Recently in life Category

I have just returned from a wonderful poetry evening at the Troubadour Café on Old Brompton Road.  Take a right out of Earl’s Court Station, down Earl’s Court Road and take a right at the bottom of the road where you will find a fabulous red patterned medieval door.  Various lutes, guitars, violins and stringed instruments hang from the ceiling, generously laden plates fly past; a happy buzz of conversation fills the different caverns.  A sip of wine, a sigh of relief.  How wonderful to be in London in this place! 

Downstairs is the poetry café, a raised platform with a man playing the accordion sets the scene.  The crowd is an interesting one: older, eccentric, from all parts of the country, all classes, all types.  This is my second Monday night at the Troubadour in the last couple of months; eight poets take ten minutes each to read poems of their choice from their various collections (they are newly published poets and experienced ones), there is a break after the first four.  It is needed.  I find I can only absorb a bit at a time but I love the experience of hearing new work, words flowing, ideas, emotions.  I tend to remember one poem from each poet and it is usually one about something emotional which touches me: tonight my favourites were about a man going to visit a friend in a psychiatric ward and not having the normal social parameters of conversation to go by; a woman imagining her friend meeting her lost loved ones in heaven and how they would greet her and a woman grieving for her husband and their sleep together. 

Looking round the audience tonight though I wondered why poetry was rather an extinct art form in our generation. Yes, there are poetry circles and evenings like this around the country but it is so far from the main stream.  I was the youngest person there by at least a decade.  Poetry is what was once learnt at school, often rather painfully (apologies, apologies) and maybe what can be found in song lyrics.  It is a small shelf at Waterstones, probably behind a pillar in an unobtrusive place, it is a present from a loved one that has rarely been looked at or a great book for the toilet, for those precious few spare moments you have in your day.  The poet may wince to think of their carefully crafted words being mulled over during a …. but no more need be said on that, at least the poems are being read! 

There is something about the freshness of experience of poetry that hits me (perhaps a longer paragraph break needed here after the last paragraph!)  A novel you have to plan, agonize over, draft and re-draft and try and finish for an eternity.  A poem can be spontaneous or struggled over but it can exist without the need for publication, it can meet that creative need to use words to express yourself instantly.  For the slightly fickle-minded character like myself, poems allow that space, that variety, that satisfaction.  You just have to like playing with words.  A poem can be a friend for life, a line remembered can accompany you in times of distress or happiness, it can help you to realise something you hadn’t quite been able to express or it can just make you laugh.  When memories start to go in old age, it is often those poems learnt by rote at school which stay in people’s minds and still they are recited. 

I wonder if anyone out there would like to share poems they enjoy with me?  We could have a poetry appreciation section. 

I had an experience this Saturday which reminded me or Philip Larkin’s poem ‘Days’.  I had Saturday afternoon wonderfully, wonderfully free: no school work, no house work, no visits, no phone calls to be made, no nothing, yes there were hundreds of things I could be doing but I just decided to stop all those list-ticking exercises which are duly renewed every weekend and maybe … write something.  As it turned out, I stared at my blank piece of page in wonder and thought, I have nothing to say.  It was a strange feeling.  It made me wonder if I fill up my time to stop this feeling, this anxiety, this emptiness.

 
Days by Philip Larkin

 
What are days for?

Days are where we live.

They come, they wake us

Time and time over.

They are to be happy in:

Where can we live but days?

 

Ah, solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor

In their long coats

Running over the fields.

 
Although not the happiest of Saturday afternoons, perhaps it was fruitful to realise this and to take the time ‘to stand and stare.’ 

 
I await your poems…

Here I am, standing in my trunks on the side of this swimming pool which is no larger than a dozen of feet in diameter. The warm water bubbling at the surface could lead to believe that this is a Jacuzzi of some sort. But it is not. I am approaching the edge and stare hypnotically at the water which I cannot see the bottom. What looks like a tiny pool is actually an impressive tube of water, which disappears in the deepness, like an infinite column of blue fizzy liquid. This is a proper scuba diving training pool, with 15 meters of depth, the equivalent of a 5-storey building. A few minutes before my first dive, a strange feeling of vertigo takes me…

I have been thinking about this moment for the past few days with a mix of excitement and apprehension… And the closer I got to the crucial moment, the more my anxiety grew and I tried to think of an excuse that would postpone the experience. Actually, I do have a little cold these days and diving with a cold is against safety rules. But my instructor accurately assessed that this pretended cold was only as important as a couple of sneezes a day and replied wisely that I’ll be alright… Nice try… However, I’m sorry to insist but I forgot my diving license today, and it is mandatory to have it on you for any dive… you know, in case of accident for the insurance and so forth… I was hoping for a little bollocking followed by something along the lines of ‘sorry sir, the rules are the rules. I’ll let you dive next time when you have all your documentation with you, but we gonna have to cancel your dive today’. Instead, my instructor gave me a sympathetic glance. He went to his office, looked up on the internet and checked on the official website that I indeed had a licence. Then he came back to me and ‘exceptionally’ accepted that I dive without my licence. Damn it! I ran out of ideas, and accepted the fact that today was going to be the day.

I am now all equipped in my diving outfit, which makes me look like some futuristic frog - typical for a Frenchman! Before getting into the water, Christian, my instructor, reminds me the basics: ‘Remember to breath normally, to balance the pressure in your ears while going down, not to do so while going up, to exhale when you go up, to deflate your jacket as you go up'... It seems to me that there are a million things to remember and I am far too busy being nervous to be able to do so…

He jumps… And then I jump…

Wow! I love this weightlessness sensation in the water. After a few seconds at the surface, I deflate my jacket, which makes me go down in the deepness instantaneously. I feel like an astronaut. Christian and I meet at 5 meters of depth where we settle for a while, checking that everything is okay. He asks me to perform a couple of stupid exercises like taking my nozzle off or undoing my goggles and put them back on again… I perform them. No problem. I am actually much more relaxed now. The fact that we need to communicate with our hands is good fun too. From those signs, I imagine us talking like little Indians. You looking. Me going down. You following. If you problem, you telling me. Roger? Roger.

We hover around in the water and decide to carry on our descent along the vertical rope. I am really surprised by how everything is slow and blue and peaceful down here. And the deeper we get, the easier it becomes to go down. Within a few minutes, we are at the very bottom of the pool where we settle and ask each other again if everything is all right. I am happy to be here. Christian makes an applauding mime, which is no proper scuba language sign, but I understand he congratulates me for having made it. I am very proud.

We remain at 15 meters of depth for about quarter of an hour, performing various exercises, before we start moving back up again. I am very concentrated on all the safety measures during that critical phase of the dive. Not that any of it is difficult, but the fact that most incidents turn into major traumas is a good motivator to do them all properly.

As I come out of the water, I am very much aware of my weight and of the surrounding noise. It takes me a while to actually want to talk. Undoing my equipment requires a lot of effort after thirty odd minutes of lightness. Christian debriefs me on the time spent under water. Apart from a couple a minor points, he is fairly positive about this first experience.

I have a big smile on my face. I am pleased that I managed to overcome my anxiety and made this happen without any trouble. Already, I cannot wait for my next dive to occur! The real thing this time, into the wild blue sea. Le Grand Bleu…

Clearly I didn't have much to say about the ferry crossing from Barcelona but Mallorca is without a doubt a beautiful place to find yourself.

Day 3 - 5th May

The sun rose into a clear sky over the beautiful mallorcean skyline of rugged mountains and my mood continued to brighten. The people of Palma were friendly and helpful, indulging my faltering spanish (even though mallorceans speak catalan most assuredly). Since I was last here it's clear that a lot of work has been done to improve the infrastructure of the island. From the taxi driver who drove me from the port to town to the ticket clerk they were all proud of their new subterranean train station, and rightly so. It's an austere minimalist place but relaxing to be in and easy to navigate. Also, I was able to buy a ticket to Sa Pablo, on the other side of the island near Puerto de Pollenca, for less than half the price of reserving my ticket on the train from Perpignan to Barcelona. Mum, who was planning to pick me up from Sa Pablo, was held up finishing off some work so I ended up getting the bus instead - getting the hang this malarky. Everything is easier when the sun is shining.

I met Mum at a cafe where she was having a coffee with one of her ex-pat friends and she proceeded to embarrass and fuss over me. Some things will never change but seeing mum always awakens uncomfortable feelings and memories. So much has gone wrong with our family over the years.

There was a massive thunder storm in the afternoon that put the keibosch on any grand plans I had for sitting on the beach. It was a cracking storm though, with the sound vying with the visuals for top marks in texture and quality; deep and long rumbling booms contesting with sharp crackling forks of lightning goring the ground.

I recently heard this song by Cy Coleman and it reminded me why I love dancing.  There aren’t many places where you can go these days, meet thirty strangers and come away feeling somehow more alive, more present and that you have had another wonderful night.   You go to bed with aching feet and wake up feeling refreshed becuase you've slept the whole night through.  There is no terrible hangover as you have drunk only water all evening. 

It doesn’t really matter the dance, whatever dance evening I go to, I tend to love it.  I love picking up the rhythm in the music: the fast pulse of a Latino beat; the slow curvaceous sounds of a crooner; I love spinning around, skirt twirling, catching a hand before being spun again; hundreds of pairs of feet moving in time.  You don’t know the person you’re dancing with, you might not say anything but a ‘Yes’ and a ‘Thank you’ all evening but it doesn’t matter, indeed verbal conversations sometimes lessen the experience, because you have conversations through dance.  You swiftly get to know who you naturally dance well with; who is energetic and loves to move quickly; who likes the slow dances and will move elegantly and with confidence and who likes to laugh, sing along and enjoy the music.  After a few weeks of dancing regularly, you feel very comfortable in the dance hall as you have danced with or watched most people there.  I also think that human touch is really important and certainly in London, one can too easily go through the whole day with the only human physical contact being a shove on the tube or a business hand shake.

There are of course, as in any society, your share of idiots: the man who is too sensual for comfort (everyone will have different limits on this); the jokester who extends a hand for you to grab and then whisks it away like he’s played a hilarious joke, or the man who’d rather focus on his own balletic gestures than admit he’s dancing in a pair. I am sure there would be a similar list of undesirable qualities in female partners, but someone will have to inform me of these.  But these are the minority, I always come away and feel I have met a wide range of society and a lot of interesting people away from my normal circle of colleagues and friends.

British men all too often seem to have this fear of dancing; they need to be utterly paralytic and surrounded by similarly drunken mates to venture a foot onto the dance floor.  They scoff and smirk at the man who likes dancing while they down another pint of beer.  It’s a shame.  Is this a recent phenomenon?  Dancing seemed more part of the culture in British society certainly in the older generations who seem to know how to do the waltz, the foxtrot and a variety of other dances.  I think an important social interaction has been lost.  Now, we pay money to go into impersonal gyms and sweat in silence with i-pods and television screens as our company, twelve hours indoors working, now in your leisure hour, go indoors again.  There can be a danger of loneliness, and dare I say it, isolation, in our society that dancing helps to combat.

Some might complain this kind of dancing is incredibly sexist or that they don’t like having to follow a set routine or pattern, they are too individual.  Rubbish!  If you get any good, there is tremendous freedom in dance, it’s only for those of us learning the ropes that it’s terribly structured and that helps give you some security when dancing with someone you don’t know.  Sexist, well yes it is I guess; the man leads and the woman follows but to be honest, I don’t give a damn! I like losing myself in the music and not having to worry about what move I should do next.  I have to concentrate to make sure I am following and there is still freedom in the movements. 

Have I persuaded you to get on the dance floor?  If I have, have a look on the web at your nearest Ceroc venue or salsa dance night.  There are usually beginners and intermediate classes followed by ‘freestyle’, you can just go for a one off try, it's usually about eight pounds but that's all you spend.   As Cy Coleman and Dorothy Fields wrote,

‘And The Rhythm Of Life is a powerful beat,
Puts a tingle in your fingers and a tingle in your feet,
Rhythm in your bedroom,
Rhythm in the street,
Yes, The Rhythm Of Life is a powerful beat’

 

     

Another day more european musings:

Day 2 contd. 4th May - Barcelona

I arrived in Estacio Sants de Barcelona at around midday and spent an hour in the station fiddling with my computer before I finally braced my self and went out into the day. A feeling of pessism and paranoia was all over me and I lacked the willpower to shake it off. I became obsessed with looking over my shoulder and nothing felt good.

I had only two tasks for the day; first find the port and get my ticket from Iscobar (the ferry company); second try to find some accomodation for Tuesday night, this ocurred to me only after I'd collected my ferry tickets and I wondered where I would stay upon my return.

I found may way to the Port easily enough and with my one major task for the day completed my attention turned to my stomach. My disinclination to interact with other people was compounded by my experience with trying to communicate in Spanish. My efforts wound the Barcelonans up firstly because my spanish was so shit and I kept spluttering out french phrases only to answer english when they asked if I was French and secondly because they speak Catalan. My early conversations didn't go well. So by the time I was properly hungry (having only eaten a couple of bits of more or less stale baguette at the hostel at 7.30am that morning) I was in no mood for dealing with surly Barcelonans. So it ended up that I walked for about a mile past perfectly good cafe after perfecty good cafe before I took myself by the collar and walked into one - and even then only because it had started raining and it was getting ridiculous. I don't think I was cut out for travelling!

Even when I was in the midsts of the crowds of the Rambles after lunch I felt strangely alone, conscious of my massive backpack and sweating as I searched in vain for somewhere to stay on Tuesday. Once common sense kicked in I wisely headed away from the crowds of the most touristy part of Barcelona I'd seen (which granted isn't saying much) and head back towards the quiet dereliction of the Avinguda del Paral-lel, where I quickly found a hotel (of course, Hotel Paral-lel) and booked a room for tuesday.

After I'd sorted my room and had what I considered to be my first success I started to feel better and began to wander in an enjoyable way. I take pleasure in seeing the bleak sides of the city away from the well trodden tour guide paths and into the quiet unease of the back streets. Barcelona is no different to anywhere else and I found myself in comfortable surroundings soon enough. As in Perpignan, people with problems, not shopping or consuming but working or escaping or marking territory. In Barcelona the lanes are made dangerous valleys by tall buildings with ornate balconies where people hang their clothes to dry.

I knew there was a park that ran parallel with my favourite street Avinguda del paral-lel so I headed uphill towards that, enjoying the weight of the pack if not the hotness of my feet warning of blisters to come (why did I pack my smart boots rather than my walking boots?).

I felt smugly pleased then when I wandered up to a small park with a grand view of the city from which vantage point I could feel superior to the tourists who had driven up and yet had no pack to carry. On a minor note I could also enjoy the specatular view of the port and the city and caught my first glimpses of Barcelona's big ticket tourist items like the gaudi cathedral with its concommitant cranes.

I sat in that park and listened to Ole by John Coltrane and felt good for the first time since I left home.

Then I waited and wandered until I got on the ferry to Palma. Yawn.

ps If you have the opportunity to travel with Iscomar Ferries my recommendation is to avoid it.

Well there just aren't, are there? Eh?

I'm on my way down to Portsmouth for part two of the leasehold valuation tribunal and I was going to explain a bit about that and then post the next installment of the european adventure journal. Unfortunately blogging is not very social and therefore I was forced to interact with real people (friends who are kindly putting the ungrateful isolationist up for the night). So you'll just have to put up with the journal. I am going to have a bit of a rant about cycling and recycling in Bristol, but those topics will have to wait too.

Day 2 - 4th May

The people in Perpignan are defined by a journey, mostly one from Paris to Barcelona or in my case from London but it doesn't matter what the starting place is only that this is a transitory place. As I wandered the mostly deserted streets last night the only faces I saw were those of the disaffected; almost every person that I saw had a hand stretched out. I spoke to an old spanish man in a dirty suit camped outside the station - his car had broken down on the way to Barcelona, could I spare 10 euros to help him out. I walked along the canal, beautiful on a sunny day, less so bathed in the grey drizzly light, fearful of the group of crusties and their dogs camped out under the railway bridge. The first question in my mind as my pulse quickened not why, but what if? The next station is Cerberre!

My first thoughts when talking to the spaniard not, how can I help but I don't want to be conned, or robbed or worse when clearly this was a soul down on his luck, What's 10 euros to me? Just pride.

The whole place felt like the wrong side of the tracks. Maybe because it was a place so unaccustomed to not being drenched in the mediterranean sun that the grey skies and rain fitted like a shroud and banished all but the unhappy wanderers to safety and warmth wherever it could be found. On the literal other side of the tracks where the estates lay any pretence of civilisation were left far behind - characterised by tipped over bins, dogshit on the pavement, drinkers in the cafe not enjoying an aperitif as is the wont of the French but avoiding something sinister. On the streets the youths hurried on some clandestine urgent mission, crossing the tracks in their dark hoodies hunched.

I feel like the tone of my journey has been set by the place and it doesn't make me feel good. I spent the night sleeping fitfully feerful of being robbed in my sleep. But why? My Laptop, Palm, Phone, everything stolen? So what. All the trappings of a material life none important in the slightest. What of the human beings? Each of them with their own journey and yet I assume the worst. This is going to be a long journey.

Normally when I travel my yearning for home is everpresent reminding me which direction to go. But this time I have no home. My tristesse has no cure, I just need to keep moving and hope something turns up.

As I mentioned the other day, I went to Europe last spring to ponder the future of my life. I wrote up my thoughts on the google map that I created to track where I went (click on the various flags to see the original words).

It's not such a good interface for for reading though so I thought I'd put them up here too, plus it gives me the opportunity to tidy them up a bit.

Day 1 - Perpignan - 3rd May

Reality strikes home. I've arrived at the hostel where I'll be spending my first night on the road and, well, it's raining. And a bit rough around the edges. And my plan to use the t3 with the hacked tomtom maps has pretty much come to naught - it looks like I'm gonna have to buy some maps after all.. sigh... And the free bus from the airport fucked off before I'd gathered my wits so I had to wait ages for a taxi, which then cost me 25 euros.

But on the flip side, I've negotiated everything in French so far, booked my seat on the train tomorrow morning and a room in the hostel (the oldest in France according to the yellowing newspaper report on the wall). This place is designed for better weather...

Let me describe the scene to you, not what I was expecting at all. The common area that I'm sitting in has the feel of a waiting room in a train station. The chairs are brightly coloured and cheerful enough but the whole place has an air of slow decrepitude - uncared for over the course of decades, this is like the victim of  the slow torture of a committed serial killer; utterly atrophied and unable to resist being slowly picked apart.

The sound of french television the only interruption to the silence (that and the occasional footsteps echoing in the corridor). It's not a good sound. Who's idea was this again?