with calm presence
cut the cloth
to shape our lives
smooth the creases of our grief
ironing the pain
birth our souls with recipes
this homely mastery
women’s work.
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Homely Mastery
with calm presence
cut the cloth
to shape our lives
smooth the creases of our grief
ironing the pain
birth our souls with recipes
this homely mastery
women’s work.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
Saturday, 24 November 2007
Which Ography?
Nope, this isn’t about geography. There is a relationship to autobiography. In this instance autoethnography, which is quite new to me. I pondered about including something not quite mainstream in yesterday’s research theory session. Would the students think this a valid approach to research or not? The standpoint taken, admitting I did not know this in depth. I would present the basics to them, and be very interested in their thoughts.
Before doing that they had introductions to autobiography and memoir. Posing the question, could we trust those as the truth? Well, a big discussion followed about recognising truthfulness in what we read. Some thought the Diary of Anne Frank is autobiography. Others said no, this is a memoir. Three decided diary writing is personal reflections. The truth is how the writer perceives that to be. I threw in, what about multiple realities? Saying, we have many dimensions to our inner life. That reality isn’t so clear cut. Reality can be fuzzy because we depend upon memory, feelings, and perceptions of particular events. That caused a flurry of discussion, which rapidly became a fast flowing exchange of memories. A good point at which to say, “Okay. Let’s move on to authoethenography.”
So what is this and could it be something people do in online journals? Auto (self), ethno (cultural), the self in culture using one’s own life to create a personal narrative. Sounds familiar doesn’t it? This is a highly personalised style of writing. Researching self is the focus. Is that likely to be rigorous in terms of validity? Some say it is not others can justify what the rigor should be.
Lived experience is the focus of qualitative research. The main reason why I’m so tuned into these approaches. Lived experience becomes textual because we have language. And it is through language and writing we bring structure to the experiences of life. If all experience is text, that can be analysed in the dimensions of its behavioural, social, and cultural contexts.
Although autoethnography has been around for twenty years, traditional researchers view this as self-indulgent, even to suggesting it’s narcissistic. This is not strictly speaking an autobiography or a memoir. It does though require a good understanding of the reflective process.
Traditionally when doing research the self is excluded. Qualitative researchers interpret the life world of others. So where does that place the person in terms of researching self? Are there clear cut differences between autobiography, memoir, and autoethnography? Coming to this initially, the lines appeared to be somewhat blurred.
“Autoethnography is an autobiographical genre of writing and research that displays multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal to the cultural. Back and forth ethnographers gaze, first through an ethnographic wide-angle lens, focussing outward on social and cultural aspects of their personal experience; then, they look inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through, refract, and resist cultural interpretations.” (Ellis & Bochner 2001)
Women can be subversive when writing. Many women have long resisted imposed cultural interpretations of how we should be. We find that in novels and poetry. Kate Chopin’s novel The Awakening, published in 1899, was vilified. I can’t say for certain if she consciously set out to be subversive. So possibly, Chopin unconsciously dissented when writing about the reality of a woman’s deep feelings. Her character Edna Pontellier, felt trapped in a mundane passionless marriage, her affair unconsummated. Regardless of that latter fact, Chopin’s book caused moral outrage. She was socially ostracised, silenced, and never published another novel.
This brings me to Anaïs Nin’s journals. Those are distinctly autobiographical veering more in the direction of autoethnography, than The Diary of Anne Frank. I’m treading to some extent upon swampy ground here. My thoughts are fluid, likely to deepen and change, as I discover more about autoethnography.
So far, auto-ethnographic accounts emerge as personal reflections of a multi-facetted inner life. Unlike the usual approaches to research, there is no single testable proposition. The researcher and the data is a unified embodied life. This is an examined life using reflective journal writing, ethnographic analysis and narrative reporting. In that respect veers away from standing on its own as an autobiography or a memoir. Which although related to those, the subtle differences are clearer.
As for the students, they enjoyed being part of my learning process, as I do of theirs. Sharing learning together generated a terrific buzz.
Reference
Ellis C.E., Bochner A.P., (2001) Ethnographically Speaking: Autoethnography, Literature and Aesthetics, Ethnographic Alternatives Series, AltaMira Press, USA.
Before doing that they had introductions to autobiography and memoir. Posing the question, could we trust those as the truth? Well, a big discussion followed about recognising truthfulness in what we read. Some thought the Diary of Anne Frank is autobiography. Others said no, this is a memoir. Three decided diary writing is personal reflections. The truth is how the writer perceives that to be. I threw in, what about multiple realities? Saying, we have many dimensions to our inner life. That reality isn’t so clear cut. Reality can be fuzzy because we depend upon memory, feelings, and perceptions of particular events. That caused a flurry of discussion, which rapidly became a fast flowing exchange of memories. A good point at which to say, “Okay. Let’s move on to authoethenography.”
So what is this and could it be something people do in online journals? Auto (self), ethno (cultural), the self in culture using one’s own life to create a personal narrative. Sounds familiar doesn’t it? This is a highly personalised style of writing. Researching self is the focus. Is that likely to be rigorous in terms of validity? Some say it is not others can justify what the rigor should be.
Lived experience is the focus of qualitative research. The main reason why I’m so tuned into these approaches. Lived experience becomes textual because we have language. And it is through language and writing we bring structure to the experiences of life. If all experience is text, that can be analysed in the dimensions of its behavioural, social, and cultural contexts.
Although autoethnography has been around for twenty years, traditional researchers view this as self-indulgent, even to suggesting it’s narcissistic. This is not strictly speaking an autobiography or a memoir. It does though require a good understanding of the reflective process.
Traditionally when doing research the self is excluded. Qualitative researchers interpret the life world of others. So where does that place the person in terms of researching self? Are there clear cut differences between autobiography, memoir, and autoethnography? Coming to this initially, the lines appeared to be somewhat blurred.
“Autoethnography is an autobiographical genre of writing and research that displays multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal to the cultural. Back and forth ethnographers gaze, first through an ethnographic wide-angle lens, focussing outward on social and cultural aspects of their personal experience; then, they look inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through, refract, and resist cultural interpretations.” (Ellis & Bochner 2001)
Women can be subversive when writing. Many women have long resisted imposed cultural interpretations of how we should be. We find that in novels and poetry. Kate Chopin’s novel The Awakening, published in 1899, was vilified. I can’t say for certain if she consciously set out to be subversive. So possibly, Chopin unconsciously dissented when writing about the reality of a woman’s deep feelings. Her character Edna Pontellier, felt trapped in a mundane passionless marriage, her affair unconsummated. Regardless of that latter fact, Chopin’s book caused moral outrage. She was socially ostracised, silenced, and never published another novel.
This brings me to Anaïs Nin’s journals. Those are distinctly autobiographical veering more in the direction of autoethnography, than The Diary of Anne Frank. I’m treading to some extent upon swampy ground here. My thoughts are fluid, likely to deepen and change, as I discover more about autoethnography.
So far, auto-ethnographic accounts emerge as personal reflections of a multi-facetted inner life. Unlike the usual approaches to research, there is no single testable proposition. The researcher and the data is a unified embodied life. This is an examined life using reflective journal writing, ethnographic analysis and narrative reporting. In that respect veers away from standing on its own as an autobiography or a memoir. Which although related to those, the subtle differences are clearer.
As for the students, they enjoyed being part of my learning process, as I do of theirs. Sharing learning together generated a terrific buzz.
Reference
Ellis C.E., Bochner A.P., (2001) Ethnographically Speaking: Autoethnography, Literature and Aesthetics, Ethnographic Alternatives Series, AltaMira Press, USA.
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
Ghosts
Ghosts whispering in the wind: the title of my journal written when working in the Palestinian West Bank and Gaza Strip. My jottings about living with the Palestinian people, became the warp and the weft of their story. It’s also the first time in my life, when I took on board a cause that continues to absorb me. This was inevitable, who can live with a despairing nation and not be deeply moved?
They were like ghosts on the day when I drove Wajiha, Huda, and Rasmia, from the student’s hostel in Bethlehem to the Erez checkpoint the entrance to the Gaza Strip, their home, where we said goodbye. Watching them cross no-mans-land, the chimera on the road turned them into spectral figures. Would I ever see them again? Deep down feeling that was unlikely, they vanished in the fierce glare of the Mediterranean sun.
More than when in Iran, working in Palestine is the most defining period of my life. To be immersed in the culture, a uniquely formative experience. I returned in 1998 after the deaths of my parents and Kevin. That was a brief visit. Again in 2000 to complete some research, then optimism was more evident in the people. That was short lived when the second Intifada, unlike the first, was met with unprecedented bombing by Israel. Decent kind people I knew had their homes destroyed. The daily bombardments decimated familiar places in Bethlehem and Beit Jala. The peace masterminded in Oslo, which had always been tenuous, was dead.
Distanced and safe over here, I felt guilty for not being there, for not sharing this new horror with Palestinian friends. Their story had become my story, as if stitched on my skin like an embroidered Thobe. Mostly my thoughts were for the children, always the innocent victims of conflicts. There is a garden in the mountains beyond Hebron, where children play. Their mother and I together had planted the roses. Would I hold their tiny hands in mine again, see their eyes gaze in wonderment at the beauty of a rose? My anxiety eased somewhat when I called their mother. They were far enough from the focus of the bombing and safer. Her fear was the unpredictable Israeli settlers, who if riled thought nothing of evicting Palestinian families from their homes.
Life when working there from 1992 to 1996, for sure was not all gloom and misery. Mostly that was an exciting, happy adventure, especially with my dearest friend and her children. There is much I could say about the courage of this articulate, feisty Palestinian American woman, who when speaking street Arabic, often made people laugh. Like most women, her major concern is for her family. Living there was and still is unpredictable, an aspect one had to adjust to. Most foreign nationals were deeply committed to working there. Living in a warm friendly culture where the people are neighbourly, kind and generous, was downright homely.
Diaries:Live From Palestine.
They were like ghosts on the day when I drove Wajiha, Huda, and Rasmia, from the student’s hostel in Bethlehem to the Erez checkpoint the entrance to the Gaza Strip, their home, where we said goodbye. Watching them cross no-mans-land, the chimera on the road turned them into spectral figures. Would I ever see them again? Deep down feeling that was unlikely, they vanished in the fierce glare of the Mediterranean sun.
More than when in Iran, working in Palestine is the most defining period of my life. To be immersed in the culture, a uniquely formative experience. I returned in 1998 after the deaths of my parents and Kevin. That was a brief visit. Again in 2000 to complete some research, then optimism was more evident in the people. That was short lived when the second Intifada, unlike the first, was met with unprecedented bombing by Israel. Decent kind people I knew had their homes destroyed. The daily bombardments decimated familiar places in Bethlehem and Beit Jala. The peace masterminded in Oslo, which had always been tenuous, was dead.
Distanced and safe over here, I felt guilty for not being there, for not sharing this new horror with Palestinian friends. Their story had become my story, as if stitched on my skin like an embroidered Thobe. Mostly my thoughts were for the children, always the innocent victims of conflicts. There is a garden in the mountains beyond Hebron, where children play. Their mother and I together had planted the roses. Would I hold their tiny hands in mine again, see their eyes gaze in wonderment at the beauty of a rose? My anxiety eased somewhat when I called their mother. They were far enough from the focus of the bombing and safer. Her fear was the unpredictable Israeli settlers, who if riled thought nothing of evicting Palestinian families from their homes.
Life when working there from 1992 to 1996, for sure was not all gloom and misery. Mostly that was an exciting, happy adventure, especially with my dearest friend and her children. There is much I could say about the courage of this articulate, feisty Palestinian American woman, who when speaking street Arabic, often made people laugh. Like most women, her major concern is for her family. Living there was and still is unpredictable, an aspect one had to adjust to. Most foreign nationals were deeply committed to working there. Living in a warm friendly culture where the people are neighbourly, kind and generous, was downright homely.
Diaries:Live From Palestine.Saturday, 17 November 2007
Desert Island Discs
My library day had a special tick much like a friendly clock. On those days, I never wanted to linger in bed. After having a fortifying breakfast, I walked to the bus stop. Waiting for the bus had an exciting purpose. The town centre library, a stately Victorian building, spoke of serious purpose. The librarians, all female, were middle aged plain looking women, wearing cardigans and high neck blouses, plaid skirts and stout shoes. They had muted voices, with slow precise movements. The library seemed sacred then. The rituals there much like a religious service, with solemn incantations.
Fiction had the lion’s share of the bays rows. Poetry, drama, and music, squeezed in miserably with fiction. History, geography, travel, had capacious shelves mostly for the taller books. For a frequent user the book bays were predictable. That Saturday morning ritual set the tone for the week. I walked home from the bus stop, carrying a bag full of thrilling stories.
My sister also an avid reader, scathingly pushed me from L.M. Montgomery’s, Anne of Green Gables to Leo Tolstoy’s, Anna Karenina. Kid’s books were passé. She was in a Russian literature phase, reading Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, and Tolstoy. If there were no town library, I doubt that our lives would have been quite so enriched or our reading eclectic. If anyone asked what my favourite book was then, there are too many. Whichever one I selected, would feel like a betrayal of the others.
If a castaway, however, on the BBC Desert Island Discs radio programme, given the choice to take a favourite book, I would have Anne Shirley. Alone on a desert island, Anne would generate optimism and laughter. Over the years of engaging with books, those read in childhood resound most like bells.
Fiction had the lion’s share of the bays rows. Poetry, drama, and music, squeezed in miserably with fiction. History, geography, travel, had capacious shelves mostly for the taller books. For a frequent user the book bays were predictable. That Saturday morning ritual set the tone for the week. I walked home from the bus stop, carrying a bag full of thrilling stories.
My sister also an avid reader, scathingly pushed me from L.M. Montgomery’s, Anne of Green Gables to Leo Tolstoy’s, Anna Karenina. Kid’s books were passé. She was in a Russian literature phase, reading Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, and Tolstoy. If there were no town library, I doubt that our lives would have been quite so enriched or our reading eclectic. If anyone asked what my favourite book was then, there are too many. Whichever one I selected, would feel like a betrayal of the others.
If a castaway, however, on the BBC Desert Island Discs radio programme, given the choice to take a favourite book, I would have Anne Shirley. Alone on a desert island, Anne would generate optimism and laughter. Over the years of engaging with books, those read in childhood resound most like bells.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
In A House Of Silence
The above a book of autobiographical essays, by Arab women writers. What do women write of when they don’t feel free to express their deepest longings? They write of their inner prisons. Of the cultures they belong to and feel exiled from. They write about the constraints imposed upon them as women, of their sadness and their anger. They want to write of love, and when they do, that has to be done in secret. Writing about love is a male domain. The Arab woman must never bring dishonour to her family. To write of intimacy, dangerous territory for her. Without feeling free to fully express themselves, these women are in bondage. That’s why they live in a house of silence.
This is one of my much loved books. I know where the women are coming from. The details of their lives, illuminated by their deep need to voice their true feelings. It is, also, a worthy book to read for autobiographical writing.
The ebb and the flow of our inner tides take us on imaginative journeys. Writing can be an escape from reality. It can also be a foil to encounter our own reality. Liana Badr, describes her mothers warning against standing too long in front of the mirror. The premise: desire is dangerous, and mirrors are seductive.
“Above all, she wanted to protect me from the eye of the mirror because it is the eye of eyes, the one which sows destruction through its numerous reflections and infinite layers.”
Sometimes writing is like a mirror. We see facets of ourselves reflected in our stories. Badre elaborates more about the mirror in her essay. “The mirror has a deadly charm which penetrates deep inside a person. Tempting you to look at yourself and examine how you relate to the world, pushing you to the edge of insanity.”
Many of us have an inner craziness, when we deeply encounter the sharp edges of living. That can be awesome, and scary. This tests our innermost willingness to survive, adapt and renew ourselves. It’s easy to write about this, the actual experience is painful, confounding, and mournful, when birthing the self we never knew existed before a particular event or inner realisation.
David Whyte’s “Sweet Darkness,” has profoundly resonated for many enduring life’s stormy or uncertain passages. This was one of my meditation poems, when life had lost zest after bereavement. The Arab women "In A House Of Silence," are in grief. They mourn for the unattainable.
This is one of my much loved books. I know where the women are coming from. The details of their lives, illuminated by their deep need to voice their true feelings. It is, also, a worthy book to read for autobiographical writing.
The ebb and the flow of our inner tides take us on imaginative journeys. Writing can be an escape from reality. It can also be a foil to encounter our own reality. Liana Badr, describes her mothers warning against standing too long in front of the mirror. The premise: desire is dangerous, and mirrors are seductive.
“Above all, she wanted to protect me from the eye of the mirror because it is the eye of eyes, the one which sows destruction through its numerous reflections and infinite layers.”
Sometimes writing is like a mirror. We see facets of ourselves reflected in our stories. Badre elaborates more about the mirror in her essay. “The mirror has a deadly charm which penetrates deep inside a person. Tempting you to look at yourself and examine how you relate to the world, pushing you to the edge of insanity.”
Many of us have an inner craziness, when we deeply encounter the sharp edges of living. That can be awesome, and scary. This tests our innermost willingness to survive, adapt and renew ourselves. It’s easy to write about this, the actual experience is painful, confounding, and mournful, when birthing the self we never knew existed before a particular event or inner realisation.
David Whyte’s “Sweet Darkness,” has profoundly resonated for many enduring life’s stormy or uncertain passages. This was one of my meditation poems, when life had lost zest after bereavement. The Arab women "In A House Of Silence," are in grief. They mourn for the unattainable.
Monday, 12 November 2007
Olives and Mezze
The terraces of olive trees, seen from the office window, one of my enduring memories of Bethlehem. When a friend’s husband had two olive presses shipped from Italy, I was keen to see those in action. The modern versions clattered like ships engines and stank of diesel. To the best of my knowledge, Palestinian olive oil is not exported. It is possible some finds its way into Israel. In which instance, the bottles are likely to have made in Israel labels. Just as some Israeli wines are made from Hebron grapes, cultivated by Palestinian families. As alcohol is forbidden to Muslims, it seems eminently sensible, selling the grapes to others for wine production.
The above came to me, when reading Carol Drinkwater’s book The Olive Route. I enjoy munching olives, especially with the variety of mezze to be had at the Philadelphia, in East Jerusalem. Middle Eastern cuisine, is mostly delicious. One of my regular spots the American Colony Hotel. Some less salubrious restaurants, have surprisingly good food. Décor isn’t always a guide to the quality of the cuisine.
Last night I found a superb web site by Matt Brandon, The Digital Trekker. His portraits of people in India, and elsewhere, are deeply touching. As a subscriber to webshots, I’m impressed by many amateur photographers there. Flickr another site, with superbly creative contributors.
Over the weekend, I had another wander in Castle Ashby Village. This thatched house captured my attention.
The above came to me, when reading Carol Drinkwater’s book The Olive Route. I enjoy munching olives, especially with the variety of mezze to be had at the Philadelphia, in East Jerusalem. Middle Eastern cuisine, is mostly delicious. One of my regular spots the American Colony Hotel. Some less salubrious restaurants, have surprisingly good food. Décor isn’t always a guide to the quality of the cuisine.
Last night I found a superb web site by Matt Brandon, The Digital Trekker. His portraits of people in India, and elsewhere, are deeply touching. As a subscriber to webshots, I’m impressed by many amateur photographers there. Flickr another site, with superbly creative contributors.
Over the weekend, I had another wander in Castle Ashby Village. This thatched house captured my attention.
Friday, 9 November 2007
Nordic Walking
Using walking poles has proven to be tremendously beneficial. It’s not a quick fix either. Regular walking is required to build up core body muscle. I researched this carefully before buying poles. I’m presently using Excel light-weight carbon trainers. Those are designed for Nordic Walking. There is a big range of poles to choose from on the internet. Walking shoes also require some research. It is best to try a range for comfort in a store first. You can always go to the internet for a better deal after doing that. I made the mistake of buying first from the net. Those shoes blistered my heels.
The two places where we spend most of our time: are in our shoes and in bed. Think about that! I settled for Zamberlan walking shoes from a local store. I had the option of wearing those around the house first. If they hadn't been right for my feet I could return them. The Zamberlan roll me forward so comfortably. I'm not suggesting those would suit everyone. The best site for NW information and gear is here at blogspot. Nordic Walking USA.
Socks, well again, research those. Socks should be lightweight with reinforced heel and toe sections. Ideally, wear those when testing new walking shoes/trainers. You may find you need shoes a half size bigger. What walkers don’t want are blisters or soggy feet. So really, the socks worn are also important for comfort.
After a walk I feel invigorated. And must confess, initially, felt awkward when people stared at me when using the poles. I could be setting a trend in the village. Several people have asked me why I walk with those. If you’re the only person in the neighbourhood doing this, it’s a nice way to influence others. I have observed people walking their dogs, tend to chat with others doing likewise. So it seems to me, walking with poles can also have social benefits. The brief kind of chat, which makes one feel less of a stranger.
I decided to learn from a trainer, to be sure of doing this the right way. The NW health benefits are amazing. I’ll be walking in Scotland next year, beautiful scenery with great walking trails. Of course, the camera will go with me. Nordic walking has renewed my passion for photography.
The rose photo was taken after a summer shower with a Fuji-S6500fd camera. I’m thrilled with the new NikonD40x DSLR. I had actually considered Canon or Pentax. It wasn’t easy making a decision.The Nikon features and the price swayed me. Nikon UK has cashback for a limited period. With a two year free warranty thrown in, a deal too good to miss.Monday, 5 November 2007
A Coronach & Fire
There is only one road from Fort William to Arisaig and Mallaig. For the longest part of the journey, that high road to the Isles happens to be narrow, twisting and scary. My passenger prayed we would meet no oncoming traffic. Eileen had a sheer drop on her side of the car. And we were up amongst the tree-tops. In contrast the drive to Eilean Donan Castle, was awesomely beautiful.
Scots have laments in our music. Although now history, for some the memory of the past is very much alive. As the clan system was feudal, without its demise we would have made no progress. The way of the clans passing into history, a coronach (lament) living on in the poetry, the music of Gaelic hearts.
When touring the castle, I massively upset a young male guide. He proposed we should have The Lord of the Isles, reinstated. “You must be kidding,” I said. “That was feudal. Best left in history.” Well, his reaction was one of fury. Undaunted, I compounded this by saying, “Romanticising the past is the work of novelists.” Of course, that fuelled his fire even more. His mother, also a guide, nicely intervened. I hadn’t intended being provocative with her son. The words just leapt from my lips. It would have been polite to ask, why he thought The Lord of the Isles should be reinstated? We possibly, could have had more mileage from that.
Scots have laments in our music. Although now history, for some the memory of the past is very much alive. As the clan system was feudal, without its demise we would have made no progress. The way of the clans passing into history, a coronach (lament) living on in the poetry, the music of Gaelic hearts.
When touring the castle, I massively upset a young male guide. He proposed we should have The Lord of the Isles, reinstated. “You must be kidding,” I said. “That was feudal. Best left in history.” Well, his reaction was one of fury. Undaunted, I compounded this by saying, “Romanticising the past is the work of novelists.” Of course, that fuelled his fire even more. His mother, also a guide, nicely intervened. I hadn’t intended being provocative with her son. The words just leapt from my lips. It would have been polite to ask, why he thought The Lord of the Isles should be reinstated? We possibly, could have had more mileage from that.
The Celts of the British Isles settled in some of the most inhospitable, remote areas of this land. I have often thought we form within our character, the landscape of our belonging. Some people can’t live without the urban life of a city. Whilst cities have their charm, the majestic purple and blue misty mountains, the great antiphon of the North Atlantic Ocean, are a spiritual unfolding with every nuance of light. There is a primal recognition that flows within us, when encountering the powerful silence of the remote places. Those can be compelling, inspiring, awesome, even terrifying.
Road To The Isles
Road To The Isles
Sunday, 4 November 2007
Castle Ashby
This morning, I had fun walking and taking photographs at Castle Ashby Estate. When plowing uphill from the Bedford Road, I said Hello to the sheep. Not that they responded! The woolies were too busy munching grass. Delicious lamb chops come to mind. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m almost a vegetarian. It’s the not quite I enjoy.
There’s so much more to observe when walking. Castle Ashby House, was used by the BBC for some scenes in the dramatisation of Nancy Mitford’s novel: "Love In A Cold Climate."
My niece works for the BBC. She’s constantly scouting around for suitable locations. There’s nothing glamorous to that. She can be on location at 4-30 in the morning. She does get to work with some well known actors. I swooned… when she made a programme with Colin Firth. Mr Darcy himself of Pride and Prejudice. That man oozed sensuality from his pores, even when being aloof. That was the hook for women all over the UK. I hadn’t been long back from the Middle East, when Darcy mania swept the country.
Four Chimneys Castle Ashby Estate
In my more youthful years, I was never much of a reader of romance novels. Mr Darcy the classic, tall dark brooding, handsome hero. Thankfully, not Heathcliffe. I don’t recall Jane Austen described Darcy's physical features with any detail. Which is just as well really, readers fill those in for their selves. That is one of the boons of reading, we engage our imaginations.
“In the garden the geraniums were in flower. Through scented twilight the girl in the white dress walked with a step as light as a morning cobweb. That evening she hadn’t a care in the world.” William Trevor~My House in Umbria.
Doesn’t that make you want to know more about the girl? Trevor alludes teasing the reader. No detail other than that one beautiful line. Before reading the book I saw the film, staring Maggie Smith. She’s been a favourite since her role as Miss Jean Brodie. Mostly playing eccentric characters, Maggie Smith delivers those with elegant aplomb.
There’s so much more to observe when walking. Castle Ashby House, was used by the BBC for some scenes in the dramatisation of Nancy Mitford’s novel: "Love In A Cold Climate."
My niece works for the BBC. She’s constantly scouting around for suitable locations. There’s nothing glamorous to that. She can be on location at 4-30 in the morning. She does get to work with some well known actors. I swooned… when she made a programme with Colin Firth. Mr Darcy himself of Pride and Prejudice. That man oozed sensuality from his pores, even when being aloof. That was the hook for women all over the UK. I hadn’t been long back from the Middle East, when Darcy mania swept the country.
Four Chimneys Castle Ashby Estate
In my more youthful years, I was never much of a reader of romance novels. Mr Darcy the classic, tall dark brooding, handsome hero. Thankfully, not Heathcliffe. I don’t recall Jane Austen described Darcy's physical features with any detail. Which is just as well really, readers fill those in for their selves. That is one of the boons of reading, we engage our imaginations.
“In the garden the geraniums were in flower. Through scented twilight the girl in the white dress walked with a step as light as a morning cobweb. That evening she hadn’t a care in the world.” William Trevor~My House in Umbria.
Doesn’t that make you want to know more about the girl? Trevor alludes teasing the reader. No detail other than that one beautiful line. Before reading the book I saw the film, staring Maggie Smith. She’s been a favourite since her role as Miss Jean Brodie. Mostly playing eccentric characters, Maggie Smith delivers those with elegant aplomb.
Well, I must pop back to Castle Ashby later this week. Weather permitting, I'd like to take photographs of the village. I've been testing my new Nikon DSLR. There's also a very nice pub there, the Falcon Hotel. The next picture a happy accident. Please be assured, you do not have double vision. (Chuckles)
Garden Entrance For? Oops~Twins!
The Unknown Lurking Within
Sarah Waters (1999) novel “Affinity” has such a surprising twist. I was stunned at my credulity. Not once suspecting, who the real villain is. Modern Victorian novels don’t usually entice me. This one did: hook, line, and sinker. This is the first of her novels read, a story with a mystery of outrageous artfulness. Bravo, Ms. Waters for no small measure of deception.
Her most recent book "The Night Watch," was influenced by the war years. I've not read that one. When doing the research for this novel, Waters stated: the volume of information about Britain at War is overwhelming. Don’t I know that! I felt likewise, when researching WW2 for the Prym and Prophet story.
Another novel which recently kept me captivated: “A Gathering Light” by Jennifer Donnelly. She maintains the tension and the twists to the end. In many respects a wholesome story and a thriller.
When driving to work last week, I listened to Joanna Lumley’s (2005) audio book “No Room for Secrets.” You probably know of her as Patsy, in the television series “Absolutely Fabulous.” She’s been around for as long as I have. What we have in common is Dirk Bogarde in "A Tale of Two Cities." This is the man and the film which gave her the urge to become an actor. The same man I fell in-love with, in his role as Sydney Carton. I saw that film five times until my mother said, “Enough Is Enough!”
I was so aware of and stirred by Bogarde’s understated sensuality. Mulling over this first falling in-love, his persona in the film role represented the rescuer. I hadn’t worked that one out as an adolescent. Every scenario created in my imagination began with rescue: falling from a horse outside the gates of his home or my MG sports car running out of petrol. I had a big range of rescue scenes. Thereafter, we had romantic sensual encounters. Those were quite chaste. Nice girls were not expected to lose their virginity. Not until they married. What’s apparent to me now, I wanted to be rescued from adolescence. That’s such an awkward emotional phase to live through.
Prior to sprouting breasts, with other manifestations all indicating childhood was about to desert me, my fantasy world was already richly creative. I told myself stories. What I most enjoy when doing creative writing, is finding the unknown lurking within. Unveiling the hidden, always gives me a huge buzz.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Misty Water Colour
Music that brings back memories of fun weekends in the Galilee. With the dark eyes of the night, gazing into the vast canopy of glinting stars. Over the Golan Heights, a giant shimmering orange moon. Giggling with Sue, as we gathered firewood from the lakeshore. Leslie who loved being in charge of the barbecue. The saucy twinkle, in Kevin’s bluest of blue eyes. He always uncorked the wine. Swaying palm fronds. A silver sea of ripples, the lake's intimate, cooling breeze. Firelight and fireflies, the carefree happiness we had then. The roads we travelled to share those moments. Each one of us, with a life history. Friendships formed, simply because we were there.
Monday, 29 October 2007
Killarney Ireland
A vibrant town, Killarney is busy with tourists. Coffee shops, craft shops, restaurants, pubs, even the bookshops are crowded. People promenade the streets in the evenings. Mostly it seemed, reviewing places to eat and drink. The National Park a hiker’s paradise, as Molly Darcys nearby pub is. A great meal with wine never cost an arm and a leg. The Fairview Guest House, where we had booked B & B has a superb restaurant. With so much deliciously tempting cuisine on offer, a small breakfast became essential. The Dingle, The Ring of Kerry, Innisfallan, Valentia Island, Bantry Bay, Galway Bay, we were there.
The hire car climbed the mountains with ease, skipped along the narrow winding roads. The driver was pretty good as well. We went to Slea Head in the Dingle, where beach location shots for Ryan's Daughter were made. My memory of the beach scenes, are as fresh as when I saw the film in London...way back. The audience at the Leicester Square Cinema, were on the edge of their seats during the love scenes. Not from what we actually saw, more what we had imagined. I had never heard an audience sigh so deeply with unison, as we did on that night.
The red rider in the mist an unexpected occurrence, on what had been a long empty beach. One of those lovely surprises, when I had the camera poised like a telescope. Then the pink rider came trotting along. Where they had come from a mystery. Had they been in a cave, sheltered from the whipping rain?
Monday, 22 October 2007
Ambling
The village playing field with its broad swathe of trim green grass evokes a peaceful world. Walking with our hiking poles, a boy kicking a ball creases a smile. “Do we look odd?” Eileen exclaims. “Possibly,” I say unconcerned. "We’ll do a complete circle." The sun high in the sky has a gentle beat. The air canters along with an ear to conversation. This stretch of land knows the people who tread here, play cricket, football, take shortcuts to the farm for eggs.
As we walk the motion of the day becomes timeless. Children with their mother pick blackberries from the hedgerows. Old men on wooden seats, smoke their pipes reminiscing. We rest for a while on scruffy cricket club chairs. This high curve of the land beyond the tree-tops has a shallow valley, where the hazy edge of the town melts into the river. Eileen sighs, something has stirred her. “Forty years ago, Jim and I fell in love with this village.” Silence sits with our thoughts. Eileen drifts with Jim.
We complete the circle chatting. “Eileen, let’s do lunch on Saturday.” She ponders the merits of the nearby pubs. Her preference, for the garden centre. That suits me. We amble along the lane to her house for tea. Give grades to the gardens as we pass by. The quirky corner house, with its abundance of red, white, and yellow roses, has the highest.
Innisfallen Island Killarney
The ever changing contrasts of the light in Ireland, surprised, frustrated, and delighted. A gift for photographers, provided that is, one has a deft eye. The rain tilted this way and that. The sun blessed us with briefly glorious interludes.
Blue smoky mists veiled the Killarney mountains, spiralled like serpents tails, curved sensuously, and playfully teased. Those could also be grimly somber, densely hiding the peaks. Fickle as they were, the mists captured my imagination. A landscape of visions, evoking the light and dark mystery of the soul.
Ross Castle Lough Leane Killarney
Innisfallen Island Silent &Tranquil
Innifallen Monastery Founded 7th Century
12th Century Augustinian Priory Innisfallen
Boatman Mr Murphy 21st Century Reading Newspaper
Of all the places visited, Innisfallen will live on in our memories. For the strong feeling of peace experienced on the island. For the continuity with those of the centuries past. Of solitude, prayer, and a presence greater than ourselves. From the deep well within,this island is an ideal hermitage to seek what that contains. But mostly we have to be our own islands, to find peace with self. Life is a circle of becoming, a long road upon which the journey is never completed. As with many a weary traveller, there are pauses to rest then continue. I had a deep desire to see Ireland. This is not unsual for those with Irish ancestors. It's that seeking the missing history of our roots.
Innisfallen is mostly dense with bushes, deciduous trees, and wild flowers. Mr Murphy said, deer swim over from the national park. There were four of us on the island. The other two, a young Danish couple. From the 7th century, the island was an important centre of monastic learning. Lough Leane means "lake of learning." As the monastery was founded by Saint Finan the Leper, I see why he would have gone there. Although in close proximity to Killarney, the island is just far enough from the town, for monks to live in seclusion.
As to how the monks survived on the island, I can only surmise. The lake contains salmon and trout, a tasty meal. Did they have a few sheep, goats or cows, grow vegetables, make herbal medicines from the plants? I'm curious about those aspects. I never saw evidence on the island, that they could be completely self-sufficient there. Some would have gone into the town. Probably for staples like flour, to make bread.
I imagine there are days, when Innisfallen becomes inaccessible. When dank mists hide the island. When storms turn the lake into a dangerous, heaving, cauldron. Transformed by the seasons, the island is bleak in winter, vibrant in spring, greenly verdant in summer, and gloriously amber in the fall. For the tranquility and the beauty of nature all around, Innisfallen is healing balm. Inspiring for writers and poets.
Blue smoky mists veiled the Killarney mountains, spiralled like serpents tails, curved sensuously, and playfully teased. Those could also be grimly somber, densely hiding the peaks. Fickle as they were, the mists captured my imagination. A landscape of visions, evoking the light and dark mystery of the soul.
Innisfallen Island Silent &Tranquil
Innifallen Monastery Founded 7th Century
12th Century Augustinian Priory Innisfallen
Boatman Mr Murphy 21st Century Reading Newspaper
Of all the places visited, Innisfallen will live on in our memories. For the strong feeling of peace experienced on the island. For the continuity with those of the centuries past. Of solitude, prayer, and a presence greater than ourselves. From the deep well within,this island is an ideal hermitage to seek what that contains. But mostly we have to be our own islands, to find peace with self. Life is a circle of becoming, a long road upon which the journey is never completed. As with many a weary traveller, there are pauses to rest then continue. I had a deep desire to see Ireland. This is not unsual for those with Irish ancestors. It's that seeking the missing history of our roots.Innisfallen is mostly dense with bushes, deciduous trees, and wild flowers. Mr Murphy said, deer swim over from the national park. There were four of us on the island. The other two, a young Danish couple. From the 7th century, the island was an important centre of monastic learning. Lough Leane means "lake of learning." As the monastery was founded by Saint Finan the Leper, I see why he would have gone there. Although in close proximity to Killarney, the island is just far enough from the town, for monks to live in seclusion.
As to how the monks survived on the island, I can only surmise. The lake contains salmon and trout, a tasty meal. Did they have a few sheep, goats or cows, grow vegetables, make herbal medicines from the plants? I'm curious about those aspects. I never saw evidence on the island, that they could be completely self-sufficient there. Some would have gone into the town. Probably for staples like flour, to make bread.
I imagine there are days, when Innisfallen becomes inaccessible. When dank mists hide the island. When storms turn the lake into a dangerous, heaving, cauldron. Transformed by the seasons, the island is bleak in winter, vibrant in spring, greenly verdant in summer, and gloriously amber in the fall. For the tranquility and the beauty of nature all around, Innisfallen is healing balm. Inspiring for writers and poets.
Illusion
It began with a room, the room where she writes. I had different views of her room, sometimes that was a prison. Gazing through a window with bars, her only solace seeing the sky. She wrote of sunrises and sunsets, as if those were tender kisses. Then the dark suffocating room where she hid, fearful of being found. A heavily draped room, where no sunlight filtered. Bleak, mysterious, and dangerous, the room where she shivered and wept, afraid the demons would engulf her. When she opened the window to write of her longing, warm light glazed the room. Her longing etched into my heart. I had never before witnessed such longing.
This is her story, the glimpses she gave from her room. Her name is fiction and her life real. You ask is her story real? Within the lines are many truths.
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