"Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those who we cannot resemble."
(Samuel Johnson)
I've often been told I've a "wacky" or absurd sense of humour, inherited from Dad I suppose; I also find very basic, probably puerile, things quite funny. Terry Border is an American photographer and humourist who started creating ridiculous scenes with fruit, veg and household objects about six years ago. Using wire to manipulate and pose his apples, cornflakes and muffins in and out of context, his "Bent Objects" never fail to amuse me. Terry Border subtitles his art "The secret life of everyday things", which I particularly love. My favourites are the cookie-crumbled who's down and out outside Tiffany's, the candle burning itself at both ends, the enthusiastic (hot)dog who's messed on the newspaper. There's incongruity and the ridiculous all round us in this world. Just as I look back at photos of my PVC, pacifist-vegetarian-punk trousers and day-glow micro-mini skirts, future generations with an evolved sophistication will refer back to our hopes, fears and ways of being. In fact, there's an innate sophistication and satire in Terry Border's observations. Perhaps my PVC jeans were really sartorial satire; maybe that's why they were so uncomfortable... Imagination is so frequently dismissed as day-dreaming, yet it produces little sculptures of wit and wisdom such as the creations here. Four hundred years before Christ was born, still centuries before Leonardo Da Vinci was doodling helicopters in his spare time, the Ancient Greek philosopher Archytas was creating bird-shaped, self-propelled flying devices. Once you start to view what seems unlikely or impossible as magical or miraculous, you can see the world as the bright and endlessly benign haven it was intended to be. "King of Wishful Thinking" is an old favourite sing-along of mine from another of my most loved films. Like my lovely friend Ellen, I know whole swathes of dialogue from the film "Pretty Woman"; actually I probably know all of it, for all the characters. Other friends dismiss it as an unsophisticated 90's "rom-com". Apart from being gently witty and affectionately acted by the leads, it has it's own message. It's Cinderella with a sharp twist: Prince Charming, who sometimes isn't that Charming because he is Sad, meets Cinderella, who has a Hidden Heart of Gold which must stay hidden because Cinders is a Hooker (not the rugby type). Essentially, the Hooker knows more about truth and values than the Prince; he thinks he's saving her but it could just be the other way round. Of course, they live happily ever after, which is totally absurd huh? I've included the song here mainly for Ellen, but also because after sniffling and smiling my way through the film yet again, I've been singing it for days. I usually only sing in the shower: I thought of joining a choir but they wouldn't all fit in my bathroom.
"On almost any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face." Albert Camus
"For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then shall I know even as I am known." (1 Corinthians 13:12)
Mirrors can be funny things sometimes.You often overhear (mainly) women in changing rooms in clothes shops, complaining that mirrors make them look fat, skinny, gawky, just "not like them". Sometimes mirrors distort, more often than not they show us what we don't quite expect to see. I met a mirror the other day that answered me back before I had even said anything.
One afternoon last week, I went for a quick cup of tea in a nice breezy bar in Brighton - most pubs and bars in this city serve tea and coffee all day without the raised eyebrow that would accompany it in London. The bar's been decorated in a pseudo Speakeasy style. This only compounded my surprise when I came out of the Ladies to the washstands and saw that someone had scrawled "At least you are Free" across the central mirror, and therefore also across my midweek, world-weary little face. I think the person, presumably female, had used a kohl or other eyeliner pencil. I wondered what had prompted her to write this. Freedom may seem like a lofty subject for pub-toilet philosophy, although I've learnt that you do tend to encounter a deeper-thinking type of grafitist in Brighton.
I am indeed free. I had been mentally listing my grouches and deficits that day: not merely financial, but the demise of my career in Social Services, my subsequent apparent lack of prospects, my lack of a husband or children, that my little house is deteriorating rather faster than I can fix it, that I am probably deteriorating faster than I can fix me. I may never now get back to Australia, I may never get to do hands-on work with kids, I'm certainly never going to wake up and find I've turned into Kylie Minogue: I may never get to the ball, I may never get the happy-ever-after. I left the word "Free" scrawled on the mirror; yet the insolence of it followed me as I walked back out into the light and airy bar and a welcome day of sunshine in Brighton.
I was devastated when I lost my job in adult Social Services in London. I've worked since I left school and I felt it defined me. Now, I know that no-one should ever be defined by employment: being known by your abilities or gifts is something quite different. If I was still leaving the house before 7am and returning in the dark, I would certainly have a more healthy bank account but my own health would probably have continued to decline alarmingly. I probably wouldn't have discovered just how resilient and canny I can be; the old pots and ornaments in my garden would not be customised; I might not have considered renovating or painting old pieces of furniture; I probably wouldn't have set aside time to customise dresses or jewellery. I might not have collected and sorted through generations of photographs, so that my history decorates my walls. I probably wouldn't have started this blog! Maybe I wouldn't have been so sure that either I or God know the real me. Often, the threat of being released from tried and trusted routines and well known ways of being blinds us to a freedom of opportunity.
My house does indeed still need patching up and nailing down, but it has evidently benefited from a little TLC, and it is very much my home. And having a home, far from being tied to bricks and mortar, gives me immense freedom. It's true that I have no husband or children, but I have friends who I nurture and am nurtured by: even a concerned, caring text can be a dressing for a perceived slight or any feeling of isolation. I may never return to Social Services but if I were ever yet to work with kids, disadvantaged or otherwise, then certainly Brighton is a tarnished mecca for youngsters. I did get to Australia, several times, and the memories I have of there and of the other places I've visited are souvenirs that don't need to be dusted or explained to visitors. I'll never wake up looking like Kylie Minogue, but at least I still wake up in the morning; and hell, even Kylie doesn't wake up looking like Kylie Minogue! Being freed from what you've been tied to before, even ostensibly for your own support, leaves you wobbly; but there's giddiness to it. My happy-ever-after may now never involve forcing my foot into a glass slipper, but that would be darned uncomfortable attire for scampering about on a pebbled beach or pruning the jasmine. The perfect fit is more about sitting easy in the niche you've whittled and finally being comfortable in your own skin. Before, it seemed I didn't have time to see people, to read things, to relax. Now, I might argue that I have the time but not the money; but that isn't relevant at all. There are interesting folk and sights all round me in this city and the library here is one of the coolest places to be. The seagulls ensure that I don't oversleep and I still have two strong legs to get me back at night from the pier in less than half an hour, with a safety that was long-lost to me in south London. Faith brings it's own sense of freedom: I know that where I've walked in error in the past won't condemn me or prevent me from getting to where I need to be, which is waiting for me as it's always been.
You have to recognise freedom in all it's reflections. It isn't always about the largess of tangible struggle; I would never be dismissive or disrespectful enough to claim that this little post was intending to address such struggles. Freedom, like God, can be in the details, the little things. One of my favourite quotes about being free isn't by Martin Luther King, John Kennedy or Nelson Mandela, but from a young, skittish Joni Mitchell:
"I want to have fun, I want to shine like the sun; I want to be the one that you want to see.
I want to knit you a sweater, want to write you a love letter, I want to make you feel better; I want make you feel free."
I hope the bar staff have left that legend on the mirror in the Ladies' loo. I'm pretty sure it will help someone else re-calculate their apparent shortcomings as they wash their hands and blot their lipstick.
On the subject of mirrors, I took two rather nice but surplus-to-requirement mirrors to give to a lovely friend of mine last week. She's a vibrant, pretty and funny young woman, bringing up her children while her young man is imprisoned; awaiting trial for something awful. I share her belief that he is guilty of being with the wrong person in the wrong place but not of what he's been charged with. Her resilience is astounding and her resolve about this situation has been an inspiration to me. John Paul Sartre defined freedom as being able to choose what you do with what's been done to you. I won't name her or her man to preserve their privacy and the children's, but this post was most definitely written with them in mind and in heart.
"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others."
(Nelson Mandela)
"Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight, Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight, And for each and every underdog soldier in the night We gazed upon the chimes of Freedom flashing." (Bob Dylan)
"The Chimes of Freedom" Bruce Springsteen (version)
"Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed,
For the countless confused, accused, misused strung-out ones and worse,
And for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe:
"Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."
(from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116)
I do not consider myself to be a competitive person: I like to feel that people and situations that are meant for me will not go by me; I find that comforting and also rather aesthetically (or even ascetically!) pleasing. I hope that I've never consciously "competed" for friends, partners or social standing. I clearly don't have the cut-throat attitude apparently currently required in Brighton at the moment to snatch a half decent job from the burgeoning queue! I intensely dislike the paraphernalia attached to going to "the sales"; no overnight sleeping bags then handbags drawn at dawn to battle for bargains, not for me. In fact, only rugby union seems to ignite the lesser-known cussing, shouting, jumping up and down Gigi. We all have our weaknesses. I know this will make me sound like the biggest eaves-dropper in East Sussex, but yet again I overheard something thought provoking on my journey back from Hampshire the other day. Two tall-haired and teeny-shorted girls in their late teens were loudly discussing their game plans once they disembarked at Brighton, for securing the same boy. These girls were friends, to all intents and purposes, even sharing copious amounts of Red Bull and almost as much lip gloss and eyeliner; war painting each other only to become opponents in battle. I found this dreadfully sad: I wanted to say something to them but I was too scared they would join forces against me and leave me a mess of pulled hair and Rimmel stains. They were literally egging each other on about tactics to use on this lad, yet each girl was vehement that once one of them was victorious (if not happy and glorious), the loser would immediately hate the boy and become a sworn enemy to the other girl! Beyond the sheer ugliness of this situation, no matter how much macquillage you apply to it, there's also a total breakdown in reason. I let them clatter off the train ahead of me, holding on to each other for support. For all their manufactured preening and glued on bits and pieces, there was something very feral about them: these girls were born competitors. I mentioned it to a lovely female friend of mine who has a teenage daughter. She said she was aware of an almost innate rivalry in her daughter and her school friends. It seems alien to us now but may well have been prevalent when I was a plaited and pleated convent school girl. Her daughter's favourite song through her recent boyfriend troubles had been "Fight for this Love" by one Cheryl Cole, complete with high-heeled combat dance moves. Ms Cole may well be a role model for not-so little girls after "fighting" for her marriage to her footballer husband in spite of his alleged multiple discretions: thank God she now seems to have chosen a more dignified choreography, walking on with her beautiful head held high and any undoubtedly lucrative kiss-and-tells tightly zipped.
Part of my physiology, not least because I'm trying to be a decent Christian, also means that I don't stop loving those who've hurt or even betrayed me. We've all seen friends we've introduced suddenly finding each others company more stimulating than ours. We may have seen the top marks, awards and even promotions bypass us on the way to someone we simply can't not admire or respect. Heartbreakingly, we may feel a person is the key to our future, assuming the sentiment is shared until we see them in the company of someone else they clearly have a history with. If we truly feel real, unconditional love, romantic or otherwise, it doesn't swiftly cease because the Happy Ever After isn't forthcoming. I've never understood that "If I can't have you no-one else will" mentality that drives some men to kill their girlfriends and some mothers to sacrifice babies to spite the father. We humans are largely animals with lip gloss, mobiles, city jobs and laptops who still react to fear, threat or pain with aggression. I understand this and also that many people will therefore view sensitivity, patience and composure simply as weaknesses rather than profoundly concentrated strengths. Many berate the dangers of passivity because the missile-seeking radars (or even just the beer-goggles) have failed to identify constancy, quiescence, acceptance. I have stood up for or even stood in front of people (or causes) I care about before and I know that I will do it again. But defending for love is not the same as aggressing for it. Certainly, I've grown up believing that if you have to compete for attention or affection, it's probably not worth the having. Blood on a prize is never that attractive. I've included This Mortal Coil's version of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren" in this post; personally I feel this is the most hauntingly beautiful version. The song is a conversation between a distraught, lovesick sailor and a siren (or mermaid) who appears to have also fallen in love with him. Early Christian opinion of mythological beings was coloured by the Etymologies of St Isidore of Seville, who described sirens as part virgin and part clawed bird. They were said to have wings and claws because love can fly and wound: of course love hurts, but I prefer to think of the mark of love as an exquisite badge of honour rather than a livid battle scar; Shakespeare's "ever-fixed mark". Obviously, I have no idea which of the two teenage divas from the beginning of this post managed to get her man, nor if the victory would endure for a night or an entire season. All things considered, I doubt very much that such a battle could have birthed a lifelong union of soul mates. Maybe the boy wasn't remotely interested in either of them, which happens a lot in Brighton, allowing the girls to totter home together with their friendship intact, if not their pride or nail polish. I sincerely hope the evening ended well and safely for all concerned.
For my own part, I really must get my TV and aerial fixed before the start of this year's Tri Nations Rugby Championship: I simply can't be doing all that shouting and air-thumping in public.
"Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye"
(old Scottish proverb, mainly said by my granny and my mother)
I took this picture on the last day of a holiday in Australia a couple of years ago. Saying a fond farewell to the sights of Sydney whilst walking through the glorious Hyde Park that cuts across the city, I stumbled on this couple strolling through, fresh from their wedding at the nearby cathedral. Her gorgeous white dress was training along the dusty central path and they were oblivious to the skateboarders, tourists and city workers with their lunchboxes and newspapers. It was the most natural thing in the world for this couple to walk together through the park in bridal gown and morning suit: they were in love and happy and proud of their union. It remains one of my favourite holiday snaps: although there is nothing essentially Australian about it, it is unique. I truly hope they're still married and still head over heels in love.
Closer to home, last night I caught the late bus after a pizza with a friend. At one of the main stops out of Brighton city centre, a young man pleaded with our driver to hold the bus while he hunted for a pen and paper: he had met a very pretty girl that night and she was stood at the same stop waiting for another bus. This was his last bus home but he desperately wanted to write down his address and mobile number for her and hers for him. The driver initially said he couldn't wait with a bus full of passengers; then the boy and girl both said they had fallen in love. He looked about seventeen and quite sporty, she was maybe a year or two younger, fresh faced and mini-skirted in the cold. He stepped onto the bus and said his name was Mark and that he believed he had found The One For Him: could he please have a pen and paper? She then stepped onto the bus platform and said they would write on their hands if someone had a pen. She was embarrassed but just as ernest; she'd tried writing on her hand with eyeliner pencil but was scared the writing would smudge.
Everyone downstairs on my bus, including the driver, looked for writing materials. Various pens and pencils, envelopes, Sunday papers and even serviettes were found. Someone even offered them a tenner to catch a cab to both their homes so they could travel together. In the end, our driver waited the extra three minutes until Ellie's bus pulled into the stop. The pair kissed like seven year olds before Mark tore upstairs to wave at her in the other bus. We all applauded and the everyone told the driver it was absolutely fine when he apologised for holding up the bus. The woman next to me was in her late sixties and coming back from bingo. We shared her tissues to dab at our mascara for the rest of my journey. Something else quite wonderful happened which I can't imagine happening in my old hometown of London; as each of the passengers alighted at their stops, we all said goodnight.
The day before my romantic bus journey, I was at a wedding in Hampshire. Nothing that unusual, except maybe that the bride is seventy and her new husband was eighty in December. It was a very moving ceremony and also very intimate, even though the church was packed with friends and extended family. The Catholic parish priest gave a memorably affecting homily, which again found me nearly in tears. He spoke of the many words for Love in ancient Greek, found in the scriptures and other texts. In particular, there are four distinct words for love in it's various forms.
"Agape" translates in modern Greek as "unconditional love", and has been appropriated by Christians to express the love for and from God. Transcending physical attraction, Agape describes the deepest high regard, respect and sacrificial love.
"Storge" describes natural affection in both modern and ancient Greek: the innate bonds between parents and offspring and family members; kinship, shared history and acceptance. "Philia" describes love between friends and comrades, including affection, familiarity, loyalty and a sense of community and equality. Apparently, it thrives among bus passengers late at night in Brighton!
As does "Eros", the passionate and physical love of both courtship and marriage. Although Eros encompasses desire and longing, there is also the feeling of oneness and a connection of the spirit: the priest on Saturday spoke of finding The One who would help you get to Heaven. This phrase in particular has stayed with me. He also spoke of the validity of marriage at any age and of love whenever and wherever it's found. We frequently say love is blind. I believe the opposite is true. Love is seeing clearly and purely, clairvoyance and realisation. When we truly love, we see properly, beyond any mask or distortion, any barrier or limitation.
I'm a real sucker for soul mates. I discovered the writing of the late, beautiful John O'Donohue a while ago; his book "Anam Cara", literally "soul friend", is on the special books' shelf in my front room. If someone visits and either picks it out to read or comments that they know and love it, I know we're going to be friends. Call me old fashioned (it happens rather a lot), but I do feel that the sacredness of marriage has suffered a sad demise. I know couples who have lived together happily for years and who feel totally committed and devoted to each other without the making of vows in front of an altar; I also know many who have seen marriage as a formalised "long" relationship, a tax convenience and a shared account. Divorce is now seen as much more acceptable and generally a fix-it or getout clause: divorce rates are actually in decline these days, but this may be because the number of people getting married is the lowest it's been for 150 years. Marriage rates started to decline steadily in the heady seventies. Again, I have dear friends who are divorced and my intention is not insult them or blame them for current trends. I simply feel that the sacrament of marriage has been variously dismissed or too easily and loosely entered into.
It's been my personal choice to remain unmarried because I want to marry a soul mate. The word spinster no longer means a single woman of marriageable age but has become a term of ridicule, laced with rejection. I know single men who remain celibate are open to even more misunderstanding or abuse. I simply never want to marry for comfort, for security or for the sake of it. I know if I make those vows I will want to keep them, yet I have no wish to pledge myself into a loveless union to keep my family and bank manager happy. People frequently think being alone implies loneliness; I believe I would be far lonelier in a marriage or committed relationship where I wasn't fulfilled emotionally, spiritually and physically. I believe I have great love in my life, in the forms of Philia, Storge and Agape. I also still believe Eros is out there for me. So I'm totally heartened when I see a teenage declaration of love at first sight move a bus full of Saturday night weary folk. I feel moved to hear a Catholic priest acknowledge the precious role of tenderness and desire within marriage whether the couple are eighteen or eighty. And I'm enchanted to think that somewhere in New South Wales a lovely couple may be sitting down to breakfast, blissfully unaware that their wedding day stroll through the park still inspires my dreams of happy ever after.
