Cold Milky Tea

This morning, I don't know why, but I gulped down half a mug of milky tea which had been sitting there since the night before.  This practise is, to say the least, unusual for me inasmuch as I don't tend to drink tea (cold or otherwise) very much.  Indeed, I never drink tea (except for the occasional lemon and ginger tea) on my own, it is a purely social ritual which I engage in whilst in the company of others.  I don't even particularly like tea, yet if I am in company, I will make/drink it and enjoy it whilst making conversation, lighthearted, serious, intellectual, trivial, whichever and whatever.  In terms of coffee, and by that I mean real, proper coffee, I can quite happily and willingly make that in my own company and sip and enjoy two to three cups.  The coffee can come from my trusted Nespresso machine to make espressos (or should that be espressi?), percolated coffee, or simply adding 3-4 heaped tablespoons to a cafetière.  As long as the coffee is fresh, ideally ground beans, and not the ghastly instant variety I am certainly content and satisfied.  So imagine the double surprise of my drinking cold tea this morning, doubly disgusting all in one mouthful.

To digress, and drawing once again from Jung, "There is no light without shadow and no psychic wholeness without imperfection.  To round itself out, life calls not for perfection but for completeness; and this 'thorn in the flesh' is needed, the suffering of defects without which there is no progress and no ascent."  Fortunately for me, being a perfectionist has never been one of my traits, good or bad, I find that I prefer things to be right rather than perfect.  To that end, I find myself disagreeing with the philosophy and attitude espoused by the Cathars and by the Gnostics, of achieving perfectionism.  It simply is not possible in this world without making errors, mistakes, even perpetrating wrong and committing sin; that is the nature of free will and of being human.  It appears to me that life, for the most part, is nothing more than an endless series of optical illusions and trompe l'oiel.  It is not always possible to determine what and who is real, and by extension, what are who is false, or merely an illusion.  To cite experience as being an important and determining factor, this too is open to speculation, interpretation and debate.  As all conspiracy theorists will tell you, if a lie is told enough times, enough people will believe it and it will become gospel, even if the factual reality is not the case at all.  One can be lead down a pathway of deception, embellished so extensively along the way that ultimately one will forget the source and the untruth will become accepted as true.  Essentially it becomes an accepted reductio ad absurdum/verum (delete where applicable).

In order to live life, and to find true direction, it seems better to use a compass, and not a map; for maps are continually changing and can subconsciously shape, or worse still, deprive one of their destiny.  Life ultimately is a journey, a voyage, and it is up to us as individuals to decide whether or not we shape choose to shape it in a way that is fascinating, to others as much as to ourselves (and tell a story as epic as that of John Mandeville), or is one that is filled with banality, a lack of dissatisfaction, disillusionment, disappointment, and only punctuated with an occasional bright spot to elevate the spirits.  Though Mandeville's work has been largely denounced as being fictional, contrived and inconsistent, it is clear that there are indeed elements of truth told therein.  These nuggets in between some of the farfetched imagery does suggest that Mandeville did indeed visit these places and only populated his story with elaboration to make it yet more interesting to his intended, educated audience. Travel writer Giles Milton explored the 'world' as described by Mandeville in his The Riddle and the Knight, and uncovered more veracity in his stories than had previously been accorded to the fourteenth century writer.

Some of the extraordinary creatures as described by John Mandeville.

Ultimately I feel that a world shaped by allegory, by symbolism and blurred by optical illusion are employed, is all the better to understand it, by appealing to one's unconscious and subconscious.  This outlook is infinitely more fascinating than one which is purely constrained to logical, rationalist thought and conscious.  It allows one to think, rather than simply be told what to think.  In these times, the growth of science and understanding has largely diminished the strength and power of magic, where astrology is no longer considered a science, etc.  Other than through (generally) subversive propaganda machines employed by governments or their agencies, which dictates the consensus of opinion by the hoi polloi unable to form opinions for themselves, the individual believes himself capable of choosing what to think.  Despite this 'choice', it appears that the individual would still seem prefer to hear the truth in black and white rather than interpret, contemplate, and make up his or her own mind.  Fact over interpretation will always win out, despite contemplation being inordinately more intriguing for the truly enquiring mind. 

Nonetheless, it is important to be able to differentiate between that which is allegory (a term in itself derived from the Greek ἀλληγορία meaning 'veiled language') and that which is simply untrue, and intentional deception.  To elaborate further, what is myth, and what is history?  Why are people's beliefs, even in this day and age, shaped by the need to believe in something incredible, and irrational, when all else around needs to be explained? What irrational instinct within us, where all around is rational, makes the majority of us not want to question such primal impulses when we seek the answers to so much else?  Is it fear, or merely fear of disappointment that prevents us from taking that step further and forward?

There is little desire anymore for subtlety, for use of semiotics, metaphors, or allegorical devices.  Despite the advances made in science, the picture remains incomplete and generally, once one question is answered and resolved, a host of others are opened up, provoking yet further questions, rather than the simple acceptance of what had been previously,  accepted tacitly or otherwise, as being fact.  And what of paradox?   Should Polonius' observation of "though this be madness, yet there is method in't" be dismissed?  And in modern culture, the opening scene of David Lynch's Blue Velvet (which, unbelievably, is now over 25 years old) which opens with a picturesque vision of Americana complete with white picket fences, blue skies and a saccharine song playing but ends with the peace being shattered by a heart attack, and seeing what lies beneath of the idyll as the camera prowls into the grasses, ultimately exposing the bugs, mites and parasites below.

Kalevala

Today, a delightful parcel of goodies arrived from my dear friend Heidi, all the way from Pori, Finland.  Within the box was to be found a small cornucopia of various Finnish sweets, mostly differing brands of liquorice, which for those who have been reared on either Bertie Basset's Liquorice All Sorts and the only alternative has been the liquorice stick in your Sherbert Fountain, well, you simply don't know what you have been missing out on.  When not making Mars bars or jelly babies, the English confectionary houses tend to have a tendency to attempt to make English renditions of continental sweets and generally, not always to do it especially well.  A good analogy in this instance might be when one hears the English tourist in Paris or Rome, armed with their trusty Lonely Planet phrase book, endevouring to ask directions.  No attempt being made to disguise one's thick English accent  nor nuance and every word, be they French or Italian or otherwise, pronounced and enunciated in that uniquely English way, and generally not terribly well.  After all, to pronounce French with a French accent would sound either pretentious or contrived, surely...(?!)  Never mind that the accent tends to play an essential part in the pronounciation of the various words.  Therefore English variants of foreign foods have been created.  Some are honest copies (such as the terribly sweet Greek dessert Baklava), others are actually better than the originals (such as Bombay mix, which when compared to the bland Indian original is far more spicy and tasty), and others simply fall flat on their face.  For example, take nougat.  I love the stuff, especially that made in Motelimar.  Rather sweet, rich and with chopped almonds, cherries, or pistachio nuts. Although Greek in origin, and with the French version (probably) dating from the 1600's, one gets a real taste of something earlier, almost able to imagine bars of this being brought along the trading routes into France and Italy in mediaeval times by the exotic Greek traders together with spices, olives and fabrics.  The English have created in the wisdom their own version of nougat, which is, in a word, revolting !!  A travesty of the original.  The English version is pink and white, soggy, soft, gloppy and inedible.  Best avoided completely.

I don't know where the English tradition for liquorice came from, but it is certainly nothing like that of the Scandinavian variety.  I suppose that most of the English, when tasting some of the Scandinavian liquorice would probably find it unpleasant and distasteful.  The worst denounciation I have yet to hear for the much loved, iconic, Ga-Jol was the disclaimer that "they sort of taste like cough sweets".  In Scandinavia you get so many different sorts of liquorice, yet somehow very few of them seem to appease or appeal to the English palette.  It seems so strange as the nations are not that geographically distant and I am sure most English would find somewhere in their geneological pasts some sort of Viking blood.  That said, the French and English are such opposites "the old enemy" and have made a subconscious decision not to embrace each other's cultures too strongly.  Anyway, the parcel itself contained wonderfully named sweets such as Pantterri ("Panthers"), Salmiakki Mix (proclaimed as "The Original Finnish Salt Liquorice"), Bis Bis Bis Bis, and two different varieties of Tyrkisk Peber ("Original" and "Volcano").

Shunted to the side of these sweets was a copy, in translation, of the Finnish epic poem The Kalevala, which I must confess that, until I had spoken to Heidi, I had never heard of.  The translation is over 600 pages long, and though the printed version was first published in the mid nineteenth century, it harks back to the oral tradition as far back as prehistoric times.  The translation appears to be more literal in nature than poetic, which, in certain cases, as a matter of preference, I do tend to prefer.  I am not especially fond of such poetic translations (such as Dryden's of The Aenead, which, although masterful, tends to jar).   I feel they are, as I described above, mere renditions that, yes, conserve the original idea, some of the flavour, but lack the panache and mood.  This is not always the case as I say, I can revel in and find entertainment a-plenty in reading out loud (to myself) Simon Armitage's Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; yet, even in the original Middle or Early Modern English, prefer the choice of words of Donne, of Spenser, of Chaucer, of Wyatt, etc - over a modern translation.

I have so far, admittedly briefly, leafed through some of the various cantos therein.  I can't wait to start to read through this.  Sibelius playing in the background, nibbling on some salt liquorice, with rain pattering outside and wrapped in a snug blanket.  Sounds idyllic and delightfully escapist.  So, to Heidi, in conclusion to my ramblings above, I want to say a heartfelt thank you for this wonderful, and unexpected, heartfelt and uniquely Scandinavian gift !!

And so, in "Kris Finnish", I will conclude...

Kiitos siitä sydämeni pohjasta tästä ihanin lahja!

Drifting in the afternoon

Last night I found myself sleeping rather badly.  Well the sleeping itself wasn't actually that bad, it was the getting off to sleep that was somewhat more arduous a task to achieve.  I lay there, reasonably comfortably, on my own, and although I felt rather sheepish and tired, I could not get to sleep.  I tried reading but I coudn't focus.  I tried to watch clips on Youtube and similar, that didn't work.  I tried to meditate, but my mind felt too alert to calm down.  In the end I fell asleep at arount 2am and slept until around 8am or so.  Even if I don't have anything planned or a specific objective for the day, I don't like having "lies-in" regardless of the weather, it just feels like a day has gone by and I have let myself down by not having achieved anything.  Today I have been rather insular, keeping myself to myself, without a desire for interaction nor human contact.  I ignored the phone when it rang and resisted the urge go into town with Neville for lunch at Prêt à Manger (consisting of crab meat and rocket sandwiches, and fresh soup) as is my norm on Saturdays, followed by trolling around the department stores, specifically menswear for him to look at clothes (Ralph Lauren and Belstaff in particular), and then, maybe, to slip in the odd bookshop along the way.  I was worried I would be either cranky or I woudn't want to say much, and that this would result in my subsequent condemnation, regardless of my course of action.  Damned if I do, damned if I don't, damned whatever happens.

So this afternoon has been spent largely reading interjected with a few short term naps in between.  Unusually for me, I decided against listening to music whilst reading, preferring to try and focus upon the words and let my mind attune to them rather than drifting to and from the music to the words on the page.  The weather has been mostly pleasant, I can see, from looking out the window. The sky has been mostly blue with patches of cloud from time to yet it has felt nippy, rather than fresh, outside.  So this afternoon, for the most part I have been warm, my toes have felt like blocks of ice.  To satisfy the occasional pangs of hunger I have been nibbling on IFA (Ivar F. Andresson) salt liquorice, one of the last remaining packs, which dear Heidi sent over from Finland, although IFA strictly speaking is from Norway.  Despite not having been back to Denmark in many years now, I still miss the taste of Danish food. Every now and then I seek to replicate it as best I can, simply because I do enjoy the taste of Scandivanian food.  I have a book of Scandinavian recipes that needs diving into and some culinary treats to be prepared from those delicious looking dishes on its pages.  Every Christmas when I have gone home to my parents in the Gironde (there are times when I so wish they were closer), we have had cold rice pudding and cherry sauce.  One of the sensations (in this case, taste) I always associate with Christmas, I used to eat bucket loads of the stuff.  Mostly because I genuinely do love the taste, not just the hope of winning the marzipan pig (or other such novelty) - as I am far from competitive in nature.  The last Christmas I was at my parents I admittedly found it in two mouthfuls, but still ate plenty more after.  Hence the ensuing podginess and the diet of carrots, celery, rice cakes and water for eight weeks after.

IFA salt lakris, Norwegian salt liquorice.

Other Danish/Scandinavian delights include Gajol, asier, ymer, gammel ost, sødmælk, pebernødder, and pickled herrings on rye bread.  Also Danish pølser made by Tulip with lots of onions, sweet ketchup and mustard.  Strangely enough the last time I had pølser was about four years ago, when I saw a genuine pølservogn in London's Soho of all places (!!).  I had to have two just for old time's sake.   There is also an abundance of potatoes served with most every meal, but I have never, generally been the greatest fan of boiled potatoes, skinned boiled potatoes but new ones with butter and dill, that's something else.

Therefore, being on my own this afternoon I started to read Man and his Symbols (ed. Carl Jung), a book which I have refered to upon occasion but have not actually read to from cover to cover, so now I felt the time was right.  The idea of signs, symbols, semiotics, and allegory continues to inspire and increase in interest within me, so I felt that this was an appropriate place to understand, from a Jungian perspective, interpretations of symbols, etc.  However, owing to the desire to shut off at times, rather than boredom at the subject matter I was reading (anything but, as I have respect for Jung and his theories), I felt my eyes grow heavy and the need to drift off to sleep for a while.  I was conscious of doing so, in order that I wouldn't spend the afternoon in slumber I set my alarm to wake me up after 20 minutes.  Ultimately I drifted off for 18 minutes before my body clock woke me up and I went back to reading.

Man and His Symbols (ed. Carl Jung)

My dream:-  To start with I was walking up a long staircase.  Not a typical staircase but a winding one, all white, probably painted wood as it had an articial sheen to it so it wasn't marble.  It also was a spiral staircase that snaked upwards towards the heavens.  There was no banister to hold on to for support yet I felt comfortable and confident enough to mount it.  Some distance below me was a wide open countryside, suggesting I had already been walking up this stairwell for a considerable time.  No walls were thtoere  enclose me in.  I was watching myself ascend this staircase from a distance, almost a third person perspective, even though I was aware it was me that I was watching.  This allowed me to progress further upward, as quite probably had I been walking in the footsteps of myself as the walker - then my fears and hesitation would with taken over, and my agoraphobia/vertigo would have induced me to stop and not allowed me to carry on.

As I climbed further I reached some of the clouds which the staircase passed through.  I could see clearly the greenery of the countryside, mostly fields, uninterupted by houses and other buildings of human construct.  As I stood on the cloud, I seemed to have reached a plateau.  As I stood still the sky, a cerulean blue seemed to somehow draw in  closer to me, or else the cloud and the stairwell were moving closer towards the sky.  The sky had a cross dividing it in a similar manner to that of the Dannebrog is described by Christiern Petersen and by Saxo Grammaticus.  The sky then enveloped me.

Suddenly, I became aware that I was standing in front of a large white church or cathedral.  It was Gothic in design yet, once again, a brilliant white.  Although it had the feel of being mediaeval it equally had the feel of a church I remember driving past in San Diego just under ten years ago, in August, when Mike and I were driving across California over 6-8 days, from Los Angeles (where, two days into the trip I learned at 6am in the Red Roof Inn, Van Nuys that my father had been diagnosed with cancer), to San Francisco (a long long drive along the 5 highway) where we spent a weekend with the late, splendid David Hess and his family, and finally down to San Diego (to meet and record an interview with dear Beatrice).  Over those days, we covered a huge amount of mileage and interviewed six leads (not forgetting Carlo Rambaldi as part of the prep work for the documentary on Lizard in a Woman's Skin) for four DVDs in that time.  Our interviewees included two porno actors, one of them being the infamous Jeff Stryker(!)  When we asked the offices in New York to wire the monies owed to us, we were initially told that we were asking "too much" (two months pay for two months work!) and it was considered that we hadn't done much in that time.  The month before we had been in Paris and Rome. No pay for that month.   So when I left for the United States in mind August, despite promises of payment, I had less than $10 left on my overdraft and nearly missed the flight to Boston thanks to London Underground being completely screwed up.  So when we were finally paid (five days after arriving in the US), John suggested we were asking for a lot of money when in fact we were simply asking for money owing to us.  Words escaped me then, they still do!

Back to San Diego, though Mike and I never went into the church proper and only saw it from a considerable distance away and the just the one time, that is, driving into San Diego, somehow, I still remember it quite vividly.  In addition and in fact, despite the visit to California being emotionally rather fraught to say the very least, I still find myself able to remember a great deal of the time I spent there, and a lot of it was truly positive, not least owing to the people I met and befriended in those few days.

The "Temple" in San Diego.

Back to my dream.  The church externally had a similar aspect and appearance to it the one illustrated above.  Inside, it was like a typical Medieval Gothic cathedral in stark contrast to the glaring white, modern looking exterior.  The interior looked more like Wells Cathedral.  Initially when I stood outside the doors, I heard murmering from inside.  Upon entering the church itself I realised my thoughts and speech were in Latin. (N.B. Other than weddings and christenings, I have not attended a church service in over twenty years!!).  Suddenly, the booming sound of an organ filled my ears as well as the room as the priest entered.  The service and the hymn sung as the priest entered was extraordinary.  If one stood to the left hand side of the pews (which ran down the centre of the church so the priest had to walk down the congregation on the right hand side) the words were sung in English, and on the right hand side, the words were sung in Latin.  Where I was standing, in the middle, the first part of the hymn was sung in English, followed by the same verse yet repeated in Latin.  The words of devotion had a mediaeval feel and sentiment behind them, extolling devotion, yet were bright, jaunty, more like troubador songs rather than pious and solemn.  There was no smell of incense, and the overwhelming senses I felt were those of sight and sound.  The church itself, although the walls were elaborate, were not gaudily decorated.  The priest was dressed in late sixteenth century robes.  The congregation were dressed in a mix of fashion eras, some in modern dress and some in mediaeval garb.  I recognised some of the faces but now I cannot remember who they were.  I cannot remember how I was dressed, yet I remember my hair being down to several inches below my shoulders, loose, slightly wavy and curly and lightened from having been in the sunshine.  Some people in the congregation were appearing to be making notes as the hymn was sung.  One of the individuals dressed in modern, smart clothing immediately in front of me turned to ask, in Latin, if he could borrow a pen as only fountain pens were allowed - biros had been banned lest they damaged the books.  The verger walking along the aisle glared and told us to be quiet, the priest then mounted the steps towards the altar. Bells rang out, followed by silence in the hall.  Then I woke up... 

Wells Cathedral.