Showing posts with label strife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strife. Show all posts

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Solvitur ambulando…

Walking is magic. Can’t recommend it highly enough. I read that Plato and Aristotle did much of their brilliant thinking together while ambulating. The movement, the meditation, the health of the blood pumping, and the rhythm of footsteps… this is a primal way to connect with one’s deeper self.
– Paula Cole

As part of my ongoing therapy, not only am I increasingly inhooped by a rising bricolage of motivational tomes and workbooks; but I find myself engulfed in periodic upsurges of rippling diaries, forms, and tables: a flux of unsullied A4 wavelets, tiding over me as temporary succour; busying me; until, eventually – when they are progressively overlaid with my records, registers, and particoloured responses – they crystallize into frangible stepping-stones, leading me steadily ashore. Rush ahead too expeditiously, though, and these will crumble, along with my tentative betterment. Forbearance is key – especially when allied with deep trust, hard listening, and terrifying honesty: the underpinnings of hope, if not yet achievement.

Friday, 12 August 2016

Austerity cuts compel the masses to bleed…


Character
THE BARD OF TYSOE (‘Uneven Stephen’, to his few friends)
Stephen is of indeterminate middle- to old-age. He looks like a tramp trying to dress like a teenager (and failing). He writes to survive; but is unsure why people – or how many of them – read his ‘essays’. He is less clever than he believes; and uses long words to impress – as well as a defence mechanism. He walks with a limp (and a stick); and his politics also lean leftwards – alarmingly so. His style is all over the damn’ place, though. He is not a woman… – although he can, of course, be played by one (see footnote).

THE BARD OF TYSOE is sitting at a dining table in a small, rural semi-detached cottage. It could be anywhere aspiringly middle-class. It is dark: therefore very late; or too early. There is a cold, half-drunk mug of coffee on the table, within the half-drunk’s arm’s reach. It smells – as does he – of brandy. He is surrounded by play-texts; creased theatre tickets; a dictionary; a thesaurus; the complete works of Shakespeare; boxes of pills; and small squares of almost-illegible (even to him) scribbled notes, in different-coloured inks.
     The only light emanates from a small desk-lamp and the iPad he is staring intently into, glasses halfway down his protuberant nose. All that can be heard is a clock ticking; and the sporadic, half-hearted, three-fingered pounding of the well-worn keyboard in front of him. Occasionally, he mutters, as he attempts to write. Frequently, he swears. Eventually, a percussive rhythm is established: and he speaks the words aloud as he types.

The daft thing is… that I knew what I was walking into: that I knew that walking through those doors would mean having my brains beaten and scrambled like an oversized egg (an ostrich egg?); my heart eviscerated, then macerated, before being cleverly reassembled and reinstated, yet soggy: a grown-up version of those wonky papier-mâché bowls we made at primary school. I mean – for goodness’ sake… – I’d not only been there before; but I had personal experience from – if you see what I mean… – the other side of the curtain. (Beat.)

My other half (“partner” sounds so officious…) has cared for girls like Joanne; has witnessed their attempts at self-harm; has felt repeatedly powerless against the destructive dragon of Government insult – no Saint George rode in on a white steed to save fair Sure Start… – felt pained and drained by it all; yet, somehow, responsible… – and I had (therefore) shared in its overwhelming catastrophic affect; held hands with the profound loss of hope and meaning. (He tries to sound actorly.) “My dad was a teacher”, too. (Back to his usual voice.) A council estate comprehensive. It was his voice I therefore heard saying: (His tone of voice changes again.) “The real thing is knowing what’s right, and what’s best. And the difference between the two. They can’t teach you that.” It sounded like something he would – does – say.

(Pause. He wipes a tear from his right eye with his hand; smearing his glasses. He removes them; wipes them clear; puts them back on.)

That was why, (His voice cracks a little.) after gritting my teeth through all that pain (no, (Beat. He smiles.) not saying “nneerrrrr…”, thank you…!) – (His face and voice return to the previous state.) not wanting, sat on the front row, to distract; to even make contact… – why, finally, all those tears flowed. And wouldn’t stop. (Beat.) “I cry too easily,” I’d said to the lovely, patient, lady next to me. But this wasn’t easy – how could it be…? This was so true to life, so real. This was hard as fuck… (sorry) – because this happens every day. A thousand times. Every. Single. Day. And, even though we know who is to blame… – (Beat.) what is it: cowardice; lack of thought; prejudice; better-the devil-you-know; laziness, even…? – even though we know who, we won’t get rid of the buggers. We won’t. And we don’t.

(Pause.)

Some of us tried. God knows. (Look at my Twitter avatar: and read the small print.) But not enough. (Not enough people. Not enough effort.) And, now, even those we thought could at least pull together some rusty foil and a donkey – I know: shit Don Quixote reference (just to show I ‘get’ theatre, okay?) – are pulling themselves to pieces, instead. Thank god for contemporary theatre: it – when it’s this good – understands; it ‘gets’ us – shows that we’re not alone. Not like poor Joanne. Sadly, it too flits in and out of our lives. I, personally, need it on a twenty-four-hour-seven-day-a-week-fifty-two-weeks-of-the-year-for-eternity loop; (Beat.) or at least on speed-dial.


Yes: I know I keep rabbiting on about “theatre as therapy” – but, as someone wiser than I said, earlier today (A brief smile flickers across his face.) (thank you, Ms Wilkey): “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” (Beat.) (I’d never heard this before. And it’s spot on. So credit where it’s due…. (Beat.) Don’t carp: it’s not pretty. It doesn’t suit you.) (Beat.) And, although I fall into both camps… – rather, I hope, than between two stools… (ugh) – yes, the comfort that comes from knowing your worldview isn’t quite as unique as you’d sorta hoped (but really, really, really didn’t want it to be…) isn’t half as thrilling as being further disturbed. (Beat. He looks up: as though gazing at someone across the table; and smiles, lovingly and humorously.) (This is the point where “my other half”, reading this, says that I “was disturbed enough already”. Hence that “further”…! Natch.)

(Pause. Returns to previous state.)

I don’t want to sit easily within my comfort zone. Not that I have had a physical one for quite some time. And it seems my psychological one is creeping along in that one’s shadow, anyway. And not that I know how to sit comfortably, anyhoo. (Beat.) That I sat still for over an hour, in discomfort and discomfit (not that that’s a real word – unless you’re Milton – and, sorry, John, even if it was, it’s not the same as what you may have meant: it just sounded clever in my head… – funny how these things always sound stupid once I open my big gob…). (Beat.) What was I saying? Oh, yeah: that I sat still for over an hour was testament to so many talented women… – yes: I know that sounds patronizing; but I have balls (last time I looked); (He looks down, wistfully.) and, try as I might, I can’t seem to break free of my genetic determinism. (If I’d have just said “genes”, you’d have thought I was trying to throw in one of my stupid puns. So I tried to show just how multifaceted, how bloody clever I was, instead. A lose-lose situation. Just hopefully not for my dangly bits.) (Beat.)

“What does it show?” you ask. (Yes, I can hear the sardonicism: more-than-half-expecting me to put my foot in my mouth again.) Well, I’m no physical contortionist – as those of you who know me will attest… – but I do love to muck around with words: tying my readers up in knots. (No: not like that.) (Beat.) What it shows – I reply… – is that, in some quarters – hoping not to offend… (which I’m bound to do: me being little old little autistic me… – that’s my excuse, etc.) – is that women are, for me, on the whole (please, please don’t go there…) so much more insightful; so much more honest; so much more caring; so much more creative in expressing these things than the typical (whatever that may mean) man. (Note I said “typical”. A typical masculine, feminine-ending, get-out clause.)

(Pause.)

Seriously. (Beat.) From where I sit, women have got matters – validity, especially – much more sussed than we men have. (I know I’m stereotyping, here: but this is a sodding review – well, it was meant to be… – not a faux-academic paper on feminism. I’m not qualified for that.) (Beat.) Sadly, though, since the worlds (real or imagined) of Graves’ The White Goddess, their (women’s) position of superiority… – no: I honestly believe, at least creatively, thoughtfully, heartfelt-fully, they are waaaay beyond equality (the word you were probably expecting): they are, sadly, just not recognized for it as much as they should be… – we men (and you can put that in finger-quotes if you so wish) have used our greater physicality to subsume them. (Beat.) But not for much longer.


To be blunt: I don’t want the world to be comfortable, either. (Beat.) Both meanings. (Do I have to spell it out? No. Thought not.) (Beat.) Selfishly, I don’t want it to be comfortable for anybody – having also played my own part in requiring such help as Joanne; such aid… – aid that often never comes; or comes in the wrong size and shape; or time….

(Pause. He gathers his breath, and looks up: as if expecting a thought, or maybe even a magical being, to suddenly appear.)

“I don’t want it to be comfortable for those that are already comfortable” is what I should have said: having fought so hard for myself that it was obviously to the detriment (no doubt) of others – my only weapons (I believed… I believe…) being intelligence and intransigence. (Beat.) But, nearly always – or I wouldn’t be facing these doors in the first place: would I…? – even these, fired at close range, double-barrelled, have not been enough. And when I had called on what I used to be able to rely on – had found myself alone, staring into an abyss, filled with an intolerable echoing vacuum – all I really had were doors like these. So I had no option but to walk through them.


The first time, I hadn’t known what to expect. At all. (Of course.) And that’s how it should be. (Of course.) (Beat.) That big gob of mine was smacked about so hard that I lost my focus, a little; forgot to lip-read; thus missed a few of the jokes. (Beat.) I got the punchline, though. Straight to (and through) my heart, my guts, my head. It hurt so much I had to go back for more. So, in between times, I read the script. More pain. (“More masochism, you mean!”) No lesser impact. (Beat.)

Now I knew all the words; and you’d have assumed, knowing “what I was walking into”, I also knew what to expect. But this is, of course – “as those of you who know me will attest…” – why I try never to go to a play just the once. Yes, I’m deaf. (See above.) Not dumb, though. But even with every single one of your umpteen senses working overtime, you’d still have missed something. (It could be that “punchline”, of course.) And I know I always miss lots of things: because – even over nine visits (He smirks.) (sorry: no links, tonight: so no explanations…) – every repeat visit, each new bruising, sheds new light; brings new detail to the fore. (Beat.) And, when you’ve got a script this stunning (sorry, that’s a crap word: but, currently, it’s all I have…): performed by someone whose every single facial muscle is connected to their most raw, honest emotions through some magical circuit not possessed by us mere mortals; someone who can change convincingly into another’s skin at the flick of a switch; whose voice ranges – emotionally, aurally, tonally, subjectively, geographically… effectively… – wider than the chasm between truth and politics; whose eyes shed glistening tears in harmony with yours… – when all that comes together: you really, really, really want to be there. (Again.)

(Pause. His face, which had seemingly flickered constantly with a mixture of hurt and happiness, now fills with utter confidence. The words come spilling out.)

Yes – oh ye of little faith! – miracles can not only repeat, but grow in power. Lightning strikes twice in your heart and brain: and the pain is more than doubled. The thrill: even more so! (He lowers his voice a little.) (The pain of not being there a third time is one of vacancy. (A crescendo begins….) This pain is one of presence. Of beauty. Of truth. And therefore vice versa. Of being hollowed out; and refilled: with all the pieces not quite fitting any more. Thank god. But it is a thrill.) (Beat. We have reached the top of that build.)

I described it as “electroshock therapy”, after my first time. How do you beat that…? Well, don’t ask me, for heaven’s sake. I was ‘only’ watching. Ask the Muses who made it happen. See if they know. (Beat.) Call it a confluence of sorts. A celestial alignment. Five writers, on bloody fantastic, almost indescribable, form. (His voice drops almost to a whisper…) (That would be multiplicative, rather than summational. He said. Showing off again. With all those long words. (…and then rises again.) “I bet he ate a bloody thesaurus for breakfast.”) (Beat.) A director with more coercive, collegiate magic than all of Hogwarts. (No: that – what you’re thinking… – is not my sodding idea of contemporary sodding theatre, thank you very much.) Designed, lit, directed, managed, produced by a team of genies; a team of geniuses.


(His voice returns to normal.) The Q&A opened a little chink. (Helped, subtly, by The Numinous One.) (Beat.) But these were no rude mechanicals. (Titania, cloned, maybe?) To be honest, I don’t want to see too much of what goes on behind that curtain. My road to enlightenment is rather long. (I’d “rather” like it to be infinite, as well. But that’s not how it works.) And I have not yet taken many steps. (He smirks again.) (And, with a gait like this, it’s gonna take a while!) (Beat. His voice returns to normal again; the confidence draining. The light dims in parallel.)

That Q&A also helped salve some of the pain – in the right sort of way. But rubbing such ointment on your bruises just reminds you that, why, how, they exist. At first. Sadly, I know they will eventually fade. But, until then, I’ll keep rubbing. It’s good for the soul. And – being brutally blunt – it’s a relief to have pain that’s externally inflicted. In fact, it’s cleansing – good for what’s left of your soul… (if you had one in the first place… – unfortunately, those who are comfortable prefer to remain so; they relish being undisturbed…).

(Pause. He looks at his left wrist. His voice is suddenly urgent.)

Bloody hell: is that the time?!

(We hear the sound of a switch being flicked. The lights instantly fade to darkness. Through a window we may not have noticed before, the first light of dawn very faintly outlines him standing, then limping off stage.)


Footnote…
This would almost certainly read and sound a whole lot better were it written by Deborah Bruce, Theresa Ikoko, Laura Lomas, Chino Odimba, and Ursula Rani Sarma. It would be more cohesive and appealing were it then directed by Róisín McBrinn, assisted by Laura Asare; designed by Lucy Osborne, and lit by Emma Chapman; had its sound designed by Becky Smith; was stage-managed by Breege Brennan; and produced by Emma Waslin and Helen Pringle – all mixed in with a little dose of mischief from Erica Whyman and the RSC (whose staff – especially at The Other Place – are, quite possibly, extremely accommodating and helpful wizards).
     Sadly, though, I fear not even the awe-inspiring vocal, emotional and physical talents of the goddess that is Tanya Moodie (photographed here by Katherine Leedale) could rescue it from its certain failure as pastiche. You never know, though: she’s so incredibly gifted that she could probably make this rubbish break your heart into a thousand pieces….

Wednesday, 18 March 2015

Wall of separation – true humility…
(Part 2: “Parts of it are excellent”)


The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
     Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
     Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
     To me the meanest flower that blows can give
     Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
– William Wordsworth: Ode; Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

For a short while, I lived very near to Terry Pratchett (“in the next village along,” as they say): but, never, as far as I know, passed close by him, or espied him in the cloisters or close of the cathedral we both loved (my photographs of which have illustrated some of this series of posts, as above). His writings, though – and his recent increasingly close relationship with Death: now, of course, brought to its inevitable (although far too early) conclusion (“AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER”) – were always not just entertaining, but inspiring and educational, as well, for me. There was a deep, lightly-worn intelligence behind those gleaming glasses that would not be defeated by any cruelty this world could inflict on him. A man truly aware of his own strengths and weaknesses, I think: who returned Death’s gaze with a steady stare; and, thankfully, we are told, died what we are supposed to call an “easy” death (which is never such: even when it provides relief to the sufferer, those who are left behind inherit an everlasting pain…).

Recently – and which accounts for the gap in posts (and, believe me, I find it very hard, now, not to write; now that the authorial genie has escaped cheekily from its bottle of single malt…) – I too have had intimations of my own mortality (although nothing as serious as Sir Terry’s: just enough to remind me that I am human, and certainly no ‘supercrip’): and can therefore understand more readily why, for many people, such “intimations” provoke a desire for increased meaning in their short lives and the awful world they find themselves in; as well as prompting yearnings for what may lie beyond – why, in a nutshell, religions are born; how creation myths and figures in the night sky emerge… – are we really nothing more than “a flat disc balanced on the backs of four elephants which, in turn, stand on the back of a giant turtle”?


I ended my last post – over a week ago – writing that “without religion the human race would be considerably worse off and there would be little hope for the future.” This is from a book provocatively entitled Is Religion Dangerous? by Keith Ward: who concludes, of course, that it isn’t – although, being a priest, you could say that he’s slightly biased. You will have to read the book yourself to see if you agree, though, that he does a pretty good job of being objective (more so, to my mind, than Richard Squawkins has ever been… – although see “bombastic pontifications”, below).

However, although religion is not where I find my solace (unless you include its buildings and music) – for me that lurks in good books; Wordworth’s “setting sun”; the kindness of strangers; the hesitant transformation of a mild winter into a wind-chilled spring; the serendipitous conversations that pull various parts of your life closer together in a fortunate net of hopes-made-tangible; the hesitant footsteps alongside the Avon as the swans, geese, ducks and coots prepare noisily for the next generation, despite the stinging rain, and the gormless lump of humanity that giggles at their antics standing far too close by (but offering no crumbs nor crusts of sustenance in consolation…) – I understand, and have no problem whatsoever with, those who do.

Surely, we say, glancing at the eclipse, life must have more significance than a mere blink of the universe’s eye (and a blink, at that, which may simply be to remove the discomfiting grit of which we are made). And ask: Do we have a rôle to play? Is there free will? Does anything we do actually matter? Does our vote make any real difference… – especially in an election where we keep being told that there won’t be an outright winner…?

(By the way, in their letter, the bishops warn against such despair: urging us all to vote in the General Election – “Unless we exercise the democratic rights that our ancestors struggled for, we will share responsibility for the failures of the political classes. It is the duty of every Christian adult to vote, even though it may have to be a vote for something less than a vision that inspires us.” A perfect summation, I think….)

In response to those questions, I challenge you to read, say, Rupert Brooke’s Dust and then tell me that any such life (again, too short) with the potential to create such wonderful poetry is unimportant; or listen to Vaughan Williams’, or Nielsen’s, or Beethoven’s fifth symphonies; or stand in the centre of the Rollright Stones at dawn; and tell me that any human life isn’t the most valuable creation possible…. As individuals, we can be great – even if only to our immediate family and friends (which is miracle enough) – but, together, especially, we have the ability, the power, to change the world we live in both for good and for bad. That is the value, the sacred gift, that we have been given. And we should use it wisely. (If only….) It also means, of course, that we, as individuals, should all be listened to by our “neighbours”….


Whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

So allow me to digress – slightly – for a moment. (Just for a change.)

A couple of days ago, I was informed that the Planning Inspector had said “no” (huzzah!) to Gladman’s proposed development on Oxhill Road, and refused their subsequent appeal. (And yet, at the time of writing, I see no emails flying around the village; nor parades marching down Main Street.) Although this, in my Lenten tribulations, obviously raised my spirits a little, and made me realize that the battles the village had fought along the way had proved my supposition, above; I also know that, in fighting those battles, we, as villagers, had sadly demonstrated both of our “good and bad” sides: with infighting (or, more correctly, insurrection) caused by the overgrown egos and immature self-beliefs characteristic, depressingly, of many political activities.

[126] The advice of St Paul in his letter to the Philippians [above] may help to defend us against the temptations of apathy, cynicism and blame, and instead seek – because we are disciples of Jesus Christ who long for a more humane society – a better politics for a better nation.

It is not my place to solve such an issue (although I can listen to the bishops, and then provide ‘encouragement’ so to do…) – despite a continuing strong urge to bang certain thick, disruptive heads together – although I will say (as I have said many times before) that, as a village, we could (and should) have simply stood on our obvious merits, heads held high, and trusted those already responsible for such fights – i.e. the Parish Council (PC) – and supported, rather than hindered, them.

We did not need to raise voices, polish swords, dust off cudgels. Instead of caring for the village (the original motivation, some eighteen or so months ago, for residents’ gatherings and efforts; and the production, back then, of – possibly – the only bulletproof defence required) – as the members of the PC obviously do – there were those who it would not be unfair to accuse of caring more for the sounds of their own bombastic pontifications. Politicians manqué, if you will. Some of them may have had good intentions; but, it appears to me, these few have been led astray (although, of course, should have known better…) by those who think a big old house gives them droit du seigneur over the rest of us mere peasants (especially those whose modern hovels were obviously not built out of ironstone by medieval vassals).

I do not want ‘my’ village ruled or overseen by such people – as the church once was and did – I want it governed collegiately: where everyone is given the opportunity to feel, and be, involved (and not just by belatedly dropping a slip of paper through the door: with no obvious means of return…); and certainly not one where the parish magazine seems to exist just to be unjustifiably spiteful, nasty and vitriolic about people who the author disagrees with, or who he or she feels to be beneath them. (They must be looking through the wrong end of the telescope.)

Is this truly what we as a parish have become? How does this make us appear to those who walk and cycle through this glorious countryside? Visitors must think we have all just emerged from the back door of Cold Comfort Farm; or have not moved on since Akenfield was first published. They must be astonished that we are not all chewing on stalks of hay.


Despite its many shortcomings, to me, the church – and, indeed, many religious organizations – have democracy better ‘sorted’: especially in their regular meetings (and not just to worship) at all levels. Take, for instance, my favourite: Quakerism (where atheists and agnostics are welcome). Nothing is done without the agreement, “at all levels”, of every member. And, although this can mean that drying emulsion looks exciting by comparison, it also means that they are the perfect model of self-government – and one, as a village, we would do well to emulate. Otherwise, we will remain unduly shaped by external forces; rather than – as the (I increasingly believe unnecessary) Neighbourhood Plan is supposed to do – designing and building our own future: and being united as we do so.

To (try and) keep the religious theme going, the connection intact: I suppose what I would hope for is a reversion to ‘first principles’: similar to the initial, pure rules of the Cistercian order of monks, rebelling against the increasingly greedy and corrupt Benedictine brotherhood from which they split in the late eleventh century; or the Dominican and Franciscan friars who followed them, repudiating all personal possessions… – that is (in an extremely roundabout fashion), returning to what the village as a whole thinks is ideal, important, worthy; not just a self-appointed few, ‘in it’ for the power.

Perhaps this is naïve? I certainly seem to have typed that word a lot, recently. But, having shown, in January, last year, just how united the village can be, under threat; I believe it can come together, in the same way, for positive purposes, again – given the opportunity. I have a dream… – and it is one where every resident of the village helps develop, and shares in, a joint vision of our future; and actively takes part in developing that vision, where and when they can. And is not stifled by either jealousness, ignorance, or arrogance.


So what does that have to do with Who is my neighbour? you may ask. Well, just about everything.

[101] But who counts as “we”? It is impossible to ignore the question “who is my neighbour?” It is a question familiar to anyone who has ever picked up a New Testament….

[102] In the gospel, the question “who is my neighbour?” led Jesus to recount the parable of the Good Samaritan. Jesus makes two subtle points, first calling people to follow the example of the Samaritan, the foreigner who went to the aid of the wounded traveller; and secondly, answering the question by suggesting that neighbourliness may mean receiving care from a member of a despised social group. Neighbourliness, then, is not just about what we do for others. It is also about what we are willing to receive from those we fear, ignore or despise.

Do you know your neighbour? (And I don’t just mean your literal neighbour – as the bishops also intimate.) How well? Do you know how they feel about the village’s future; the importance and relevance of the Neighbourhood Plan to them; or are they simply too busy getting on with the increasing complexity and austerity that most of us (who don’t live in “a big old house”, for whatever reason) face in our daily lives? Do they love living here; have they lived here long; and/or do they begrudge the long daily commute to their place of employment? Do they worry about their children’s ability to stay in the village; the affordability of local housing; that we are so environmentally unfriendly in our high consumption of fossil fuels to heat our homes, and feed our cars, that their grandchildren’s lives will be blighted by our inaction; the fact that it is nigh impossible to find a bus that can get you to and from work, if you can’t afford a car in the first place; or get you to the Job Centre on time?

[123] This letter is about building a vision of a better kind of world, a better society and better politics. Underlying those ideas is the concept of virtue – what it means to be a good person, a good politician, a good neighbour or a good community. Virtues are nourished, not by atomised individualism, but in strong communities which relate honestly and respectfully to other groups and communities which make up this nation.

[124] Strong communities are schools of virtue – they are the places where we learn how to be good, how to live well and how to make relationships flourish. They build on the traditions through which each generation learns its national, local and family identity. Virtues are ways of living that can be learned, but which too many trends in recent decades have eroded.

Well, the bishops’ letter discusses most of these things (as you have seen) – and in a way that doesn’t try to score points; that does its best to be inclusive and thoughtful; that shows that it cares about each and every one of us – even if we don’t share their faith. Having read through most of the major political parties’ websites, as well, the Church of England stands out as unique in having a truly moral backbone; and, despite my atheism, I would rather vote for them than any political organization. Why? Because they so obviously care – and, as I said above, that “care” appeals to me because it is for all of their ‘flock’, equally, rather than simply one “hardworking” part of it; and it is not “for the sounds of their own bombastic pontifications”. They therefore lead by example: showing just what is absent from our tawdry, hostile, debasing politics (both nationally and locally); and why those in power must (or should) feel utterly embarrassed and belittled by the Church’s much-needed intervention. (Oh, how “those in power” must sympathize with Henry VIII. “Bring me a glass of water, Cromwell – I’m going to dissolve the monasteries.”)

It is just a shame, that like most front-page news, the letter has quickly vanished from the media: to be overtaken by more important matters, such as Ed’s two kitchens.


But you don’t have to be religious to think like this. Surely, I am proof of that…? (By the way, the obverse also applies: sadly, not all religious people truly care….)

I therefore ask three things of you. Firstly, whatever your religion, sit down, over the long Easter weekend, with a cup of tea or coffee, and read what the bishops have to say, please. Secondly, think what part you play in the village – could that rôle be widened and made more effective: either by expanding what you do; or by getting others, with divergent views and backgrounds, to help? Then, whatever your conclusions, put those thoughts on endless ‘repeat’; and never assume that what you are doing is either right or enough. Finally, next time you see your neighbour, say “Hello”, and with a smile on your face…! Thank you.

Being right is not the same as being righteous…. (Righteousness is usually a quality seen in people who are a pain in the arse.)
– Deborah Orr: The Guardian

Tuesday, 3 February 2015

Being disabled makes you more political. Discuss…


You shall not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind, but you shall fear your God: I am the Lord.
– Leviticus 19:14

The proposition in the title occurred to me whilst writing an email in reply to a letter I had been sent by a representative of Esther McVey, Minister of State for Employment in the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP); itself in response to an earlier email of mine: prompted, in turn, by the minister herself previously replying with a rather misleading (and some may say smug, or disingenuous) letter, to an initial question – raised by my MP, Nadhim Zahawi, on my behalf – to Tory axeman Iain Duncan Smith, Secretary of State for Work and Pensions: asking about his department’s apparent inability to comply with the Equality Act 2010 – in this case, by failing to provide claimants with email addresses for relevant benefits contacts (e.g. enquiries; support desks); and by failing to provide application forms electronically (e.g. as PDFs), that could be filled in on-screen – in other words, fullfilling their “duty to make reasonable adjustments”: and not just in response to my repeated pleas, as a disabled person (having “a physical… impairment that has a ‘substantial’ and ‘long-term’ negative effect on [my] ability to do normal daily activities”); but which they should have carried out, by law, in advance: anticipating my rather obvious needs.

It seems ludicrous to me, that forty-three years after email came into being – and, as I am fond of saying, “I’ve had the same personal(ized) email address for [over] a quarter of a century” – the Government has not yet “adapted to the demands of modern business and communication”, despite many successive (but not successful) attempts at building large computer systems that would enable them to do so (e.g. Universal Credit). I am not a fan of outsourcing Government services (not that there are many left to outsource): but, in this case, there are a myriad of successful examples out there that could be learned from – even, say, Amazon; or, closer to home, one of the many management consultancies that specialize in benefits administration – without these providers then needing to actually run the service, once it has been developed.


The last time I had to submit a form to the DWP (a couple of years ago), it took me many weeks (at a time when I was very, very ill) to unearth a way of completing it electronically (so that I could copy and paste existing information into it; as well as correct any errors coherently, reiteratively, before sending: and therefore minimize my additional pain) – but at least there was then an established process for doing so: it was just hidden at the centre of several increasingly bureaucratic circles of hell. (I am nothing if not stubborn.) However, not all disabled individuals will have the means, the persistence, or the technical skills (built during a career which I miss to this day) to equip them for such a daunting quest: a route which should, really – considering the target ‘audience’ – be highly visible, straightforward, guided, and trace the path of least resistance.

Such hand-holding; such simplicity; such openness and approachability – both personal, and at the heart of a systematic ease-of-use – are the hallmarks of good, modern, caring customer service; and demonstrate a befitting comprehension of the obstacles that an organization’s users, its ‘customers’, are facing. It should surely, therefore, be the default mode in dealing with people whose lives are already full of intractable mental and physical pain and stress; and, when almost everything (and everyone) today is Internet-enabled and -connected, surely it should also offer alternatives to completing large stacks of paperwork by hand to those who would hurt themselves in doing so; as well as providing contact points other than long telephone queues for those who, like myself, are extremely hard of hearing. In other words: ally the medium of communication – in both directions – to the needs of both parties: the little people, as well as the big, faceless, administrative machines. (And then provide those machines with a face: an individual contact point for all those disabled people, using whatever means makes sense – from carrier pigeon to correspondence in Braille; from text message to textphone; from telephone to Twitter; email to supportive home visit.)

In these austere times, perhaps there is, though – as well as a deficiency of dosh (well, for those not in the top one percent) – also a shortage of the willingness, the sympathy and (even) empathy required to achieve such goals – especially in Government circles? (I don’t just propose all this ‘soft’ stuff to be of service to those on the receiving end, by the way. If the Government improved its systems, its ‘hard’ technology – I was recently told that all evidence from home visits is copied by hand: including bank statements; and that computers are restricted to office use (instead of being left on trains) – and exchanged its reliance on handwritten paperwork for the processing of digital data – it would, in the medium to long term, save billions of pounds: which could not only pay for such up-to-date services; but help improve the lives of those they are supposed to serve – both with the resulting savings; and with a proper analytical basis for their delivery.)


So… the last time I had to submit a form to the DWP, surprisingly, not only did it arrive electronically, it came with a page of instructions, and even an email address for support; as well as one to send the finished article back to (which I did, with several supplementary attachments, as permitted). It was therefore perfectly suited to my requirements – not just because of my condition (although this was, of course, the major reason); but because a great deal of the information required already existed in various digital formats. It wasn’t, by any means, an easy or painless task – but it could have been a lot worse: as I have just discovered. (Sadly, it turns out, once my documents arrived at their destination, they were, I am told, almost certainly printed for storage, rather than kept in their original digital state. However – two years later – as you might have guessed, they cannot be found; not that I think anyone is really looking for them.)


The next time I had to submit a form to the DWP (a month ago, in fact), faced with thirty-four forbidding pages to fill in, this was my reaction:

Completing this form… has caused me more increased pain, exhaustion, and anguish than I have known in a long time – and over an extended period. (And, as an activity I would not normally dare undertake, it will impact on my health for even longer than it took to produce.) Not just the physical pain of assembling the words – a lot of which I ended up typing, rather than my usual dictation: because the stresses on my mind (Had I forgotten something important? Was I making sense?) and body (leaning over the table with my pen; or my tablet with a stylus; or my fingers with a keyboard – all as I moved around the house, sitting in different places, different positions: to avoid locking up, and increasing my discomfort) were such that my speech became hesitant, slurred and non-fluent; indecipherable… – but also that mental anguish: as I struggled to work out exactly what, and how much, information was required; kept discovering gaps and mistakes in my initial answers that required constant revision; and debated in what format I might manage to produce them. (Processes that I believe most other respondents – being badly disabled, by definition – must also go through.)
     I was told [that completing forms electronically] was now not allowed (with no good reason provided, to my mind – especially as this [form] is for the most seriously disabled); and I rapidly discovered handwriting more than a few words had become impossible (both for legibility, as well as the limitations of its intense physical torment…). I am disabled – increasingly so. And that disability means that completing forms is beyond my usual ever-narrowing limits. I am no ‘supercrip’, though, in going beyond them. I am simply doing this to gain the benefit that I believe is rightfully mine. (And, so far, it has taken me over forty fragmented hours of growing wretchedness and ever-decreasing productivity to provide it.)

By the way, the only excuse I was given for not being “allowed” to complete the form electronically was the purported issue of security (this, from the minister’s representative):

Due to the sensitive nature of customer details, there are very few instances where the DWP… would correspond by email. Once an email is outside of the government secure network any information cannot be classed as secure. We work to strict security guidelines to protect customer information.

However, in the original letter, the minister herself had written:

This way [email] of communicating is now widely used within the Jobcentre Plus network and is promoted at every opportunity.

Although I found this doublethink somewhat amusing (ha-ha); and had to laugh at the ironic triple bombardment of “secure” and “security” – especially coming from a Government that wishes to read, listen to, and store every single byte of our digital utterances for eternity deep within the vaults of GCHQ – I did wonder why my previous submission had been so readily accepted by email. However, I countered with this:

Surely, if an applicant is happy to provide their information in this way (which, to my mind, is no worse than sending personal information – including bank account details – through the mail in obvious brown, DWP-branded envelopes; especially as these then frequently get lost on their way to the correct section…): fully au fait with the limits of Internet security – which they could sign a statement to acknowledge – then that covers any liabilities you feel you may have.

Of course, the Government could – in addition; or instead – set up Web-based, secure, encrypted communication channels or apps for us to use – as the banks, etc. have been doing for a while. But perhaps this suggestion is simply too technologically advanced. (And maybe provides unwanted convenience for the end-user.)


Sitting here, then, at five o’clock in the morning: not being able to sleep, because none of my usual analgesics (including large doses of both codeine and morphine) have made the slightest impact on what I can only really describe as my consequent ‘agonies’, I have to ask: Why is something so apparently simple so utterly difficult? I feel as if I am living in an antiquated Kafka-esque world with a welfare system very much skewed in favour of the State; and where government is delivered through the over-complexity of administration; the under-supply of knowledge; and a complete lack of common sense – somewhat in the manner of Terry Gilliam’s stunningly prophetic film, Brazil.

I would have hoped (perhaps a smidgen idealistically, I admit) that the DWP – an organization that deals daily with thousands of disabled people (many worse off even than myself) – would be much more sympathetic, or even empathetic (a power they could begin to absorb by observing us struggling with/testing their communication systems…). Sadly, the reality – as I read in the news almost every day – is very, very different. We have a health service that can no longer afford to care for the unhealthy, or meet its targets; a benefits system which bestows little benefit, or benefaction – or even social security – if any, on those who receive its meagre payments (until they are sanctioned for the sake of targets). Money flows from the poor to the rich; and we are expected to know our place: like some over-disciplined Victorian child, neither being seen nor heard.

I personally, therefore, have become increasingly political, as I have become increasingly disabled. But does this also hold for others in my position?


Before I go on, I have a wonderful ‘warning’ note, from Erving Goffman’s 1963 book, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity –

The problems associated with militancy are well known. When the ultimate political objective is to remove stigma from the differentness, the individual may find that his very efforts can politicize his own life, rendering it even more different from the normal life initially denied him – even though the next generation of his fellows may greatly profit from his efforts by being more accepted. Further, in drawing attention to the situation of his own kind he is in some respects consolidating a public image of his differentness as a real thing and of his fellow-stigmatized as constituting a real group. On the other hand, if he seeks some kind of separateness, not assimilation, he may find that he is necessarily presenting his militant efforts in the language and style of his enemies…. His disdain for a society that rejects him can be understood only in terms of that society's conception of pride, dignity, and independence. In short unless there is some alien culture on which to fall back, the more he separates himself structurally from the normals, the more like them he may become culturally.


In 1960, Beatrice Wright wrote – in Physical Disability: A Psychological Approach (later revised as A Psychosocial Approach) – that…

Although it is important to understand that a person with a disability often shares problems in common with members of other minority groups, there are some marked differences. One of the most significant is that he rarely has the kind of group sanction and personal valuation that endorses behavior reflecting the disability. Rather, the typical advice is to appear as much like a nondisabled person as possible, and his adjustment is often measured in terms of his skill as an actor.

There was therefore, originally, no political cohesion amongst disabled people, because (at least from a medical perspective) “disabled people” are all different – although this also applies, of course, to “members of other minority groups”, just in many more respects: in that we all have different disabilities or impairments; different ‘levels’ of disability; and therefore unique needs. However, as part of the growth of civil rights movements (including gay rights and women’s rights) during the 1960s and 1970s, there was a realization of – as Carolyn Vash (1981) puts it – “the psychological benefits of belonging to a group with a solid, political power base”: and therefore the emergence, additionally, of ‘disability rights’. In parallel, what later became known as ‘the social model’ of disability began to develop:

The social model of disability is a reaction to the dominant medical model of disability which in itself is a functional analysis of the body as machine to be fixed in order to conform with normative values. The social model of disability identifies systemic barriers, negative attitudes and exclusion by society (purposely or inadvertently) that mean society is the main contributory factor in disabling people. While physical, sensory, intellectual, or psychological variations may cause individual functional limitation or impairments, these do not have to lead to disability unless society fails to take account of and include people regardless of their individual differences. The origins of the approach can be traced to the 1960s; the specific term emerged from the United Kingdom in the 1980s.

There are problems with both the medical and social models (as well as all their offshoots). However, my personal view – after many years of thought – is that you probably need a bit of both.

The ultimate objective of equality and human rights movements is not about dividing up finite resources among competing interest groups, but deciding priorities through debate and democratic argument. It is about genuinely involving people in the decisions that affect their lives.

(I don’t want to go into too much detail here: so, if you’re really interested in this kind of thing – i.e. disability rights, politics, and history – then may I suggest getting hold of a copy of Tom Shakespeare’s brilliant, seminal, book, Disability Rights and Wrongs. Chapter 3, Critiquing the social model, and Chapter 5, Labels and badges: The politics of disability identity, will tell you much of what you need. However, if you desire something a little more concise: then this 1985 article, by Harlan Hahn, also comes very highly recommended; and is a very good introduction.)


Politics deals with messy and complicated situations. For this reason, the study of politics is concerned not only with the political ideal, but also with the best that can be achieved here and now.
– The King’s College, New York City: What is politics?

If you accept that “Politics is the realm in which we attempt to realize some of our highest aspirations: our desire for political freedom, our longing for justice, our hope for peace and security”; then, to be honest, I think being disabled politicizes you, whether you like it or not. You are – even if you don’t have a fully paid-up membership card – part of a group of people with certain broad, shared characteristics, fighting – still, after all these years (especially, in the UK, because of the Government’s repeated use of its looped “shirker” meme) – for any or all of: acceptance; accessibility; rights; positivity; benefits. It is a different ‘sort’ of politics, though:

…the political activism of the handicapped… seems to represent a style of politics not entirely captured by the labels ‘instrumental,’ ‘expressive,‘ or ‘symbolic.’ This fourth political modality, while equally symbolic, primarily concerns not status, life style, or morality, but rather identity or being. While such social movements may have strong instrumental components, insofar as they seek to effect changes in public policy, they consciously endeavor to alter both the self-concepts and societal conceptions of their participants. Political goals and strategies often become a vehicle for the symbolic manipulation of person and the public presentation of self.

However, it is also a form of politics that has grown – like all “civil rights” movements – out of deep, humiliating, life-destroying oppression. There is a signficant difference, though; which is what, I believe, makes it so much more personal, individual – with perhaps as many definitions as there are disabled people:

There is no doubt that the history of disabled people is littered with the most grotesque and inhumane attempts to wipe them off the face of this earth – even progressive socialists, like the Fabians, of the early twentieth century supported the idea of eugenics to create a super race until Hitler’s experiments with it consigned the idea to the scrapheap. Of course, the first step towards unwinding this hatred would be to promote positive images of disabled people, of the excavation of a hidden history of great contributions, of heroic stories, of moving towards light and glory, of asserting the right to exist, of being and becoming visible. It has been the inevitable pattern, with some variations, of the feminist, anti-racist and gay movements among others. But this is where the similarity ends, or should end. Whereas the attributes of sex or race or sexual orientation become a ‘handicap’ because of patriarchy, racism or heterosexism, there is a point at which impairment becomes a ‘handicap’ not merely because of disablism but a condition which can cause pain, discomfort, aggravation and frustration to the individual concerned, regardless of how far society travels in its attitudes and how far technology succeeds in bridging that gap.

There is still, though, a rift between organized disability politics and the inadvertent politics of the disabled individual:

The challenges we face at the beginning of the 21st Century demand that our slogan ‘nothing about us without us’ speaks to and of our diversity. We should constantly be asking and adjusting to who ‘us’ is. It must now speak less of our separateness and difference and more of our interdependence and connection with others. Critically it must be about seeking to share control and responsibility, not simply taking control.
     Redressing injustice still requires a politics of recognition, but this should no longer be reduced to a question of group identity or allegiance: rather, it requires a politics aimed at overcoming the barriers which prevent all individuals, families and communities participating as full members of society; it requires a politics aimed at overcoming the misrecognition they individually face….
     Disabled people who are or have been associated with disability politics and have been active in the movement… must accept that what is ultimately important to the individual is their own and their loved ones’ life chances, not those of the group one is considered to belong to. It is little comfort to an unemployed Bangladeshi woman with mental health problems – among the most disadvantaged of all people in Britain – to know that disabled people’s employment rate has improved by 8 percentage points over the last decade. This is especially so when it is clear that neither the disability movement nor the social policy programmes aimed at improving disabled people’s employment opportunity, have gone anywhere near recognising and responding to the complex barriers she is likely to face. Why should she feel part of a movement in which she is invisible?


To be honest, after all that, I don’t actually know if disabled people, however “inadvertently politicized”, are more politically active – either individually, at the ‘grass roots’, or as part of an organization – than others who have things to fight for, or about (in our case, particularly the social – and economic – aspects of our lives). Available figures would indicate not. This lack of involvement is, sadly, also reflected in Parliament (perhaps because of any of the social, economic and medical barriers to mobilization; and will not be helped by the withdrawal of the Access to Elected Office for Disabled People Fund happening, with perfect timing, next month: just as the General Election hits its stride…). In fact, according to Disability Politics UK, which “is campaigning to get the law changed to enable Members of Parliament to job share – a crucial step in addressing the under-representation of disabled people in public and political life”…

There are over 10 million disabled people in the UK. Yet there are only a handful of MPs who have declared that they are disabled….
     The House of Commons is not representative of the electorate. The House of Commons has 650 MPs. Of these 650 [as of 2012], there are 504 male MPs, so women are seriously under represented. There are 27 MPs of black and minority ethnic [BAME] origin, but there would need to be 55-60 [BAME] MPs to be representative of the [BAME] population. There… would need to be 65 disabled MPs to be representative of the number of disabled people in the population.

… which is why I probably keep hitting my head against its Anston limestone walls. One day, just one day, given the density of my skull, I may just break through….

Sunday, 30 November 2014

Ignorantia iuris nocet…

…or one rule for us, and six for the others…

Men’s hearts ought not to be set against one another, but set with one another, and all against evil only.
– Thomas Carlyle

When Keith Risk first stood up, in the village hall, just over a year ago, to ask for help in fighting the proposed development on Oxhill Road, one of his themes was unity: uniting the village residents in opposition; uniting with our neighbouring villages; and uniting with – and supporting – our Parish Council in their crucial and central gubernatorial rôle.

As with all councils or governments – national, regional, district, town, parish – Tysoe Parish Council only achieves its aims, its many successes, through longstanding rules and procedures: which define how it works, what its remit is, how meetings are held – i.e. due process. Surely, the only way we can win this battle is by playing by the rules?

However, it has become increasingly apparent over the last year that some people – perhaps because they live in big houses, and they feel this makes them important, and gives them an unearned (high) status: enabling them not only to flout these rules, but to render subservient people and regulations that stand in their way… – somehow believe that They Are The Law; and that What They Say Is Always Right; and that they can selectively pick and mix whatever legislation suits them; or just ride roughshod through anything that gets in their way. It seems that people who live in big houses do sometimes throw stones – but not necessarily in the right direction, or for the right reason. Did we really need to show a divided face to the Planning Inspector? Two faces do not make anyone more appealing.


So it is that, at tomorrow evening’s Parish Council meeting, a hare-brained scheme to somehow win over Eric Pickles, the current Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government – more “rapacious” even than the developers that our hard-working MP has christened – will be thrust forward: and without any warning whatsoever being given to our beleaguered Parish Councillors. There are rules for how much notice must be given for such things; and there are also the mores of common decency and politeness, of course. But none of these seem to matter to those who come across as thinking themselves above such things. In fact their actions give the impression that they envisage themselves as puppet-masters: attempting to take control and untangle the strings of what they must consider a hapless Parish Council – twisting their necks into agonized positions so that they can actually manage to look down on a peerless and humble group of people who work extremely hard in looking after this village extremely well.

“Due process” of course, also includes the fact that our Parish Council is democratically chosen, and involves the residents in its decisions. It is not self-selecting, dictatorial, or arrogant.


What has prompted this anger is the following email: which has been sent under the guise of helping the village, when, to me (and many others) it shows obvious signs of self-promotion. (I have therefore removed the name at the top to protect both the guilty and the innocent.) It went flying around certain quarters of the village early today (fuelled by bigheaded petrol?); but appears not to have been sent to Parish Councillors (certainly not the PC’s chair), or those who are known to be democratic, or even, in my case, somewhat anarchistic (in that people have to earn their respect from me – admittedly not easily won – rather than expect me to get down on one knee and tug where my forelock used to be, just because they've told me that they are important).

…the rule 6 group intends to go to the parish council meeting on Monday to ask that the Gladman planning application be recovered by the Secretary of State. This would mean that the appeal inspectors decision, due by January 20th, would become a recommendation and the Secretary of State would then decide on in due course. The appeal can be recovered in the case where the site is “greater than five acres and would significantly impact upon the governments objective to secure a better balance between housing supply and demand and create high quality, sustainable mixed and inclusive communities.” Given the state of the neighbourhood plan which shows that the Gladman site is the least popular in the village, the village is not in favour of such a large scale development and the village wants more local involvement in development [the group] would argue that the Gladman application should be recovered.

[The group] would like the parish council to ask for the application to be recovered so as to add weight to any individual requests. A recovery would also buy more time for the neighbourhood plan. The Neighbourhood planning group [sic] would welcome any support on this matter at the parish council meeting on Monday.

There will be more information and explanation at the parish council meeting.


There are many things wrong with this email – primarily that Eric Pickles (once nicknamed Jabba the Cut) is infamous for gobbling up little villages such as ours (the tragic case of our neighbour Hook Norton should be warning enough); and drawing his attention to our little corner of Warwickshire will do nothing to improve matters. In fact, with the Corporate Strategy on permanent hold – possibly until Councillor Saint or Sinner is held to account – then any attempts to delay a decision being made re Gladman’s desire to carpet-bomb us with little houses made of ticky-tacky will simply be futile. It is the modern-day equivalent of Oliver Twist asking the master for “some more”. (And eighty houses is much more than enough, thank you.)

Secondly, as stated above, as the Parish Council has not been notified of this agenda item in advance, how will there be time for “information and explanation”? If past meetings are anything to go by (and they usually are), this looks suspiciously like agenda-hijacking: with self-inflated egos launching their inflated hyperbole from their inflatable pulpits. It is high time someone took a ruddy big needle to puncture such people’s self-seeking narcissism. Living in a palace does not make you a king.

Thirdly, if you actually read the relevant legislation and recent associated guidance, it says:

A “recovered inquiry” is basically a planning appeal (against a local authority’s decision) which the Secretary of State can decide to determine himself, rather than allowing a planning inspector to take the final decision, as is the normal process. The law stems from section 79 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1990.

But the “local authority”, Stratford-on-Avon District Council (SDC), is on our side – isn’t it? So this is not against its decision… – unless, of course, you are in favour of, or even backing, the development: which would mean that the final nail has been driven into the coffin not only of unity itself, but also the pretence that there ever was any.

It is also hectares, not acres, by the way:

…proposals for residential development of over 150 units or on sites of over 5 hectares, which would significantly impact on the Government's objective to secure a better balance between housing demand and supply and create high quality, sustainable, mixed and inclusive communities…

…and, although the application site itself comprises approximately 5.4 hectares, the “potential developable area” is only “3.9Ha (approx) for up to 80 houses” – so I do not know if this is relevant (surrounded as it is by Tory doublespeak).

Finally, the ‘note’ I am quoting from allows for the “Use of neighbourhood plans and housing”:

On 10 July 2014 the Secretary of State announced that he would like to “consider the extent to which the Government’s intentions are being achieved on the ground”, in relation to the neighbourhood planning regime introduced under the Localism Act 2011. For a period of 12 months the recovery criteria has now been amended to include: proposals for residential development of over 10 units in areas where a qualifying body has submitted a neighbourhood plan proposal to the local planning authority: or where a neighbourhood plan has been made.

But how is the email’s claim that “the village is not in favour of such a large scale development and the village wants more local involvement in development” going to sway Eric Piggles – when he has a track-record of paying lip-service to localism and treading roughshod over what villages want or need? And how is it going to “add weight to any individual requests”? And who are these individuals? And what are they requesting? More poppadoms…? You cannot appeal to a fellow dictator, and expect them to suddenly change their tune because they see their own arrogance reflected in your eyes. Do we really want to make a pact with the devil?


The reason why the world lacks unity, and lies broken and in heaps, is, because man is disunited with himself.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

This is not a decision for anyone to make but the Parish Council. And there is a good reason they have not proposed it themselves – not because they are unaware of it (their knowledge of the current planning régime is demonstrably excellent), but because they believe that it is the equivalent of tilting at windmills: pointless and self-defeating.

There is currently a great deal of apathy with regards to politics: and, sadly, it seems to have seeped to its very grassroots. This does not mean that we should just let ourselves be bossed around though, by usurpers, without questioning the motivations and knowledge of those who would claim to represent us. Instead, we should support the Parish Council: because they represent us. We should support them because they know what they are doing and are not in it for the glory. We should support them because, as a body with true power, they have the true needs of the village seared into their hearts and brains. We should therefore support them because they know what is right, and do the right thing.

There is more power in unity than division.
– Emanuel Cleaver

Monday, 6 October 2014

Who is it that can tell me who I am…?


If you want an analogy, all the colours are present right across the tapestry. There are 20 colours, that’s why it’s so thick. But the machine brings the colour to the surface when it’s needed. I think that’s an analogy for our character. We’ve got all of ourselves there, but the bit that’s necessary in any given moment comes to the surface. So, with my daughter, I’m a father. When I’m in the studio, I’m an artist. When I’m out, I’m ‘Grayson Perry’. So you ask what your identifiers are – artist, tranny, father, man, motorcyclist – and you’ve got a hierarchy of things. And that’s the nature of identity, isn’t it?
– Grayson Perry, interviewed by Simon Hattenstone

Over the past couple of weeks or so, I’ve managed to publish a blog post, on average, every other day. In fact, I had a run of four consecutive days, as the summerlike fruits of September morphed into the autumnal ebb of October – at a time when my various infirmities insolently ganged up on me, instead of patiently and politely waiting their turn. Considering the enormous effort it takes to produce a sentence that I’m reasonably happy with; or at least – like a proud but reluctant parent, regarding their offspring as they venture out on their own for the first time – let stand up on its own feet in public, this hints at a couple of my identities: that of sick (old) man raging, raging “against the dying of the light” of my inconstant health; and of writer… – and how, when I am unwell, one of the ways I cope is to express myself with the written word: something that brings me satisfaction, if not delight.

You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age, wretched in both.
– Shakespeare: King Lear

I can be either of these “identities” without necessarily clinging on to the other: but, when I am ill, I have the time to fill (of course – however condensed in reality); and yet, then, each utterance is won with greater grind – “and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain” – although I believe that the combination thus provokes a different character of creativity: “That every word doth almost tell my name”.


Although I consume words as well as produce them (by a very hefty ratio in favour of the former…), I find I read differently – as well as write more volubly – when, say, confined to bed: either more deeply and deferentially, savouring the words, their meanings and context; or from a height where the words themselves are almost invisible, and I skip sparingly over them, hardly leaving evidence of my presence on their pages. Usually, I take a middle path: but I find, say, a headache can lead to text as solid distraction (drilling down into it) or as hollow diversion (when I float above it).

In some ways, the same can be said of my writing: and, although the results (following prolonged major linguistic surgery) can be identical, they come about, again, as a result of taking very different routes: what you could call ‘determined’ (i.e. it’s what I meant to say – but perhaps not how I meant to say it…) and ‘unintended’ (i.e. external and internal factors have led me to discover serendipitous congruences – possibly dug deep from my subconscious; encouraged by my medication; or simply that, as Elgar believed, “music is in the air all around you, you just take as much of it as you want” – what I call “Always listening to the breeze in the trees”).

Frequently, after I have storm-trooped my way through some idiosyncratic rant, I am then left without any neat way of concluding… – and it is often, then, that this latter ‘technique’ comes into play: my thoughts having stewed deep inside my shrinking brain; or been hung out to mature in the countryside around, before returning through an open window, (not quite, but nearly) fully-formed.


Articulate as I can be in print; in person, however, I know (and accept) that I am somewhat more taciturn and less coherent. A fundamental reason for this is – to paraphrase Virginia Woolf – that I must have room of my own if I am to write, to create, and not just follow a script: that is, not just satisfying a “need for poetic license and the personal liberty to create art”; but privacy (even if that isolation is an illusion, a bubble of seclusion in the middle of the hubbub of the RSC’s Riverside Café – where the fading-to-background hurly-burly acts as insulation from those around me…).

Only then may I bring “to the surface” the part (rôle and/or fraction) of me labelled ‘writer’ – or, more accurately, ‘creator’ or ‘composer’ (or even ‘inventor’) – and yet this is an identity that very few will witness in the flesh. In some ways, therefore, it could be said that this is as close to the ‘real’ me as can exist: except, of course – because I know this portrayal will make appearances in public… – it is still an highly-edited version.

But the writing is also public…. Its source is perhaps the very source of fiction itself – the mysterious and compulsive need to find a rhythm and an artful tone to suggest and communicate the most private feelings and imaginings and facts to someone else, to make sentences which will move from mirroring the writer to allowing the reader to catch a more intense glimpse of the world.
– Colm Tóibín: A grief observed

Monday, 24 February 2014

The good strife…

The modern artist must live by craft and violence. His gods are violent gods. Those artists, so called, whose work does not show this strife, are uninteresting.
– Ezra Pound

I was talking to a good friend of mine, recently – Duke Senior to my Jaques; or Corin to my Touchstone…? – about the conflict or strife that we both believe is at the heart of artistry. Having written, drawn, composed, and designed things for most of my life, I have always been interested in what motivates or fuels the process of creating. [Interestingly, ‘motivated art’ is defined as that “produced under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs” – but I think imagination, or whatever spurs one to produce something (hopefully, original and interesting), is medication (and motivation) enough: often pushing you in directions you would never have dreamed of, if not under its influence. (Although I am still convinced that I play the piano much, much better after two pints of Guinness, of course.)]

A lot of creative people I know, or have met, talk about “striving” for their art – but modern-day usage seems to have disunited the word ‘strive’ and its sister ‘strife’ (implying that one is good, one bad): even though both appear to have joint thirteenth-century origins in the Old French ‘estriver’. Strife itself, as a noun, is usually defined as “angry or violent struggle; conflict”; whilst striving, the verb, is about making “a great and tenacious effort”. Yin and yang?

Going back even further, Hesiod – who lived towards the end of the eighth century BC; and who I suppose you could call a ‘farmer-philosopher’ (whose natural successor, therefore, is Tysoe’s legendary character, Tew…) – discusses these two types of strife in his seminal Works and Days: classifying them as good competition and bad conflict.

So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife [Eris] alone, but all over the earth there are two. As for the one, a man would praise her when he came to understand her; but the other is blameworthy: and they are wholly different in nature. For one fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man loves; but perforce, through the will of the deathless gods, men pay harsh Strife her honour due.

But the other is the elder daughter of dark Night [Nyx], and the son of Cronos who sits above and dwells in the aether, set her in the roots of the earth: and she is far kinder to men. She stirs up even the shiftless to toil; for a man grows eager to work when he considers his neighbour, a rich man who hastens to plough and plant and put his house in good order; and neighbour vies with neighbour as he hurries after wealth. This Strife is wholesome for men. And potter is angry with potter, and craftsman with craftsman, and beggar is jealous of beggar, and minstrel of minstrel.
– translated by Hugh G Evelyn-White


This isn’t to say that great works of art haven’t been inspired (if that’s the right word…) by great conflict – such as Pablo Picasso’s overwhelming Guernica; Benjamin Britten’s intense and moving War Requiem; and most of Wilfred Owen’s published œuvre (never to be surpassed…) – plus, of course, there have been official ‘war artists’: such as John Nash, Stanley Spencer, and Eric Ravilious. It could also be posited that this blog would not have existed were it not for the local war against unsuitable and unsustainable development….

I did write, though, in an earlier post, that my work “stems from antithesis, from conflict: whether flippancy and earnestness; art and science; good and bad; happiness and sadness”; and it is this inner friction, I suppose (combined with a wish always to improve, to learn) – rather than the external competition Hesiod describes – that often initiates inspiration, and then translates it into prolonged perspiration (usually interspersed with huge chunks of doubt…). As Blake put it: “Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.”

If I lost this urge, I would – having experienced it all my life – feel its loss as keenly as the removal of one of my senses. (And being hard of hearing – and currently completely anosmic: due to the ravages of some awful virus… – this isn’t just mere whimsy.) But do those who never (or infrequently) have such an impulse miss it too? I often hear people wish that they could play a musical instrument: but this is usually in comparison with someone who already does; and usually is mere whimsy.


The prompt for my discussion with ‘Duke Senior’ was the (apparent) lack of creativity of modern Denmark: apparently the happiest nation on earth – followed closely by Norway and Switzerland – and thus lacking “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower”. [I must admit that – as with the old challenge to list famous Belgians – I struggle to name any creative Dane since Carl Nielsen (whose Det Uudslukkelige symphony echoes the First World War…): apart from Arne Jacobsen – and he died in 1971!]

As Harry Lime says in The Third Man (an impromptu line, added during filming, by Orson Welles himself…):

You know what the fellow said – in Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace – and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

Although historically inaccurate, it does have a convenient ring of truth to it!


Does creativity really, therefore, require strife or conflict – internal or external – to exist; or even to succeed?

I believe it at least matters. And I believe it is visible; made manifest. It seems that in many of the arts – if not all – the artist has grown to be more important than the actual art, though; the idea more important than its implementation. There is no strife (and it could be said that the only god is Mammon); and I believe its absence in many glib, calculated, knowing – mostly modern – supposed works of art is also, therefore, visible: which is why I believe it “will undoubtedly be seen as crass and talentless; and will fall into the Room 101 of already-discarded, faded-from-memory, trash.”

It may be crafty; but it lacks craftsmanship. It may be artful; but it ain’t art.