Of Goodness, of Monarchs and of Telling Stories

Another great picture from Bill Emory  at black and white
who I never get tired of plugging...

There is fiction in the space between the lines on your page of memories,
Write it down but it doesn't mean you're not just telling stories.
Tracy Chapman

In the past, I have spent too long considering the varied ways in which man displays his inhumanity to man that I often neglect to notice the truly great things: our innovative, infinite capacity for positive creation. People are great problem makers, it's true, but we're even better problem solvers. Today's blog is dedicated to humanity's good streak.

Well, that and slagging off a piece of contemporary cinema, but hey, let's concentrate on the goodness thing.

I started with one of Bill Emory's pictures over at Black and White (see pic credit for links). I'm a subscriber to his blog and he never ceases to inspire. If you've missed him here before, check out his stuff right now. He makes you want to dig out a camera.

The Chief is addicted to TED talks on the internet, and with good reason. He showed me this great talk by Allison Hunt, a Canadian woman who 'cheated' her way to the front of the queue for a hip replacement, by volunteering for the hospital shop. It's inspirational.




I love that: Even when a Canadian cheats the system, they do it in a way that benefits humanity.

And we're not just good to people, either. On the 22nd September, thousands of people will run a 7km route around London, raising money to save the planet's gorilla population. Yet, this a charity run with one key difference: all of these people will be dressed as gorillas. Check out the Great Gorilla Run efforts here.

Lastly, I am also an avid follower of Jenny Diski's blog, Biology of the Worst Kind. Her partner, Ian Patterson, aka The Poet, constructed a poem for her birthday, called Sixty Windows for Jenny. According to Ian Patterson:

here the rule was to take phrases that included the word 'window' from page sixty of sixty novels and simply arrange or re-arrange them, with nothing added.

It's genius stuff, and you should go and read it now, here.

After all this warmth, consideration and much listening to music on the internet, I am disappointed when I spend time watching The Queen, shown on ITV tonight, with commentator's reference to the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. I have to confess I did not enjoy this film much, although I thought much of the acting was superb. It all felt too mechanical, too trite, too neat and tidy, and altogether too Hollywood simplified for me to enjoy. I think after watching the two Capote films, which I loved for their ability to represent a life in fictional terms, and in so doing make a great reference to Capote's most well known work, In Cold Blood. What I liked so much was to what extent the two films are firm in their portrayal of humanity whilst being transparent enough to make reference to the stories they were telling. Or maybe it's just me. I know loads of you loved The Queen, as t'were.

Apres Moi Le Deluge

Tip-Toe on the Water - Night Goddessy, from DeviantArt.
Check out more of her work here.

This morning, I wake with the writing bug biting firmly at my ass. Not an altogether unpleasant experience, I rise and head  - for the first time in my short duration at The Loft - straight for my desk.

I restart my morning pages. If you haven't heard me mention these before, the morning pages are an idea of Julia Cameron's in The Artist's Way, a six week course for anyone with an interest in creating (and to my mind, that's all of us). She teaches the reader about channelling your creativity. The morning pages consist of writing three pages of A4 as soon as you wake up each day. You are not allowed to go back and read any of your pages for three months after they are written - you rise, you scrawl, you file.

I spent months keeping the morning pages faithfully, then over the last couple of years, only sporadically, but I feel an urge increasingly to return to them. It's interesting what I end up writing, a bit like therapy, in the sense that sometimes what you say surprises you in both its truth and its means of expression. 

As you know from my sporadic entries over the past couple of weeks, I have been struggling with my creativity's relationship to happiness. I received some great feedback (surely the breakfast of champions) from Miss Sally about my last couple of posts, which she said were more interesting than the writing I do as a tortured spirit (my words, not hers), or perhaps, as the Chief would say, as a human being having a spiritual experience.  I think her comments have been gradually sinking in this week as the desire to write is now foremost in my mind.

Last night, I dreamt that Portsmouth (actually the place I was in was Portsea) was flooding. The community was being evacuated and for some reason I ended up sharing a rescue room with two Japanese people - one middle aged woman and a young man - and a burly Dutchman, who made me write down his name, letter by unpronouncable letter until I could say it. Of course, upon waking, as with most things I write down in my dreams, his name was lost again, if it ever existed. In the meantime, the dreamtime, outside, the rains kept falling and falling, and we watched from windows as cliffs slid home to the sea, settling to their new beds at the deep. Sweet dreams, what do these things mean?

The closest relationship I can consciously build to this dream is that somewhere within, I feel the centre of myself shifting, unsettling old certainties and revealing new landscapes, frightening in the drama of their unfamiliarity but no less beautiful, no less glorious for that. It has been a long time since I felt so constantly, so consistently close to life and its infinite capacity for change.

What fresh art can I give you, gentle (and so very patient) readers that captures this sense? I think it has to be Mary Oliver.

Reckless Poem

Mary Oliver

Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.

It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves – you may believe this or not –
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers

somewhere
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.

Though, of course, I also know that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.

Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.

And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.

Yes, that's it.

Some other gems from my varied week:

• Staying up to 3am watching Noam Chomsky on Chime.tv - this man is one of my ultimate heroes, the triumph of voice over violence. There is something so innately peaceful about his expression and his ideas are so gently accessible in his presentation. His volume of work takes my breath away. Check out the video of him debating with one of the most pernicious, arrogant and manipulative speakers I've ever encountered, William F. Buckley. He almost made me spit at my own laptop, and that's not a sentence you hear every day.

• 
  

•  Infamous, the 'other' biopic of Truman Capote, which I caught the same night as Noam Chomsky. This was a stunner of a film and I never thought I would say that anyone could beat my heart's own Phillip Seymour Hoffman playing Truman Capote, but the entirely captivating Toby Jones brings something entirely new to the portrayal of Capote and the director's choice to contextualise more deeply the other characters in the movie, particularly Perry Smith and Nelle Harper Lee makes the film something more than Truman Capote's biography. There is something more deep, something more tender about this Capote than the brutish Capote of the eponymous film. I loved it. And I learnt that Dill, of To Kill A Mockingbird, is based on Truman Capote, who grew up with Nelle in the Deep South. I've read reviews where audiences gave this film a 15 minute standing ovation, and I can well believe it. You should see it.
  

• Kate Nash's album, Made of Bricks, has not left my stereo much recently. There are some great songs on this, and some great lyrics. Nash captures something of my sister's generation that is too often missed in the judgements of outside commentators - the tenderness, the confusion and the wisdom. Her delivery is awesome and all the more powerful for the double negatives (though I'd be lying if I told you that I don't correct them instinctively each time I hear one).
  

The One With No Complaints

Happy Birthday Chief!!

I love the interpipe. I love how you can wander around re-discovering the world as a place of wonder and beauty. I'm finding it hard to blog sometimes right now (I know by the frequent complaints that you've noticed). It's hard to know what to write (right) about. I'm also writing a lot of poetry at the moment, which isn't always appropriate for here. These are my excuses and I'm sticking with them.

This week has been one of great activity. The Ministry has been busy preparing for some key cultural developments, and it really feels, as Sherlock would say, that the game is afoot in city culture. The recent assessment on the Cultural Strategy has generated some great responses, and we've had input from some of the big cultural players across the city as well as from the public and from interested artists. The next year should bring some great developments, and slowly it feels as though we are moving towards a city culture that is more unified and - though I hate to use this phrase - 'joined up' in its activity.

The Loft is starting to come together, slowly but surely - although the fact that I can rarely tear myself away from pubs or the Peace Cafe is definitely slowing progress, but who's complaining?

I might have some work in the pipeline, there are some interesting projects coming up at the City Museum, and my London boss has put me onto an interesting audience development project in Wales. All in all, things are going well. The only problem is that when things are going well, creatively, it really doesn't make for good material. I write my best stuff when I'm miserable. How tragic is that? I suppose it's partly because I write to evaluate, to understand and what's to understand about happiness? But who's complaining?

My highlight of the week was an introduction from the glamorous and gorgeous Miss Sally to a song called Yes, We Have No Bananas. I'm not sure what led to its appearance in the office, but I said the words out loud and suddenly the women of the Office burst into song, which made me giggle like a maniac. The paradoxical title is also deliciously pleasing.

Then, best of all, Fashion Guru and all-round kindhearted AngelBaby Sally found it on YouTube, being sung by the Muppets! Enjoy!

Glass half empty or half full? Or is the glass there at all?

For a while now, I've been considering my writing with a more critical eye (critical in the pure sense, rather than the judgmental) and it occurred to me that I don't often write 'happy' material. This prompted my departure into the considering of a woman's moments of bliss (oo-er) a couple of days ago, and my posting of a recent poem penned in plentiful pleasure (how we love alliteration).

Apart from these two pieces, most of what I write can be, well, frankly, depressing. Not so much to me, but certainly sometimes in the effect they can have on others. It's no exaggeration to say that one piece I wrote a couple of years ago had my dad on suicide watch for a couple of weeks (it was a short story about depression from an insider perspective of a young woman in her twenties).

So, I've been meditating on why I'm so often moved to muse on the melancholy. I realised quickly, when I started to consider the things I enjoy watching, reading and listening to, that there is a strong part of me that just finds tragedy more compelling. I went to Boathouse No 6 last week with my friend Richard from work to watch the amazing biopic of Edith Piaf, La Vie en Rose. Her story is a tragic one, a life of extremes: poverty and success, love and loss and terrible addictions interspersed with moments of incredible friendships and joys.

When I was discussing the movie in the Peace Cafe the next day, I remarked how much I had enjoyed it, and Andrew, one of the the Castle Road Irregulars, sat at the next table, overheard.

"La Vie en Rose?" he called across, "I saw that last night too. I came out feeling incrediby depressed actually, although it was a beautiful film."

I mused on this for a moment, surprised, because although I could clearly see the film was sad (I'd cried at several parts), I had emerged from the cinema with a strong sense of life's glorious tragedy.

Sat in Lou Lou's over a coffee today, I ask James, "Do you think that acts of incredible creative beauty are only possible if they're run alongside circumstances of incredible tragedy?"

He raises his eyebrows at me, swallowing a mouthful of toast before answering, "No, I think we just have a tendency to perceive everything in dualities. It's a false perception."

I like this response. It's very Buddhist thinking, that all we have are our perceptions of the world. You think it's happy, it's happy. You think it's sad, it's sad. We literally see what we want to.

Of course, what I like most about this response is that it removes my dilemma entirely. There's no such thing as happiness or sadness, there are only the names we give to our experiences. And in terms of my work, there are only my perceptions of the story and the readers' perceptions of the same.

We must each make of the story what we will.

The Occasional Poet

Seascape by David Eppstein. You can find more of his beautiful images here.

The Chief asked me last night at dinner (can that man ever cook) if it was possible to rename the Daily.

"No," I answered automatically, "Once you name them, that's it. Why? What did you think I should change it to?"

I was thinking he had imagined some new, exotic spiritual or literary title for the blog.

"Oh," he mused with a small smile, "I was thinking maybe The Occasional? Or the When I Feel Like It?"

Point taken.

Time spent with the Chief is always an enormous amount of fun, with conversation ambling from the spiritual to the anecdotal, whilst consuming slightly inadvisable amounts of his wine cellar. Last night was no exception to this rule, but with one additional and amazing addition - an eclectic tour through the Chief's music collection. He has thousands of songs - and movie clips, I mean, how do these things work? Obviously, pixies are involved somewhere in the electronic ether - from almost every genre. It was a great evening, from which I stumbled home in the early hours of this morning, slightly worse for wear and stinking of port.

What more can a girl ask for? Well, apart from the ability to post every day without exception, obviously.

Here's a little something I prepared earlier. Feedback welcome - enjoy.

Homecoming

Away from you,
I saw you everywhere
more clearly than before -
and, being always with me,
it was unnecessary,
it was impossible,
to miss you.

This is new.

Away from you

I find you in the wind,
in the songs of whispering flags,
you rest against the moon, proclaiming the sky.
You are the dance, the pulse, the drumbeats,
the cool of crystal in my hand,
you are the tears of rain as skin steams dry.

But to see you now
against that distance –

Your soft eyes more gentle
than I remember,
(in silence your soft eyes stir the sleeping storms) -

I had forgotten

the flood, the overwhelming
waves of yearning
on a mindful tide.


Copyright Sarah Cheverton, 2007. Please do not reproduce without permission of the author.

To let it go, to let it go

“To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go”

Mary Oliver

She is lying on the grass. 

She could not say how long, but she has been here for quite some time, since the birds opened their mouths to the morning and began their reveille.

She is lying on the grass and there is a stillness settling around her, resting lightly against her skin. The sun is falling in the sky, dropping gentle rays upon her closed eyes, filling her mind with soft, still amber.

She is still, the only movement the rise and fall of her chest as she inhales and exhales against the breath of the breeze.

Behind her closed eyes, she is remembering: the soft bubbles of the water as she washed the dishes before leaving the house. She is remembering the shine of clean glass as it dried in the sun. She is remembering prayer flags outside the window, stirring like treetops in a summer forest.

Remembering, she smiles. Remembering, she is lost to the blushing sun, she is lost to the velvet breath of the breeze.

Behind her closed eyes, she is thinking. I am no more the scar tissue of my past. I am no more the pain, the tears, the furies of my loves, the tempests. I am no more the sum of my mind, my heart, my soul. Greater than all these things, this now, this moment, this sudden realisation. Greater than this, to be here, now.

The sun is falling. There is a chill sweeping across the horizon towards her as it slides into the approaching evening.

She is opening her eyes. She is beginning to awaken.

She is rising from the grass, taking in the stars as they reveal themselves to the sky. And standing, she tilts back her head, inhales and drinks the approaching night, before heading towards the darkness, home.

Normal service resumes

The Womud - courtesy of Karen Williams
You can find more images of Womad 2007 at Efestival

It's been a manic couple of weeks away from the Ministry as I took a fortnight's leave. I spent 4 days at the Womad music festival in Wiltshire in a series of very, very, very muddy fields. I camped with Kit Kat and the lovely Loobie Lou, along with a whole group of other Womad favourites and a huge teepee. The music, as was the case last year, was amazing and the company made the whole event perfect. We even came to love the mud in all its diverse, shiny brown glory.

When I got home from Womad, I faced a week of moving from the Heights to the Loft. This has been one hell of a job, carting boxes and furniture down six flights of stairs and then up another three. I could not possibly, at all, in any conceivable way have managed this without the help of a whole bunch of people who gave of their time, vehicles and consistent good cheer - though the latter cannot be strictly said to be true of me at all times, I'm afraid! - and the roll call of angel troupers is as follows - in alphabetical order, so I don't have to worry about prioritising:

The Bean - who despite feeling like he wasn't contributing anything, made sure that the Heights was finally emptied of the remaining detritus to be given away, and without whom, the new estate agents would have had to get a skip for

Handsome, talented and clever Ben - who simultaneously combines the abilities of comedian, actor, raconteur, interior designer and all round style guru with effortless finesse and one of the most mischievous and filthy senses of humour I've ever encountered after mine

'Koala' Chris - who helped us move on the very first day of transferring stuff to the Loft on one of the most beautiful days of the year, when there must have been so many other things for him to be doing that were more pleasant, and who will haunt Kate's nightmares for years with his rendition of a German porno soundtrack - Ach ya.....

Gorgeous and universally fancied Dan - who leant us his sack truck (why, but why do they have this name??!), sat and teased me on the grass and has yet to fulfil his promise of finding me a nickname that equals the one I've given him of 'Spoon' (because he's a little stirrer)

The ever wonderful G - who has painted my new front room already and displayed tenacity beyond the call of duty in her attempts to move furniture and boxes despite everyone's protestations not to, and who always managed to find just one more 'little thing' to do before leaving the Loft each night at some ungodly hour

The gorgeous, bubbly and ever-faithful H - who leant of her van, her time and her partner with endless generosity, and who kept me laughing and singing at points when I thought my head was going to spontaneously combust

The man of peace himself - no, not Jesus - but James, who kept us all in coffees, me in green teas and had enough distance to gently suggest when I really needed a night off. Never has the sentence "You seem a bit stressed" been more understated

The endless energy force that is Kit Kat - who wowed everyone with her ability to run up and down stairs in flip flops whilst carrying impossible loads and who never failed to chivvy us into managing 'just one more' load

Charming, helpful and beautiful Lainee - who made the kitchen at the Heights cleaner than it has ever been in the whole time I lived there, on the very last day we cleared it, who stayed up late with me in the Loft watching episodes of Black Books even though she had work the next day and who always has a little dance to share

Beautiful and calming Loobie Lou - who cleaned two rooms in the Loft, provided constant good humour and never failed to make me laugh like a drain with her repertoire of facial expressions. My particular favourite has to be the 'I know I'm not meant to say it but I've thought it so here it is' grin

The big Bro himself, Matthias - who defies belief with the speed with which he can carry heavy objects up and down stairs without complaint and with the stamina of an Olympic athlete, even though he would much rather have been in a pub garden with his mates. Love ya BB.

Good natured and strong armed Phil - who lifted more than all our combined weights over a period of three days without complaint, and who sat through an hour and a half of Ntl's technical support hotline with unyielding patience until my home internet connection was sorted

Strong man Steve - who dragged himself away from a sunny garden and several cold, cold beers on one of the hottest days of the year to drag boxes down from the Heights into the waiting car, and who kept us all laughing with his and my brother's endless battle of wits

To all of you, the very, very, very biggest of thank yous. Moving house, like splitting up with a lover, is one of the most stressful times of your life and I really couldn't have done it without all of you. Moving house, that is, not splitting up with a lover. You've all made me feel like one of the luckiest women on the planet with your dedication to my move and reminded me that people are good, kind and capable of some of the most remarkable acts of generosity. I am starting to believe that altruism does exist after all.

Finally, a big welcome home to the Chief, who I have sorely missed over the past two weeks. He came to visit me this morning at the Peace Cafe for my volunteer shift and complimented me royally on my latte skills, which set me up perfectly for my third shift here. He's back off on his travels for the next week, so I will have to continue to miss him for a while longer yet. Have a great time, Chief.