For I have known them all
already, known them all –
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
T. S. Eliot
A Year in the
Cups
Reflections from
Coffee House Mornings
Michael Strutt
The Bigger the Buddha the
Better: A nice thought to start the morning; it
makes me laugh although Dave rolls it off in the context of telling me what a
mess the world is in (and getting worse).
He has two rows of Tibetan prayer flags on his roof, the neighbors think
he’s crazy, but so what, he is but he’s going to do his bit anyway. I tell him
about my roof deck Buddha, cement of course but now nicely stained with green
mold. Apparently that’s not enough; it needs a wooden necklace and a bell. He
tells me where to get them in
Our musings are interrupted as a homeless man examines the ashtrays looking for butts. Dave has an easy way with street people, he knows all the regulars. As always he reaches into his pocket (he seems to have those kinds of coat that have many deep pockets – full of stuff).
He gives a few cigarettes, some change
and asks the man how he is – does he mind the rain. No, but he’s from
As he speaks the anonymity is broken. I suddenly see him a person, someone with a story – his story, not just another shape on the street.
But the others remain, distant, as our self-preservation instinct must surely keep them. I’ve heard Dave refer to them (with deep sympathy) as ruined lives, washed up on the rocks of our barren streets.
When I was a boy I used to look at paintings by Breughel and think how hard it must have been to live in those far off days – beggars on the streets, visible poverty and suffering everywhere. How could people stand it?
Now I know, who could have guessed it would all come again.
Reminiscence: Dave is
wandering the hallowed halls of his memory (a frequent event).
- My grandfather was a huge man with enormous hands (holds up his own –
they’re big). When he bent down to pick
me up, it seemed to go dark for a moment, but not scary dark.
He had a place on an
You know, I’ve been all over the
world, but I’ve never seen sunlight like it was there (or then). Everything was
gold, mellow, and soft.
It was almost like you could scoop it up in your hands and hold it
forever.
I don’t know how he did it, but grandfather managed to pile the leaves
into these perfect beehive shapes. They were smooth like they were covered in
fish scales, then a paraffin rag in each and he let me light them.
In the cool evening air the smoke would spread close to the ground.
Grandfather said it was like the sea – could I see the galleons? I couldn’t at
the time, but I sure see them now.
As we rested and watched, he pulled out his bottle – do you remember
those big stone jars with the clip-on lid and a big rubber washer? He had a huge one, full of Guinness; he
always let me have some.
Open
the door: He just opened the door of his cage and flew away. I’d been talking
about my old friend John; I had not seen John for several years
and when I visited yesterday I suddenly found a very old man.
I was surprised, although I might say that I am beginning to sense that
same surprise on the faces of people who haven’t seen me for a while. John is
certainly older than me but it’s interesting how we often age in sudden bursts.
Within a year we become ten years older (and then stay there for the next ten).
There are times when a fifty something is very close to a sixty
something. Then suddenly that next decade rushes in – the difference is often
quite shocking.
Our once lively conversations about books, politics,
and current social mores struggled between long silences and sighing inward
reflections. We used to spend a whole day together, now it was a struggle to make
it through lunch.
Where he now lives did not help.
It’s one of those instant construct towns catering to comfortable
retirees. The plasticity of the place
appalled me, and I know it would John if he still had the vision and words.
We were having our lunch in a make-believe English pub. I was overcome with what I can only call Stranger
in a Strange Land Syndrome. What is this place? Why am I here? Who am I?
All the standard existential clichés brought tumbling down by the artless
transparency of Happy-Ville.
Dave will never ‘live’ that life, he has an inner switch; when that
day arrives he’ll just reach within and just turn of. That day, that each of us
can only know alone, deep in our own heart.
There’s no sadness in this, the end of a journey…to arrive at last…
Its just time to open the door of the cage...
The
How to Book: We’re all a Big How to Book, we just have the learn how to read it:
The academic in me brings up the topic of mnemonics – we come into life with
the sum total of all true knowledge – it’s just a matter remembering…
Dave is not an academic – it’s just a matter of digging our way out
from all the stuff our life buries us under. Not an easy task, it’s rather like
shoveling the drive during a major snowstorm that just won’t quit.
There is the irony. I study that I might know more, but is all that
accumulated learning just more bricks in that wall between aspects of the self
(my-self), more drifts to struggle through.
As the Zen Master might say, the
face of the me of now and the face I had before I was
born.
How do we learn to read this book? There’s only one way - by forgetting
how to read. There is the true
irony. Only in that forgetting do we
release the memory of our inner knowledge. The knowledge of all the lives we
think we have lived and might ever live.
Dave thinks the book is basically a map – we are all a map. We just
have to learn how to read it. Of course it doesn’t help that everyone has their
own map. We might all want to get to the same place but our directions are all
different.
Sometimes we get lucky in life and meet a fellow traveler who has a
similar map to ours. I’ve been blessed in that way, a life partner most of all,
but also teachers who will never know what they taught me.
I try to repay this debt to my own students (and by the time they know
it, I too will be a faded page in this old map book).
The silence of places
The air
Steady
Still
Thick in the map of its past
And it’s a slow lingering
That cling locked into the ancient timbers
The sweat and touch
Hand hewn in prayer
The feather of words
Mixed in with all the mortar
Cut stone rough in its strength
It holds onto itself in all its silences
That pronounces everything sacred
And you
In your quite innocence edge closer to it all
The cloaks of choired light
Flickering in the deep corners of its dark
The tall
Thin slits of windows
Light the cargo of spirituality
In all their glorious colors
It sails forward on
In silence to the shores of forever
To remind us
How frail and thin faith is
Almost watery in its spill
The silence of places
The air
Steady
Still
Thick
In the map of its sacred past
David S _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
What
price a bird? I had been going daily to the coffee shop for
several years before ever speaking to Dave.
I’m not the kind of person who will initiate a conversation with
strangers, no matter how interesting they look. Dave does look ‘interesting’
but not in any contrived sort of way, he’s just different. As I approached one
day I saw what appeared to be a seagull sitting in the road at the
intersection. It’s a busy corner but it
was 7-00 a.m. on a Sunday. At that
moment Dave emerged from the coffee shop, stepped out, picked up the bird and
carried it to the sidewalk. I arrived at the same time and we found ourselves
side by side, staring down at this immobile creature.
What had happened to it is a
mystery. There was not even the
proverbial ruffled feather. I volunteered to go and get my car to take it to
the SPCA, so a short while later I’m driving with this somnambulist on my front
passenger seat. No luck at the SPCA, they are closed at that time. I remember a private bird clinic near my home
and decide to head over there. By this time my new friend seems to be showing
some signs of life. I notice a distinctly predatory eye looking at me, and then
there is a trial flex of the wings. I’ve watched these birds from deck ten of a
luxury cruise ship. They are elegant and
slight, slipping effortlessly on the wind. It’s surprising how large they are
when viewed from the interior of a compact family sedan.
I decide on a new plan, I’ll
take it to the dock and try launching it into the water. I head over there, praying that no one will
be around. People in this city take the environment very seriously; I don’t
want to have to explain why I have a large bird in my car and am about to toss
it into the ocean. Fortunately it’s quiet; I rush down the gangway, gingerly
clasping the increasingly active beast and drop it over the end. Success – a flurry of splashes and squawks
and it’s away (with a distinctly defiant one last look over its shoulder at
me).
And so, back to an ordinary day
- but questions remain; What was all that about? Why
did it happen? I’m surprised at how often I still think about it. I am now
uncomfortably aware of the possibility that my primary role in this cosmic
drama was to be one day rescuing that bird.
I did at least answer one question for myself – what value do I put on
the life of a bird with whom I have no prior acquaintance? (As I was driving to
the private clinic I was aware that they would be most sympathetic – while
taking an imprint of my credit card). I decided on a hundred dollars, but
that’s the individual rate. For groups I’d have to go lower.
Concerning
snails: Dave was late today (not that
we have a schedule), there was an incident with a snail. The snail was on the path and had to be
moved, someone might step on it, (I do this all the time – move them I mean,
not step on them). For Dave it’s not
quite so easy, there is the bigger question of karma to consider.
I mean maybe this snail’s time has come, that’s why it is on the path
in the first place. It’s time to escape
from snaildom. On the other hand we are not supposed to take a life (Dave is a
vegan - I don’t tell him I recently had snails for dinner – excellent with
champagne).
I like snails (aside from dinner), for me there is something frankly
honest about the exoskeleton. I know
it’s there to protect them from predators but I think it really protects them
from the world in general. I often think of my body as a kind of space
suit. I’m safe inside here; it’s
vulnerable, but it does basically protect me from this hostile environment.
I just wish the sensory
apparatus was bit more sophisticated. I’m sure there’s all kind of stuff going
on I can’t actually see or hear. Like most people, I just get a hint of it once
in a while…intuition...sixth sense. Huxley talked about our senses functioning
like a reducing valve – filtering down the huge flow of information out there,
to a mere trickle we can comprehend.
One of my first memories from emerging sentience was the terrible
feeling that I was in the wrong place, a dangerous place, that I needed
protecting. As a kid I always had a gang hut in the back garden. I called it
that even though I never had a gang.
That was the whole point; it was just a place for me. I used to wonder how other kids managed
without one; mine was the only one on the street, a comfortable shell.
I’m still going to pick up snails and move them to safety. I just hope it doesn’t mean that one day I’ll
end up in a hospital bed hooked up to all kinds of life support –don’t pick me
up please, no heroic measures necessary.
Pushy: The coffee house
is at an intersection so one of the amusements it affords us an *outsider is
watching people push the crosswalk buttons.
I suspect that most people are not actually aware of the fact that all
the button does is turn on the walk sign. It in no ways speeds up the changing
of the light.
When I’m at the light I try to set a good example; I push the button
once and stand patiently waiting. (Actually that’s not quite true, if there are
no cars I cross. I’m a great believer in jaywalking; I even got a ticket for it
once).
It still surprises me how many furious repeat pushers there are.
Perhaps it’s just a question of empowerment – they know it is not doing
anything but it gives them a feeling of control. It also sends a loud message
to all around – impatience, hurry, and anxiety.
All the typical neurosis of our city life
On the other hand, I think we all get a little rush, when on those rare
occasions we push the button and the light changes right then, I mean is that
power or what? I’m traffic meister, parting the
It’s interesting, given the relative newness of button technology how
it has assumed a certain metaphoric significance. People in power have their
finger on The Button (which we must assume is good – for them). Other people Push Our Buttons which is almost always bad.
Poor old switches never seemed
to make it, although for a while there in the glorious sixties we did Turn On.
*As a dog owner I have to sit outside. (Dave as a smoker joins
me). I actually prefer this as I like to
watch the street but I resent the restriction. I mean whoever got sick from a
dog? People give you all manner of dread diseases. If I had my way dogs would
be inside and most people out on the street.
The man who picked up nails: It’s been a bumper week; I must have found at least six. I had to smile the other day. I took a walk along a heritage street, beautifully restored old houses (nice to look at but heavy with history, I sure would not want to live in one). The nail I found was almost certainly an antique. I thought for a moment to keep it but tossed it out in the usual way.
Amazing how many nails there are on our streets. Then again, I live in a city that is largely held together by them, so maybe it’s not such a surprise. Given how long I have been doing this I figure I must have prevented about five thousand flat tires by this time. I feel a mild sense of satisfaction about this although Dave would of course remind me about karma. Maybe those people should have had the flat to make their day unfold, as it should.
I can’t help it – I see a nail and I have to pick it up. Even so, I do have my limits. The nail has to be actually in the road. Nails on the curb are outside my jurisdiction. I had an agonizing moment the other day when I saw one at the edge of the curb. I left it, but was debating with myself the whole block whether I should go back and move it.
Of course it’s not just a simple matter of moving them either – they have to be moved responsibly. I mean I if I just toss it in the bushes it might snag on a branch and then cause havoc for some poor honest gardener with his power trimmer. Likewise if I put it down the drain it might contribute to a blockage. Nails must be carefully disposed of.
The whole thing causes me a certain amount of introspection; I mean do I have a life? Do I walk about staring at the ground? I don’t think so (I mean about the staring). With my old dog (my usual companion) I do walk slowly, I have time to see things.
I have realized that recently, perhaps because of her dragging behind me I have acquired the habit of walking slowly with my hands behind my back (holding the leash). People who spot me have reported that I seem to be lost in thought. They might be surprised if they knew what I was thinking about.
If I ever write an autobiography (don’t worry, it will never happen), that’s what I will call it: The Man Who Picked up Nails.
The persistence of memory: The other day I just heard a fragment of an ‘old persons’ conversation – a certain quality of voice. I’m getting up there myself but I think I’m still far from that voice.
I was amazed at how it triggered a sudden rush of memories. The voices of grandparents, uncles, aunts, Christmases, weddings… voices that are all distinct signatures on the fabric of my memory – not words, but simply qualities of sound.
Looking at those long past events brought me to a realization - that we project the same facets of time into the past as we do the future (knowing that neither really exist). If I think of something a week, a month, a year away there is a certain reality to that distance. However projecting the same concept into the past (which we all do) is meaningless.
There’s only one time and place in our past and it’s all in our head, right now. The past is always as close as a thought. If I remember an unkind word spoken fifty years ago at school, but I can’t remember what I did yesterday – which is nearer to me?
Our inherited language of thought is no big help. Get over it – put it behind you – it’s all water under the bridge – you need to bring closure (I hate this one the most). What does closure mean, if ever there was a media construct this is surely it. Assimilation might be a better word. No matter what the event we have a simple choice - positive or negative assimilation. Short of amnesia the event is never going to be closed.
We are also accused of living in the past as if it was possible to do anything else. We are after all the sum of our parts – the story so far.
I like the old idea about living life as well (and honestly) as possible. That way we can enjoy life’s moments many times. Once as they first happen: then, over and over in the re-runs of our mind.
A way with words: Dave is a poet; I’m a widely read autodidact, hardly surprising that our conversations often move onto language (form, rather than content). Actually I’m finding, as I get older that stuff in general interests me less and less. However, the way my brain process’s it is infinitely fascinating.
A passing bus gets me going – a car body shop provides Free Rental Cars! I mean, hello, are they for rent or are they free? The particular irritation of this one is that a perfectly adequate description of what they mean already exists – The Courtesy Car. Mind you, I suppose in this day and age there are people who will assume the courtesy car is theirs to keep and will sue before returning it.
In the same category we have the Free Gift – I think that a gift is something that we are given? Outside of telemarketing scams one rarely encounters gifts that have to be paid for. (Actually there is a can of worms if ever there was one. Lets re phrase that : gifts that have to be paid for immediately with their actual cash value).
Probably my all time favorite is the shopping sale – Huge Savings! Last time I checked, saving meant an accumulation to me. I take what I have now and diligently add to it. The only sale that could accomplish that is one that would pay us to haul the stuff out of the store.
A truer slogan might be Reduced Spending! It’s certainly more accurate but even I have to admit that it does not quite grab my attention (or push the temptation buttons).
That raises the truly interesting point in all this. Why is the plain truth so dull and easy to ignore? Why is our attention grabbed by what is obviously a flagrant lie. I guess if we could answer that we could lay off half the world’s police force.
Endnote:
We just bought a new washing machine.
One of the settings is marked
A Touching
Feeling
So
how close to the surface
of your skin do you swim
The reflection
you’re staring through
to a view
small window of a look
at who you are
So
why not
do something small and honorable
today
buy someone lunch
send an old friend a postcard
read a touching poem
one that makes you feel
a memory for the first time
So
how close to the surface of your skin
do you swim
David S _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
A question of perspective: I am a great lover of visual art (and architecture – ‘frozen music’). One of my greatest moments of art appreciation was surprisingly transcendental rather than merely aesthetic.
I was passing by an art gallery when the window display totally engaged my attention. It was clearly Modern (this was back in the days when Modern was also contemporary). There were cleaning implements skillfully arranged, a brush, pan, and dusters, even a vacuum cleaner. Small piles of debris and garbage were also woven into the elaborate scenario.
I studied it from various angles before I was struck with a blinding flash of the obvious. It was not art at all. Someone was actually cleaning out the window and had gone off on a break. At that point it was all so clear – I could not in anyway recapture the feeling of the moment before – that moment of ‘might be’ and ‘what if’…
This came back to me the other day when I was looking at a beautiful diagram of a tree. The tree was shown both above and below ground, its intricate network of roots beneath the ground, as extended as its trunk and branches reaching into the sky.
It suddenly occurred to me that if trees were sentient they might perceive themselves primarily as creatures that burrow into the moist, safe earth. They would be aware of another (unfortunately) necessary part. A part that was exposed, vulnerable to heat and cold - axes and fires…
How much of my interaction with the world is based on such assumptions. Assumptions that for the most part were formed before my powers of reason kicked in (and therefore remain unchallenged). I suppose this is what revolutionary thought is all about - to revolve, turn those thoughts around.
I need to know but am also sometimes afraid. I don’t want to reduce my world to garbage and roots (even if that is the truth).
Blurring the image: I like looking at old photographs: I turn them this way and that, trying to see down that corridor of time that they offer us. The other day I was looking closely at a picture of my childhood dog Mickey. In the picture he is sitting on that old bench we had in the back garden, his head to the side, inquisitive. Surprisingly like the head of the old dog sitting by me now, fifty years later.
We live in such a small moment of now, I think of the prow of a ship
cutting through the water. These words, future thoughts, all sucked into the
past as soon as written. Dogs help here, I’m sure my dog lives in a broader
moment of now. She certainly senses
things that for me have not yet happened.
It’s no surprise to me that animals flee a tsunami – they can ‘see’
what’s coming.
The photo is one moment but I like to blur it. Hold the image but move
it a little – what was happening just before, just after it was taken. Who is ‘in’ the picture but standing to the
side, holding the camera?
I have settled into a comfortable theory of time that is working well
for me. I like to think it embraces a
little quantum theory (like I know anything about that). It is certainly the
Buddhist ONE (OM).
We have a linear view of time because of this fading body of ours. But
energy does not fade (ask
If I feel that I was once a country gentleman in nineteenth century
I frequently have moments of heightened awareness; I used to call them
Zen moments until I studied Zen (and had a small Satori). I now know these are
moments when one of ‘my’ people is living my life, ‘seeing’ with me. The portal opens both ways; we are truly
never alone.
Friends
on the other side: Dave had been telling me the story about a ghost he
met in
When I was about eight I saw an angel.
The image of it is still as clear in my mind now as when it happened.
She was sitting on a pile of rubble in a place we used to play - the ruins of
an old house; we called it the brickyard.
My immediate reaction was surprise that the whiteness was not as intense
as I expected it would be. This was definitely a brand X angel, she seemed a
little sad.
I had a similar experience about a year later. As I returned home one
day I became aware of two men standing in the driveway of the house next
door. One remained shadowy; the other
was wearing a quite striking and immaculate blue suit (I’ve always had an eye
for clothes). They were both standing
quite still - about a foot off the ground. No fear here either, I just felt
curious about how (or why) they did that.
One of the sad things about growing up is that we learn that we are not
supposed to see these things, and so we stop. I continue to believe they are
there; I look for them all the time (and the unicorn).
The house I lived in as a teen had a ghost. It introduced itself to all
the members of the family individually in the first month we moved there. The
only one who was scared by it was Mickey (he was with me when it was my turn).
He spent the rest of the day hiding under my bed.
It just wanted to say hello, to let us know there was more going on
around there than just us.
My Chair: I’ve been away for a while so when I went to the coffee shop this morning Dave was not there. Our routine has been disrupted by my global ambitions (I mean travelling). I was disappointed; I had stuff to complain about. However, even more annoying was the fact that someone was sitting in my chair.
Now this is a public place so how can I have ‘my chair’. Well I can and I do, and I suspect that I’m not alone in this. Most of us like to find (and maintain) our own spaces, no matter how small. This coffee house is at an intersection and I like the outside chair right at the corner – that’s mine.
Dave and I have often discussed why it is that we both feel very comfortable with this particular intersection in the city. I have actually been assigned the task of researching what used to be here before the present structures (I am after all an academic). Dave hopes it was not a Presbyterian church, I’m hoping it was not a mental hospital.
I sat inside and glowered through the glass at The Spot, willing the intruder away. It did not work; he just sat there with a trashy tabloid, oblivious to both my death rays and the healing conjunctions of the earth currents beneath him, (or perhaps that’s what saved him). I finally crept away defeated, but also as it happened, a little guilty.
There is one thing I often tell students when they finish at the college - ‘don’t come back’. Sometimes I tell them the story of Lots wife, or better still Orpheus. Of course it’s fine after ten years when they have established another life somewhere else. However sometimes I see them a mere few months later. They wander around and find that all their old favorite places are filled with new faces – they have been replaced – both in the places they occupied and in the immediate affections of their old teachers.
Except to those few close people we are lucky to have in our lives, we are all quickly replaceable. For mortal beings how could it be otherwise? The public face of the world moves relentlessly forward, especially in the modern city. Our spot is ours as long as we are in it. I wonder if anyone walking by while I was away wondered what had happened to that quiet old guy who used to sit at the corner. I very much doubt it. Even the staff that serves me daily didn’t ask if I’d been away.
Spiritual
litter: I had been pontificating on things otherworldly, something I rarely
do, (although I think about them all the time). Dave spontaneously laughs and
says we all go through life leaving a trail of spiritual litter. For some
reason I was reminded of a recent visit to the
There can be no question that the world is full of very beautiful
spiritual offerings. Ideas and things
created with genuine love and a desire to help all humanity towards those final
truths. And yet, when I consider that eventual meeting, the one that can only
be face to face - what use will any other human be. Indeed, those who would
show us the way frequently stand in the way.
One of the most moving things I ever read was a newspaper report about
a burial site that had been found in
At that point the scene leapt from the page. A windswept plain at the dawn of time, the
earth still Edenic, pure and unspoiled. There was a grieving family, unbearable
loss. My family too has buried a youth,
and on a cold winter morning in a later world, we three survivors, each with a flower
said our own goodbye.
Did we have any more answers than those far off people? Do all our vast
libraries; artistic portrayals of paradise, exquisite music bring us any closer
to true knowledge of final things.
It’s quite possibly the opposite.
In their uncluttered, unreasoned minds the multiple layers of this
universe were still abundantly clear.
The loss and pain were there (always) but also peace and awe in the face
of the infinite.
Shades
of gray: Today was one of those pearl gray mornings, with the rain so soft it
almost floated. It seemed it did not quite know if it was rain or mist.
Although in this
I’m waiting for a book on The Social Construction of Weather, by
which I mean our response to the weather – much of it surely conditioned by the
media of our time. I’d like to know if pre-Columbian First Nations people
groaned in the morning when they discovered that it was raining again.
Living as I do in a tourist town I realized one day that our nightly
news report and forecast was more for visitors than us indigents. I suppose that is reasonable. They are after all lured here by expensive
promotions that make no mention of the actual climatic designation of the
region – it’s a rain forest.
With this almost astonishing preoccupation with sunshine one wonders
why there are not mass migrations to
The first thing I notice in the Mediterranean climate is the tough
harshness of the plants; they are in full defense mode. Most of the gentle
fauna that surrounds us here would die in a day in that brazen glare.
I try to remember my school days; it rains a lot in the North of
England. Young men most certainly did not carry umbrellas; I must have been
frequently soaked. However I have no memory of this, clearly it didn’t matter –
so why does it matter now.
We hear so much about freedom these days but there are many more
tyrannies than political ones. We have SDS (Sunshine Deprivation Syndrome); I
think l will rename it Sunshine Dependency Syndrome.
I have decided to free myself. As the days left to me on this earth
diminish I demand that they all be equally acceptable.
Do
not touch: There’s an instruction I sure resent.
It’s almost up there with ’Keep off the Grass’ although thankfully we
rarely see that one here in
I remember as a child having it patiently explained to me that if
something is clearly visible – like on the table in front of you – there is
absolutely no need to touch it. What amazing nonsense, every child knows that
things look totally different when you are holding them.
Our senses are a lot more interdependent than most people think,
synaesthesia is very real. For me certain musical keys suggest a color, colors
suggest a scent, textures suggest a color, the list of permutations is
endless.
Dave likes to visit castles in
One of the few open rebukes I have had in years occurred at the
Acropolis. I leaned across the barrier to lay both hands on one of those
magnificent pillars. That serene (and
longed for) moment of contact with the cradle of my civilization was rudely and
quickly broken by the guard.
I was tempted to state my position, but thought better of it. By touching the past I brought it fully into
myself – to my infinite enrichment. I
can still remember touching that wonderful edifice more clearly than I can
remember seeing it. However, that selfish touching with my sweaty, toxic hands
was seen to be an act of wanton destruction of a treasured heritage.
That raises an interesting point (for a mind like mine). Will the time come when there will be no more
visits to castles, no more adding our moment of wear and tear to the grooves of
history. Will our past be one of
fragile, desiccated relics that have to be protected from us?
There must be a decision to be made somewhere. At what point does a historical
artifact cease to be a living participant in the present. When that moment
arrives surely it suddenly transforms, it’s just useless old junk.
Making
things: My grandfather was a man who made things. He would even take time out
of major projects for smaller diversions. I have a perfect sailing ship, cut
out of an old coin. One of his earliest gifts to me was a tiny wrench (we
called them spanners) made from an English shilling.
He and my uncle had a small workshop; they usually employed about three
other guys. I can still smell that room,
oil, cut metal and the big iron stove for heating. They made machines for
pulling toffee, a thing of wondrous potential to a child.
That place was heaven to me; I was working at lathes and drills before
I was ten. Of course in those days there was no thought of personal
safety. It’s amazing that I still have
eyes or fingers, although I don’t remember there ever being an accident.
The main things he made for himself were steam locomotives, miniatures
of the ones still traversing the country at that time (and there’s a smell to
remember – the old train stations). I
have one of them still, The Princess Royal made as a perfect working
replica of the original. Unfortunately
damaged in an accident years ago,
it will never run again. However
it still is; a thing of mechanical beauty, heavy and serene, now a locomotive
of memory.
I have an old photo on the desk by it. Black and white, late afternoon,
the shadows (two) are long. The engine is on a track in a park somewhere – we
used to go to weekend meets of the Model Club. I am reaching into the cabin to
turn the lever to make it go (it’s called a regulator), grandfather is sitting
behind me looking over my shoulder.
The metaphoric significance of this picture is now almost
embarrassingly simple, but perhaps all the more potent for that. The path is
straight ahead and quite clearly marked. I have all the strength and power I
need to follow that path. Behind me is the loving guide, always there when
needed.
Most spiritual disciplines tell us that ‘things’ are not important.
However if that is true one has to wonder why churches are so full of stuff. I
guess they mean things that are not theirs (and so beyond control).
I don’t believe them. Things are important - symbols, talismans…I have
the regulator from that engine - separate.
A small work of shaped metal, I frequently carry it in my pocket.
Scratching beneath the
surface: Dave is originally from
He was telling me about clear spring waters that he knows. The water bubbles out of the ground, flows,
perhaps for only a few feet and then disappears again. Pure water from deep
subterranean sources, a moment on the surface and then gone again.
Our talk drifts onto human talents, sudden pre occupations, fads, and
surprising ‘discoveries’ of things that interest us. Where do these come
from? We generally assume from
ourselves, we are surely the distillers of everything that is ‘us’.
Supposing this is not the case.
We are creatures of the earth, might we not function the way it does,
each one of us a microcosm of that whole?
If that is true, what of the
springs that bubble to our surface, where do they come from? As an ancient poet said, we are not islands
unto ourselves. These springs are the arteries to cosmic being. If not channels
to all creation, then at the very least to those who are part of our story –
ancestors, friends, then and now (and those yet to come).
With this, our whims and fads take on a whole new dimension. I like to
think of hands (I am after all a musician), reaching through space and time –
connecting – Michelangelo hands.
The physicists tell us that the Galaxy is riddled with wormholes. These
seem as magical instant connections between almost infinite distances,
mysterious, unpredictable links to a whole world of other.
In that case, this swirling mass of atoms, which is ‘I’, touches and
interacts with countless others. Perhaps there are moments when the life force
which is ‘they’ bubbles to the surface that is ‘me’. Sudden interests, natural talents, assume a
whole new, infinitely expanded dimension.
They are messages from Beyond, connections to a wonderful world of
expanded possibilities.
For the Moon
A cat
Scratching at his reflection
That train that leads us
To look through the subconscious
A touch without being touched
Your spirit breathes upon it
To see what is in all of us
That ancient consciousness
Of some sort of understanding
At our first look at the full moon
That moment when we stop in our stride
Stop and look at her from the inside
What magnificence
And you stand alone in the dark ancient land
The night around you like a cloak of sounds
So sweet you grunt
The magnificent worship of beauty
You awe to the moon
That ancient link between all of us
Everywhere in our different wonders
David S_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Do I know you: I was sitting at my usual spot this morning and two people passing by smiled at me and said - Good Morning. I returned the greeting – trying to be nice while thinking - Who the Hell Are You. I’ve been accused of being somber, but like some Eastern cultures I regard the smile a prelude to laughter. Without the prospect of a laugh I’ll save the smile.
I suppose the familiarity is somewhat inevitable. I have after all been sitting here at about this time every morning for at least the last four years. That’s a fair tradition in this culture. A few more years and I’ll be ‘legendary’. Apparently the citizens of Konisberg used to set their watches by Immanuel Kant, so exact was his daily constitutional. If anyone is using me they are going to be out by about 15 minutes (but then, my philosophies are a little woolly as well).
I don’t talk to strangers – ever. You could sit by me on a flight around the world and I won’t say a word. I’m not standoffish although regrettably that is how I’m usually perceived. As a child I was almost pathologically shy, now I like to think of myself as self-contained. I also have a wonderful home life, a few excellent friends and lots of stuff to think about. I don’t really have any vacancies for new people.
Dave is the same. I had been seeing him at the coffee house for at least two years before we ever spoke. He was always there about the same time as me, sitting just a few tables away. After the incident with the seagull we graduated to a curt nod, an occasional hi, but nothing more.
One day we found ourselves standing side by side on the bus. I experienced a brief moment of disorientation, like an actor might, suddenly finding himself on the wrong set. I shared that feeling with him; we both laughed and have been chattering away ever since.
Dave is that rare find – a person who is entirely and uniquely ‘them’ while being entirely and complimentary to ‘you’. Conversation is an exchange of thoughts (and any thought is comfortably possible). The words are returned, refined, embellished and always in an augmenting and self-expanding manner.
However, enough is enough. I can’t imagine seeing Dave anywhere (or time) other than our daily spot. I know he’s the same, he won’t even tell me where he lives.
The
Ikea Principle: I was recently engaged in a distinctly
minority activity – tying new frets on my lute (of course there are at least
six websites to tell you how to do this).
Basically we are talking about instructions for knot tying. After the
usual convolutions of ‘this over that’ one method concluded with the words –
and then tighten the knot as best you can.
Several teeth gnashing hours later ‘it’ will be assembled, but inevitably that mysterious hole in the top left corner of panel B will end up at the bottom right. (Does it really matter – should we start again?) And then there are always those few screws left over (Where DO they go?). I can’t help wondering what’s left over at the end of the day on major construction sites.
Extrapolating from this I think about the world’s holy books, the metaphysical philosophies…Given that there are no tangible parts to spread out on the floor and rarely a decent diagram, it’s amazing we understand any of it. Also consider the fact that in most cases the ‘Store’ closed several thousand years ago – the Complaints Department in long gone.
And there it is – do any of us ever manage to assemble it in the same way? - Almost certainly not. The only unity comes when a group is prepared to stand by and watch someone else assemble it – and then nod meekly and say YES, so that’s how it should be done – Hello fundamentalists…
Those of us who insist on functioning as individuals are doomed to assemble alone (and in our own way). But at least we can pull it to bits any time we want and try again.
The
importance of the unimportant: Like most people I find myself thinking
about what’s important in life. Of course there are a few easy things, family,
personal commitments, but what about everything else? These thoughts are with
me most of the time but Dave recently got me going, even more (him and that
bird).
He’s going back for a visit to
I read a story years ago about a Japanese
Bonsai Master. Shortly before Japans entry into the Second World War he was
called up into the army. He appealed to the local recruiting office for
exemption, on the grounds that his trees would die - they needed his special
care. He was told that in this time of national crisis the growing of bonsai
trees was not important. Fortunately he
knew someone higher up in the military, someone with a more samurai mentality.
This officer reversed the decision stating. In this time of national crisis,
the growing of Bonsai trees emphasizes the importance of the unimportant.
We look for ‘important’ things all the time, but maybe we have it all
the wrong way round. What of all the
little things we miss? At least we judge
them little, but perhaps they are not so – they are just hidden by all the
preconceived ideas we have. (I wonder how many times in this life so far, I
have been told that something’s not important).
I decided quite a while ago that that was some information I will no
longer hear. I’ll make up my own mind.
It’s like those important phone calls people are always waiting
for. I sat quietly one day and tried to
list all the important phone calls I’d had in life – I mean ones where things
would really have changed if I’d got (or missed) the call.
I’m still trying to think of
one.
Detachment: I guess we don’t
realize just how much we come to know our own homes. We get up in the night and
walk unthinkingly in total darkness. Our
feet ‘know’ the number of steps here and there, that spot where the carpet
always sticks up, that creaky board.
I learned this the hard way (is there any
other way) when we last moved. We had been at the previous place at least
twelve years. On the third day in our
new home I was hanging a picture. I
stepped back to see if it was level – into empty space. I was standing on an open plan
staircase. I fell a good six feet,
spinning as I went and landing head first on a terracotta tile floor.
I broke my right cheekbone, a couple of teeth and severely bruised my
right eye. I’m not a good patient. After a visit to Emergency, I did spend a few
days in bed, frankly feeling very scared and vulnerable. This was after all the first time in life I
had ever been injured. I had a concert
to prepare for so was soon trying to practice again.
It quickly became apparent that there was something wrong with my
vision. It wasn’t just blurred and not
quite double vision. It was simply not quite right; I had to constantly scan
back and forth in order to ‘see’ everything. I assumed that a few days would
see it right, but a few days did no such thing.
This had severe career implications for me. There was no question of participating in any chamber music making; I could not rely on myself to stay with the music. In addition to suffering the physical discomforts, I was now dealing with the mental anguish of the potential for substantial career redirection
Suddenly, at one moment (when I was feeling very badly) a thought just
flew into my mind (or out of it) – Whatever happens to it, I will be fine.
It was just that, in exactly those words. The ‘it’ of course was my body; the
‘I’ is a little more difficult to define. Whatever, since then I have felt a
vastly augmented sense of peace about Final Things.
I take great care of this body, it gets exercised, fed well and is not
overly abused by any ‘substance’; however I now know that it is not the real
me. Of course I have read that a thousand times in various spiritual books. But
this was the on site lesson, hands on practical experience - that whole world
of difference between being told something and actually discovering it for
yourself.
The
For some reason I tried it out about half an hour before I was due to
perform. When I turned around to look at ‘myself’ I was shocked to see the
shadow of a hunched old man, (I was about 26 at the time). Perhaps it was the
fear of an imminent performance, the general stress and unhappiness of my life
at that time. Whatever, the shadow told all.
I have a silhouette on the living room wall, one of the many antiques
my grandfather bought. They were a
popular form of portraiture in previous centuries, a profile in shadow. In our
age of colour and computer graphics they might seem to be a most limited form
of representation. Quite the opposite, it’s surprising how much can be read
into the character of this unknown individual from the ‘simple’ outline of his
upper body and face.
I’ve taken to watching the shadows of people as they walk on the
streets. All too frequently it is like
watching two different people. Colour and three
dimensionality soften and confuse the image – too much information.
Perhaps, after all there is nothing clearer than the old black and white.
It’s surprising that there isn’t a form of therapy or analysis based on
this (perhaps there is…The Shadow Academy). We all know about Rorschach
tests. What about divining meaning from
the random shapes of ourselves. I’d like to have ‘shadows’ taken of myself at
various times, working, reading, writing these notes.
When Alexander the Great stood before the Cynic Diogenes, he was told
to get out of his sunlight. Diogenes didn’t like his shadow (or what it did).
Watching the elegant filigree our bamboo casts on the white wall of our house
proves what beauty shadow can produce. Here is a whole world of personal
elegance (and meaning) waiting to be discovered – to come out of the shadows.
Voices: Although I am a citizen of this country it is not the land of my birth. After thirty-five years here I certainly speak the language, but I often wonder if it is my language. Of course I’m only talking about English, apart from some bad Spanish and American Sign Language, it’s all I’ve ever spoken. The thing of course is accent; there are many languages within a language.
I was very aware of this the other day with Dave. Dave is Scottish but like me he has consciously modified his speech patterns so he can be understood. We were joined that morning by another Scot, an occasional visitor. Almost immediately Dave’s speech changed, the accent thickened, the whole linguistic gesture was different. It seemed forced and strange to me. In fact he had relaxed into his own comfortable speech. His everyday language is what is forced.
I live this life myself. From the North of England I have a distinct
I was promptly bashed up (mildly, I must
admit) but by the end of that day, buck was once more fluke. After all these
years in
It’s those moments that remind me just how frequently I do modulate my speech in everyday life. Elliot talks about preparing a face to meet the faces that you meet. I constantly prepare a voice to meet the voices that I meet. It does have its uses – working class dialect if I want to be tough (not often). Upper class if I want to be intimidating (useful when teaching or trying to get a table in a restaurant).
In this eternal now of being, an older man (a model locomotive builder) picks up a piece of driftwood on a Welsh beach. A boy shouts – chuck it in’t sea granddad! A mother says – all that money we’re spending and he still talks like that - Like what? Sometimes I wish I knew.
A winter day: Thought of those eternal now’s of being, put me in mind of another small piece of writing I once did - January 5th. 1991
Oliver came into our bed during the night. He had been having bad dreams. It was easy to wake at 6-30.
As we drove over the
There were no other cars driving around the Park and we shared the lot at 3rd. Beach with just the snow. As we walked to Siwash the sky lightened, but our Moon and star remained.
We opened the box and as I looked at the ashes I had to wonder how our beautiful young man could be reduced to this. I choose to cling to the opposite that he has grown infinitely greater.
Suzanne reached in to touch him one last time. We all held it together and in a moment the ashes spilled onto the ocean.
Oliver said he would always remember Nathan for his humor. He spoke quite formally and I had the impression he had been rehearsing what he would say. Suzanne said – Goodbye son… I could not speak; we each dropped a red rose onto the water. I thought of Skalish the Unselfish One and hoped he would help Nathan if he needed it.
No one disturbed our special time. Walking back we looked at icicles and I broke off a long one for Oliver. We returned to the city as it awoke to just another Saturday morning.
A frequent amusement for Suzanne and I occurs when passing a demolition site (they’re everywhere). We try to remember what was there before. So accustomed are we to this aspect of change we usually can’t. A new structure is thrown up within months. Fully-grown trees are planted; turf, mature plants – a few weeks in this climate and green mold appears. The ‘new’ building looks the same as the ones that have been there for years. It will be knocked down soon and we’ll forget that one just as quickly.
In this city you really don’t need to travel. Just stay in one place and it changes all around you. It’s inside as well. I walked into our video store a while ago; everything was moved into different places. ‘New and Improved’ – Designed to Serve us Better. I thought to ask – how is it improved. Before I knew where everything was, now I don’t. I bit my tongue.
Dogs help maintain constancy. My
dog greets everyday with exactly the same sense of excited expectation. No matter what’s outside that front door,
she’s waiting by it for another excellent day.
We always take the same route – she stops walking if I try an
alternate. If dogs can smile she
certainly has one.
I hope I have been a good student. When that fateful day arrives that
she cannot summon the strength anymore, I will take the walk alone. I will try to be excited with each new day
regardless of what’s out there. As Dave
once said – we have all won the lottery of life and we didn’t even have to buy
a ticket.
As I well know (and refuse to acknowledge), the problem of course is
not change at all – it is my reaction to it. Material stability makes for an
easy life (a not unreasonable hope) - if things don’t change then why should
I.
Gurdjieff said that each new beginning has the effect of jolting the
mind awake. That must be good – assuming
we don’t wish to sleep walk through life, which I don’t. I’ll try to see things
like Amber (that’s her name). Everything
is new, everyday – but there is no change because no fatuous judgments were
made about things yesterday. It just
simply is, and that’s fine.
The
pianist: The first member of our family to come to
Like many people who learned speech before the age of mass
communication she had a remarkable way with words. When she told a story it played like a movie
in your mind. Perhaps because I’m a musician, one evening she told me about her
brother Harold.
The family lived in the North of England; there were several sisters
and one brother. Harold was the darling
of the family, much fussed over by everyone.
I have one picture of him, a confident young man in a blazer and straw
boater.
Harold was a good amateur pianist.
When he practiced in the front parlor father would often sit on the
stairs outside and listen to his son. When he performed in the music festivals
all the family were there on the front row, the sisters in their best dresses.
Of course they didn’t tell him how good he was – he might ‘get a big head’.
Poor Harold made an unsuitable marriage – she was ‘flighty’, she wanted
to get on. In that culture there was no
greater sin than trying to be ‘something your not’. They moved to
At first they did well, Harold was popular (he could sing as well as
play). However, she soon began to play around; she liked men with more
ambition. Eventually she left him for one of these. Harold returned alone to
the North.
He resumed his old job but after a while was not seen for several days.
His landlady brought the police to his room. There was a simple note – If you don’t see me around, try looking in the river.
And there he was, caught in the branches of a tree where it swept out
into the estuary.
I have strong images of this story I never knew. A simple house made rich with music, a proud
father sitting on narrow stairs. Train
rides, one full of promise, excitement, one a quiet return. An old tree whose branches made a cradle in
the water…
Faith: If people ask me
if I’m religious I will probably answer – not really. That is surely a fine state of affairs for
someone who considers himself to be mildly intelligent and has been thinking
about it for most of his life. My accomplishments are right up there with the
knot tier and his instructions. Of course the message is right there, it’s
simply the old failure of Reason. The truth is of course that nobody knows for
sure (other than a few American televangelists).
In the Greek myths, the Hydra
was a beast that grew two new heads for every one that the warrior cut off. In
these domains, my reason functions in much the same way, each answer gives
birth to two more questions.
One powerful argument for the religion of my culture is simply – why
not? It is after all bred in the bone. If all the
world’s a stage (or in these late days, a movie set) then we have an amazing
production here.
The text is magnificent, a thousand pages of poetry, story and
wisdom. For me it has to be the old King
James script, that and the English Book of Common Prayer. The soundtrack has
certainly been a big collaborative effort – J. S. Bach, Handel, Mozart, the
list goes ever on. The scenery and props, Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael
(check out the
Maybe the Existentialists are right in their eschatology, but they sure
condemn themselves to great emptiness in the run up. One thing I have learned
from my studies is that there is nothing in my religion about not living this
life to the fullest. Despite their legions over the centuries, dour ascetic is
not actually in the job description, quite the contrary.
The one stumbling block for me is that I don’t think God knows my name, (or any of us personally). It shouldn’t bother me but it does, but so what, it’s my problem not His. I have a feeling that when the final moment comes I will want a priest (other than the one whose life I share, although at that time perhaps he will reveal himself more fully). I’ll continue to say Hail Mary’s; I find it a great comfort when I’m scared (usually during turbulence and landings).
And the Book – always…And God shall wipe away all tears from their
eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither
shall there be any more pain; (Revelation 21:4)
So soul searching deep
The light
Makes shadows shiver
Mirage like in the corners
That intensity
Of early morning light through the window
So light so new
You think you almost hear music
Behind the silence
That place in yourself
Where you get to mix in with the surroundings
These fine trails
That reach out through us
To recognize
The invisibilities hiding within it
Those moments
That have been splashed
All thru this space
That soft clinging
To all the thens
That have been counted
In all the weathers
Living offers up to us
In the map of all our simple understandings
So soul searchingly deep
The incoming light
Makes shadows shiver
Mirage like…
David S _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Beauty and the beast: Let me say right away that the beast in question is this dog sitting beside me. Of course we all think our own pets are beautiful but this one really is. As a Sheltie she has that classic ‘doggy’ look. She also has exquisite markings (they charged us an extra $50 dollars for them).
Throughout most of my career (so far) I was a true child of the
Modern. I believed in Behaviorist
theories – that much of what I considered to be good or bad was a societal
conditioning. In music I eagerly trod the paths of dissonance, thinking that I
was breaking out of these molds. Only
through struggle and often aesthetically painful effort would I cut through the
imposed influences of others – to find that cultural clearing and see the sky
for the first time.
I can’t imagine that Antarctic explorers like the weather down there
but they soldier on, knowing there is an attainable goal. Heideggar speaks of
the work of art opening up a world and holding it abidingly in force. I wanted
that world, and many times thought that I was close to it.
This all started to crumble for me a few years ago. Perhaps I was just
getting old and tired, but I definitely believe that I was confusing effort
with attainment. Just because something is difficult (Modern music is) does not
mean that it is good (or doing us good). I don’t feel that I wasted years of my
life on this. Any journey is going to
lead to blind alleys, we might in fact learn more in these than at the final
goal.
Amber was a small part of this metamorphosis. I can be forgiven my own
bias but thanks to this dog I have shared over the years, a happy look on the
face of hundreds of people. They suddenly see a moment of beauty and it touches
something deep within them.
I cannot now accept that we are conditioned to these responses; there
is some more elemental truth at work. It is astonishing to me now, that I once
disdained the beautiful in music as a soporific smoke screen – a feel good
drug. This has been a joyful liberation, to actually be able to enjoy melody
without guilt – imagine!
Anyway, as is often the case I can take comfort from T. S. Eliot.
And the end of
all our exploring
Will be to arrive
where we started
And know the
place for the first time
Life in the slow lane: We are both great urban walkers. Actually we like to hike the mountains as well but that always involves preparations and a drive. To hit the street just involves a decent pair of shoes and you are off.
I find a double pleasure in this. One is to walk the same route every day, (coming here to the coffee shop, my dog insists on that). We then see those streets in all the subtle differences of shade and light, the changing seasons. The other of course is that of exploration – finding new routes.
When I’m alone I particularly enjoy the back lanes. I’d often wondered why, but Dave reminded me that if I were boy, that is where I would be playing out (do kids still play out?) He’s right (as always) but it is more than that.
In this age and society of detailed urban planning, there is an inevitable uniformity to our streets. This is not just an imposition of City Hall but in my largely townhouse – condo community, also one of strata councils. Like most people around here I ‘own’ property that’s worth a respectable fraction of a million dollars. However, I am not free to choose the color of my own front door.
The back lanes are a little removed from the prying eyes of inspectors. One detects many subtle expressions of individuality (and occasionally, a huge and daring one).
City Hall is occasionally complicit in
these. Quite close by there is a large
fir tree left almost in the middle of the lane. It’s solitary splendor, perhaps
hoping to give the lie to the old saying that the suburbs are places where we
cut down all the trees and name streets after them. (We live on
Another thing of course is that one does occasionally find stuff in the lanes. It’s amazing what some people are incapable of giving away and just carelessly discard. On that list I can at least count a lovely oriental carpet and a solid oak dining table I rescued. Both used and appreciated by us for many years after their careless abandonment.
I guess the truth is that I am playing in the lanes. Spying on stuff, searching for treasures, resenting the occasional intrusion of adults - this is my territory.
The look: Although we all take it as given, when you actually think about it, it is surely amazing how much communication is done through the eyes. There are people who are skeptical about ‘vibrations’ or psychic energy but will still respond to ‘a look’. Of course the look might be accompanied by all manner of muscular adjuncts; a frown is not merely in the eyes. I think we can regard that as the baby talk of facial communication. But the eyes however are a communicative world of their own.
The blank look is one – for a moment the connection between the eye and the brain is broken. Perhaps in our rush for pertinent information we turn in to ourselves. Our eyes become momentary windows to an empty room. No doubt skilled interrogators can detect all the moments of this phenomenon. It probably also happens when we are being evasive or less than truthful. Some people have a twinkle in their eye, dark eyes, and bright eyes. It is almost as if they function as an external monitor for our inner state of being. I have several times had the disturbing experience of dealing with someone whose eyes are clearly not connected to the brain like the rest of us. This is way beyond blank; it is the cold dispassion of the sociopath.
We don’t seem to have the evil eye
in our society but in other times and places this was very real. It happened to
me many years ago in
Objectively of course none of that is (or was) ever true, although compared to him it most certainly was. I didn’t like what ‘I’ saw in that moment, then or now. The interesting thing is that I did not feel at all guilty, that would be a merely superficial response. This was something else, something profoundly ontological.
Some Christians believe that one day we will stand before our God to answer for ourselves. If that happens, then the look in his eyes will be the one I saw. I should be glad that I got the prep course. The problem is that after twenty-five years I still don’t have the answer.
.
The
amateur exile: That’s what Dave calls me, he being the pro of
course. We had been talking about the
inner sense of ‘home’. Dave has one in the place of his birth; he visits
regularly and after a lifetime of wandering knows that one day he will return –
it’s waiting for him.
I have no such inner sense. As a
child I did not feel I belonged where I was.
Despite that, I still feel frequent homesickness for the place, but I
know it is not there. Homesickness is a
much for a time as a place. Memory is
the only time machine we have. I can visit from this chair.
I suppose it’s normal to long for a simpler (untravelled) life. Dave
tells me a story (to make up for insulting the formerly exalted status of my
adriftness). He is a boy walking along his village street. It is wintertime and snow is falling. It’s
that kind of slow snow; large wet flakes – sinking gently to the ground like
dying butterflies.
A group of coal miners are talking together, they have just come off
their shift and are about to go home. There is laughter and friendship. They have that close camaraderie of men who
regularly face danger together. They are black; those were the days before
pithead showers. The image is black and
white. Smiling teeth and snow and a large black hand. A rough hand, used to heavy tools and machinery, dirt and stone.
But in this eternal moment of now, it reaches out to catch the gentle flakes.
These were men who lived the hardest life in a tiny world of home, the
pit and the pub. Although they probably hoped for better it would not be the
all-consuming lottery ticket-buying itch of our times. Was it contentment or a
total failure of the imagination? I
prefer to think it contentment.
Meanwhile I take comfort from the words of another writer (I forget
who). He said he liked living in
The
asteroid belt: I have no doubt of the existence of the human aura
(does anyone?) How else to explain how
some days we look bright and happy, others, dark and despondent – and sadly of
course, how some individuals are always one of those hues, usually the latter.
It also explains the phenomenon of the discomfort of extreme closeness.
Traveling the B-Line bus, packed in there, like the proverbial sardines. On a
rainy morning you can almost hear the snap and crackle of electrical energy as
incompatible waveforms, clashing colours, are forced into reluctantly congruent
orbits.
I think there is another aspect to this as well, one not inherent but acquired – the detritus of life, our personal asteroid belt. Of course we keep much of it contained within, but what of that which bursts the banks of ourselves? I think most of us are in permanent flood mode.
I like the image of the rings of Saturn – interesting, perhaps even
beautiful at a distance. It is quite
something else when close, tumbling rocks and boulders – space junk. With us it becomes whirling fragments of
experience, attitude and opinion. When our rings are brought into close
proximity with others something is sure to happen.
The rationalist in me will always see these satellites as qualitative –
good or bad. That of course is an inevitable function (weakness) of language.
As an aside, it is also (perhaps) one of the reasons we have music. I think it
was Mendelssohn who said that music takes over where words leave off. It
enables us a language of thought that is not divisive – a holistic way of
awareness and being.
Thank you music, it’s nice to escape from those divisions. I’ve heard
Dave speak of dust motes of information dancing in the sunlight. Really, it is just information - that’s a
much better image. It is presented, but goes no further. Open to sharing and
exchange, we touch and so the dance begins.
Rubio: We lost our son
Nathan fifteen years ago today. There are numerous images of that day, forever
burned into my memory. Perhaps most
clearly is the one where ‘they’ pull back the sheet and in that moment you can
no longer hope that a mistake was made. What I remember so vividly is that I
experienced two thoughts at once – Oh God, it is him - and (equally clearly) –
He’s not here, he’s gone away…
Perhaps it is just a trick of the mind; it’s kinder that way than we
often think - a device to help us deal with the appalling loss. He’s not gone forever, he just walked on
ahead, stepped around the corner, and we’ll catch up soon. He is ‘somewhere’,
perhaps in Hamlets undiscovered country, but for now the only places to look
are in the pages of memory.
I remember a sparkling day in
It was one of those instants when time seemed to stand still (it did,
I’m there now). The women and I just stood, frozen and watching. Nathan tried to look too, his eyes straining
upward, but de did not try to touch. It
was one of those special moments that step out of now and into always - a gift
of sunlight, colour and softness.
I don’t know if there were yellow butterflies where we lived, while he
still lived. If there were I never noticed (and that is the kind of thing I
see). But that first summer after our loss they were everywhere. I remember one
magical day, there seemed to be a cloud of them, filling the green space behind
our house with a shimmering cloud of yellow.
Was he there? I don’t know, I just felt that I
was being given a message. I tried to open myself to it and was grateful for
the contact.
Decrepit o’l git: I’m not really one (I hope!) but I sure had a stellar week in that dubious department. To start with I lost my cell phone. I took me several days to notice this, which shows how often I use it. I searched in vain but Suzanne found it in no time – it was in my pocket. To be fair it should be noted that I alternate between five outer garments so it had a fair number of hiding places.
Then I fell - I suppose that also happened when I was younger but of course it was no big deal then. In this case, I’d just put my foot on the bottom step of some stairs when I suddenly felt myself going over (imagine – falling upstairs!). The odd thing is that I had time to be aware of what was happening (Oh God! I’m falling) but neither the wit nor agility to do anything about it. The next thing is I am rolling on the floor; face down, but fortunately intact. Thank goodness there were no students about, (this was at the University). The last straw would have been having those bright young things dusting me off and helping me solicitously back to my room.
I have partially solved the ‘where are my glasses’ situation. I now have upstairs glasses and downstairs glasses. The downstairs items are still something of a problem as they go out with me (and don’t always return). The upstairs ones stay by my chair. The other evening I was watching television and thinking that I simply had to go and get my eyes checked again, these lenses are not working anymore. After about half an hour I decided to clean them – maybe that will help. I then noticed that one of the lenses had in fact fallen out, I had been watching with one clear eye and one modified. (It took me several days to find the lens).
The last straw was the old missing my stop on either the bus or the train, (or in the case of this week, both). Public transit is made bearable for me as an oasis for reading; I manage at least 45 minutes a day in this way. I’m ‘into’ a good book so I first missed my stop on the bus, slightly inconvenient as it’s an express and only stops every ten blocks (but at least that gave me a chance to finish my chapter).
Missing my stop on the train on the way to work actually afforded an interesting experience. I have been making this same journey now for twenty years. This was the first time I actually went to the next stop along, and alighted there – a whole other world and yet so close. Being the way I am, I could not help thinking there’s a metaphor here. I’m trying to ignore it.
There was an ancient Oak tree outside the front door. From there a path
made its way along the crest of a hill. From the top of that first hill you
could see the whole village, a microcosm of early nineteenth century
development. Dominating the valley floor was the mill. It was in business in
those late fifties, blowing its whistle every morning to awaken the workers and
summon them to drudgery. They lived in a condensed area of back-to-back row
houses. A rough place, in all the years we lived there I never once went near
them (a guaranteed ‘bashing up’ for a posh kid). On the hillside was a row of
nicer, red brick houses for the foremen and managers and atop the far hill
stood the proud owners mansion.
I journeyed up that path one Sunday morning (in those days Sundays
still had a special feel). It was a fresh summer day, and I was heading to the
upper slopes on the far side of the valley. Somehow, probably though school, I
had become connected with an archeological dig (very amateur). They were in the
process of uncovering a Bronze Age settlement. I was a day laborer spading off
the top layers to make way for the toothbrush crowd.
At one point, midmorning I paused and looked out across the valley. I
wondered who had stood at that very spot so long ago
and taken in that same view. For a fleeting moment the world became silent, I
can’t be sure (although something in me is sure), but all the houses, roadways,
mills disappeared – I was back in that settlement. I felt a moment of panic and
turned around to the group. Of course
they were all there digging away as usual. Nothing had happened – or had it?
It’s surely odd that I can remember that moment so clearly after more than
forty years.
Threads: Coincidences, synchronicities, useful words to shrug off the inexplicable. I have come to prefer the metaphor of what Dave calls threads. There are threads everywhere, trailing from all hands (and hearts). Occasionally we see or feel one, floating like gossamer into our moment, and in reaching for it we touch another – or they touch us.
I went out for coffee alone today, it was a beautiful spring morning
and I just felt like not talking. I was reading the biography of Lord
Alfred Douglas and had come to the sublimely moving In Memoriam he wrote
on the death of his older brother who died tragically at the age of 27.
…. God is very
wise,
And, loving you,
He sent His Son like Death,
To put His hand over your kind gray eyes.
I wept as I read, thinking of our own son Nathan. A voice disturbed me, a polite voice, asking for the empty chair at my table. I looked up and it was a young police officer. In that instant the thread snatched me back to that fateful winter evening; a young officer standing in our living room (by the Christmas tree), a reluctant bearer of life ending news. How often do we honest citizens talk to the police? This was probably my first time since then.
At any time we are under constant bombardment with a million cell phone
messages, radio signals, television shows. We accept their undetected presence
in our brain, simply because we are familiar with the technology of their
source. So what of the mysterious sources – the astrological vibrations, the
earth currents, the whisperings of ancestors and the
(probably) countless unnamed, and so unthinkable others…
Sometimes when I walk the streets I like to feel the threads, gently
brushing my cheeks and brow. It isn’t always necessary to reach out and touch
them; just knowing they are there is enough.
Walking the line: Unity of being is surely a major theme of all spiritual disciplines. I call it walking the line; the tightrope walker is a symbolic figure here. Another image I have is one of fish. There is a pond nearby with some ancient carp; I often see them gently probing the surface of the water – touching the very edge of one existence. For some reason I always wonder if they know when it’s raining (but that’s a whole other metaphor). Walter de la Mere has some wonderful lines in his poem Solitude.
But oh, how near the verge at which they fail.
I have come to realize that music is my tightrope. Perhaps
not just music, but also the certain qualities of sound that require the
architecture of composition to give them a space to be. When the sound
is just right, the inner and outer selves touch – become one. This was an
important discovery (of something I had always unconsciously known).
Before, I used to feel uneasy and certainly a little guilty that I now
have very little interest in listening to music. I mean music played by others.
For the most part it just presents me with technical and academic
considerations, evaluations, judgments. In terms of my personal spirit, it is
almost always a distraction.
Obviously I once heard this sound from others - that was my initiation,
the sighting of the hidden door and a possible key. But as soon as it began to
emerge from my own fingers the experience was internalized. Again, from Solitude:
A speechless
message to the inward ear,
The funny thing is, that this is not something that makes me feel particularly good. It just is, something that has to happen. In this I can take comfort from an old Zen story. Before self-realization the mountains are just mountains. As one approaches the goal they become so much more - powerful symbols of beauty, eternality and power. And suddenly we are on the other side, we look back and the mountains are just mountains.
The artist: Much as I would like to escape from self-definitions I fear it is not possible. We are after all a culture of labelers, how else can we feel secure with things (including ourselves), until we have them neatly pigeon holed. I once read an appealing definition of the difference between the artist mind and the science mind. The artist is a person who can live comfortably with more than one point of view on any given topic – a happy coexistence of often-irreconcilable opposites. The scientist of course seeks the one unifying theory.
I knew in that moment, that I was an artist, for me it’s a world of
openness. As an amateur student of semiotics it is also recognition of the
limitations of the word/subject/object relationship. There must be countless
situations where in terms of understanding; the word certainly gets us in the ballpark.
However, God knows whether we are batting or running, or even which team we are
on. I think I can accept the comfort of ‘getting close’ and leaving some part
to ‘mystery’.
Of course the problem with this is, it can easily become an excuse for intellectual laziness. The whole Zen Culture thing of the Beat Generation was surely that. No-thought was a cool alternative to work. The fact is, of course was that the No-thought of Zen was only attainable after years of rigorous training – a training that was far more strenuous than the proverbial day job.
A major item for me (the musician) is also the significance of the
non-verbal element of the artistic message. A visual artist can verbally
analyze a painting in a useful and educational way. I’m sure however, they
allow for the glowing halo of the unexplainable communication that is the
real work. The same is true in music. Musical analysis both explains the
piece and is in itself a form of musical interpretation. But where is the real
musical message: I like the words of Victor Zukerkandl (Churchill’s Black
Dog, Kafka’s Mice).
Words divide, tones unite. The unity of existence that the word
constantly breaks up, dividing thing from thing, subject and object is
constantly restored in the
tone.
That’s why I feel better after I play some music – I’m restored.
However, I’m still not sure what was broken and what it became after it was put
back together.
Passing: I’ve been thinking a lot about the death of my mother. Not so much about the broader implications of the event, but of the actual moment itself. I was (as I now see it) privileged to be present when it happened.
Mother had been in a home for several years and had been lost in dementia for most of that time. She spent her days sitting quietly, in her own world, or no world. There was a period at the beginning of anger and struggle but that moved fairly quickly to one of passivity.
When I arrived that last time she was in bed sleeping. The time had come; the staff knows these things and when I saw her so did I. I considered leaving, I did after all have things to do – I’d come back later. But then I suddenly realized I didn’t have any thing to do that could possibly be more important than this. I got a chair from the lounge, put it by her bed and just sat.
I’m quite good at just sitting, I’m a naturally contemplative type and I have studied many meditation techniques (and maybe I’m just plain lazy and lacking in drive). Anyway, it was never easier than in that final hour. I was at times vaguely uncomfortable about the fact that she would most certainly not have wanted me to be there. Mother was in truth a cold and distant person; I don’t think we ever really knew her. Some great wounding in her past shrank her to a life of stubborn duty. She once said to me “I guess I don’t have to worry about you anymore” – that was the pinnacle of my success with her.
She would certainly have been furious about me praying over her. She regarded spiritual things as human weakness; life was just something to be ‘got on’ with. I’m not really a Christian although I like to think of myself as a closet Jesuit (but that’s a personal joke). I do use the Hail Mary as one of my mantras; I find it a great comfort. The other is the Buddhist Om Mani Padme Hung (the jewel in the heart of the lotus). I opted for the Hail Mary, which seemed more appropriate. After all it does end with ‘pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death’. (The sinner I was thinking of was myself).
It was a beautiful early afternoon, in what
had been a typical rainy
I found myself thinking on the many euphemisms we use to hide from the awful finality of death. Going to sleep is the big one, I used to like Shakespeare’s ‘And our little life is rounded with a sleep’. After this experience, that one will not work for me anymore. Mother was already asleep, peacefully so. What I witnessed was her stopping being asleep.
I now have the clearest image (although no real words to describe it) of sleep as a dividing line. We wake from sleep to this side of the line, but then that day comes when we step to the other. It’s that last bit that signifies – the active. Perhaps the mind just plays tricks with us; we see what we want to see. But I’m really not sure. There was a definite sense of her having gone – gone ‘somewhere’.
Shakespeare also called death ‘The
undiscovered country’. That surely is a line of genius; most of us would just
say ‘unknown’ but what a passive emptiness that would be. If it is undiscovered
then there must be something there to discover. I now choose to believe I was
there when she took her first look around that
I have always believed in the continuity of existence, the actual question is one of the awareness of it. I’m not sure about that part. What most people want to believe is that they will ‘wake up’ and be self aware that they are now dead – and somewhere nice. I think I can believe there might be a moment of this, but only a moment.
I look at the glass of water by me on this desk. If I pour it into the ocean would it retain the memory of its once small life in that glass? I think not, but perhaps there would be a glorious instant of infinitely expanding consciousness. That moment of ultimate freedom when the restraining glass is gone and the limitless ocean is revealed.
Antonio: Boarding
the B-Line bus the other day, I caught a glimpse of the driver, in just a
certain way, a certain light. In an instant, one of those magical threads
transported me to
I have a distinct
memory of the first bus ride to my lesson. It was a small bus, but I managed to
wedge the guitar between myself and the window. An old lady in typical black
was sitting by me. When the bus roared into life she immediately crossed
herself and started quietly praying. I think my own habit of saying Hail Mary’s
probably started at that time. I suddenly noticed that the driver was surrounded
by pictures of the Holy Family and various relics and medallions. Once he
started to drive I knew why.
In those days
there were still bus conductors. On that bus, at that time, it was always
Antonio. I boarded at the depot, which meant I bought my ticket at the counter.
Antonio tended to those souls joining us along the way. He strode up and down
that bus with the proud dignity that only a working class Spaniard can affect.
He would have looked no different had he been captain of the Queen Mary.
On the second day
he intercepted me at the door and insisted that my guitar go in the storage
space under the bus. In my broken Spanish I informed him that it actually fit
by me without the loss of a seat. Also, it was a valuable guitar and I did not
want it banging about down there. It was no use, there were rules and rules
must be followed. I was not about to argue, Franco was still alive in those
days and the Guardia Civil office was right by the bus depot.
I solved the
problem pretty quickly. Even though I was on a very limited budget, the next
day I bought two tickets - one for me and one for the guitar. As I approached
the bus, Antonio had already stationed himself by the door, ready to nab me. I
quietly held up the tickets- we had a brief and simple conversation:
Miguel: Dos billete…
Antonio: Dos billete???
Miguel: Si, billete para la guitarra…
Antonio: BILLETE
I boarded the bus
with dignity that matched his own and put the guitar on the seat next to me. I
could hear mumblings outside and soon a small crowd gathered by the window.
This was the village square; it was the local hang-out. I heard the words
‘billet para guitarra’ several times and then suddenly – Norte Americano! In that
moment all was explained – there he was, the ugly American, all money and no
sense.
When we approached
the first stop I removed the guitar from the seat (as I had intended all
along). I stashed it by me, allowing a lady (all in black) to sit down. I did
not look at Antonio and he certainly did not look at me, but I knew that we had
connected totally on that other plane. I won a small victory – but not really.
I simply demonstrated that the fight had never been necessary in the first
place (are any?). Honour and dignity were intact on both sides. I never bought
another ticket for the guitar and after that it always went beside me in the
bus.
Antonio and I
never got beyond that one conversation, but then as you know I don’t talk to
strangers. We always exchanged a solemn nod as greeting and farewell. I noticed
that he had several silver medallions hanging from his belt. In those days I
used to carry a Canadian silver dollar in my pocket. I considered it to be
lucky although I can’t imagine why. However, I was still alive so maybe it had
been working.
On the last day I
told Antonio that I was returning to
Messages in Bottles: Dave was (and
still is) a great walker of the beaches of
I’m surprised that
no one has yet written a best seller on the topic of omens. Anyone who reads
about the ancient world knows of the significance of these, they were an
inherent part of daily life. Of course I’m not talking now about the
examination of entrails! It also substantially extended to the movement of
birds (and animals), the cast of a shadow, surprise encounters, small
‘accidents’ the list goes on. Given our societies predilection for horoscopes
and lucky charms, we can hardly claim to be beyond all of this.
Personally I like
birds, in a novel I recently read, one of the inmates of an insane asylum said
that the birds were little windows to heaven, I like that. Birds also have
messages (for me) about these limited senses of ours. I’m sure that they feel
the air in the same way that we feel water. It is a warm supporting mass around
them. Sure it takes a little work to keep afloat but it’s easily learned. There
is a very tangible ‘something’ that is there
and it is helpful.
When I leave the house
I look for birds – sitting or flying, to my right or left (that’s important). I
don’t need to be an in depth psychic to interpret that cheeky old crow. It is
sitting to the left of me (mano sinistra), cawing raucously and dropping a
contemptuous turd – best just go straight home. When the young Dali was
summering in Torremolinos, just the sight of a cricket would send him home. Who
knows what those amazing eyes saw in that tiny creature.
Chance objects on
the ground are very significant to me. There are many small stories littered
about us, if we just take the time to read them. Of course litter itself is a
whole other story. If it’s within a block of my house I generally pick it up.
I’d like to say it’s because I’m a good citizen. Actually I think it is a test,
if I don’t do this good deed now, something rotten will happen to me later in
the day.
Finally there are
the old talismans, amulets, and charms. I have a number of bracelets I like,
each with its own powers. In some cases there’s nothing magical about that
power, it can be just a momentary reminder of where or how we acquired it – a
happy moment in a far off land (there’s power in that). Sometimes I go out
‘naked,’ other times I’m festooned with powerful bands of power.
Hylozoism: I have a new word, I
always like that. You’d better look it up, Wikipedia knows all about it. Of
course I always heed the caution of the semioticists not to confuse the word
with the thing. However, a good word is at least a sign in the right direction.
This one came to me
through reading one of my favorite poets, Federico Garcia Lorca. The preface to
my edition of the Poema Del Cante Hondo gives
an excellent look into the world of the Andalusian gypsies. Like many
‘primitive’ peoples their world is full of living presence, the lines between
animate and inanimate are not so clear, perhaps not even there at all.
When I was a small
child I clearly remember my mother telling me I should pray before going to
sleep, (strange to me now, as she never set foot in church and was loudly
irreligious). Apparently I had to pray
for various members of the family. I remember being very concerned that some
people (and things) might get missed by my little supplications. It’s the ‘things’ part that interests me
know, I clearly saw ‘life’ where it was not supposed to be. My prayers always
ended most emphatically with the inclusion – ‘and all people and things in the World’.
I once read a
story I liked about a cultural anthropologist who was spending a night in the
wilderness with a First Nations chief. Their camp fire cast flickering
illumination on the rocks around them. After listening to the chief for a while
he asked: “am I then to understand that all these rocks are alive?” The chief
looked at him patiently and said: “Of course not, at least not all of them”.
We are led to
believe that science and reason dispelled all these miraculous worlds of other.
That’s actually not quite true,
especially today. Anyone who spends a minute reading about the behavior of sub
atomic particles enters a universe where anything seems possible. We were
forbidden these worlds by our mono theistic religions. People tend to forget
that the God of Christians, Jews and Muslims is the same Cosmic Monopolist.
He is, as He tells
us himself – “a jealous God”, there is no magic allowed that does not come
directly from him. Christianity spent over a thousand years ruthlessly
suppressing ‘superstition’. Giordano Bruno, Renaissance philosopher and
espouser of hylozoism was burned at the stake – and this by followers of the
Man who preached the Sermon on the Mount.
Anyway, they can’t
get us now, I’m going to talk to a few rocks, see if anyone is there…
Are you one?
He was seen, walking among the guns
down a long road
that gave upon the countryside cold
in the dawn, yet beneath the stars
They killed Federico…
That is Antonio
Machado’s verse on the last moments in the life of Federico Garcia Lorca. A
beautiful man, poet of the world, shot at dawn by an illiterate goon
squad.
Like many artists,
left leaning intellectuals in numerous regimes, Federico was killed by that
most dangerous weapon ever found. Little men with little lives, who are
suddenly given big guns and told there is important work for them to do. Enter the death squads of world history.
In this age of
gender equality it would be nice to include women in this story. However, the task
does seem to be almost exclusive to man’s innate propensity for viciousness.
Perhaps it is just lack of opportunity. British soldiers in
I’m not generally
given to dark thoughts about my fellow humans. However, it would be very
foolish to suppose that these are things that happened far away in other
cultures and political climates. I think that given the opportunity they could
happen anywhere, anytime – so that means right here, today, on my own street.
Sometimes when I’m
travelling the bus I scan the faces of my fellow travelers and ask myself – are you one. Are you the kind of person
who would march me into a field at dawn? A person who would shoot me without
reflection, because someone else had told you I was a deviant, a danger to
society, was holding back the Brave New World.
Given the violence
of our times, from schoolyard bullying to gangland executions I sadly assume that
these people are in fact everywhere – just waiting for their chance – their one
small moment to be bigger than me.
The sounds of silence: Silence of course is simply the absence of
sound. As such, not a quality in itself, but more a condition that remains
after everything else has gone. Two recent activities have had me thinking
about it a lot.
A few weeks ago I
was recording for a new CD. Recording engineers have interesting ears, I’m not
sure they actually hear music any more, but they certainly hear sound. We were
recording in a ‘quiet’ church; however, when you sit quietly and start to
really listen it’s amazing just what is there. I’m sure that every place (and
especially every home) has a unique sound signature. It will be an unconscious
thing for most people, but in reality a defining element in the ambiance of the
space.
Yesterday I
visited the Palliative Care unit of the hospital to play some music for those
about to die. This is something I do every few months and is certainly my most
difficult gig. On this occasion one of my listeners would probably not live through
the rest of the day, my music would be his last. The one thing that always
amazes me about the place is that it is beyond quiet. I always leave with a
profound awareness of something beyond silence. Dave has some lines in one of
his poems:
You
think you almost hear music
Behind
the silence
Of course there
are the usual sounds of equipment and people but there is also an underlying
stillness that is unique to the place. I have to assume it is because so many
of the people there are already partially in that other world. I don’t know if
it draws away the sounds of our world or fills it with the unique silence of
its own. Either way for a reflective person (me) it’s one hour of sonic immersion
therapy.
For one thing it
completely reverses the normal role of the performer – to play out – to
project. I play as quietly as I can and it still seems to be enormously loud. I
play slow pieces very slowly yet they still seem to be fussy and overly busy. I
find myself tiptoeing along a line. Just how slowly and quietly can a piece of
music be played and still retain its integrity as a created piece of art.
Oddly enough,
given the place I am in, it has become somewhere where I feel present at the
birth of music – that nascent moment when sounds coalesce into form.
Progress: The news has been full of reports of the 40th
anniversary of the first lunar landing. I guess like most people I can remember
where I was when that event happened; it was a great moment in world history. However,
given the astonishing technological advances of our age, it is interesting how
the future did not unfold as it was imagined back then.
If you had
interviewed virtually anyone on that day in 1969 they would have been sure that
by 2009 the Moon (and Mars) would now be colonized. We would probably have
built the first star ships and be on our way in search of other solar systems. How
differently things turned out, instead we are adrift in Cyberspace – even the
name was unknown back then.
One thing the
newspapers never mention is the anniversaries of the first life to enter space.
The Americans used chimpanzees for their experiments, but perhaps the most
offensive of all were the Russians with Laika. I can actually remember when
Laika was blasted into space in 1957, there were protests at the time but they
were ignored.
Laika was a small
dog, I was a dog lover even then, and my dog at the time was called Mickey. I
thought a lot about Laika, did she bark in space? – More likely whimpered. Thanks
to those noble scientists the first living sounds from earth in space were those
of a terrified animal. It was a one way trip of course, we were told at the
time that she was sedated (euthanized) on her last meal. It is now admitted
that she died from stress and heat within hours of arriving in space.
I think about her
now as I scan the night sky – is her rocket still part of all that space junk
we are told about? I hope it is still there, she should stay away from this place
that treated her so monstrously. She has surely earned a place amongst the
stars. Apparently they made a monument to her, thus is guilt appeased. As
recently as 10 years ago one of the scientists involved said –“The more time
passes the more I’m sorry about it. We shouldn’t have done it…we did not learn
enough to justify the death of the dog.”
As an aside we have to wonder what he would consider ‘enough’ to justify
that or any death.
A consolation is the almost certain fact that this could not happen now. We live in a world that is aware of ‘animal’ rights’ a concept quite unknown in the 60’s. Dog ownership (or more to the point – care) is now a major earner in the corporate world. The public outrage over such wanton cruelty would make it impossible. So, in the words of Neil Armstrong – “That’s one small step…”
Meeting people: There was a nice line in a novel by Milan
Kundera that I read years ago. Like most books I’ve really enjoyed I gave it
away; so, quoting from memory with probably with a few mistakes - “The thing Franz liked most of all about
music was that it allowed him to step out into the world and meet people.”
Now although I
don’t particularly like to (really) meet new people, I do like to be around
them. I like a crowded city; a side walk cafe, a hotel lobby. I’ve often
thought that if I was rich and single I would live in a large hotel. The proximity
of others is companionship enough for me.
I know, like
Franz, that there are several parallels here with the musical experience. There
are some core works in the guitar repertoire that I have practiced regularly
now for more than forty years. As I play these pieces I see many other hands
than my own, travelling that same tactile road of the fingerboard. Lovers of
that same piece all over the world and in all times since it was written. It is
a community I can step into, every time I touch those notes.
In the same way I
think that any piece establishes its own sense of community – as art, not just as
a particular piece for a particular instrument. When I play or just listen to a
prelude by Bach, I become part of the immense community that is that piece.
Thoughtful people for more than three hundred years, closely following that
exquisite sequence of notes and somehow feeling better for it. Given that in
many ways music gives us temporary release from our temporality; it’s not
unreasonable to project into the ‘future’ and include in this community all the
people who will ever listen to the piece.
I extend this
concept to all my activities. We were recently in the Prado, and as I stood
before those amazing paintings I wondered at all those who had stood before
them, both before and after me. All great art functions as a gateway; Heidegger
said (again I’m quoting from memory) that the work of art “opens up a world and holds it abidingly in place.” That world is a
crowded place of friendly, like minded souls.
Perhaps it is in
the world of books that this is all the most real. When I curl up on a winter
evening to spend an hour or two with Elizabeth Bennett and proud Mr. Darcy then
there is the global village. Side walk cafes crowded with gently smiling
people, lost in a magic world.