseen consequence.

'Look, Robert..... I understand who you are, I know you're gay, that doesn't bother me in the least. It was I who first voiced the possibility to your Mother, though she was almost half way there herself. Your Father took his time, at first he didn't want to know, but that denial evaporated after a while. They both loved you regardless, don't you ever doubt that. 

If anything was wrong it was within your Mother, not with you. She saw herself in you too strongly, she feared for what else you might have inherited from her. In her mind she'd made you into her mirror and then didn't like it when all she could see was her own emotional and mental struggles being reflected back.' 

His parents, yes, they'd made errors in judgement, made mistakes. He'd made mistakes too, he understood that. One's he'd periodically punished himself for years later. Quite often what he'd chosen to do or not do in his life was not a pure stream of rational choices. He'd often been far too instinctively impulsive. The life he'd led was riddled with inconsistencies, lapses in judgement, moral cowardice, unexplained gaps and unforgivable omissions in behaviour, as well as the fun, adventures and triumphs. So what, if not everything his parents had bequeathed him was helpful, he didn't have to continue feeling responsible for any of that. To forgive ? Far too early to say.

Here he was, now concocting his own versions of the family stories. But these were real human beings, people whose lives were never a work of well crafted fiction where everything got wrapped up neatly and resolved by the end. Similar to his parents, he'd leave behind a lot of love tangled up in the mess of his own contradictions. To depart this world with his life a flawed and incomplete work in progress, like every single person throughout human history.

As he was about to leave Auntie Brenda looked him straight on, taking him in.  

'Maybe, just maybe...you are like your Mother.....just a teeny weeny bit, just there right above your...... left earlobe.'

She gestured vaguely in the air, then touched his arm affectionately.

'You know, when I first met your Mother she made a beeline for me. She felt, as did I, we were kindred spirits, becoming inseparable pals very quickly.  I was three years older, more experienced in the whys and wherefores of the world. Your mother clung to my every word, she was a little in awe, even a bit dependent upon me. It was as though I was this big sister that would always be there to help her out.

That changed once she married your Dad, had you and your sister.  The nature and dynamic of our friendship altered. When my husband died tragically young, it meant I was never going to have any children of my own. I remained quite bitter about it for many years. Quite cynical. Your Mother was there, she listened, was considerate and kind. Allowing me to actively share in some of the experiences, the joys and love of being around you as a sort of surrogate family, for which I feel eternally grateful.'

Leaning over the banister as he departed, she called after him down the stairwell.

'Don't leave it so long.... one of us might be dead.'

WATCHED - I Care A Lot

 

Every inch of this movie is bolted to Rosalind Pike's performance as Maria Grayson, with her synthetic sharp edged smile that reveals more cunning than care. She's a dodgy legal guardian looking after the estates of old people, who can no longer care for themselves or manage their lives without outside help. Grayson's work ethic is entirely self-centred and exploitative of others. She uses information gleaned from a local GP to select potential clients based solely on their wealth, and how much she can fleece them for. Then she railroads said elderly men and woman, into a care home. Organising the disposal of property and investments, ostensibly to fund care, but takes huge percentage payouts for her own asset stripping work. 

All appears to be going well until she gets the courts to support her taking over the care and financial future of Jennifer Peterson ( Dianne Weis). Her coldly ruthless plans to rob her of everything she has starts to go pear shaped. Because some how this little bewildered old lady is linked to Roman Lunyov ( Peter Dinklage) a supposedly already dead Russian gangster, whose extremely keen for his gang members to release Peterson from containment in a secure gated care home.

I Care A Lot, causes your eyes to pop with shock whilst encased in the blackest of black humour. It carries you along with its clinical efficiency for most of its length. Beginning to push credibility too far by two thirds in, when you can feel your engagement waning. But this film provides, nonetheless, a razor sharp representation of Trump era self serving - lying is the new truth - ethos  And there is that central performance from Pike, as neat and well cut as her hair and couture clothes. You are compelled to watch as an already morally unhinged person,who when pushed into a corner, fights back with such savage and vengeful efficiency.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

FINISHED READING - The Snow Was Dirty by George Simenon

Simenon, sets this bleak novel in Nazi occupied France. Its a cold, seemingly unending Winter, in a low life, run down part of a town, It's a harsh neighbourhood and life that Frank Friedmaier inhabits. Though Frank is an amoral man, accustomed to using people entirely for his own needs. Even his Mother knows he's not someone she can always feel proud of. But then she did bring him up in an unlicensed brothel. With no apparent filter on his behaviour, he's set on murdering someone, for no other reason than the reputation he might create through executing it.

He starts up a relationship with Sissy, because he's curious about her Father Holst. She doesn't realise she's being set up for Kromer, Frank's gangster buddy, whose obsessed with deflowering virgins. Even Frank has qualms about what he is doing, because despite his studied indifference he does care about her. The plan goes horribly wrong. He is found and taken away by an undercover group, who may or may not be the police. 

Half of the remaining novel recounts the weeks of interrogation that follow, where Frank tries to second guess, to delay the time when he knows they are going to kill him. However, they seem more interested in the wads of money in his jacket, than the murders or the facilitating of attempted rape. What is it that they want to know, and could he turn it to his advantage? 

Whilst Simenon is most widely known for creating the insightful detective Maigret. The Snow was Dirty is part of what is known as his 'roman dur' or 'tough' novels, usually centred on a character who is in some way morally adrift. Strongly infused with dread- filled fatalism, these people can not escape whatever is coming their way. The Snow Is Dirty is not a cheery read, but a gripping one. A bit like watching a fatal car crash happen in slow motion, so you observe every minute detail.

CARROT REVIEW - 6/8

FEATURE - Sparks - Your Fandango

 

Way back in 1971 Todd Rungren produced a debut album by an odd little band called Half Nelson. Very shortly after this they changed the band name to Sparks, and I guess you'll know some of what happened thereafter. Fast forward to the new documentary by Edgar Wright about Sparks. As part of its record of their early years that first producer Todd Rungren is interviewed. Shortly after that a demo track from Sparks is sent to him, what could he do to improve it? The result is Your Fandango, a small gem of a track, with a characterful video starring its director -  Liisa Vääriskoski. Four minutes twenty four seconds of mischievous fun and delight.

FAMILY FRAGMENTS - Part 2 The Dropping Well

The Dominant Storyteller

Robert was in a rush, he needed to catch the 16.55 connection at Peterborough or his carefully worked out connection strategy would have to be done on the hoof. Travelling home to the north, now he lived in the east of England, frequently become tortuous in both time and endurance. He described it as being like fighting to get out of one poorly connected backwater only to re-enter another. So five hours and climbing was feasible, dependent on whether an interchange was met or missed. Hopefully he'd find a seat, and not have to perch precariously on a drop down ledge between carriages for most of the journey.

This length of time had its uses. He read, if he was on an Inter City, or looked out meditatively at the terrain, if it were the sideways rocking of a Regional.  Luck was with him, he'd found a seat unreserved by a window.  Maybe he could relax for a while, but found he was steeling himself for being around his family. The thoughts tumbled around. Similar to bread making when all the ingredients never quite bond or rise much. More the experience of eating a pitta bread than a white bloomer. 

He was in the right space for recollections. They sped through his mind. Aligning themselves with whatever half blurred landscape was passing outside the train window. As though he were flicking through a well thumbed picture book. His attention skipped over lovelier affectionate memories. Lingered on the regrets and grievances of things past, or opportunities missed. Whenever his attention fell upon his destination, of 'home', he sighed. As though trying to expel feelings too deeply embedded within him.

Living away I've found my own groove. These visits don't always cause a warm cosy glow in the heart. All the sensations of constriction return. My sense of myself shifts, reverts to a more inhibited way of being me. One I thought I'd broken out of.  It reminds me why deliberately living as far away as possible, came about in the first place. Distance is a good thing. To not be boxed in, prejudged, examined, frowned, worried and tutted over. 

After a weekend Robert often left feeling everything he chose to do in life just disappointed. Reinforcing impressions built from childhood onward, that whatever he did was predestined to go wrong. Most of the struggles he'd had with himself, were rooted here. Today he was bodily holding himself in readiness. He really did have to talk to them. He'd not found a way to seize the moment and speak yet. Fearful of adding further fuel to that feeling of who he was not being acceptable. 

Maybe this time would be the right time. On his arrival, there'd be a very small opening to seize, where the imperative was to say all that he needed to say.  Before the tea plates had been washed, dried and cleared away.  After that he'd not be able to speak of himself for pretty much the rest of the weekend. Being 'talked at', not with. His train seat was uncomfortable, the head rest apparently made for someone a few inches taller than him. Nonetheless he fell into snoozing in his seat for a while. Till the carriage heaved and lurched suddenly, the train brakes loudly squealing like a pig.  

For a brief half awake moment, I heard the phone ringing in the communal lobby of my first London bedsit. Phone calls home were weekly then. I needed familiar voices. That regularity fell away. I never shook off the guilt, of the bad son failing in his duty. Though there was always a lopsided sense of duty going on there. My parents never phone me - unless someone has actually died - I've always had to phone them. No reciprocal responsibility to keep in touch. It was as though, because I was the one who'd moved away from home, the onus was entirely on me to ring them.   

The train hurtled into the pitch darkness of a tunnel on the Retford approaches, his ears popped. Firing off a startled 'fuck' under his breath. Inwardly a rebellion against chasing approval or other peoples expectations of him raged. He reminded himself he was no angel, not perfect at all. No family has ever been perfect. Saying all this to himself rather unconvincingly. Recently he'd met the families of friends. It had been a bit of an eye opener regarding parenting. Forced the odd comparison or two.

My parents are kind hearted people. I have my 'beef ' with them. Put up against real abusive parental neglect, it is petty. It's not what they have done, more what they didn't. I'm ashamed of my resentfulness. It isn't fair. The omissions, they weren't conscious. There's hurt there nonetheless. Despite the rationalisations, it does not go away.  I needed something from them. I still do.

He saw exactly what that was during a recent visit to a friend's rather 'alternative' bohemian parents. So resolutely upbeat, positive, care free, full of joie-de-vivre. Responding openly and encouragingly, taking an active interest in whatever their sons and daughters were making of their lives. It felt fun and uplifting just to be around them. Absent from his family's gritty northern zeitgeist, was any encouragement of self- belief, the expression of positive appreciation or unconditional affirmation of the overt kind.

His parents ideas about what would make him happy, were founded on the conventions of their own lives. These were not his. So far, he was forging his own, albeit haphazard and improvised path. Probing comments, suggestive of criticism held a cautionary restraint warning following in their wake. Worried he was being foolhardy or unrealistic over the risks he was taking.  Reminding him of the need to think practically. His parents loved and had pride in him. It was just expressed in a code, one you'd have to learn how to decipher in order to access. Laid out in the semaphore of photos spread around the house.

Mother's judgements tend to cut deep, even if they come camouflaged in a light hearted tone or fond mickey taking.  I heard them as put downs. Not permitted to be big headed, proud or boastful of following my dreams. I became determined to live my own life. Doing exactly what I wanted. Independent and self-sufficient.  If I could've brought myself to live an extravagant, full on drug fueled, hedonistic life, I would have. Simply to put one finger up. But I was brought up too well. too good a dutiful son for the full debauchery.'

Whenever things didn't turned out successfully, a fatalistic sense of failing as a man overwhelmed him. He'd then have a compelling feeling, he needed to move on quickly, as far away as possible from whatever caused the despair to arise in the first place. He tried not to let his parents hear, see or get a whiff of any of this. If they were to find out the real nature and cause of his moodiness he didn't think he could bear their response.

The self-sufficiency was a cover. It was hard to ask for help, to express what he wanted, because - 'he who wants does not get' as the maternal mantra went. Requests in his family had to be delivered toned down, inferred via an indirectly asserted preference - 'that would be nice, were it to to happen'  Behind this, an apprehension that requests for help, for wants and needs to be met, was high risk.  He expected to be admonished or ridiculed. To avoid all of this he strongly asserted he was perfectly capable of managing his life completely on his own, thank you.

Acquaintances who'd met his family remarked on how amiable they were. This was true. One had a very convivial conversation with his Mother lasting quarter of an hour at the most. Afterwards, when recounting his impressions he said he was in receipt of a none stop stream of stories concerning Robert, not all of them flattering. Subtly belittling, how he was, what he'd done, one tale after another. Rolling out amused recollections of what a silly stupid boy he had been when younger. A collective shaking of the head at the strangeness of her prodigal son. It was intended to be affectionate, not remotely humiliating or hurtful. Simply publicly staking her claim, as his Mother, to tell you exactly what her son was really like. In case your impressions of him differed. The friend said :-

'If my Mother had talked publicly like that about me, I'd be so furious.. How can you remain so patient?'

But what he saw as being patient, was really a well rehearsed passivity.  A way of coping with it, of not letting it get to you. 

As a youngster I was quiet, withdrawn, lacked confidence. Instead of encouraging me to talk up in public situations, my Mother would step in and talk for me. Telling anyone present what I had done, felt or had plans to do. I'd sit silently to one side, as if I'd been born without a mouth or mind of my own. She continued to do this when I was a teenager, even when I'd grown up. I'd publicly to shame her by saying - 'I am in the room and I can talk for myself' - to stop it continuing.  Sometimes I'm just not up for a tug-o-war over who tells the stories about my own life. It's easier to stay shtum and let it all float on by like a boat on a river.

Its a tactic his Father had adopted for the entire length of his marriage.  Harold was spoken for too. Everyone  knew he had underdeveloped conversational skills.  Little small talk at all. It was partly down to personal laziness. So much easier to hand over command of the social reins to Joan. Like many wives whose husbands were poor communicators and hence totally useless in mixed company, she was forced into filling in the social gaps. His Mother overcompensated and further exacerbated the problem by entirely drowning out any male voice or active presence.

It is no wonder my Father is a bit of a mystery to me. Hardly any prolonged, meaningful conversations I can remember.  Though I now recognise habits and individual quirks in myself,  I've obviously picked up from him. Once I asked my Father a direct question, just to get him to talk about something he'd recently been doing. He'd hardly completed his, admittedly stumbling, first sentence when my Mother butted in and took over relaying what had happened. At this point I pulled her up -

'I was asking Dad to tell me, and you've just taken over'. 

For a moment or two there was a gob struck silence, embarrassment all round, before Mother responded -

'Well..........he'll never tell the story right'. 

If there was passivity in my family, it was only partially strategic. It was also an imposition, demanded by her habit of needing to be in charge of the family narrative, to be the dominant storyteller.

As the fourth train of his long journey pootled along the track that led to his final stop, his hands visibly clenched. The routine of the next few hours he knew by heart. After the welcoming warm hug, the kiss, the passing inquiry about the quality of his journey, would be followed by that brief window of opportunity over tea. After this they'd relocate to the lounge. The TV would be switched off, his Mother's way of signalling to making ready for the mega download. Everything she could remember had happened to her, his Father, sister, nieces, cousins, the broader family, or in the village, since he'd last visited. Retold in one seamless unbreakable associative flow, literally hours of it. Occasionally she'd ask a polite inquiring question of him, but his active engagement with the storytelling would last barely a minute before it would be  whisked away and taken off in another direction.

She complains I don't tell her much about my life down south. That I'm being willfully secretive. Its exasperating. There are many things I've certainly been unable to give voice to. Though the truth is I have tried to say more about my life, repeatedly, and am still up for trying. But so far, not much sustained interest in what I do or have to say, has ever been allowed to go anywhere self revealing. What else could I do? They appear not to want to get to know what makes me tick anymore. I'm more relatable to them as a six year old who twice flooded the bloody bathroom, than who I am now.

As the train pulled into the single empty platform, he looked to see if in the twilight he could spot his Father's car. Yep, there he was standing by it, good old dependable Dad. Dressed in a cheap cardigan and baggy tracksuit bottoms, topped off with a dirty flat tweed cap, one size too small. Clothes he'd probably worn all week and his Mother would have urged him to change out of before 'our Robert arrives'. That he'd turned up in public at the rail station still in them, would both annoy and mortify her. There was a quite deliberate intent behind this. It was one of his Father's small rebellions.

'Maybe this time, you'll be lucky' Robert sang playfully to himself as he got up from his seat. Picking up his travel holdall, he slung it over his shoulder and urging himself forward with a - 'Well, here we go then'

WATCHED - The Vast of Night

 

The Vast of Night, is set in the era of fifties TV Sci-fi,  and pays its homage to  The Twilight Zone ( here called Paradox Theater ). Its High School, small town location does however manage to escape those cliches and influences, even as it honours them. Its a debut feature film by writer/director Andrew Patterson. So it takes every opportunity to show off a more contemporary film sensibility and technique, with some lengthy and bravura extended shots., following its main characters at road level seamlessly,  Fay and Everett are just chatting, one minute about reporting the high school basketball game, they leave, then walk out into the streets, their brilliantly written conversation shifting its tone from badgering,fun and flirty, to wind up, confrontational, inquisitive and back. There are also static shots, a tensely written ten minute sequence of Fay working at the telephone exchange. Taking calls and connecting with friends trying to ascertain if anyone else has heard or knows what that strange sound she heard over the radio is. Its gripping to watch.

Some type of UFO incident is happening. People phone in or they go to interview them and each has a story to relate. Some have never been believed before, and even Fay and Everett remain suspicious and wary of being taken in. These folk are so obviously damaged goods. If you are expecting some big CGI effects of aliens and spaceship, think again. This is low-fi film making, done on a tight budget. In many ways its a quiet, unassuming, humbly subdued and subtle movie about a big event happening in a small ordinary American town. I was, however, deeply impressed with it. Recommended

CARROT REVIEW - 7/8

  

SOME WORDS OF SETH GODIN - On Contributing

" Our role as creative people is
to just show up with the stuff.
To go on the journey
and to not take it personally.

Figuring out how to be a productive contributor
is the creative way. 

Its how we move forward."

SETH GODIN - In his lecture on Mindfulness & Creativity at Work
from Love & Resilience - The Contemplative Care Summit, 2021.

FINISHED READING - Earthlings by Sayaka Murata

Murata"s bestseller Convenience Store Woman was a favourite book from last year. Quirky. with an identifiable and relatable central character whose attempts to fit in, as a person with some type of Aspergers, you could nonetheless identify with, it was humourous and touching. The story portrayed how conservative and deeply traditional the issues of career  family, marriage and children still are in modern Japan. The central characters in Earthlings similarly start off by trying to create a marriage that is a front, whose function is to simply keep parental demands for conformity off their backs.

Maybe I got off on the wrong foot with this novel, but it just annoyed and perplexed me from the start. Earthlings does follow a few of the tropes used in her bestselling novel, but to far far less effect. The novel begins in Akishina, a sort of idyllic bygone lifestyle and village. Natsuki is a teenager, and with her cousin Yuu they have formed a world within the world of Popinpobopia. They think of themselves as aliens awaiting the arrival of the mother ship to take them to their real home planet. They also write a marriage contract between themselves. 

This naive fantasy world protects them from growing up, becoming absorbed as Earthlings and having to be part of The Factory. The Factory being ordinary life, a career, family, house and children. This feels clumsily written and is not believable. When Natsuki and Yuu are caught experimenting with teenage sex, it doesn't come across as transgressive, shocking or understandable. Murata's trademark neutrality in authorial tone does not help here at all.

In the second half of the book we move twenty years ahead and Natsuki is in a mutual marriage of convenience with Tomoya. Tomoya wants to see Akishina that he has heard so much about, so they go there to stay and encounter Yuu. What happens thereafter I'll not go into their details of, but only to say it turns more than a bit gruesome. Though Earthlings concluding chapters do redeem the book a bit, the nature of what preceded it does not make it an earned one.  The whole alternative lifestyle is not coherent or convincing. I read the book constantly wondering why this? What purpose does this emotional removal serve? Why is none of this identifiable and able to connect? Why am I bothering with this?

Having made her name writing a charming, but off kilter international bestseller, Murata appears to be trying to write and ramp up the weirdness to order. For me this did not work, even on the level of a modern parable. It alienates to no effect, failing to capture the imagination and take you with it.  A follow up to Convenience Store Woman would be a tough thing for any writer. However, a book cannot be as empty and completely heartless as this one is, even if your central characters are emotionally damaged self-centred fantasists. Hopefully she will be able to move on after writing such a flat uninteresting mess of a novel. It is a very odd book indeed, but not in a good way.

CARROT REVIEW - 3/8