Alley spat

Life---I mean yours and mine, not some abstract conception---is a tapestry of narratives. Work (or school) life is interwoven with home life. Each is subdivided into projects. This blog used to be called As in Life …: it aimed at reflecting, and perhaps illuminating, the complexity and infinite mystery of the outer world. Still does.

The game changes as we get older. They say that youth is wasted on the young, meaning that in age we look back and wish we had today’s wisdom with yesterday’s youthful looks and vigour. When you get to a certain age---it’s one I’ve reached lately---the game is to make something of what you already have. In youth, early adulthood in particular, it’s to go out and get what you want: to stop being defined by childhood circumstances which are largely out of your own control. In my own case, I failed the transition. I was like a pirate forced to walk the plank. Using that simile, I didn’t start to swim till I was sixty-one.

So when I write my memoirs---this blog has evolved into a series of sketches towards that end---I can go from birth to age eighteen quite easily. Each post is like a handmade square, knitted or something, destined one day to be sewn into one big patchwork quilt. Now that my writer’s blog (damn! you know what I meant to say - block!) is over---I’ll have to explain about that---I’m ready to continue where I left off: at age fifteen. Three more years to go---watch this space. But there’s today as well: the story picks up after a gap of forty-five years, as if the hero had been in jail all that time and had little to relate.

My current theory about life is that everything is connected: body, soul, health, even what happens to you in the street. When any one component is disordered, the others are too. I don’t see it terms of cause and effect but synchronicity: not in Jung’s terms, though he invented the word, but my own. So I was mugged by two small boys when I had certain resentments about my environment. There have been other incidents. There was the man in the shopping centre who was approached by Security for using bad language loudly near other shoppers. I was so pleased to see this happening that I stopped to watch. Even though I stood at a safe distance, the man glared at me as if to say, “I’m remembering your face …” As if he blamed me for reporting his misdemeanour, and would get me one day for it. And he too was an angelic messenger, reminding me that

Not liking brings weariness of spirit,
And aversion serves to no purpose.

See my recent post Liking and Disliking.

Then more recently there was the man in the alley, staggering in such a random zigzag that I didn’t know how to get past him without colliding. As we converged, thrown together on this narrow footpath between two factories, he was so disordered and angry that I deliberately didn’t look him in the eye. In hindsight this might have been a mistake because he swung a fist and cursed me, landing a feeble blow on my shoulder before staggering off erratically, bumping against the walls. Something within me laughed and was liberated, as if a Zen Master had disguised himself as a drunk for the sake of this satori moment.

In youth, I neither knew how to change my situation, nor how to adapt to it. I drifted, failed to recognize the many messengers, saw nothing but the many faces of angst.

Things change. The tectonic plates shift. Earthquakes happen, then all is still again. Ah, peace! But you never know.

So in the last few years, recorded here, I’ve been joyful in myself, joyful on country walks alone with nature, but not quite reconciled to the prison walls of indoors, not quite able to cope with town. These angelic messengers are harbingers of transformation, showing me that acceptance is not enough. I must embrace, but not selectively. I am part of the All: if I pick fights with it, no wonder I am divided.

The Perfect Way is only difficult for those who pick and choose;
Do not like, do not dislike; all will then be clear.
Make a hairbreadth difference, and Heaven and Earth are set apart;
If you want the truth to stand clear before you, never be for or against.
The struggle between "for" and "against" is the mind's worst disease;
While the deep meaning is misunderstood, it is useless to meditate on Rest.
. . . . .

That’s another extract, another translation, but still from Seng Ts’an. He was my messenger in 1962, gave me a seed, which is starting to grow.
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Image: a painting by the Zen monk Sengai, with grateful thanks to this site: http://terebess.hu/zen/sengai.html

Space

I’m sure everyone has blessings worth counting and those who do count them are blest indeed. One that I’m particularly grateful for is the blessing of space.

“What do you mean by space, Vincent? Do you mean time?”

“Yes, that too. Physical space and time plus a metaphysical combination of both.”

I wake at 3:30 and dress myself warmly against the autumnal chill in the house, quiet as the proverbial mouse because there are others under this roof who consider this time is for sleeping. Oh, if I could have woken earlier, so that the space of this velvety night might have embraced me in its loose folds for longer!

This space is measureless to man. Perhaps it is infinity that I crave. And perhaps that’s a precious quality---like gold-dust only more so---that’s hidden: seeded in the interstices of time.

For those who labour and are heavy laden, “space” may be the precious gift for which they will pay a king’s ransom. A holiday! What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, yet have no respite from someone jerking his chain? As if he were a dancing bear.

Cut to a 1973 film by Franco Zeffirelli: Brother Sun and Sister Moon, with “syrupy” songs by Donovan:

If you want to live life free
Take your time, go slowly
Do few things, but do them well
Heartfelt work grows purely

---sung by the group of helpers---lepers and other followers of Francis as he starts his mission in Assisi---who rebuild (“day by day, stone by stone”) the ruined church of San Damiano. (See this site.)

Says a critic: “No wonder the people in the film all think Francesco is mad. He's not skipping through the poppy field towards the Emerald City on a yellow brick road, but prancing around the flowers to ludicrously lame Donovan tunes by himself like a loony in a Monty Python sketch. Sadly, Zeffirelli never meant to make a comedy.”

The critic continues:

“Of course, I must confess to being a bit crazy/masochistic to have watched this three times during my lifetime, but I kept forgetting how bad the film is. …”

Yes, he must feel a guilty pleasure against his better judgment. It’s funny how critics, when they feel the urge to be controversialist and slate a film which they actually enjoyed, are reduced to sawing off the branch on which they sit. A movie can only exist by virtue of cinematic conventions, and if you want to show the feeling in a character's heart, you have to show it pictorially, in song, instrumental music and/or the spoken word. That the life of St Francis should have been conveyed to the late twentieth century in the sickly-sweet plangency of overripe Hippiedom---well, how better could it have been done? How else could it have been done? As hagiography, Zeffirelli's essay is entirely successful. Whilst being historically accurate (to the best film standards), it makes sense of one man’s instinct to find space---an astonishing vector in the context of a stifling medieval society; and it demonstrates the intensity of the sacrifice needed to live in that space. In those days, you had to embrace “Lady Poverty” and be a beggar.

My life is nothing at all like St Francis’. But I do love the film, and Donovan’s songs within it: not in my cynical but my sentimental self, where something precious is stored.

Yesterday I had plenty to do and I felt these worldly things closing in on my space. Instead of succumbing to their pressure, I got outside at the earliest opportunity to make a small pilgrimage. In various places I have “shrines” in commemoration of “moments”. There is no altar or plaque to mark the spot but I know where they are geographically and I’d marked this particular one with a blog post on 8th April 2008:

I have to follow my nose, like a dog suddenly unleashed. On Sunday morning we had a good snowfall and I had to go and walk out in it, saying to myself “Where is a grandchild when you need one? We could build a snowman, go tobogganing.” But the nearest grandchild was 35 miles away and the snow would melt by afternoon. So I walked in it and when I took the public footpaths that criss-cross the hillside, going behind back-gardens and in between old factories, I did manage to get lost which was nice, for the usual landmarks were altered. But I was listening to the altered sounds most of all: not just the crunch of snow under my boots, but a certain hush, for the snow deadens sound. The effect was not as noticeable as I remembered but today as I set out in sunshine, I listened to the ambience with no expectations, which is the only sensible way, and I realised that this---savouring the underlying hush behind all sound to taste its attributes---is a way to get beyond the normal consciousness to another dimension co-existent with the ordinary ones. Beyond that, I don’t have words for it.

I left the house when millions across the country were on their way to work, and walking to the spot of my pilgrimage (illustrated in my photo), I passed a line of cars going up the hill---drivers leaving town---and a similar line of cars going down the hill---coming to town. The ones going up the hill had not long started their cars and the air was heavy with engines grumpily muttering on full choke. It was easy to weave between these stationary monsters and get to my footpath, and I felt that if I were behind one of those steering wheels, I wouldn’t be enjoying that blessing of space.

Then I remembered how easy it was, in 1972, to drop out from a commuter’s existence, to go and live in a country commune, even with a wife and two small children; till that became oppressively hedonistic, and we dropped out of the commune too, and joined a guru cult. Which in some ways was like being a minor friar of St Francis. Indeed, it was the cult which put on the movie show where I first saw Brother Sun, Sister Moon. We all recognised ourselves in it.

I suppose what I mean by “space” is a place where the spirit can expand, in which we can say with Blake that “One thought fills immensity”.

Valley creatures

A nearby furniture factory, 1970

Days pass. Not much wayfaring and not much writing. The two are connected. I had promised to dedicate a post to Lady in Red, who writes “I love it when you describe the places you walk through, bringing it alive for those of us who can only imagine both the countryside and the industrial areas around you.” And about those industrial areas, a friend writes “Remember that you live in a tough district of a tough town” as if it excused anything. Living here was my choice & I couldn’t wish for better. What is life, but to enter into a relationship with one’s immediate environment and to survive---physically of course, but emotionally too? To live alongside manual workers, and be one myself---this is what I want, whilst I have the strength. Each day I make choices, according to my feeling. I sit here at the keyboard a little, reading my regular list of blogs, commenting on them sometimes. I write things too, draft out blog posts---that’s my highest literary ambition---and usually abandon them incomplete. Something is missing and I can’t fake it. So I give priority to the manual work. I can always complete that, even when a project takes days or weeks. I do things on my own house: a succession of jobs which make a real difference. Currently it’s to freshen up the bathroom, to deal with mould on the ceiling and between the tiles, caused by condensation and inappropriate materials used during the last refurbishment. Other projects are to assist elderly people, who can still fend for themselves in their own homes with a bit of extra help. There are stories I could tell, but confidentiality forbids. One customer questions everything I do, treats me like a servant. She has lots of money but counts every penny; so, though it’s not businesslike, I undercharge her, knowing she’ll appreciate it. She hasn’t long to live, and though she can be rude, is my favourite client: so little time and seemingly so far from peace. Who would have thought that working as a handyman could be a meditation on death?

So my wayfaring is mainly to visit the timber yard for wood and the ironmonger’s for nails, grout and tools. They’re within easy walking distance and on the street I pass people from Zimbabwe, Poland, Nigeria, South Africa, St Vincent, Jamaica, Philippines, Pakistan, Kashmir, China, Thailand, the USA (two Mormons who carry out their missionary work on the street). Survival is everyone’s game, and being at the bottom of the heap concentrates the mind. It’s easy to spot those who don’t work. There’s a middle-aged trio who meet each morning and shuffle through the town, raggedly dressed. I don’t know what disabilities they have, but you can see they are enjoying every minute and need no one’s pity. The UK has a universal benefits system. If you can’t or won’t work, you get handouts (as Americans would call them) and you can live in whatever style suits you. It reduces crime and misery: surely it’s worth every penny. Some are drunks or junkies; others are dealers---I saw one of them being questioned by two young policewomen, humiliated when one of them searched his pockets. I didn’t want to make it worse by watching, but heard his loud mutterings as he walked away after the ordeal. Another man was the main dealer in these parts a few years ago but was jailed after a police raid on his “International Club”. Now he’s released and back in the same premises, selling old furniture and bric-a-brac. He still has the gold chains round his neck but the arrogance has gone. His trading skills have risen like Phoenix from the fire. His business flourishes, the premises are neat and he employs various down-and-outs---all legal. I have my sources of information on the latter.

Out of my study window, or when I hang out clothes on the line, wildlife parades before me. Little birds come to get seeds from the feeder. A Red Admiral butterfly took advantage of today’s sunshine and fluttered by, though at first I took it for a fallen leaf fluttering from a tree. A woodpecker tapped out its rhythm on a tall tree in the playground the other side of my fence.

These days, I write to investigate my writer’s block, to see what lies behind it. I attempt nothing more than to capture the essence of the present moment. That’s what makes it so difficult. The unfinished notes have to be thrown away. They go stale faster than bread. My sleeping gets disordered: I take naps in the day from the hard physical work, then wake in the night determined to write.

Night is a different world. It’s astonishing that every twenty-four hours a vast drama is enacted: never the same, but always consisting of four acts: Dawn, Day, Dusk, Night. And within them, the various scenes: getting dressed, eating and so on. We could be forgiven for thinking birth, life and death is a similar repeating cycle, but how can we be sure? Oblivion wipes the memories clean. I have no hope for life after death. Let me live for the joy of this moment, in “Eternity’s sunrise”, as Blake says. Then I may face my own death without regret.

The back of my house in 1974. The waste ground is where they built today’s playground. Factory in background is rear of the one shown in first picture.

PS Here is today’s photo of the view above:

And here is today’s photo of the scene at top of this post. The furniture factory still there in 1970 has been replaced by a pharmaceutical warehouse:

Liking and disliking

It’s my own self-help book post, not yours. I write it to help me. You can write your own. That will help you.

We all have our likes and dislikes. To follow my desire is a great joy, but what to do about the things that I hate? The worst is to dislike myself, for then anyone can kick me. I might even be mugged by little boys in the street (as in my previous post).

If I dislike something which others like (such as the public library which I talked about before), let me not nurture negative feelings: unless there is some clear action I can take to right a wrong that I see.

My favourite piece of Zen wisdom comes from its Third Patriarch Seng Ts’an:

Let things take their own course,
Knowing the essence can neither go nor stay.

Obey the nature of things,
And you are in concord with the Way,
Calm and easy and free from care. *

Thoughts that are fettered turn from Truth,
Sink into the unwise habit of not liking.

Not liking brings weariness of spirit,
And aversion serves to no purpose.

If you want to follow the doctrine of the One,
Do not reject the world of the senses.

When you are not biased, the world of the senses
Is seen as one with enlightenment.
The wise practise non-interference.
. . . .

To trust in the heart is the not-two,
The not-two is to trust in the heart.

I have spoken - but in vain,
For what words can tell
Of things that have no yesterday,
Tomorrow or today?
. . . .

The whirligigs of Apparent and Void all come from mistaken views;
Try not to seek after the true.
Only cease to cherish opinions.

(I have opinions, naturally. Things start to unravel only when I cherish them.)

---

Or,

*Let your nature blend with the Way and wander in it free from care.

Illustration from Sengai: Master Zen Painter by Shokin Furuta.

Angels disguised as bandits

I passed through the children’s playground. From where I live it’s a pedestrian shortcut into town. Two boys were there, aged about 8, one with a bandanna tied around his face, like a masked bandit holding up a Wells Fargo coach. At his age I must have done the same. They asked me for 50p. “No,” I said firmly and carried on walking, past the playground, down the street. Behind me were persistent muffled curses and foul language. The boys must be following me. It’s disturbing that children so young should speak thus, but never mind. They merely pick up the language they hear around them. There is nothing to be done about it. I walked through a parking lot. It’s a short cut to the bank, doctor’s surgery and Royal Mail post box. A voice, now louder, said unmistakably “It’s you we’re talking to, you $#%*!!” So I turned round and there they were, looking mighty fierce.

“I suppose you think you’re---pirates?” I said, as one who addresses children at play. “No, we’re gangsters. And if you don’t hand over some money, we’ll kick your car in.” said the masked boy.

I’d meant to say gangsters, not pirates, but couldn’t think of the word straight away. I’ve been rereading The Coral Island, by RM Ballantyne. I suppose I was 8 or 9 when I read it first, and much preferred it to Robinson Crusoe and The Swiss Family Robinson. Ralph Rover is shipwrecked with his two young companions, and is later captured by pirates, rough violent men whose speech is peppered with foul oaths.

They really did sound like gangsters, though it seemed to be just one of the boys who played the aggressive role. The other tagged along like a reluctant sidekick. Perhaps he was a brother of the bandanna bandit. As nasty as they tried to sound, they were too small to take seriously. Yet I was feeling uneasy, not for my own safety but from horror at encountering such monsters.

I pointed to a nearby parked car. “That’s mine. Go on, kick it in.” This gave me a momentary advantage, which I pressed home, as they fell back, unsure what to do next. I said, “Go away now. I’ve had enough of you.” Any more contact would merely help train them in future thuggery.

It was unnerving. Do I look like a feeble pensioner who can be mugged with impunity by young cubs? Can I feel safe in my own neighbourhood? I’ve never before had cause to fear for my safety, despite the raving drunks and junkies, some of whom infest that very playground after dark, just the other side of my backyard fence. Normally I see them as harmless co-dwellers of a crowded cosmopolitan district. We all give one another space. Who knows, they might feel nervous of me.

But I’ve been feeling disordered lately, and it’s been building up like a boil ready to erupt. Something was out of tune on every level, and a visit to the local Public Library rekindled my rage at its crimes against culture. There was poison in me. Only action could lance the boil. I could understand what turns devout youths into terrorists: outrage at one’s own reflection, perhaps. I wanted to blow up that library. (Note to Security Services reading this: I deplore any such action and don’t wish to incite others to do it!)

The only way I can live in any society is to recognize I’m their brother, just another piece of the All; close cousin to the slugs, magpies, spiders, the ownerless black cat and the occasional rat that runs along the fence-top, whiskers a-twitch, drawn to the aroma of my new compost-heap. (These are some of the unbidden visitors to my backyard.) An all-connecting love is the Ariadne’s thread that leads me to safety. How did I manage to forget it, and stray for so long, all the while being unable to write anything worthwhile?

One imagines that “angels in disguise” are kind strangers. Oh no! Not always. They are messengers, who tell us what we need to know. Sometimes it’s “Don’t give up hope. Know that your problems can be solved at a stroke.” But other times it’s little cursing bandits, shocking me out of my lostness and back to my true self, the only place to be.

PS A regular reader may best understand what I have been trying to say. I had to amend it after the first comment because I had not communicated well. I’ve posted too soon, but it was in an attempt to break a “writer’s block”. Normality, if it exists, will be resumed as soon as possible.