Stranger Things

Netflix is a phenomena I have been slow to embrace. For someone as compulsive as me, the opportunity to watch whole seasons of desired shows in one long sofa visit is dangerous. However the Husband loves to embrace technology so a few months ago, we got Netflix so that we could watch the fourth season of House of Cards (in about 3 days). Afterwards I surfed it randomly, finally settling within the documentary section whereupon I watched Chefs Table, Going Clear, I Am Not Your Guru and Under the Influence; all well worth a view. However I was still not 100% sold that Netflix was earning its keep. We had access to zillions of shows but too much choice is a killer at times. Where was the wow moment?

Well....

I had read that Winona Ryder was featuring in a Netflix drama called Stranger Things. As a child of the 80s, I grew up with Winona and will watch anything she is in. All the publicity material for the show hearkened back to my childhood. I could have been looking at a poster for E.T, Indiana Jones, Goonies or Star Wars.

This poster screams 80's!

A few weeks ago we sat down and started to watch it. Instantly, and I mean instantly, I was hooked. By the actors, the plot, the incredible, incredible detail to all things 80s within the scenes. I thought they didn't make shows like this anymore. The synthesised score plunged me back into a time where I was a kid riding my bike and having adventures. When Atari was cool and tape decks meant that you could record music off the radio.  I was in homage heaven. It was Pans Labyrinth merged with the Goonies. It was a nostalgic gluttony and I lapped up every single episode of it.  Nostalgia aside, the show itself was excellent, propelling the suspense and action along via the portal of some truly wonderful child actors with not a scrap of  'drama school diva' affection between them. These are kids that I would adopt.

We whizzed through the season in two nights flat, the Husband as enthralled as I with the journey into our past. Landing back in 2016 with a bump, we scratched our heads and got off the sofa, suffering from escapist withdrawal.  The wow moment had been had. We were now truly Netflix converts. Addicts some might say. We were not alone though, proved by websites like this one:

After our true Netflix baptism, we went on holiday which meant we could not feed the beast. Upon our return, I fell ill which meant nights in and sofa time.

'Have you heard of this show called 'The Killing?' asked the Husband, 'I think you should watch it.'

It's truly killing me but I'm enjoying the slow death

And bang. Instantly hooked. We've been up past midnight every night since binge watching and getting by on little sleep. I'm not sure which it is that is killing me. The Killing, my flu or this strange new world of Netflix.

I love it though. I'm a believer.

Georgia O'Keeffe

When I hear the words, Georgia O'Keeffe, I think of flowers.  Big, voluminous, wafty flowers. I try not to think of the other theme (that starts with the letter 'v' and rhymes with 'angina' ) that is associated with her work but I'm afraid I do.

'Jimson Weed/White Flower No 1' (1932)
(http://www.tate.org.uk(

I have nothing against flowers and bones and the arid New Mexico landscape which features so heavily in Ms O'Keeffe's work. But the real reason I am drawn to her art is  the force of personality which was required to make it. It is tough now to make it as a creative artist and I imagine that during the early 1900s it was tougher still for a woman to stake her claim as an artist and make a living from it.

I am drawn to O'Keeffe's work because I am intrigued by her life.

Therefore when a friend asked me if I would like to attend the Georgia O'Keeffe retrospective at the Tate Modern, I was game. I had never seen an O'Keeffe painting in real life and was curious to learn more about her.

On the day of our excursion, we were four school mums who had met courtesy of our kids attending the same school. Our other commonality was a shared interest in the creative arts. Dropping our kinder off, we felt free and easy as we travelled to the Tate in our sandals and summer clothing. It was the hottest London day so far of the year; a fitting atmosphere through which to view paintings of bones bleached white by the sun and the blues and reds of the desert. One of our party was knowledgeable in art history and gave us a background brief on how the relationship between O'Keeffe and Alfred Steglitz  had helped O'Keeffe as an artist.

'From the Faraway, Nearby'
(http://www.metmuseum.org)

The retrospective once we arrived was extensive and thorough. It guided us through sequential phases of O'Keeffe's life as an artist and the influences in each period.  Her flowers were blousy and beautiful; vivid in the way I had imagined them to be but it was her work at Lake George which resonated most with me. The cool, calm and serene images were a balm to my senses on a hot London day. Below was my favourite painting from the exhibition:

'Lake George' (1922)
http://sfbaytimes.com/modern-nature-georgia-okeeffe-and-lake-george)

Paintings not withstanding, I was equally drawn to photos of O'Keefe displayed throughout. Even as a young woman, her face gave nothing and everything away at the same time. It had a proper, 'don't fuck me with me look about it.'  Most of all, I liked the photos of O'Keefe as an older woman going about her life in New Mexico. Her face looks worn in and etched, as if the artist herself had chosen the patchwork of lines which decorated it.

http://www.photographydealers.com/

Afterwards as we walked back out into the sunshine and made our way to lunch, O'Keefe's face was still in the forefront of my mind.

I wonder what Georgia O'Keefe would have looked like as a four year old?  I mused aloud.

She would have looked like an old lady, came the reply. She was born looking like an old lady.

It's true that some faces take a lifetime to grow into. Georgia O'Keefe had ninety-eight years to do so and in that time, she gave us her work and her life.

It's an inspiration to all of us with old faces.

Georgia O'Keeffe at the Tate Modern, July 6 - October 30, 2016
Bankside, London, SE1 9TG



  

Parolitics

It's Dragon's last day of school today.  Her first year at school is soon to be over and I find myself unexpectedly emotional. Maybe it was wrapping the large quantities of alcohol I had purchased for her teachers that did me in. Thinking about all they have done for her in the past year. Or maybe it was the epic meltdown she had yesterday due to her sadness at school finishing. Or maybe it is the fact that time is flying and she is growing up.

Dragon's first school year has been a big eye opener for me and the Husband. We have discovered the meaning of a 'school community.' We have met and gotten to know our neighbours because our kids all go to the same school. I have embraced the mum's Whatsapp or Facebook messaging chat group phenomenom. I drink more coffee than I thought possible during mum coffee catchups. I have a new collective of small people who I can chat with just as easily as their parents. I have met some great people who I like as people, not just because we are all parents. In a place like London, it is rare to find this type of solid community and so we embrace it.

Reflecting on all that has happened within the last year has made me think about the politics of parenting or, parolitics. When Dragon was a baby and I was venturing out into new playgroups, baby meetups, activity days, it dawned on me that negotiating your way through the world of parenting is a political act. In fact, I wrote a short piece about it during Dragon's first year:

There are many secrets to parenthood. Things that remain unspoken and once experienced are tucked away, not for discussion. Once the baby is here, it is too late. You have opened the door to the other room, and the room within that. On a good day, this exposure feels infinite, sublime even. On a bad day, endless.

You discover these secrets, one by one but you don’t speak of them, or rarely, for there is some social contract it seems, which forbids us to speak truthfully about becoming a parent.

Once you become a parent, you become a politician.  Parenting is political. Friendships may crumble. Allegiances change over cloth or plastic nappies. Your new parent friends believe in the death penalty and vote for UKIP but it doesn’t matter because your kids are friends and playdates take priority over execution.

Who am I?

Where do you draw the line in this new world of relationships lived through your offspring?Unwittingly you are bound to this group of men and women whose children will be invited to your home for playdates and birthday parties. Whose faces you will recognise over time from pick-up and drop offs at the school gate. These people are your people now.

This is your parenting community.

Is this what you choose? Not necessarily. If you had a choice, you would choose your old-life friends. But they have disappeared from your daily life for they are far away, geographically or philosophically. Some old-life friends become unrecognisable once they have children. Some return, as do you, to a semblance of your former self but some are lost forever; their identities forsaken in the fog of parenting.

Friends without offspring miss you too. Some cut you loose. This is devastating.

‘I am not a leper,‘ you think, ‘but I am a shape-shifter.’

I have grieved the loss of friendship due to children. No-one speaks of this but it happens. 

Five years in, I am still earning my stripes as a parent. But I have ventured far from those early days where I struggled to make sense of the incongruencies inherent within parenting life. Nowadays I love the contradictions. I don't need to understand the whys and wherefores as much anymore. It just is the way it is. I like this new world order, far more than I ever thought I would. 

It's reassuring to be surprised by your own life on occasion. 

A Year in Books with Heywood Hill and the Beaumont Hotel

Books and Art Deco decor are two things in life which merge quite seamlessly. Like smoked salmon and scrambled eggs or caviar and blinis, I find the two are mutually complementary. For example, I post this blog whilst sitting here, which is infinitely more appealing than in Starbucks where I also go to write:

The American Bar @ the Beaumont Hotel

A few years ago, Husband and I had dinner at the Colony Grill; a restaurant in the then newly opened Beaumont Hotel run by restauranteur duo, Corbin and King.  Husband was already a devotee of the Delaunay where he has breakfast at least once a week and we had also dined at the Wolseley and Brasserie Zedel. We always enjoyed the art deco luxe in their establishments in addition to the straight forward menus and attention to detail. So when we found out that they had opened the Beaumont, we hotfooted it there and found the same consistent attention to detail, luxurious interiors and lack of snootiness.

I love this place, I breathed to the Husband as I wafted out of their public restrooms, quite possibly the most gorgeous public restroom I had ever used.   I could sleep in that toilet.

Possibly worried I would do so, the Husband purchased for me as an anniversary gift the package called, A Year in Books that the hotel is offering in conjunction with Heywood Hill bookshop. This package allows for one night stay at the Beaumont and a special consultation meeting with Heywood Hill who then send you one book a month over the course of a year.

As I had recently quit my job, I decided to commence unemployed life by cashing in on my stay. After all, who needs an income when you have Art Deco? I found a selection of books in my room for me to peruse:

Team with the theme. Books a la 20s

Immediately I wanted to stash three of the titles in my luggage and 'forget' to take them out again. But I guess this is called stealing.** I was impressed by the range of titles for they were all books I would read. I looked forward to my visit to Heywood Hill. But before that, I luxuriated in my hotel room. Consistent with my prior experience with the public bathroom,  my very own bathroom was beautiful too. Luckily for my back, I also had a bed to sleep in.

My dream bathroom

When I arrived at the bookshop later that day, I saw that it is a blue plaque building. Turns out Nancy Mitford was a shop assistant here in the forties:

Step inside book lovers. You won't be disappointed

Once inside, I was placed in the capable hands of Karin, the staff member who would be deciding which twelve books I would be receiving over the next year. We had a chat about what kinds of books and genres I like and dislike. What my interests and inspirations are and why I was subscribing to the package at all.  After our chat, I knew that Karin is an angel from Book Heaven and has one of the best jobs in the world. Lucky lady.

How was the bookshop? my Husband asked me later on.

Imagine going into the wand shop in Harry Potter. Slightly ramshackle and completely charming. The air is thick with words and books and the staff are book aficionados in that they seem to live and breath books. All books. I could live there.

The Husband laughed. We're back to that again are we?

But I am serious. I really would.


** I asked if I could buy one of the books from my room and they gave it to me compliments of the hotel. What's not to love about the Beaumont. Class act.


The Beaumont Hotel, 8 Balderton Street, Brown Hart Gardens, W1K 6TF 

Heywood Hill, 10 Curzon Street, W1J 5HH

Can I Have a Biscuit?

After weeks of post referendum uncertainty, Theresa May has by default, become the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

I remember Ms May from her time as Home Secretary. I remember the headlines she made with her stance on immigration (anti people), her push for the UK to leave the European Convention on Human Rights (anti people)  and her position on legalising adoption for gay couples (anti people). Apart from that, I don't really know that much about her.

Yesterday was a critical moment in UK history. The youngest ever UK Prime Minister to take pension spoke his last speech outside Downing Street flanked by his wife and kids. Afterwards, the second only woman to hold office as Prime Minister spoke her first speech under the gaze of her husband, and the world.

The BBC were broadcasting May's drive to Downing Street when Dragon and I got home yesterday. We were both tired, bedraggled from being caught in the rain on our way back. Dragon wanted her dinner but it would have to wait. History was being made as we shrugged out of our raincoats and switched on the TV.

Look, I told her as we watched Cameron approach the lectern. That's the old Prime Minister. He's leaving.

We listened as Cameron listed all the amazing things he claimed to have done; most remarkably his belief that Britain was now stronger than ever before. After that I saw his mouth move on the screen but only heard:

BlahBlahBlahBlahBlahBlahBlahMeMeMeMeMeMeMe.

Which was probably what five year old Dragon heard too, for all the sense it made.

Then it was May's turn.

Is that the new one? asked Dragon

Yes. Let's listen to what she has to say.

Theresa May launches herself on the world at large

Maybe the media buzz of her being the second Thatcher had affected me for when May spoke, I had expected a graver, more imperious tone. May's pitch was warbly and thin. Not that that stopped her getting her message across. The speech she gave was strong and centrist. Her speech reached out through the media and slapped the world in the face.

Wake up, she seemed to say. I am here and here I am. 

I was left in no doubt that here was a person determined to make her mark as PM. She seemed a force to be reckoned with,. She seemed like a leader.

It was only a speech though and May's real reckoning is yet to come. I have my fingers crossed.

What did you think? I asked Dragon who had been riveted to the broadcast.

Good, was her conclusion, Can  I have a biscuit?

Which seemed as apt a summary as any.

Writers Retreat at The Clockhouse

Last weekend I went on a writers retreat at The Clockhouse which is a part of The Hurst; one of several writers centres in the UK run by Arvon.

Located in the Shropshire countryside, I had no idea of what to expect upon arrival. I had never been to any type of retreat before and had only signed onto this one as it was a birthday gift from the Husband. That said, I welcomed the opportunity to step away from domestic duties and a frenzied London reeling from the Brexit aftermath. I also had a creative project on the boil; a children's book which was in need of attention and time.

The Clockhouse is set up as a self-serviced writers retreat for four people. You go there for uninterrupted time to WRITE. There are no workshops or tutors. Each person has their own apartment with en-suite. The communal kitchen and dining areas are stocked with delicious, locally sourced meals and produce. Wine is provided via an honesty system. The shared lounge space has a log burner and bookshelves stuffed with books. There is no television and limited Wi-Fi. Outside are gorgeous woodland tracks to explore when you need to step away from your desk.

Below are some pictures I took during my time there:

The Clockhouse

View of Clockhouse from the Hurst

Woods, for when you can't write anymore.

Accompanying me during the retreat were three other women. During our time together, we spent a lot of time discussing writing (and life) over cups of tea or glasses of wine. They all had works in various stages of development and it was incredibly affirming to discuss writing with people who could empathise. This was definitely the highlight of the retreat for me; the ability to engage with fellow struggling writers who understood the daily challenges and intangible rewards of the writing life. I realised this is not something I get in my life and made a mental note to try and join a writers group ASAP!

I don't know whether it was the delicious food I gorged myself on, the company of interesting writers, the tranquil nature surrounds or the absolute lack of  any distractions, but when the retreat was finished, I had completed far more work than I had expected to. And was also far more relaxed than I had been in a long while.

Ted Hughes, one of the early proponents of Arvon is quoted on their website as saying:

The Arvon Method has hit on the precise formula, the precise 'Open Sesame', needed to crack the shell and release the hidden creative energy.

He's right. Whatever the elixir is that Arvon uses to prompt writers to write was in full flow during the retreat. I enjoyed it immensely and will return.


Arvon Foundation, 60 Farringdon Road, EC1R 3GA

March for Europe

Today London marches to protest the results of the Brexit referendum.  Over the past week, the world has watched our union unravel at the seams. Not only the union with our European neighbours but the union within our country, the United Kingdom. The Conservative and Labour parties are both in disarray. We have no real leader and whilst people cling to hope, despair is not far from the surface either.

I am at a writers retreat this weekend hosted by the Arvon Foundation. It is a sanctuary; tranquil and beautiful amidst the lush Shropshire countryside. I am sifting through old and new work trying to unravel and and tease out new stories and words. I found this old writing exercise from many years ago. A villanelle based around the election race between Obama and Hilary Clinton.  Somehow it seems fitting for the spirit of the pro EU march today so I will share it here:

Villanelle  #1

‘What a historic moment,’ the broadcaster said

She cried as she watched the election unfold.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

Thirty years ago, she’d gone to buy bread,

then walked back out into the cold.

'All blacks should be shot,' the baker had said.

And now naught for nothing had her ancestors bled.

She heard the echoes of voices of old.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

It was a moment for hope, but instead

she couldn’t forget the time she’d been told

‘All blacks should be shot,’ the baker had said.

The next morning she opened the paper and read

that to vote, people had queued for hours in the cold.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

What good is the hope that fills you with dread?

A movement for peace with their flag soaked in red

‘All blacks should be shot,’ the baker had said.

‘Obama’s the man. He’s got the street cred.’

In solidarity. Good luck and here's to a peaceful protest

Goodbye To All That

Since the results of Brexit have come through with 51.9% of the UK voting to leave the EU, I feel that the terra firm upon which I stood so recently is rapidly disintegrating beneath me. I am on unstable territory.

My frame of reference. The place I call home. The axis against which I based my choices on where in the world to live has irrevocably tipped over. For good. And I know I am not the only one to feel this way.

In the months leading up to the Brexit referendum, the sensationalist scare tactics used by both the Remain and Leave parties left me cold. However I was in no doubt that I would vote in. To leave the EU, an alliance which I regard as having immeasurably more benefits than disadvantages for the world at large, seemed to be sheer stupidity.

When the polls called it a neck and neck race, I think most did not really believe we would ever leave the EU. Or maybe that was just me. With my head in the sand. In a state of denial.

After all, why would a UK citizen vote for insularity over cosmopolitanism. Competition over alliance. Borders up rather than bridges built. Why would someone think it is stronger to stand alone rather than together?

Why?

Nationalism is a dangerous tool to wield in a world which needs to work together. Our generation is a global one and the technological access we have cuts down borders of geography, distance and time. None of us are isolated from one another if we choose not to be and if we have the access to technology. It is political artifice to create a golden vision of insularity and sell it as strength.

It is a lie.

Which is common enough in politics but this lie is one that British citizens will be suffering the consequences of for generations to come.

And me. All the reasons I love living in London are to be tested. The feeling of being a part of the world at large. The freedom of access. The inclusivity, diversity, dynamism and integration are all under threat. It may not be all doom and gloom but at a visceral level, this just feels wrong.

As John Donne wrote in fricken 1624:

No man [sic] is an island entire of itself; every man

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe

is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine

own were; any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

Will we ever learn?

Over and Out

About four years ago, I wrote about a blog post about re-entry into the paid workforce after having had a baby. I did not foresee that the beginning of a part-time working life  (plus baby, plus Masters degree) would mean the end of blogging.

I don't know why I did not see this. Even a blind person would have seen it.

It was a busy four years. I met some truly wonderful people in my workplace. My boss was tops. I went to work beaming most days. Happy and full of bad jokes which I shared with anyone around me.

Then disaster struck! Nine months ago, the project I had been developing with my boss was suspended indefinitely. I had nothing to do. Left with little choice, I applied for an internal vacancy which on paper looked like a great challenge. More responsibility. More money. More days.

When they offered it to me, I felt uneasily relieved. I wasn't happy about spending less time with Dragon but I did welcome a new challenge. It was a trade-off.

A great deal is made of intuition by holistic practitioners and Psychologies magazine.

Follow your gut, they say. Or is it,  Listen to your gut. ?

Regardless, the true answer to all life's mysteries is to be found within your abdomen

During the handover for my new role, my stomach had a lot to say. The primary message seemed to be:

GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!

Did I listen?  Did I follow?

No. I did jackshit and instead adopted a Protestant work ethic facade hoping that my stomach was wrong.  That I was just imagining that the new job did not resemble in the slightest what I had hoped it would be.

An oldie, but a goodie

Six months later, I quit.

It wasn't all for nothing. Being in a soul sucking, toxic workplace highlighted to me what I wanted to do. I started writing a book to keep myself sane. And I started writing here again. And many more places. I just started to write.

It was the only way to get my stomach to shut up.

My Tribe

For as long as I can remember, the concept of belonging is something I have been interested in. As a child of first generation Chinese immigrants to Australia and now also a  British citizen, I have carved my identity via a ever-changing  fluidity between socio-cultural boundaries. Whilst this pick and mix approach to life has served me well, there have been times which I wished to belong to one group and one group only.  My own tribe so to speak. One which is not born from blood relations or having gone through university together.  This thought stems from the sepia-tinted notion that we all have a troupe in the world with whom we have an innate affinity with; an idea probably originating from the period where we lived in nomadic tribes and moved according to the seasons and hunting,

In our modern society where we follow Wi-Fi rather than wildebeest, there are so many tribes to infiltrate as you journey through life. From high school cliques to the smokers circle at work; we join these groups only to leave them as we form new associations based on changing life experiences. For example, just in the last few years I have joined the new parent tribe, the part-time working mum trying to juggle it all tribe, the school gate drop off networking tribe. And my favourite which is the I don't have time to see you or call you so let's form a Whatsapp Chat group tribe.

The Hipster Dude Tribe. Fast growing and in need of pest control 

Membership to all of the above have enriched my life in ways untold but I have never had that feeling with any of the above. The feeling which is not dissimilar to a MGM Technicolour film moment where you stand looking out over a vast horizon with an industrial strength wind machine blowing you hair back (which is long of course). You grip your hand into a fist and proclaim to some invisible deity :

These are my people. 

Imagine this scene from The Ten Commandants and you get the idea:

Long Hair. Tick. Dramatic hands. Tick. Epic Horizon. Tick
(image courtesy of The Daily Mail)

The only time which I have experienced this feeling was my years spent working with The Wilderness Society. It was my good luck and privilege at nineteen to have met a group of people who were ahead of their time. All the climate change, renewable energy, dietary choice (gluten free, vegan and so on) buzzwords bandied around now were part and parcel of these peoples' lifestyles over twenty years ago.  But it was not their beliefs so much as their general character traits that won me over. Free thinking, intelligent, kind, determined, inspiring, open-minded, altruistic, were but a few of the qualities I encountered en masse during that period. Most were older than me, in their thirties, and encouraged me to seek life on my terms and no-one else's. It was good advice and they were good role models. The synergy of those years was alchemical. We all lived in close proximity. Our social and work lives intertwined. There was no effort to our association,; it was completely mutual.  Eventually life took us all in different directions and the tribe dismantled.  I missed it intensely for years afterwards and the experiences I had during that time influence me still.

Since then I have been in the wilderness. I have been in many groups, voluntarily and not, but there has not been that tribal association since. I got married but you cannot have a tribe of two I decided. Then Dragon came along and we became a three. I realised then that a tribe has to have some fluidity to membership. You need to be able to dip in and out. Go walkabout from time to time. You cannot go walkabout when a fellow tribe member relies on you to wipe her bum.

Recently I attended a mum's book club event, which turned out to be very little about books but more so about Prosecco and local chit-chat. The mum's were all from Dragon's school and it was my first time meeting several of them. As the evening progressed, it transpired that none of us were originally from London and neither were any of our husbands or partners. Like myself, most of these women had met their breeding mates (I don't want to say Husband. I don't want to say Boyfriend. I don't want to say Partner. There is no one size fits all so I'm going to say Breeding Mate) away from their original places of upbringing. The stories we tipsily shared had the commonality that we were all living and raising children in a city where we have no roots. Most have no old, close friends nearby. Many of us have no blood relations near. Our parents are aging and live far away.  We are a group of travellers who stayed where we travelled.

As I walked home that evening, slightly half-cut, my thoughts wondered to my neighbours as I passed their houses on the way back. My Prosecco-tinged internal monologue went something like:

That's where Shelley lives who is from France and her husband is from America. And next door to her is Ellie from Brazil and Peter from Malaysia.

Drunkenly I went through the geographical origins of all the neighbours I knew. Then onto others in the local school community and then pretty much everyone I knew in London (it was a long walk home)  It became obvious that a trend was emerging. No-one I know in London is from London.* And neither are their partners. And more often than not, both partners would have grown up in a completely different country to each other.

Yet here we all are. In this stinky, complex, expensive rough gem of a city which we all absolutely do not want to leave. I belong in London because London is full of people like me.**

There was no horizon, apart from terraced rooftops. There was no wind to blow through my not-long hair. My hands had been tightly grasping a champagne flute all night so were too worn out to make into fists. But it turned out these accoutrements were just window dressing for when I realised:

I am amongst my people,

it felt framed in full colour.



*Apart from the Husband. He is London born and bred.And he would want you to know it.
** He also says you do not need to be born in London to be a Londoner

Natalie Merchant - Paradise is There - Royal Albert Hall, March 16, 2016

There are definitive albums (yes, let’s still call it an album) that are mark out periods of your life. One such album for me is Tiger Lily, by the American artist, Natalie Merchant. During my twenties, the plaintive tones of Ms Merchant were often found on my Walkman (for those of you who don’t know what that is – Google it) and then later, my Discman (Google) Her appeal as a singer songwriter came from her sparse song arrangements accompanied by deceptively simple lyrics which evoked complex worlds within which characters spoke of their day to day lives and served to draw me in.

Last night Natalie Merchant played her only London show as part of her worldwide 2016 tour, Paradise is There.  The tour commemorates the twenty year anniversary of Tiger Lily’s release. The tour showcases re-recordings of the original eleven songs with different arrangements, reflecting the passage of time and its impact on both songwriter and song.

I had managed to score a ticket to the show which was at the Royal Albert Hall. An email from the venue had stipulated that there would be no support act and that Natalie would arrive on stage at 7.30pm.  In my seat by 7.20pm, I watched as the half empty venue slowly filled up. The audience demographic seemed like they would appreciate an early start so they could be back home and in bed by 11.00pm.

Soon Natalie arrived on stage as promised and launched into her first song. Halfway through, she forgot the words. So she started again. And then again. Apologising for her nerves, she re-commenced the song and by its end, she could have recited the alphabet or read the dictionary. By flubbing the lyrics, she had won us over. As she started to hit her stride it became clear that her songs have not diminished with time, nor her voice. 

As she played through her first set, Ms Merchant visibly warmed up as she sang her old tunes, dancing on the stage like a flamenco whirling dervish. She was dressed in the manner of a ballet teacher in a black ballet wraparound top, black leggings and black chiffon skirt.  Her hair manifested itself differently for each song. Sometimes up. Sometimes down. Sometimes being held by her hand and sometimes being whipped along to the beat of the music. Her hair had a show in its own right.

As she danced to her own music, it seemed that she was invoking the songs through her dancing.  The more she danced, the warmer she got. The warmer she got, the more relaxed she seemed.  And the more relaxed she became, the more powerful her performance.  It was as much a visual treat as well as an aural one. By the end of the first set, the audience were all warmed up too and reluctantly let her go for the compulsory intermission as dictated by the venue so it could make more money from the audience at the bar.

Even though she said her touring act were unaccustomed to taking intermission breaks, there was no sign of mid show lethargy as Natalie and her band plunged us into the second set post intermission. Relaxed, she bantered with the audience and weaved her way through the aisles, mixing singing with improvisational dance. Remarkably she managed to create an atmosphere of intimacy whilst performing in such a cavernous venue. It was extraordinary and even though my seat was far up in the highest circle, I did not feel far at all.

In fact, it felt like I was in my twenties again. Listening to her on my Walkman while walking down the streets of my hometown.

Mother to Child

I'm baacck....

And to kick off my re-entry into the blogging world, I'll post this which I wrote many moons ago when I was nowhere close to being a mother:

Dear Child,

Life? What can I possibly tell you about life? I am no expert. I can only tell you what I have felt and seen and learned so far. So what I am telling you is only my story, for you to take or leave as you so wish.

As you grow older, you will become more aware of time. Not time as in the real sense, meaning those handful of  moments in our lives which really matter. No, in this case I mean time as in the clock ticking time. You will notice yourself becoming more preoccupied with this notion of time and how Time is Short.  How you may not be able to fit in everything you want to do as You Have No Time.

If you can, I would say ditch this approach immediately. Do not make yourself a willing slave to this idea of time. Because in the end, it is only an idea. A powerful one, but an idea nonetheless and as with all ideas, they exist only in our minds eye unless we give them the power to live in the world.

You see, it is not true that time is short and that you have no time. In reality, time is what you make of it and if you choose to make time for something or someone, the time will be there.  Do not trust people who tell you constantly that they are so very, very busy and do not have time for you. The truly busiest people that I know always find a moment for what is important.

Be generous. Be a generous person not only with your time but with your thoughts, your actions, your money, your mind and your heart. Be someone that is interested in other people. It is always possible to find something in common or something interesting about another person no matter how different they may seem to you. Fight against the urge to think too much about yourself and instead, focus on others. Extend your perspective outwards.  There is a big wide world for you to explore with all its magic and wonders and it will open itself up to you if you choose to look at it rather than looking at yourself.

It is important in life to have discipline. I hope that I have instilled some sense of that within you. When I was a little girl, your grandmother put me in ballet classes. I hated them. For nine bitter years, I endured these classes. They were hard and tough and I hated my teacher. My mother (your grandmother) would not give into my pleas to stop.

She used to say to me, 'You don't understand now what this is giving you but you will when you are older. It is not just about learning ballet, it is learning about discipline and how to hold yourself in the world. ' 

When I was fifteen, everything changed. I became mature enough to realise how useful the discipline I had learned from ballet was. I was able to apply it in so many different sectors of my life. This discipline helped me become the woman I am today and the mother I am to you. So discipline is important. Keep some in your life at all times. It will help you through a lot in life.

Surround yourself with positive, loving people. Do not be too proud or too scared to listen to what others have to say and share in their experience of the world. We all have a lot to teach each other. Try to avoid pettiness and also do not hold yourself to impossible standards. Perfection is an illusion and a hard taskmaster. As long as you do your best in what you turn your attention to, be happy with that. Be happy with flaws.

Cultivate humility. Do not confuse humility with false modesty. Be confident and proud of yourself and your achievements but do not boast or brag. You do not need to parade yourself constantly to others.

For some reason that I cannot understand, we are encouraged in society to strive to be happy. As if Happiness is a state of being that we should all reach. Well, that is not my view. If you were happy all the time, it would drive you and everyone else around you mad. Learn to realise that happiness in life comes in moments. It comes and then it goes. Appreciate when it is with you but do not long for it constantly. Life is about so many emotions and states of being. Embrace them all rather than being fixated on only one.

There are so many more things that I wish to write and share with you but I think you will find your own way. The last thing I will leave you with is love. There is a lot said about love and so there should be as it is important. If you wish to have love in your life; be a loving person. It is a mistake to 'look'  for love, for if it is not within your own self, you won’t find it anywhere else.  For love is a reflection of your own humanity upon the world. Love is a muscle that you must constantly flex. It is not passive and it does not 'happen' to you. You create the love that you want.

I helped create you and you are my love.

Your Mother.

The Lucky Country?

Does life get more intense when you enter your forties?  It certainly seems that way. Life and death seem to be more closely entwined than ever, Perhaps this is what happens when you have young children and aging parents?  My friends in the same demographic all seem as intensely engaged, with marriages, deaths, births, separations and illnesses all clamouring for their time and energy.

The reality of aging is that it is a consuming experience. So what part does your environment play?

Recently I returned from my annual pilgrimage back to Perth, Western Australia with two short detours to Sydney and Singapore. When we were out in sunny Perth, my husband remarked:

The Australian people do not look very well.

I knew what he was referring to. I too had noticed that after a certain age, the demographic in Perth seemed to age at an accelerated pace. This difference was highlighted in contrast to London where the same demographic seemed markedly more youthful.

Generalisations of course but that is what we noticed and have noticed over the last ten years.

The obvious reasons might point to heightened sun exposure and the car dominant infrastructure of Perth. In general, there is not the need to be as active in one's daily life in Perth. Walking is not a requirement there.

However a conversation with my aunt exposed another crucial difference. On commenting about her first trip to London and Europe last year, she said:

Life is not easy in London like it is here in Australia. Life seems more difficult over there.

She's right of course. Australia still hold the mantle of the Lucky Country with its space, natural beauty, wonderful produce and ease of life. That is unless you are a refugee, asylum seeker or Aboriginal.

But there is something about not having too easy a life that keeps alight a vitality within.  London is a complex, dynamic, expensive, dirty, melting pot. It is difficult to negotiate. It can be crowded. It is a harsh place if you lack funds or resources. It seems to welcome and shun you at the same time.

It is a harder place to live than Australia.

Which is precisely why I am still here.