Warm Words

Another quote from our Far Eastern cousins who, when they are not busy whaling endangered species into extinction, have the sort of turn of (translated) phrase that makes me want to go straight to Blockbusters and rent Karate Kid 2.

"One kind word can warm three winter months," says a traditional proverb.

And yet, subscribing to this very principle, I complimented a young female on the Metro this morning on the feminine shape of her sweater.
It didn't seem to thaw her for a second never mind through the spring of 2011.
It is fair to say she was not impressed.

Neither was her boyfriend.
No problem I thought, so I tried to correct any misunderstanding by telling him he had a nice attitude.
Which didn't seem to help.

This compliment business...

It's more complicated than it looks.

Hari-Charicter

Today the government decided not to stop NHS funding for homeopathy and by doing so endorse it. And I have just stumbled across this quote.
"To see what is right, and not to do it, is a lack of courage or of principle." Confucius.

Well done, coalition goverment.

Feta of Fate

At its cheesiest, life is a celebration.

But it's a short journey between being feted and being fetid.

Press Play

Unfortunately growing up is sometimes to lose a sense of play.
Not me, you understand. Others.
It's a general observation based on the fact that I have not heard a colleague complain of a scraped knee for some moons now.

Instead of electrical impulses dancing around the excited mind, we try to force linear corridors between effort and gain. Artificals shortcuts towards a Picasso-esque portrait of happiness.

Is it fun growing up?
We tend to think not. But it should be.
We concentrate on the dark side of growing up - aging.
We should concentrate on the lighter side - the naughty freedom that you only see in children and some devilish pensioners and that we sometimes lose in between.

Now I have reached adulthood, I see that we can speak our mind, have enough sophistication to anticipate its impact and still hopefully have enough money in our pocket to help us get behind a few of the velvet ropes where the fun could really kick off.
But still a uneasy sense of unwon maturity can persist.
If the concrete lining your corridors has not yet hardened up so much that you risk it fracturing when challenged, then why not do just that?

Pick at the cracks.
Peel back the wallpaper - tear it a bit, draw on it.
Test those walls.
And play.
Risk.
Write a sweeping novel and distil it into a paragraph.
Write an opus and summarise it to a scale.

Build and grow.
Chunk up and down.

But concentrate, destroy, distil.
Be without ruth. Purify and edit life.
Learn to kill and self-harm.
Be your own guru.
Alternate tough with fluffy; and flip between the two so no-one knows what they are going to get.
When you meet folk who think life is a box of chocolates, drop in a liquorice allsort.
Be a devil.

Challenge. Yield.
Advance. Regress.

Build blocks.
Dance.
Reblock.

Unblock.

Unlock.

And play.

To play it safe is not to play at all.

A Grecian Subtext

"It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it." Aristotle.
A familiar quote used as the intro to our teaching session today.
I have never wanted to scream "Ridiculous!" at the top of my voice quite so much at a work meeting.

Somehow I just resisted this.
Relying on the subtler qualities of those around you is not a pastime for Monday mornings.

Rob Brydon's Finest Moment

Some of us never forgot ....

Pandemonium

Shards of life

Thirty minutes ago I lost my job.

The world you think you know evaporates.
Plans.
Courses.
Holidays.
A feeling of value.
An echo of the past came up and punched me in the face.
Something I rationalised.
Something I sorted.
Something I almost got past.
Something I tried to draw strength from. Like they say you should.
Something out of my control.


I imagine the feeling is the same as finding your husband or wife is having an affair.
Your first born shot in the front line. Forgive the analogy. I mean no disrespect.
A bus crash on a Columbian road or a holiday train falling off a steep cliff.
A terrible incident mercilessly exploding out of the blue.
An act of terror.

I can understand a little better about those at the damp end of the credit crunch.
Living on margins and falling off.
And a memory comes of an excellent BBC production some years back called Holding On.
Your attempts to hold on by wearing the right shoes, the broadest gait, the strongest foundations you can effect.
But trouble comes anyway.
The sinking feeling.
Searing regret.
Lost control.
Self-indulgent upset.
It comes anyway.

Five minutes ago I got my job back.
An administrative error.
A judgement I managed to talk my way out of.

What do I learn?
That a simple life is the best?
The more we complicate, the more one of these things could happen to you.
Keep your options open but close them down when you can.
More eggs, more baskets.
Open doors but slam a few shut occasionally.
It gets draughty otherwise.
You can go from a feeling of great riches, in reasonable health and humour to great poverty of circumstance and pain.

In an instant.

It's fragile, this world.

White emulsion

You are the pilot of your life.
You may glide. You may buffet. You may rock.
You may roll. With the tide or a change of season.
Steer yourself through choppy waters or surrender the reins to a trusted aide to ride you to infinity and/or beyond.
Tilt your spaceship to the stars as you walk a road of broken shards touched with the captured spirits of a thousand Victorian mirrors.
And as you face life's crises as you, your agent, your PA, your husband of 60 years find pastures that don't involve you, you search your soul, paper over the cracks and soothe your bruised heart.
You're stuffed.
You've gambled your stability on red and it's come up black.
You've chopped down the trees that protected you and there's none to hide behind

So the point is this.....

Is it a crime?
Is it really such a terrible crime to mix your metaphors so flagrantly?
In fact is there any duller metaphor than a metaphor unmixed?

Why add colour to language if you only use a single pot of paint?
White emulsion.

You have my permission.
Mix your metaphors.
Or what's a metaphor for?

The need for love-hate relationships

What's happened to Tom and Jerry?
Where are they now?
The BBC used to treat us to a dose or two once in a while, maybe Saturdays as a treat. Now you never seem to see it.
Have they locked it away on a kid's satellite channel next to Spongebob?
I hope not because it was my grandma's favourite programme.

Reward provided for one missing cat.
And his best friend.

Aspects of Passion

You have many roles. Do you know what they are?
Are you clear what you would like to spend your time doing?
This is life awareness - how you engage with all the aspects of life.
It is your chosen level of participation (and risk) in the potential of your own existence - how far you dip your toes in.
Got it? No? Once more then...
It is how much you tip your hat at the present and the future and take part in the decisions your life makes for you.

Are you an active equal partner with chance and predictability?
Do you use your vote - your right to choose?
Do you play your part?
And whether you do or don't (there are plenty who don't), are you happy with that?
Or should you revisit this once in a while?
I call this Life Presence.
It is a presence of mind - an engagement and recogniton of the matrix around you. An awareness of whether your auto-pilot is on or off.
I suppose others have called it the Power of Now (amongst other self help best-sellers). It is a little snappier than my moniker.
Maybe you only engage reluctantly, if your life depends on it.
Or do you make every turn as though your life depends on it - is that called "micromanaging" your own life.
Micromanaging is a "bad word", commonly used in insults in the workplace by people with limited ability to communicate, as it sounds a bit clever. Very HR.
The same concept might be called "passion".
Passion is a "good" word. Overused sadly, in these days of reality TV shows and popstar auditions but a glorious concept when you recognise it for real.

Passion is an activity not a hope.

Weather check

It's raining today. Middle of July.
Tsk!
What do you do when you are out in the rain?
You might walk under a tree in the rain for protection.
You might choose a strong oak or take your chances with a young flexible willow. It might depend on your preference for a sturdy support or something that yields to the wind of change. (Yes, you guessed it I am about to launch into another weak analogy about life and relationships. Buckle up).
You might seek out such protection. It would be natural. It might be the most important thing in the world to you. Although you may just be attracted to healthy bark that you hope and pray is no worse than its blight.
Either way you are sheltered. You will be dry for a time.

But.
When the weather changes and the sun comes out, when the atmosphere clears and the clouds have enough defined shape to earn themseves a latin label, then you may still be cowering under that tree.
Even when the leaves have gone and the protection is questionable at best.
Even when the rot sets in.
By then it may be the only place you feel safe. But by then it may be the only place the rain is still coming down. You think you have a support, a shield, a protector as the heavy drops strike you randomly. Instead you have an icy wet insult just when you least expect it. It's cold and apprehensive, scary and insecure.

Choose, check and maintain your support wisely.
Replace it when it is longer effective.
Screw and nail as required.
It's basic DIY for life.

Mysterious by their Absence: When Vicars Roamed

When did you last see a dog collar on the streets?
When did you last see a vicar doing his shopping?
You used to see them around a bit every now and again with their big plastic teeth and cups of tea.
Of the three professions - doctor, lawyer, church (I am ignoring recent additions to the claim. I think the Gateshead Sage is nice but I wouldn't call it one of the Seven Wonders) - I know GPs for example often don't wear ties anymore. But a vicar isn't just a job with a uniform, it's an identity, a true vocation. It's a lifestyle, a calling not an appointment. Can't you phone your vicar up in the middle of the night for some pastoral advice without going through Vicars Direct?
It's not a part time gig for 2 hours on Sunday morning plus evensong. They get a house and everything.
And I haven't heard of any serious vicar attacks that are keeping them so scared to leave the vestry.
There's something strange going on. I've probably said too much already.
They must be out there but they are incognito.

And while I am at it, where are the nuns?
I haven't seen once of those shuffling around the Metro Centre for ages.
When did you last see one on the bus, tube, taxi queue, at the Clinique counter?
What do they have under there - hoverboards?
No, they have all gone underground.

Some would say it is a warning of the Apocalypse.
I think they just wouldn't know how to get away from the charity muggers.