Looking back on yesterday's carol service, two very different reflections - one mine, the other from a total stranger. Mine first, though. And this was how strange it was to hear a poem of mine read by someone else - for yesterday was only the second time this has happened to me. Suddenly something intensely personal takes on its own life - grows up, if you like - and heads off into the world in the manner of your child going off to school holding someone else's hand. Furthermore, because another person reads with different phrasing, the words take on a different resonance, so that yesterday I heard something new, even though I knew it was coming. The first time this happened, some years ago, I didn't know that the person leading the meditation was going to use a piece of mine, and I found myself thinking "this is very familiar - I wonder who wrote it"...
The second feedback of the day came in a chance meeting in the street, when a woman whose husband had attended the service reported to Mr B that he had enjoyed the singing immensely - but that it was of course a younger choir than was usual in Dunoon, with young voices. And I thought of our group, reading glasses and all, average age pushing 60 - and smiled.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Waiting
Candlelight and darkness. Music, words, silence. The Advent Carol Service at Holy Trinity was filled with a real sense of expectation - the advent expectation that is so distinct from the celebration of Christmas. Such was the matching of readings to readers, such the mystery of the music which is God's highway, that the listeners seemed to have stopped breathing. Even the dog lying at the feet of its owner - someone who hadn't even known the service was to happen, who had been spirited in, dog and all, at the end of an afternoon walk - made no sound. As Merton's words had it, intellects ...quieter than the flocks that feed by starlight.
And at the end, how joyful we all seemed, greeting one another at the back of the church over mulled wine and mince pies! We do things in style on our damp hill - and at moments such as these, our poverty matters not a bit. We are wealthy beyond reason.
And at the end, how joyful we all seemed, greeting one another at the back of the church over mulled wine and mince pies! We do things in style on our damp hill - and at moments such as these, our poverty matters not a bit. We are wealthy beyond reason.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Mrs Blethers, I presume?
I can't resist blogging this historic meeting. Ewan and I have never managed to meet on Second Life until this evening, and here we are! Not that we had much to say - the background music from the pub inhibited using voice, and then he vanished to go and replace his battery - but I was amused to see how like his FL self he looks. Maybe it's an age thing - the avatars I meet who are of my generation in FL are infinitely more way-out looking. Why wear a T shirt and jeans when you can have wings, I say - though my avatar and I do have a pink streak in common.We're standing in the rotunda where the Edublogs awards ceremony will shortly begin. I'll update later.
Update: No win this time - but a very odd experience to have so many people there that the sim was closed. The sound quality was intermittently excellent but broke up completely at times, and the time lag for actions and text was pronounced. And if I were to comment on the proceedings, I'd say they were unnecessarily bumbling - it was very hard to make out who had won what with all that low-key announcing and lack of reprise.
Can't see how SL can progress as a tool until it can accommodate more than a handful of people at a time.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Shopping spree
A visit to Glasgow is always interesting, whether because of the improbable amount of cash one can get through or the sights and sounds of my native city. Today it was a bit of both. We were leaving the car park (Cambridge Street - wildly expensive if you stay beyond 2 hours) when we overheard a woman talking into a mobile. "No, I'm not happy." "I'm not going to fall out with you. See you next week." The woman must've been my age, I'd say. Friend? Lover? Fascinating.
And then to Fazzi's for a quick expresso. Two pretty girls serving, three tables occupied with people wanting tea or coffee - nothing fancy. Fifteen minutes after we'd ordered I asked if the coffee was on its way; pg1 looked positively hurt. Good coffee, when it came, but sloooow. And there was no loo paper in the Ladies. Has Fazzi's changed hands or merely slipped sadly downhill?
And finally, brethren, there was a street evangelist, right at Donald Dewar's green feet. He was thundering, somewhat repetitively, against all those who were "shacked up together". God has it in for them, big style, apparently. Three girls passed, giggling at his fervour. For a suicidal moment I considered a bit of heckling, but Mr B was pressing on and sense prevailed. He was still at it, on a different pitch, after our long and bibulous lunch.
Actually that wasn't all. There were the beggars, like the kneeling woman. I've seen her on several occasions - she kneels stock still in the street with her hands cupped as if to receive communion. She's amazingly still. I don't know if people give her anything, just as I don't know what kind of life the children have whom I saw playing accordions in the street with a man who could have been their father. They were very accomplished, and the smaller must have been about 8 years old. And I contrasted their chilly labours with the hilarity we enjoyed buying baby books.
Shops overheated and full of shiny things, and cold and disappointment outside. A God of anger and punishment proclaimed in streets where buskers play jolly carols under the lights. People anxiously spending in the celebration of ... what? And over it all, Donald Dewar's statue calmly watching through his now restored specs. You don't get the same perspective, somehow, when you shop online...
And then to Fazzi's for a quick expresso. Two pretty girls serving, three tables occupied with people wanting tea or coffee - nothing fancy. Fifteen minutes after we'd ordered I asked if the coffee was on its way; pg1 looked positively hurt. Good coffee, when it came, but sloooow. And there was no loo paper in the Ladies. Has Fazzi's changed hands or merely slipped sadly downhill?
And finally, brethren, there was a street evangelist, right at Donald Dewar's green feet. He was thundering, somewhat repetitively, against all those who were "shacked up together". God has it in for them, big style, apparently. Three girls passed, giggling at his fervour. For a suicidal moment I considered a bit of heckling, but Mr B was pressing on and sense prevailed. He was still at it, on a different pitch, after our long and bibulous lunch.
Actually that wasn't all. There were the beggars, like the kneeling woman. I've seen her on several occasions - she kneels stock still in the street with her hands cupped as if to receive communion. She's amazingly still. I don't know if people give her anything, just as I don't know what kind of life the children have whom I saw playing accordions in the street with a man who could have been their father. They were very accomplished, and the smaller must have been about 8 years old. And I contrasted their chilly labours with the hilarity we enjoyed buying baby books.
Shops overheated and full of shiny things, and cold and disappointment outside. A God of anger and punishment proclaimed in streets where buskers play jolly carols under the lights. People anxiously spending in the celebration of ... what? And over it all, Donald Dewar's statue calmly watching through his now restored specs. You don't get the same perspective, somehow, when you shop online...
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Another poem
I've just posted a new poem over on frankenstina. It was written after midnight one night last week, when I was overcome with the complex syntax and scrupulous attention to detail in a passage from a book by Michael Ramsey. Usually I would enjoy reading such material, but at that time of night, and overcome with the demands of the season on both church musician and domestic goddess - you will recall that at times I am both - I couldn't cope.
Sometimes, in fact, I believe that God-talk demands poetry: language so filled with potential that the spaces between the words are full of angels. The sceptic would say this is a cop-out, but the sceptic presumably has never heard the angel-song.
Sometimes, in fact, I believe that God-talk demands poetry: language so filled with potential that the spaces between the words are full of angels. The sceptic would say this is a cop-out, but the sceptic presumably has never heard the angel-song.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Slanglican match
Goodness, these folks over at Anglicans Online have fairly come over all petted about the Anglican Cathedral on Second Life. Their patronising tone can be sussed by this statement:"We've no quarrel with groups of Anglicans choosing to mess about in SL", and they nail their Web 1.0 credentials firmly to the mast thus: "We've been messing about on the net since the late 1960s, when one of us helped build it". Maybe that's just it. Maybe they got stuck with it.
You can read the response of the SL community here. It's a pity such a widely-read site should be so curmudgeonly, but maybe it's to be expected. What, I wonder, do they fear?
You can read the response of the SL community here. It's a pity such a widely-read site should be so curmudgeonly, but maybe it's to be expected. What, I wonder, do they fear?
Monday, December 03, 2007
Of poetry
I've been having an interesting exchange with BiL about a couple of the poems I've published recently. Of course I'm used to explaining why a poet does this or that - it was part of my job for long enough - but doing this about my own work throws up some new experiences. There was a time when I'd go off and try reworking a line because of a comment or question, but recently I've found that I'm quite sure that I've written what I want to and can explain it as confidently as if it were some well-known text. But how do I know? Well partly it's a result of study and reading a great deal of poetry with an eye for the poet's technique; partly it's an inner ear thing - the thing which has me scribbling out and redrafting as I work on a piece.
Another interesting aspect of the last few weeks has been the reappearance of the need to write after several totally arid months. One poem about my new grandchild - my total output over the whole summer - wasn't exactly white-hot creativity, and yet in the run-up to Advent I've found myself responding to a range of emotions in poetry, including one which I stuck on the back of a scrap of paper one night when I should have been tranquilly preparing for sleep. (This had me so energised that I lay awake till 3am - not a good idea) I have no idea if it'll last, this outburst, but it's great while it does. I've not even been to Second Life since Friday!
And a virtual Mars Bar for the first to spot the homage of the title of this post.
Another interesting aspect of the last few weeks has been the reappearance of the need to write after several totally arid months. One poem about my new grandchild - my total output over the whole summer - wasn't exactly white-hot creativity, and yet in the run-up to Advent I've found myself responding to a range of emotions in poetry, including one which I stuck on the back of a scrap of paper one night when I should have been tranquilly preparing for sleep. (This had me so energised that I lay awake till 3am - not a good idea) I have no idea if it'll last, this outburst, but it's great while it does. I've not even been to Second Life since Friday!
And a virtual Mars Bar for the first to spot the homage of the title of this post.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Advent
I rather like this picture, taken as the male voices of the ad hoc choir for Cumbrae's Advent Carols rehearsed and I wandered about listening to them and experimenting with my camera. It conveys some of the feelings I have about Advent - the darkness, the pools of light, the afternoon already dimming in the short December day. I was powerfully reminded of my first experiences of the Episcopal Church, here in this place in the late 1960s, as we sang "Let all mortal flesh keep silence", one of my favourite hymns and one which I had never heard before coming to Cumbrae. Music, darkness, light: all powerful stimuli to memory - and to something else, something at the very heart of Advent.
I shall be posting a new poem for Advent in two blogs: frankenstina and love blooms bright, where there are already two lovely Advent posts. Do visit!
I shall be posting a new poem for Advent in two blogs: frankenstina and love blooms bright, where there are already two lovely Advent posts. Do visit!
Light in the darkness
The season of Advent begins tomorrow - though the date of this post shows Sunday has already begun. Despite the sudden outbreak of premature Christmas lights, trees and garlands everywhere from the cafe in East Enders to the seafront in Largs to the shore road in Dunoon, this is a special time of waiting in the dark of winter for the light of the Incarnation. This photo was taken today in the Cathedral of The Isles, Cumbrae, a special place with its own vision of hope, where we were rehearsing for tomorrow's Advent Carol Service.
It is not only through music that I shall be marking the season, though goodness knows there will be plenty of that. Do visit the new blog, love blooms bright, where a group of bloggers will be contributing their own reflections on a daily basis from Monday. This is the brain-child of Kimberly, and it promises well.
And for those who are bamboozled by the colours of the candles in our Advent wreath, you can find an explanation here
It is not only through music that I shall be marking the season, though goodness knows there will be plenty of that. Do visit the new blog, love blooms bright, where a group of bloggers will be contributing their own reflections on a daily basis from Monday. This is the brain-child of Kimberly, and it promises well.
And for those who are bamboozled by the colours of the candles in our Advent wreath, you can find an explanation here
Friday, November 30, 2007
Advent Wreath - Dunoon version
The other day, I came upon instructions for making an advent wreath, and thought it was time I offered an insight iinto the creation of the wild and wonderful wreath we have in Holy Trinity Church, Dunoon. So here you are:
1. Pick a dreich day at the end of the week before Advent. If it is raining, it will be a more authentic experience and the greenery will be wonderfully fresh.
2. Equip yourself with a couple of black bin liners and a pair of secateurs. A pal to help is a good idea, and the addition of a third party to hold a bag and keep cave if necessary is a luxury.
3. Head out into the woods. It is best if botanical experimentation in said woods has resulted in an abundant variety of species of evergreen.
4. Cut shapely fronds from as many different trees as you can reach, and stuff them into your bags.
5. In the church, rummage among assorted rusty metal stands till you find the Advent Candle stand which when last seen was doubling as a flower holder. Reassemble at the required height, brushing off the bits of fossilised foliage.
6. Pinch the required quantity of Oasis from the flower-arrangers' stock and jam below where the candles will go. It should be wet: Advent goes on a bit and you don't want it to dry out.
7. Insert the candles. Three purple, one pink, and a white one in the middle. Pay absolutely no attention to anyone who suggests that red is a suitable colour. It isn't.
8. Ram the ends of your tree cuttings into the Oasis, longest and frondiest (I just made that up) at the bottom. Continue to build it up all round, with some gesture in the direction of symmetry. Remember that the priest and servers will have a back view of it - don't neglect its rear.
9. Top it off with several clusters of the wonderful pink berries which look as if they're made of plastic and which the Good Lord in his wisdom caused to grow in the church grounds. On no account use red berries - they will clash hideously with your pink and purple candles (see 7 above)
10. Do not forget to sweep up the mess you have made on the floor, or that the tiles are now very slippy with the wet. It would be injudicious to Take A Fall at this juncture.
There. The Dunoon Advent Wreath. All buckshee but for the candles. Oh - and that hybrid stand.
1. Pick a dreich day at the end of the week before Advent. If it is raining, it will be a more authentic experience and the greenery will be wonderfully fresh.
2. Equip yourself with a couple of black bin liners and a pair of secateurs. A pal to help is a good idea, and the addition of a third party to hold a bag and keep cave if necessary is a luxury.
3. Head out into the woods. It is best if botanical experimentation in said woods has resulted in an abundant variety of species of evergreen.
4. Cut shapely fronds from as many different trees as you can reach, and stuff them into your bags.
5. In the church, rummage among assorted rusty metal stands till you find the Advent Candle stand which when last seen was doubling as a flower holder. Reassemble at the required height, brushing off the bits of fossilised foliage.
6. Pinch the required quantity of Oasis from the flower-arrangers' stock and jam below where the candles will go. It should be wet: Advent goes on a bit and you don't want it to dry out.
7. Insert the candles. Three purple, one pink, and a white one in the middle. Pay absolutely no attention to anyone who suggests that red is a suitable colour. It isn't.
8. Ram the ends of your tree cuttings into the Oasis, longest and frondiest (I just made that up) at the bottom. Continue to build it up all round, with some gesture in the direction of symmetry. Remember that the priest and servers will have a back view of it - don't neglect its rear.
9. Top it off with several clusters of the wonderful pink berries which look as if they're made of plastic and which the Good Lord in his wisdom caused to grow in the church grounds. On no account use red berries - they will clash hideously with your pink and purple candles (see 7 above)
10. Do not forget to sweep up the mess you have made on the floor, or that the tiles are now very slippy with the wet. It would be injudicious to Take A Fall at this juncture.
There. The Dunoon Advent Wreath. All buckshee but for the candles. Oh - and that hybrid stand.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Skypeing off into the sunset
This crazy photo - not improved by the fact that the photographer had a fit of giggles at the time - is here to illustrate once more the benefits of a bit of technology in the everyday life of a grandmama. Ewan is off on his travels again, taking his family with him, and this was my chance to see them - and especially my granddaughter - before they left today. We were using Skype, with Ewan's built-in webcam; Catriona is by now used to talking to a still photo of me, but I'd love to get my hands on someone's redundant iSight so that we can communicate more actively. (I don't want to upgrade my G$ just yet - it ain't broke, and it works well for me.)And my point? Simply to reiterate that I'm tired of people consigning computers and so on to the realms of 'toys for the boys' - which I have been assured is what some of my friends do. This is no more a toy than is the telephone - and it's much more fun.
BTW - there's another new poem on frankenstina
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Na zdorovia!
Just seen the singers of Voskresenije off on the next leg of their current tour. The choir actually varies from year to year; only Jurij Maruk (Musical Director,far left) and Anatoly Artomonov (basso profundo, in the turquoise jacket) remain from the group who first came here in 2002. I find it hard to imagine what it must be like for some of these singers to leave their young children for two months - no wonder they're so keen to get internet contact, see photos and videos and chat.
They sang beautifully. The performance of the Eriskay Love Lilt (arr.McIntosh) was a delight - and their Gaelic flawless, according to a Gael who heard them. There is always someone in the audience who is hearing the group for the first time, and the enthusiasm of the people leaving last night was palpable, despite the horrors of the church drive in the darkness. The physicality of the experience of listening to the choir is something special; there were moments when I felt I had to
close my eyes and lose myself in the sound, both in the surging volume of their fortes and the purity of a pianissimo.
Talking with Jurij over a meal, we reflected on how musicians can be friends despite political difficulties, language barriers and cultural expectations. And when I joked with Pavel the second tenor about his resemblance to Robert de Niro, he pointed out that musicians tend not to earn de Niro's millions. No-one, however, seemed to doubt that it was worth it.
The choir don't have any contacts in Glasgow. It seems silly that they have to pass Glasgow on their tour without performing there. If anyone reading this fancies facilitating a concert, get in contact with me through this blog - or Flickr mail, via the photo.
They sang beautifully. The performance of the Eriskay Love Lilt (arr.McIntosh) was a delight - and their Gaelic flawless, according to a Gael who heard them. There is always someone in the audience who is hearing the group for the first time, and the enthusiasm of the people leaving last night was palpable, despite the horrors of the church drive in the darkness. The physicality of the experience of listening to the choir is something special; there were moments when I felt I had to
close my eyes and lose myself in the sound, both in the surging volume of their fortes and the purity of a pianissimo.
Talking with Jurij over a meal, we reflected on how musicians can be friends despite political difficulties, language barriers and cultural expectations. And when I joked with Pavel the second tenor about his resemblance to Robert de Niro, he pointed out that musicians tend not to earn de Niro's millions. No-one, however, seemed to doubt that it was worth it.
The choir don't have any contacts in Glasgow. It seems silly that they have to pass Glasgow on their tour without performing there. If anyone reading this fancies facilitating a concert, get in contact with me through this blog - or Flickr mail, via the photo.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Waiting for Voskresenije
If it's November, the Russians must be on their way. Actually, they are - our visiting choir from St Petersburg, Voskresenije, are even now on Bute, and will be with us this afternoon for a concert tonight. I have been thrown into a bit of a tizz by the news that there is a married couple among them - the hospitality arrangements have already been made and I foresee problems. And my spies in Oban tell me there might be another liason going on ... maybe they'll just have to do without tonight.
It's a funny thing - all sorts of people asking if I'm looking forward to the concert and all I can think of are cash floats and sandwiches. Actually, something I am very much looking forward to is hearing Mr B's new arrangement of the Eriskay Love Lilt, in which, apparently, the Russian singers make a great job of the Gaelic. This was transmitted to them by Mr B on a CD, after Gaelic consultations with our friend John in Oban. It brought the house down, we are told, on more than one occasion on this tour.
I wonder what the Russian is for "fingers crossed"?
It's a funny thing - all sorts of people asking if I'm looking forward to the concert and all I can think of are cash floats and sandwiches. Actually, something I am very much looking forward to is hearing Mr B's new arrangement of the Eriskay Love Lilt, in which, apparently, the Russian singers make a great job of the Gaelic. This was transmitted to them by Mr B on a CD, after Gaelic consultations with our friend John in Oban. It brought the house down, we are told, on more than one occasion on this tour.
I wonder what the Russian is for "fingers crossed"?
Saturday, November 24, 2007
All change...
This Navajo woman has absolutely nothing to do with my subject today other than her faintly quizzical expression and the fact that she is wearing clothes which go some way to identifying her role - either in life as a whole, or at the moment the photo was taken. You wonder if she wears traditional clothing all the time, or merely when it is a suitable moment so to do. And this brings me to my point.Are you the kind of person who dresses in the morning in the clothes you will wear till you go to bed? Or do you have activity-specific clothing which will come on and off through the day till your bed is so littered in the day's discarded garments that it takes half an hour to deal with them before sleep is possible?
I have to confess to being the latter type. I used to watch films in which the man of the house would return home from the office or similar place of employ, perhaps remove his jacket, and sit down to dinner/a drink/ whatever. I used to marvel at how uncomfortable this might be, and at the dangers of spilling his soup down his tie when he was not actually dining in a posh restaurant. My father came home from school, disappeared briefly, and returned looking like a genteel tramp in that his jersey frequently had holey elbows which he would refuse to let anyone patch. We were never allowed to sit around in our school uniforms - though I think on some stressful evenings of school orchestra and much homework this rule was relaxed.
Today I have had no need to be particularly respectable. If I had been in Glasgow for the day, or at church, there would have been a decent pair of trousers and a shirt - maybe even a skirt - lying around waiting to be put away. But I have been out twice, soaking the trousers I wore the first time and resorting to my waterproof ones the second. Now I am wearing the ultra-comfy but fairly unspeakable jeans whose forgiving waist will see me through dinner. My fleece has some splodges of dried dough on it - for today was one of intense domesticity - and my shirt has been a favourite for at least 20 years. On my feet I have a pair of bright green Holey Soles. Had today been a swimming day, I would have worn a different set of comfy clothes to haul off and stuff in my locker.
I have a friend who mocks my quick-change tendencies. She has no qualms about wearing new jeans for a muddy dog-walk, and has a waist which does not mind an unchanging waistband from dawn till dusk. She wears, washes, discards. My mother would have had a saying for her:
"Aye at the head of the heap."
See what parents do to you?
Friday, November 23, 2007
The Tale of the Twittering Son
Once upon a time there was a relatively doting mother who did all the cool things like using the internet, sending mails, blogging, surfing, wasting precious hours of her dwindling tale of years wandering Second Life as an absurd avatar, sending text messages, photosharing - even using facebook and Twitter. She read her children's blogs to such an extent that she was able to converse with some semblance of knowing what was going on and she tried not to phone them when they might be tired/grumpy/watching footie/cooking/eating/changing the baby. She admired their photos and sympathised when they had domestic problems like floods or leaks.
And so it was, O Best Beloved (sorry, Kipling) that one day, while updating her own Twitter status with some mundane thought, she came upon the news that one of her children was having plumbing issues for the second time in two months. The problem had been in the public domain for all of two days before she had become aware of it. Immediately she was stricken with pangs of guilt - had she been remiss in not Twittering more assiduously? - and irritation. Why had she not been personally informed? Why had her words of wisdom - for she was, after all, a Wise Woman - not been sought instantly?
But being such a Wise Woman she decided that this is the way the world goes. She who does not Twitter constantly is a failure as a mother and deserves to be ignored. And maybe, she ruminated, it was better to have electronic contact with her offspring than have them constantly at her door. After all, she might have ended up waiting in for the plumber.
BTW - there's a second new American experience poem on frankenstina
And so it was, O Best Beloved (sorry, Kipling) that one day, while updating her own Twitter status with some mundane thought, she came upon the news that one of her children was having plumbing issues for the second time in two months. The problem had been in the public domain for all of two days before she had become aware of it. Immediately she was stricken with pangs of guilt - had she been remiss in not Twittering more assiduously? - and irritation. Why had she not been personally informed? Why had her words of wisdom - for she was, after all, a Wise Woman - not been sought instantly?
But being such a Wise Woman she decided that this is the way the world goes. She who does not Twitter constantly is a failure as a mother and deserves to be ignored. And maybe, she ruminated, it was better to have electronic contact with her offspring than have them constantly at her door. After all, she might have ended up waiting in for the plumber.
BTW - there's a second new American experience poem on frankenstina
Thursday, November 22, 2007
The dying business
I read this extract from Le Milieu Divin by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin last night. I thought it was an extraordinary take on the business of dying - or the contemplation of it anyway - and reproduce the extract in its entirety.
It was a joy to me, O God, in the midst of the struggle, to feel that in developing myself I was increasing the hold that you have upon me; it was a joy to me, too, under the inward thrust of life or amid the favourable play of events, to abandon myself to your providence. Now that I have found the joy of utilising all forms of growth to make you, or to let you, grow in me, grant that I may willingly consent to this last phase of communion in the course of which I shall possess you by diminishing in you.Gosh.
After having perceived you as he who is ‘a greater myself’, grant, when my hour comes, that I may recognise you under the species of each alien or hostile force that seems bent upon destroying or uprooting me. When the signs of age begin to mark my body (and still more when they touch my mind); when the ill that is to diminish me or carry me off strikes from without or is born within me; when the painful moment comes in which I suddenly awaken to the fact that I am losing hold of myself and am absolutely passive within the hands of the great unknown forces that have formed me; in all those dark moments, O God, grant that I may understand that it is you (provided only my faith is strong enough) who are painfully parting the fibres of my being in order to penetrate to the very marrow of my substance and bear me away within yourself.
The more deeply and incurably the evil in encrusted in my flesh, the more it will be you that I am harbouring – you as a loving, active principle of purification and detachment. Vouchsafe, therefore, something more precious still than the grace for which all the faithful pray. It is not enough that I shall die while communicating. Teach me to treat my death as an act of communion.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Inspiration
At this time of year, with the afternoon turning dark at 3.45pm (it's turned into a very grey day indeed after a cold, bright morning), I find myself once again contemplating what it is that makes Advent so powerful in this northern outpost of civilisation. I never thought about it when I lived in the city, but looking out at the large sky and the grey sea focuses the mind somewhat.
And it is perhaps this focus that has found me writing four poems in as many weeks, after months of feeling I didn't have poem in my head. Two of them were stirred up from the sediment of memories by my finding notes made in my diary while I was in the States, at moments which especially struck me - sunset in the somehow disturbing surroundings of Fairhope in winter, the wonderful language of the conductor on the Amtrak to New York, which I copied verbatim each time he spoke. Reading them when I should have been checking dates for a Lay Worship Team meeting made me long to be alone, to do something with them, to set down the lines which even then were forming in my head and which I feared I would lose.
The fourth poem was inspired by a photograph in the guardian's excellent Guide to Photography the other weekend. A small monochrome picture of an old woman in a cafe had me instantly reaching for the pencil and the used envelope which are my preferred tools at such a moment. I suppose it was in the same mould as Edwin Morgan's Instamatic Poems. Anyway, I shall not be posting them here, but over on frankenstina, beginning today with "Mobile Bay". Do leave me a comment if you visit.
And it is perhaps this focus that has found me writing four poems in as many weeks, after months of feeling I didn't have poem in my head. Two of them were stirred up from the sediment of memories by my finding notes made in my diary while I was in the States, at moments which especially struck me - sunset in the somehow disturbing surroundings of Fairhope in winter, the wonderful language of the conductor on the Amtrak to New York, which I copied verbatim each time he spoke. Reading them when I should have been checking dates for a Lay Worship Team meeting made me long to be alone, to do something with them, to set down the lines which even then were forming in my head and which I feared I would lose.
The fourth poem was inspired by a photograph in the guardian's excellent Guide to Photography the other weekend. A small monochrome picture of an old woman in a cafe had me instantly reaching for the pencil and the used envelope which are my preferred tools at such a moment. I suppose it was in the same mould as Edwin Morgan's Instamatic Poems. Anyway, I shall not be posting them here, but over on frankenstina, beginning today with "Mobile Bay". Do leave me a comment if you visit.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Luddites in the glens
Will there come the day when everyone will regard the use of computers/internet/social software as normal? I deliberately arranged the above in order of provocation, for I find myself wandering in a world of dinosaurs. The other week we even experienced problems meeting someone off the ferry because, although he possesses a mobile phone, he rarely switches it on - out of irritation, it seemed, at mobile phone users.
I am about to embark yet again on part of my crusade to save money by using online technology instead of paper. We've actually managed to discard the paper, but I still have to explain about PDF files and not rushing to print everything rather than read it onscreen. But why is it that I always seem to end up feeling as if I'm somehow out of order because I use what most of my online friends would regard as fairly basic technology? I know I'll be treated as if I'm the misfit - or as if being in possession of a laptop and using a wireless connection qualifies me as devil's spawn.
Maybe it's something to do with my age. Maybe the fact that I exist upsets people of my generation who would rather remain in the 20th century. I get the same vibes as I did when I confessed (note the use of the word) to watching Star Trek. Ladies of a certain age should know their place and wear a twinset. Or maybe, in this neck of the woods, a tweed skirt. But I don't, and I won't, and I'm no longer prepared to make concessions to luddites. If anyone reading this has any tips to share to make the luddites somehow eager to learn/try/get broadband in their remote glens I'd be glad to hear from them. Otherwise, just spare me a kindly thought on Wednesday.
I am about to embark yet again on part of my crusade to save money by using online technology instead of paper. We've actually managed to discard the paper, but I still have to explain about PDF files and not rushing to print everything rather than read it onscreen. But why is it that I always seem to end up feeling as if I'm somehow out of order because I use what most of my online friends would regard as fairly basic technology? I know I'll be treated as if I'm the misfit - or as if being in possession of a laptop and using a wireless connection qualifies me as devil's spawn.
Maybe it's something to do with my age. Maybe the fact that I exist upsets people of my generation who would rather remain in the 20th century. I get the same vibes as I did when I confessed (note the use of the word) to watching Star Trek. Ladies of a certain age should know their place and wear a twinset. Or maybe, in this neck of the woods, a tweed skirt. But I don't, and I won't, and I'm no longer prepared to make concessions to luddites. If anyone reading this has any tips to share to make the luddites somehow eager to learn/try/get broadband in their remote glens I'd be glad to hear from them. Otherwise, just spare me a kindly thought on Wednesday.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
A gauntlet ...
I've just been testing my vocabulary (not, I must admit, for the first time) on this site, to which I was directed by Mr W earlier in the week. Childishly, I'm currently engaged in a competition with myself to see how soon I can reach the top possible score of 50. This is not really the point, in a way, as the site donates 10 grains of rice to the UN food program for every work you get correct, so if you keep making mistakes and go on playing, more rice is donated. However, as I still haven't reached the minimum possible time (ie make no mistakes at all) I shall play my part by persevering. The game ups the ante by increasing the difficulty each time you're correct.I was reasonably pleased with my score today - reaching 50 after 490 grains of rice - and gratified to note how a knowledge of Latin and of Shakespearean English seems to help. I'm sure my erudite and competitively driven readers will soon be telling me how much better they've done - especially if they also know some Greek ...
Thursday, November 15, 2007
A visit to Grandmama's
I'm in the middle of remembering one of the potent reasons for having children when you're young. My gorgeous granddaughter decided to pay us a visit this week, and brought her mum along to carry her gear, provide the grub and so on. What a commanding presence a tiny child can be! It's not that she wails a lot - though having recently discovered how to scream she does go in for some vocal exercises which will have her in the first sopranos before long - but she has an entire repertoire of beguiling little noises and smiles of recognition and/or amusement which make it almost impossible to ignore her.
However, that's her away to bed after an exciting day in which she had a walk beside the sea and another one up the Bishop's Glen, coming down in the dusk. As do all our guests on their first visit, she found the fresh air totally soporific and slept from the moment she left the house. This meant that she was also able to stay up and watch East Enders, which apparently she's not allowed to do at home. Grandmas can be such a bad influence ...
However, that's her away to bed after an exciting day in which she had a walk beside the sea and another one up the Bishop's Glen, coming down in the dusk. As do all our guests on their first visit, she found the fresh air totally soporific and slept from the moment she left the house. This meant that she was also able to stay up and watch East Enders, which apparently she's not allowed to do at home. Grandmas can be such a bad influence ...
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