Days

I can't concentrate whatsoever this morning. Can't write about Tessa today. I need to give her all my attention, as you do listening to a friend who needs you to listen, but I can't listen to her today. There are too many other voices in my head, actually they're not in my head, they feel as if they're in every part of my body.
Not today, Tessa.

So, when you can't write and this isn't about can't be bothered, it's really will mess up if write, then what to do? There's always something that can be done. I've found a family member, Jose Estevez living in London, aged fifteen in 1876. I could lose myself delving into that world, but not today either. Today I don't want to lose myself, I want to find myself. And some would say finding yourself is sorting out where you've come from, what your past means, who you are. Not today. Today I want to look forward. I'm going to Spain in just over a week's time. That's reality and I'm going to prepare for it today. The practical stuff. And by tonight, I will know that I am prepared. And tonight, at the Juba rehearsal I'm going to dance so hard I won't be able to think about past or future, only now. And then there is tomorrow.

Education

Quote by Plutarch:

"The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled."

Words

I've been very careless in the use of words today. Not many, not said in anger or venom or even love, just said, but written carelessly. I'm probably making exactly the same mistake right now, writing as the words come into my head and even when we think we've thought over them and they capture what we feel and want to say, then sometimes, in another's eyes, from another's viewpoint, they come out wrong and cause hurt or laughter, but not the intended reaction.

I remember writing about this in my final English dissertation through Stan Barstow novels and kitchen sink drama. My choice wasn't considered literary enough by my tutor, but in my pig-headedness, I went ahead anyway. One of the points was how when we say things aloud they never come out exactly as we feel and hear them. So nobody else can truly understand us. Many will disagree with this, saying, well, you just haven't tried hard enough to find the right words or to put the right words together. Some people will say that I do know and understand you. As if you fully understand yourself. The final book in his trilogy, "A Kind of Loving" was "The Right True End." Yup. Have to put those in the pile of "To Read Again."

Love - The Fact and the Fiction

Is it worth giving up all that you know and have for love? For something or someone you feel passionate about? Stepping off the cliff? Throwing yourself out of the airplane, exposing yourself to having the skin ripped off your bones and your heart yanked from its bed and dashed onto spikes.
Does that sound exciting or horrendous? Something you would do or run from doing? Does that sound a tad melodramatic?
It's what it would feel like if what you are stepping away from is comfortable and familiar and something you thought you could continue with for the rest of your life.
Tessa in Leaving Coty reaches this point. And thinking and talking about it and making lists of pros and cons of shoulds and shouldn'ts of rights and wrongs doesn't make any difference. When gut reaction and taking heed of what your body is physically crying out for, there seems to be no dilemma. In a world of rules, the body being emotionally sick or well is ignored. Increasingly, Tessa's body is telling her what to do. The thing is, in reality, not films or books, how many listen to that call? And in reality, not fiction, what happens to the other characters in the story? In a film, this, in real life, makes us see the consequences of our actions, looking on at devastation, we can see how this is reflected in our world. And does this help? Is this why A level questions ask how a Shakespeare text is relevent today? Is it relevent to make our decisions based on a play or a book or a film? Are our bodies, not our minds satisfied with that? Is one more important than the other to listen to?

John Rylands Library

Dappling sunlight on stone, empty staircases that curl in time upwards revealing a high roof looking down on curling stairs dappled with light and empty of sound or movement other than flickering beams holding the peace and the space and the air filled with memories.
Wood warm to the touch of your palms, smooth under the skin, amber, sandy, dark. Parquet underfoot, smooth and shiny and worn by feet over years or walking, strolling, pausing to look at shelves unreadable, books untouchable, ancient and set and decaying.
Dim lamps, suspended, doubly tiered hanging, lighting not for reading but gazing and strolling across wooden floors looking at gilded pages leading to dappling light through dusty panes showing grey Manchester sky.

It transforms the way we look at the world.

"It transforms the way we look at the world." This is what the presenter said about Van Gogh's paintings. After looking at them we will look at trees, the sky, our surroundings, the world differently.
Works for me. Makes me want to look at his paintings. If something we see or something we read or hear someone say, a few words, a few lyrics, the sound of a cello or a guitar or drum or voice, an image, a mix of colours, something suggested that we recognise but have never thought of expressing in such a way, isn't that what we all want? To look at the world and see the same scene differently from the day before?
I love watching films again and again and seeing something different each time, reading books for the same reason, hearing music, looking at a photograph or a painting. Seeing something different.
And transforming the way we look at the world implies that change is within. We change. Almost makes me cry, not because I don't like the way I see things now, but at the possibilites of seeing more. This is in danger of sounding a tad pretentious. A tad? I just want to see more. Simple. If looking at Van Gogh's paintings helps with this, then fab. I'm going.
And it's meant to be anyway, as a friend from university suggested when our 'three' meet up in London, it's ususally London as it's the easiest, then we should go to The Royal Academy and see the Van Gogh exhibition. So there's two connections there. Plus, I love the song "Vincent - Starry, starry, night" (I'm a sucker for songs like this) so for me, that's reason number three. Got to go. Oh and my youngest daughter did a wonderful portrait of him when she was in year one or two, bloody ear prominent. There for all to see in the gallery on our kitchen dining area wall. Properly framed as well.

The exhibition also shows Vincent's letters to his brother Theo explaining what he was doing, sketches included, to warrant the funding he received. They sound very different. I wonder if they really were. Elder and younger, businessman and artist, sane and insane. It's funny, well not funny, but, no, it is funny when you think about which one you'd rather be. The reality of living it and looking back at the work. Don't really want to think about the reality.
That's something else I read about the moments of looking on beauty, experiencing breathing in fresh air on a spring morning, say, for example, being worth the rest of the day being terrible. That's changing the sentiment into my words, but is a moment of happiness worth hours of misery?

Those Click Moments

I was in the kitchen, the radio was on, Radio 3 and the presenter started talking about William Blake and some sketches of his that have just been bought by the Tate and the reviews about them. Their 'darkness' was one of the words mentioned. And this went on to his poem beginning "And did those feet in ancient time.." which we know best sung as 'Jerusalem' and then I had that click moment. In Erosion I have a scene where Randolph, one of the main characters realises that nothing will be the same again. The land is lost, the way of life he loved is lost. It clicked and it's not a shouting moment, there are no rockets or illuminating light bulbs, just sadness because there is no point shouting about it. He's been violent and antagonistic and abusive all through the book until this point. And then that is it. Erosion. And it's quiet.
I love these moments when you know that is the right thing to do, it's the right choice. And the right choice for the character. I like Randolph and I want to give him dignity. Here, he gets it. From the radio.

Passion in art.

The Christmas Tree is naked outside in the garden. The house is stark but surprisingly calming. Feel liberated to begin the spring with new actions. I miss staring at the sparkling lights and smelling the pine before forcing myself to bed, but that's all right, I had it and will again and I still recall the beautiful tree.
So now, it's snow and cold but that is also cleansing. It's exciting starting a new year with such beauty and danger and unknown.
And it's Elvis's birthday today. My daughter watched a couple of his tracks from the '68 show and remarked on his passion. That's what I want to bring into my work and life this year. More than ever. She also mentioned that a friend who is a young musician doesn't want fame, he wants to work. And she said how reality shows can cheapen talent.
I'd mentioned that the lifestyle that Elvis was pushed into, maybe half chose, led to his early death as it had with Michael Jackson and the waste of it. I particularly feel sad for Elvis in that he never really got to explore his passion for music. It is captured in the '68 concert. He is alive here as he never was in Vegas.

But this is about using our own, my own passion. LC has to crackle and fizz with it. My father used to say I went over the top in my writing and I still hear his words so rein the writing in. I'm going to go over the top and see where it leads. I enjoy this process. Let it all out, then edit, edit, edit, and then the passion simmers until the moment is right for it to explode.
Well, that's the plan.

Elvis

Last night I watched "Elvis: Black Leather - the '68 Comeback Special." Whoops, wrote 'comback' - with his hair it could have been, though through the performance it soon looked more dishevelled. Much better.
And the black leather was a surprisingly good look. But the performance. I think 'blistering' is the term often used. This show was between Hollywood and Vegas and Elvis was obviously enjoying himself. My favourite parts of the show were when he sang, and I'm not sure of the title, but it had the line 'I was trying to get to you.' Made my heart ache.
And 'Memories' not the one from 'Cats.' and ending the show, "If I can Dream."

It feels rare now to see such singing on television. Rare to see the connections between musicians. You see it sometimes on Jools Holland, but this was pared down to the basics. I'm so sick of pizzazz. I just want to hear someone sing as though they are living it, to watch a film tell a story straight without any padding, to be moved by a performance, not merely entertained. I want more. And Elvis, loving, no it's not loving, being what he loves, feeling, living it, shows why it is tragic that the industry took him over. He died aged forty-two. Forty-two. Because he was unhappy.
And people loved him.
Listen to his voice.

The Deer Hunter

I stayed up late last night watching The Deer Hunter on television. I first saw this film when I was eighteen. It affected me more than any other film and has stayed with me. (Amongst others, but this one had a huge influence.)As an english girl, knowing nothing of the Vietnam war, or Pittsburgh, where a great deal of the film is set, it opened my eyes. The war is hardly shown. We're not battered by gun fire and bombings and burnings. We watch a close group of friends unravel. Three of the friends. One ends up in a wheelchair, one blows out his brains and one, Robert de Niro tries to make things right by saving his close friends. He brings Jonathan Savage back; it is too late for Christopher Walken.
I fell in love with Christopher Walken in this film. Watching it again brings back memories of a time when the world opened up.
And what films are out now that could match these by changing something in the mind set of an eighteen year old girl?
Robert de Niro's silhouette on the hill top? Christopher Walken's flicker of recognition at the end before raising the gun to his temple? The harsh shouts of the man who makes the prisoners play Russian Roulette against each other? Jonathan Savage afraid to go home to his wife who lies in bed, writing notes rather than speaking? And the grim steel works and smoke and Meryl Streep stamping the price on tins in the supermarket where she works. It's dirty and a million miles away from Sex and the City or Shopaholic or whatever SJP and Hugh Grant are called in the latest.
Thank you for The Deer Hunter and the lack of gloss. Thank you for irony. Thank you for being released into our cinemas when I was eighteen.

And tonight? Elvis Presley's mesmerising performance on his comeback tour when he wore leather trousers and sang with a passion that fires your soul. A brief moment of happiness in between Hollywood and Vegas.

Happy New Year.

Strange how you know that life can be surprising and yet still be surprised when it is surprising.
Yesterday, I went to the post office to renew my road tax. It was a long queue, but it didn't matter, I wasn't feeling rushed. I stood behind an old man and we got talking. As the queue went down, he told me about why there had been the demise of the post offices through the powers that be deciding the post offices couldn't have a monopoly and so they lost their money making business to other shops, how the European Union were messing up our country, about the hungry thirties, his wife who lived in Trafford being bombed out and shot at and survived only to be killed earlier this year by the Health Service. And then his eyes welled up, pinking up, as he said that it would have been their 50th wedding anniversary in January, how much he missed her, missed her terribly and that she had died so many months, so many weeks, days and hours ago. And then he was called to the counter and I was called to another.


Later, I got chatting to a woman looking at a duvet cover in another shop. She said she didn't believe it was a single. It said on the label it was a single. We held it up between us. It was a king size. She said she often sat on the sofa and thought she'd alter something she'd bought, but never did. So she didn't get the king size duvet cover because she'd just sit on the sofa saying she should cut it in half and alter it but never would. She said, "All the best," as I left the shop.

And in Holland and Barrett the two girls serving and a young bloke were discussing what time they thought Morrisons would close. He didn't want to go and buy things on his own because he knew he'd get the wrong things or the wrong amount. He was very unsure. I bought nuts.

That's Chorlton for you on New Year's Eve. Did you see the full moon by the way?

I hope these people will be all right. I hope the year brings something good for them.

Happy New Year. And it's frosty and bright.