I know I'm overdue for some diarama but, dear reader, I have been so busy with renovating the flat I just haven't time to spare. Not a square to spare.
But briefly, this morning, before I go to meet the plasterer, who I'm hoping won't be nasty, who might just be a spunk, to add to my collection of tasty tradeys (cabinet-maker, swoon; plumber, oh-my-gawd; and floor polisher [faints].)
But before I away,
I went and saw it last night with my mo. That's ghetto for mother. Don't you know. She gasped a couple of times and I hid my eyes once. I have images from this movie burned into my retinas, laid down in the visual equivalent of quadrophonic sound. Or is it 8 track? Probably 16 by now, or infinity.
It's very confronting. We loved it, but sad, so sad, but uplifting and redemptive. She was going to break the cycle. What a cycle. We agreed we'd never seen that sort of stuff, so raw and confronting, in a movie before. Lenny Kravitz - the only man in the movie with a face; he was so gorgeois, and kind and sweet. What a movie. Go and see it. Mariah Carey too, like you've never seen her before.
So every week I've been doing buddhist meditation with my mo. It's helping me, I am a bit calmer, a bit smoother, and most importantly a bit nicer to the people I love the most.
This week, the theme was suffering, so in lieu of my self-indulgent ramblings from the '80s, I give you Auden.
Musee dex Beaux Arts
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or
just walking dully along.
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen,
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
I was told once I should write more poetry, but that was a blogger who I didn't know and who seemed like a bit of a nutter. Here is an exhange we had once.
This is the thing I've learned about poetry, for myself. I like poetry that is clear and you can understand the imagery, this is how I like to read prose as well. I've also realised that poetry has been dangerous for me because it makes me feel too much, like music. I have been avoiding certain emotions and poetry and music especially bring them to the surface. Not deep, dark, really bad things but the stuff of suffering that we all have. Once you get to a certain age, you can't tell me you haven't suffered. And if you're like me, and you've had to get on with things, you push the pain down and carry on because if you don't, if you stop and cry, you'll never pick yourself up.
Oh how woe is me.
We all suffer, it's a part of the human condition and it's important to realise that. We haven't failed if we haven't achieved perfect, ongoing happiness. It doesn't exist, it's a delusion.
Happy Friday all, and have a good weekend too.
And be kind to yourselves, first.
And apologies to the other very famous blog which does poetry on a Friday. I'm not moving in on the concept, it just looks like it.