Captain Fantastic

Viggo, aaah Veeeeeego.

Loved him in Eastern Promises. Loved him in A History of Violence. Loved him in The Road. The Two Faces of January. Good. The list goes on.  

And yes, loved him in LOTR. Who knew someone called Aragorn could be sexy?

For weeks leading up to its premiere, I saw posters for Viggo's new flick Captain Fantastic everywhere. So often did I see this poster that I started to wonder if I was hallucinating.

The Poster

Admittedly there are worse things in life to see than a shaggy Viggo kitted out in a retro red suit.  Dead rats. Nigel Farage's face. An empty Cadbury's chocolate wrapper.

The mass advertising campaign worked a treat for as soon as the film came out in my local cinema, I was bunkered down, ready to spend the afternoon with Veegs and his fake film children. I had read that the film centred around the complexities of a father trying to raise his brood of children off-grid; a return to nature existence combined with Chomsky-esqe home schooling. 

I've always been fascinated by people who choose to carve out a lifestyle different to the 'mainstream' and the challenges they face. Having known several families doing this very thing, I was curious to see how the film would depict this lifestyle and what message it would impart. And the fact that Viggo was in it certainly didn't hurt. Or am I just repeating myself?

The tone of the film was different to what I had expected. From the poster design, I had anticipated a Wes Anderson-type film with quirks and curious characters. Instead I found Captain Fantastic much more meditative and reflective. The first half was essentially a Captain Von Trapp militaristic fantasy of how to raise children in the forest naked but with no singing nun. But for all the liberal leanings of Ben Cash (Veeg's character), his approach was essentially that of a despot or fascist; the very paradigm that he was rallying against.

Wes Anderson movie poster. Similar right?

His character reminded me of certain people I have met in the past. In particular one guy called Gympie who rejected all mainstream leanings. He lived and travelled around the country on his 'Magic Bus' with his consort of female partners and various children. Shrouding his fascism under the guise of mysticism and anti consumerism, I watched him manipulate situations for his own gain. He was a Class A prat and a study in self deception.

For me the film came into its own when Cash's' tightly controlled world crashes into mainstream reality when his children realise there is more to the world than Russian literature and five am yoga drills. Mortensen's depiction of a good man grappling with the contradictions in his belief system alone, is worth seeing the film for. As he struggles with the cracks in his idealism against his love for his kids; the film shows that the lives we lead, no matter what ideas they are founded upon; are ever changing and constantly complex.

Aaaah Viggo, you did it again.

It's (Not That) Quiet on the Western Front (II)

If Perth had a heart, then that heart is the port town of Fremantle. From the moment my Dad started working at Fremantle Hospital in 1977, Fremantle, or ‘Freo’ as the locals call it became a backdrop for my formative years.

Fremantle Port

My first memories of Fremantle are eating fish and chips on the Esplanade; a park nestled along the Freo foreshore. Cicerellos was the place to go for freshly battered cod and chips.  My parents would order at the counter whilst I peered into the vast tropical aquarium that was always my highlight during a trip to Cicerellos. Clutching our newspaper bundles, we would cross the rail overpass down into Esplanade Park. Sitting on the grass amongst the Norfolk Pines, I remember the crunchy saltiness and fresh white flakes in my mouth, with the sea breeze cooling us on a sunny Perth day.

Being a port city, Fremantle has always had an outward looking mien. Immigrants from Italy and Portugal settled in the town and contributed significantly in creating the character of Fremantle; essentially a working class immigrant community for whom family was important. These roots of Fremantle’s heritage is still very much visible today. The main road, known as the Cappuccino strip is well known for its proliferation of cafes and restaurants where you can sip and dine alfresco. Gino’s coffee shop reigns supreme on the strip having outlasted other stalwarts such as Old Papa’s and Interfoods. Across the road is Pizza Bella Roma where nightly queues form as people await the opportunity to dine on delicious oven baked pizza and pasta.

Gino's Cafe - still standing 

When I visit nowadays, I find the Cappuccino Strip greatly changed. The street that once held an Italian deli, a butchers, a burial home, a fishmongers and one of the best bookshops in Perth is now dotted with too many ice cream parlours, tacky pubs and tourist shops.  Rents are so high that many local businesses have left. Still, the reputation of the strip precedes its reality and every weekend, the tourists still come and spend their money on ice cream, coffee and trinkets.

The Cappuccino Strip

It’s (Not That) Quiet on the Western Front (1)

Many years ago in a pre - child life, I started writing about the place where I grew up which is Perth, Western Australia. I starting writing to commit to memory all the things I loved about it. I found this old piece of writing today and have decided to post it in excerpts as a homage to the Perth I knew and loved.  Perth has changed significantly in the past five years due to the mining boom. Rampant development and consumerism has affected many parts of the city which I held dear.

So in memory of the Perth I once knew:

Perth

My hometown hugs the shores of the West Australian coastline. She nestles there like a faint diamond amongst the vastness of the state. The fact that Perth is the most isolated city in the world of its size, is useful for dinner party conversation or when someone asks:

Where in Australia are you from?

Perth.

Which side is that?

The west coast. The other side from Sydney and Melbourne. The side no-one visits.

Oh.

Silence.

It’s the most isolated city in the world.

Oh really. I didn’t know that.

Yes. It’s closer to Singapore than its own capital city.

At this point, the consideration that you are from the most isolated city in the world has entered the person’s head. The neurons in their brain come to a silent conclusion:  HICKSVILLE.

Perth is the capital city of Western Australia; the largest state in country
(www.wordtravels.com/Travelguide/Countries/Australia/Map)

Coming from Perth, I’m used to this kind of geographical prejudice. My hometown doesn’t have the international status of Sydney, the unofficial capital of Australia or even Alice Springs, home of the much clambered upon Uluru. People who grow up in Perth have a love-hate relationship with this remoteness.  We dislike the isolation for it breeds cliques and a small town watchfulness. It fails to rate on the international stage despite world class beaches and the best weather in Australia. Perth could disappear tomorrow and would anyone know? But the isolation gives us space to create, develop and initiate away from other influences and trends. It is an immensely creative city with a Mediterranean outlook.

Arriving

When the plane approaches Perth, my nose is pressed up against the window. If it is a daytime descent, the land below looks like an Aboriginal dot painting. If anyone were to doubt the complex physical and psychical connection that the first Australians have with their land, all you would need to do is view the land from an airplane to have those doubts diminish.

The view of Oz from an airplane 
(http://www.japingka.com.au/wp-content/uploads/Marlene-Jap-011996.jpg)

In daylight the clarity of the sky is unlike any other place I have been. The combination of light and space and air forms a blue clearer and sharper than any other. This blue is my homecoming. If it is night, I look for the lights of the Perth skyline. Harder to spot than a vastly lit metropolis like London or Hong Kong, the Perth city lights flare against the inky darkness like a lighthouse beacon guiding the aircraft towards the landing strip. I am always impatient to get out of the plane and the airport; eager for the first few deep inhalations of West Australian air. Dry, crisp and tinged with leaves and sun. Arriving at daytime, the glare of the sun and bright blue sky hits you as you exit the building. You immediately feel as if you have been zapped intravenously with high dosage vitamins.

Breathe in. Out.

Breathe.

I'm back.

Horror Vacui

Oh I had so many ideas of what to write about for this next blog entry. Our trip to Iceland; our first 'family summer holiday', a.k.a what to do with a really active child 24/7 for six weeks; an abridged version to all the books I am reading/not reading; my transcendent experience at a Paul Kelly gig and many more ranty bits which are not making it on here because of the weird reality that I am busier now not working than when I was working.

This makes no sense right. After all, I was working four days a week before. How can I have less time now that I am gainfully unemployed?

Friends ask if I am enjoying my free time.

Free time, I laugh, Yeah I am enjoying it. This is it right now. Us talking.

They say that nature abhors a vacuum. Applying this principle to the increased hours in my day, I concur with 'horror vacui' as first postulated by Parmenides. My diary is living proof of this theory.

Is it a law of nature that the more time you have, the more things you do? Certainly this is something I have always been guilty of.  I am more tired too as a result. At first I blamed myself for doing too much but now I realise I am just following the laws of physics.

Horror Vacui, would be the perfect heading for my gravestone as cause of death. I am sure when the time for my eternal rest comes, it will be from over exertion.

But until then, excuse me. I have stuff I need to do. 

The Writing Life

I am trying to finish the first draft of a children's book that I started last October. It is frickin' hard. Everytime I sit down to write, I have to resist the urge NOT to write. I have a series of well honed avoidance procedures to avoid the laying of font onto the blank page. My writing process goes something like this:

• Drink coffee at a cafe. Surf social media.
• Remonstrate self and get off social media.
• Write a few sentences. 
• Feel disillusioned about the crapness of the sentences just written.
• Suddenly remember something urgent that needs doing. Such as Googling a random fact or Whatsapping a friend to say Hi.
• Look at the time. Only an hour left before writing time is up.
• Read through the last page that was written. Write a few more sentences.
• Sigh. Look out window. Get more coffee.
• Sit down. Get up. Go to the toilet.
• Sit down. Feel a sense of urgency.
• Call the Husband who is really busy at work. Moan about nothing. Look at self from above and think self needs a slap.
• Write a paragraph.
• Review total word count of the 'day's work'. 
• Word count is 246 words.
• Shit. Self imposed writing rule is 1000 words per session. Minimum.
• Write nonsense for 10 minutes. No clue what I am writing about anymore.
• Look at clock. 25 minutes left.
• Force myself to write up to 900 words, knowing at least 800 of these words will be cut in a future edit.
• Eavesdrop on the guy sitting next to me in Starbucks.
• Decide to write a random blog entry on writing.
• Write the blog entry in 5 minutes.
• Check phone. Clear emails and messages.
• 10 minutes left.
• Write. Time's up.
• 1251 words further in to a story that is a complete mess.

Welcome to first draft hell.

Amen to that 

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?