'Tact looked at truth in vain,
She knew her tongue would end in pain.'
These are the first two lines of a poem a younger version of myself wrote a few years ago. I shalln't reveal the rest. These lines are fairly poor. Not too subtle. I promise it only got worse.
Were I able to travel back in time now and speak to myself then would I, then, tell myself that? Would I proffer my harsh, but honest, critique, potentially crushing anymore attempts towards a poetic tendency? Or would I be encouraging and smile, telling myself 'That's pretty good you know! Keep going with it.'
I think it would be the latter.
The truth of the phrase 'honesty is the best policy,' ironically, I occasionally question . This may sound odd. I do not mean, of course, in the sense of its moral value.I will stress now, lying is NOT good. No no no. Truth is good. Yes yes yes. Even playing a game of 'Cheat' can be, for me, a total guilt-inducing nightmare.
But where my qualms lie is with the moral complications being completely, perhaps brutally, honest can unveil. It seems the phrase 'but, I'm just being honest,' is sometimes held up as some sort of unquestioned moral epicentre. It tends to come after a blunt criticism of another. Can maintaining honesty at all costs justify breaking another moral code? That of simply... being nice to other people? The moral compass seems strangely misguided at times.
There seems this great sense that telling someone a harsh truth may help them in the long run. In some cases, if it will certainly change something/the person for the better, then yes, of course, I suppose it must be done. In the case of my poetry efforts, a level of criticism would probably have done me some good. I know for a fact I would be a terrible creative writing teacher.My students would maybe be happy, but never successful. It is fortunate, therefore, this is not my job.This inability to criticise for the better is a flaw I certainly possess.
But telling someone a truth which will probably achieve little, other than ruin someone else's day, however, seems wrong. Tact, or an avoidance of saying the absolute truth, must always be favourable surely? The phrase 'ignorance is bliss' exists for a reason.
I do think my younger self was on to something. I think some people would disagree and think my argument stupid. They would probably tell me so, too. If I'm honest though, I really wish they wouldn't.
Sunday, 18 March 2012
Sunday, 5 February 2012
When thoughts run away with you.
The other day I ran.
I needed to be somewhere, it was cold, it was dark. Running seemed like a good idea.
With increasingly deepening breaths and a heart thumping away in my chest, as if to keep me company in the leering darkness, strange paradoxical feelings crept over me. When I run, when anyone runs, it feels like an act of strength, of fitness,of power, even. Here is the human body at its finest, defying daily lethargy and ordinary movement. It returns us to our primitive instincts.
At the same time, however, I felt scared. I hadn't felt fearful before I began running, but the sheer act alone of running made me feel that this was an escape. I was running away from something. There was a certain vulnerability which sat uncomfortably next to my (non- existent, but let's pretend here for the sake of this prate) athleticism.
I recently saw the film Shame and within it there is a long scene in which the protagonist simply runs. Although an incredibly physical character ( if you know anything about this film you will know what I mean), the act of running was his means of escape, showed his own isolation and loneliness. In another film I love, Truffaut's Les Quatre-Cent Coups there is very famous closing scene in which the main character, a young boy, runs along the beach (also recently echoed, deliberately, in 'Submarine'),again signalling loss and hopelessness, yet at the same time, his ultimate freedom.
There are endless similar examples in culture in which the act of running can symbolise so much. It seems to represent an amalgam of strength, vulnerability, fear, ambition, victory, failure, escape, arrival, <insert contrastings words here.>... I could go on.
Usain Bolt will no doubt be the man everyone watches at the Olympics. Yes, because he is a fun guy and does great arm gestures, but perhaps, also, because he and what he does speaks universally to us, beyond the surface value of just a simple race. Similarly, marathons draw thousands of people, not only to take part, but to support on the streets, because of this strange allure of running.
Reading this back, I'm not sure I've said anything of use or interest there at all, but it was just a single thought that struck me the other day. And you know how thoughts can run on.
I needed to be somewhere, it was cold, it was dark. Running seemed like a good idea.
With increasingly deepening breaths and a heart thumping away in my chest, as if to keep me company in the leering darkness, strange paradoxical feelings crept over me. When I run, when anyone runs, it feels like an act of strength, of fitness,of power, even. Here is the human body at its finest, defying daily lethargy and ordinary movement. It returns us to our primitive instincts.
At the same time, however, I felt scared. I hadn't felt fearful before I began running, but the sheer act alone of running made me feel that this was an escape. I was running away from something. There was a certain vulnerability which sat uncomfortably next to my (non- existent, but let's pretend here for the sake of this prate) athleticism.
I recently saw the film Shame and within it there is a long scene in which the protagonist simply runs. Although an incredibly physical character ( if you know anything about this film you will know what I mean), the act of running was his means of escape, showed his own isolation and loneliness. In another film I love, Truffaut's Les Quatre-Cent Coups there is very famous closing scene in which the main character, a young boy, runs along the beach (also recently echoed, deliberately, in 'Submarine'),again signalling loss and hopelessness, yet at the same time, his ultimate freedom.
There are endless similar examples in culture in which the act of running can symbolise so much. It seems to represent an amalgam of strength, vulnerability, fear, ambition, victory, failure, escape, arrival, <insert contrastings words here.>... I could go on.
Usain Bolt will no doubt be the man everyone watches at the Olympics. Yes, because he is a fun guy and does great arm gestures, but perhaps, also, because he and what he does speaks universally to us, beyond the surface value of just a simple race. Similarly, marathons draw thousands of people, not only to take part, but to support on the streets, because of this strange allure of running.
Reading this back, I'm not sure I've said anything of use or interest there at all, but it was just a single thought that struck me the other day. And you know how thoughts can run on.
Sunday, 15 January 2012
The pull of Hull.
'The air had a very strange smell, the kind that one only finds in Hull.'
I was struck by this line from a novel I am currently reading, Gary Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast. Firstly, because it incited a little chuckle, reminding me of those (not overly frequent I must stress) mornings I would leave the house in Hull, raise my nose to the sky and detect a familiar, somewhat less than pleasant scent. I never did learn what that was. Some suggested the docks, which made sense, others, curiously, dog biscuits. Where the giant dog biscuit factory is along Newland Avenue, I have no idea, but I would love to know if anyone can enlighten me.
More poignantly, however, Dexter's phrase provoked a deeper, much stronger reaction within me by capturing, in some way, an essence of the unique bond I feel to Hull. That 'strange smell' is for me, an odd, but all consuming air about the place that gripped me from my very first visit. This, interestingly enough (or perhaps not, I don't really expect you to be interested) was at a University Open day for my sister, some 8 years before I began my first year. The reassuring feeling of the place stayed with me. That first amble I took along Newland Avenue with my Mum on that day, glimpsing higgledy piggledy second hand shops- an image of a single knock-kneed wooden chair in a window is an image that stays with me -sat, hibernating, for a long time as a very comfortable memory.
This pull to Hull I feel quite clearly emerges in my reading of this book. I can unashamedly say the only reason I chose to read it is because I discovered it was a story about a man reminiscing on his time at University in Hull during the 80s. Within it he maps certain familiar geographical spots, reflecting on his meetings, or more precisely, almost-meetings with Larkin. It is this 'almost-ness' about Hull, a land on the cusp of something wonderful, but never really aware of it, which I love the most. Although I cannot say the novel as a whole grips me, everytime I come across something Hull-related, my eyes light up just slightly, a little crackle of warm familiarity surging through.
I realise this feeling may be diagnosed as merely a longing for the joys of my now-passed University days, as of course it is University life I most associate with the city. Perhaps it may not be Hull at all I am so drawn to, but the experience itself. Had I studied anywhere, I feel sure I would maintain a certain attachment. Does everyone feel like this? Perhaps. But it cannot just be that.
Hull of course is now quite a different place to the one I spent three years in, now that so many of the people closest to me during that time are no longer there. Although I am profoundly aware it is the people, I of course miss the most, I can confirm it is actually the place I miss too. When I go back now, I relish that first glimpse of the Humber Bridge as I approach on the train, its dominating stance overlooking the flat landscape beneath. The bridge, to me, represents something of the world's outlook on Hull. There stands this overriding and dominating concept many people have of the city, more often than not unfortunately leaning towards the negative, overpowering the appealing realities beneath this misconception. Presumptions are often made about Hull (often deriving from its name's unfortunate rhyming potential) when people have not even visited it. It is the action of crossing the bridge, indeed physically, but equally mentally to overcome any preconceptions, that allows Hull's charm to be felt.
My favourite spot in Hull, and quite possibly of anywhere (grand claim I know!) is at the very tip of the water front. Here I have felt at my happiest, most free, most comfortable, most inspired. It is the openness of the water in front of me, but also of the city behind which I like. Although I have experienced standing at this spot in the bleakest of conditions, face attacked by the icy wind, shivering madly, my every sense is always directed towards a feeling of bliss I have rarely felt quite so powerfully anywhere else.
I realise this entire spiel will probably be read as a foolish rose-tinted reflection on a place I should really move on from. Perhaps writing about it will be cathartic and finally unleash me from its grip. Yet I am not sure I really wish to be unleashed. Though physically I have moved on, I cannot believe I will ever be able to quite find again somewhere with 'the peculiar charms of Hull.'*
*From Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast again.
I was struck by this line from a novel I am currently reading, Gary Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast. Firstly, because it incited a little chuckle, reminding me of those (not overly frequent I must stress) mornings I would leave the house in Hull, raise my nose to the sky and detect a familiar, somewhat less than pleasant scent. I never did learn what that was. Some suggested the docks, which made sense, others, curiously, dog biscuits. Where the giant dog biscuit factory is along Newland Avenue, I have no idea, but I would love to know if anyone can enlighten me.
More poignantly, however, Dexter's phrase provoked a deeper, much stronger reaction within me by capturing, in some way, an essence of the unique bond I feel to Hull. That 'strange smell' is for me, an odd, but all consuming air about the place that gripped me from my very first visit. This, interestingly enough (or perhaps not, I don't really expect you to be interested) was at a University Open day for my sister, some 8 years before I began my first year. The reassuring feeling of the place stayed with me. That first amble I took along Newland Avenue with my Mum on that day, glimpsing higgledy piggledy second hand shops- an image of a single knock-kneed wooden chair in a window is an image that stays with me -sat, hibernating, for a long time as a very comfortable memory.
This pull to Hull I feel quite clearly emerges in my reading of this book. I can unashamedly say the only reason I chose to read it is because I discovered it was a story about a man reminiscing on his time at University in Hull during the 80s. Within it he maps certain familiar geographical spots, reflecting on his meetings, or more precisely, almost-meetings with Larkin. It is this 'almost-ness' about Hull, a land on the cusp of something wonderful, but never really aware of it, which I love the most. Although I cannot say the novel as a whole grips me, everytime I come across something Hull-related, my eyes light up just slightly, a little crackle of warm familiarity surging through.
I realise this feeling may be diagnosed as merely a longing for the joys of my now-passed University days, as of course it is University life I most associate with the city. Perhaps it may not be Hull at all I am so drawn to, but the experience itself. Had I studied anywhere, I feel sure I would maintain a certain attachment. Does everyone feel like this? Perhaps. But it cannot just be that.
Hull of course is now quite a different place to the one I spent three years in, now that so many of the people closest to me during that time are no longer there. Although I am profoundly aware it is the people, I of course miss the most, I can confirm it is actually the place I miss too. When I go back now, I relish that first glimpse of the Humber Bridge as I approach on the train, its dominating stance overlooking the flat landscape beneath. The bridge, to me, represents something of the world's outlook on Hull. There stands this overriding and dominating concept many people have of the city, more often than not unfortunately leaning towards the negative, overpowering the appealing realities beneath this misconception. Presumptions are often made about Hull (often deriving from its name's unfortunate rhyming potential) when people have not even visited it. It is the action of crossing the bridge, indeed physically, but equally mentally to overcome any preconceptions, that allows Hull's charm to be felt.
My favourite spot in Hull, and quite possibly of anywhere (grand claim I know!) is at the very tip of the water front. Here I have felt at my happiest, most free, most comfortable, most inspired. It is the openness of the water in front of me, but also of the city behind which I like. Although I have experienced standing at this spot in the bleakest of conditions, face attacked by the icy wind, shivering madly, my every sense is always directed towards a feeling of bliss I have rarely felt quite so powerfully anywhere else.
I realise this entire spiel will probably be read as a foolish rose-tinted reflection on a place I should really move on from. Perhaps writing about it will be cathartic and finally unleash me from its grip. Yet I am not sure I really wish to be unleashed. Though physically I have moved on, I cannot believe I will ever be able to quite find again somewhere with 'the peculiar charms of Hull.'*
*From Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast again.
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Carpe diem, or something like that anyway.
The author's message is surely that of carpe diem, seize the day, live for the moment, and this is an attitude I always tell myself I should adopt. I am happy to say, like many people I am sure, a number of wonderful consequences in my life have sprung from moments of such 'live for the now' intent.
Yet at the same time, I couldn't help but notice how part of this sentence is scribbed out. Ironic. Revised and edited, the message itself has hardly been delivered in the very 'moment' it was conceived has it? Living for the 'now' is perhaps so intangible a concept- are we ever truly in the present, or merely thinking back over/ anticipating it? Sometimes I am aware that part of me enjoys thinking about wonderful things to come, or nostalgically reminiscing on that which has been, more than I sometimes appreciate the very moment. It worries me. At times, however, the attitude of, I quote, 'if not now, when?' can be a troublesome one (just look at marmite flavoured chocolate...' if not now, NEVER' would have been more apt... but that's for another time...). 'If not now.. perhaps at a later, more feasible, more considered date' is sometimes the best, most realistic or only option (although admittedly not quite as catchy), as placing the needs of now over everything can have long-term damaging effects.
Seizing the day is a wonderful concept, and I advocate it strongly to bring us out of our comfort zones at times, but of late I have to recognise its romanticisation. Waiting for something, so that it will turn out well eventually, is often necessary, and can be all the better for it. Amid my joyful wander of bleakness, I also crossed a rail bridge, and it was in THAT moment I was struck by this image. I don't know if I was looking back or looking forward, but either way I rather liked it.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Culture vulture worries.
As I sat watching 'The Culture Show' the other evening, I found myself thinking about my own attitude to 'culture'. The very name 'The Culture Show' itself seems to place the programme on precarious ground- is it just a platform on which to display cultural goings on.. or is it a form of culture in itself? Its almost too overt title seems to exclaim: 'Red alert: Here are all things cultural. Watch this and you will be officially 'cultured'. We promise.'
By watching Andrew Graham-Dixon talking about a new art gallery in Colchester, or, let's face it, GAWPING at the lovely Alistair Sooke discussing with Frank Stella his new Retrospective ( some very, very, dark paintings, and then, conversely, some very, very bright ones), I can securely say I know a little more about them, am aware of their existence, can nod knowingly at their mention, but do I have any right to think myself in anyway 'cultured'... whatever that may mean... now? After all, I haven't actually experienced anything have I?
In truth, I am merely exploring a personal hang-up.I so often feel myself to be a cultural fraud, very interested by the world of art, cinema, literature, music but in reality having experienced relatively little, particularly in terms of art. I could perhaps account this partly to having not lived anywhere near London- the centre of 90% of things going on in every 'What to do/see this week' newspaper section I ever read. Yet, for this year, at least, I am living within 50 or so minutes of said cultural land, so I have run out of excuses... but perhaps this will be a turning point. Sometimes I think I am just happy to have 'heard' of things, or content being able to make some very mundane comment probably subconsciousy derived from some review or other I've recently absorbed, never really having much cultural gravitas of my own.
In fact, amid the process of writing this blog post, I am rapidly coming to the realisation that worrying about whether I am ever really 'being cultured' echoes everything I hate about the pretentions frequently surrounding it. The word 'culture' alone is a deliberately broad term, surely counteracting any notions of exclusivity often intimated through its high-brow associations. To 'be cultured' should not be a label, but exactly what it proclaims to be. An act of 'being', an experience, whether that occur contentedly and passively from one's own sofa, or at the Tate Modern, with no pressure to gain anything specifically from it, beyond our own enjoyment. And if Mr Sooke just happens to be involved...bonus.
By watching Andrew Graham-Dixon talking about a new art gallery in Colchester, or, let's face it, GAWPING at the lovely Alistair Sooke discussing with Frank Stella his new Retrospective ( some very, very, dark paintings, and then, conversely, some very, very bright ones), I can securely say I know a little more about them, am aware of their existence, can nod knowingly at their mention, but do I have any right to think myself in anyway 'cultured'... whatever that may mean... now? After all, I haven't actually experienced anything have I?
In truth, I am merely exploring a personal hang-up.I so often feel myself to be a cultural fraud, very interested by the world of art, cinema, literature, music but in reality having experienced relatively little, particularly in terms of art. I could perhaps account this partly to having not lived anywhere near London- the centre of 90% of things going on in every 'What to do/see this week' newspaper section I ever read. Yet, for this year, at least, I am living within 50 or so minutes of said cultural land, so I have run out of excuses... but perhaps this will be a turning point. Sometimes I think I am just happy to have 'heard' of things, or content being able to make some very mundane comment probably subconsciousy derived from some review or other I've recently absorbed, never really having much cultural gravitas of my own.
In fact, amid the process of writing this blog post, I am rapidly coming to the realisation that worrying about whether I am ever really 'being cultured' echoes everything I hate about the pretentions frequently surrounding it. The word 'culture' alone is a deliberately broad term, surely counteracting any notions of exclusivity often intimated through its high-brow associations. To 'be cultured' should not be a label, but exactly what it proclaims to be. An act of 'being', an experience, whether that occur contentedly and passively from one's own sofa, or at the Tate Modern, with no pressure to gain anything specifically from it, beyond our own enjoyment. And if Mr Sooke just happens to be involved...bonus.
Monday, 29 August 2011
Stick with A.A Milne, and you can't go far wrong.
Winnie the Pooh and his pals invented one of the greatest and most satisfying sporting competitions known to man. Pooh Sticks.
Of late I seem to have frequently, and fortunately, found myself in idyllic countryside settings complete with quaint bridge and sufficiently flowing stream (the sight of stagnant water to a hopeful Pooh Stick-er is beyond tragic measure), with only one activity in mind. Choosing the correct size and weight stick for the ‘match’ ahead is a skill in itself, whilst the throwing in of said stick, too, requires much attention. Throw it even slightly off target and one can find oneself victim to troublesome rocks or, dare I mention, straggly reeds. Of course, placing all of one’s trust in a gnarled, often (and sometimes amusingly) misshapen twig can feel alien and scary, but equally, it can provide a small, natural thrill, only, to my mind, ever found through nature’s simplicity.
I am not afraid to admit that I have suffered some heavy Pooh Stick defeats in my time, but this never deters me from trying again. The excitement of running across a bridge with fellow competitors, each desperate to catch a glimpse of their stick victoriously leading the way, is eternal.
With some research, I am pleased to discover I am not alone in this passion. In March 2011 a 9 year girl old won the World Pooh sticks Championships. It makes me ashamed that at the age of 22 I have achieved so little by comparison. At least I now have something to aim towards I suppose.
My lasting wish is that Eeyore could share in some of this enthusiasm. Lucky enough to live in the homeland of Pooh Sticks, I will never comprehend what he has to be so sad about.
Monday, 1 August 2011
A moment snapped.
Out of the hundreds of photos of university life, there are a particular ones which stick in my mind, this being one of them. Although ones in which everyone rotates their head to the most flattering angle, putting their best smile, or 'I refuse to conform to life's simple joy of smiling so will do my trademark ridiculous expression' (you know who you are) look on, emanate with the suitable level of happiness I will always take away from these times, I sometimes feel they detract from the very moment they are supposed to be conveying. This photo, capturing a particularly memorable and delightful evening, speaks so much more in its authenticity. No staging, only natural expressions, and the crème de la crème, the tesco shopping bag. And let's face it, one of these bad boys is always lurking somewhere near.
This is not to say I do not enjoy all photos in their various forms, and long may the '1,2,3, 'SMILE' days continue, when the moment's right. It's just nice to sometimes view life exactly as I have experienced it, shopping bags an' all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)