Finally, now that summer (what summer, some might ask) seems to be nearly over and as my 40th (!) birthday approaches I felt the need to return to my writing and to endevour to gain the creative bent once more. Not easy when the weather has been so ghastly and has, in all fairness, impinged seriously upon my fraught attempts to be creative in either an academic manner on my other blog page (which is in desperate need of some sort of writing otherwise I will look like I have packed it away with mothballs and all, and it be allowed to grow tired and dusty) or to gush forth thoughts on here in an all too frequent and seemingly lugubrious manner. Such is the way of things...
I confess and profess that my absence has been part due to the usual antics that winter and mournful, grey skies seem to bring and prevail upon my well-being. The winter this year seemed to be be merciless, unflinching and never ending so much so that when it was finally May; well, Spring seemed to have been bypassed altogether and Mother Nature decided to give us slow, infrequent bursts of intermittent sunshine (which in the end doubled up for a feeble attempt at Summer). It confused me, it confused my system and even the plants and trees seemed confused by this turn of events. My free time therefore has not been spent enjoying sporadic trains of thought nor creativity but merely, mostly a "chugging along" with life and all its slings and bows.
It hasn't been all bad, I promise. I just haven't felt creatively enthusiastic nor enthusiastically creative. In between the quotidian humdrum of simply living life, I have allowed my brain to be occasionally stimulated and my cultural senses to be re-awakened. In terms of cultural jaunts I have been jolting my brain back to life - be it by going to an occasional exhibition at the National Gallery (such as 'Barocci'), at the Royal Academy (such as 'Manet' or the acclaimed 'Bronze'), or the Queen's Galleries (a handful of visits to 'The Northern Renaissance' to indulge a craving for Holbein, for Schöngauer, for Durer and Memling) even a fleeting jaunt to the Louvre to see 'Late Raphael'; a drive to Haughton near King's Lynn; or endevouring to engage the eardrums in some live music once again whereby Stephen and I attended a performance of 'Ariadne auf Naxos' at Glyndeborne.
Glyndeborne itself has a wonderful feel and unique otherworldly charm about it; being able to polish one's shoes and wear a waistcoat and black tie, enjoy a picnic and walk around the lake and in the gardens which surround the opera house are quite inspiring. There is, as there will always be at such places, a slight air of pretension and pomposity by those who attend not with the intent of enjoying the music but to brag that they 'were there'. This certainly rings true (in a carillon worthy of a great cathedral) would be the apparent, nay obvious, intent of a certain, particular (and particulière) individual (of old) who we encountered. She was and is filled with such self-import at being there, dressed in shabby cheap (not shabby chic for sure) and whilst others possess elegance - she is possessing of all the looks, charm and marginally more teeth than the Stygian witches combined. Certainly Glyndeborne seemed rampant with Graeae in the truest sense of the word. But one does not go to look at the audience otherwise it truly would be fifty shades of grey. In conclusion, and on a positive note, to sum up, the actual work briefly - well, one couldn't deny the music was wonderful but I did question the rousing applause given by the audience to the performance delivered by the Composer in the piece (hammy would be generous and kind) who rather resembled k.d. lang (and mirrored her in the second act - where she/he shouldn't have been there at all!); and as for Ariadne, she was so enormous I considered a re-titling of 'Ariadne as Naxos' might have been more apropros. An iffy production by any standards, but a pleasant evening nonetheless.
Outside of such highly cultural jaunts which have been few and far between, life has been quiet. I have been enjoying adding to my library of books by exploring remaindered, or secondhand bookshops and charity shops to add every now and then something or other. As I have a small cornucopia of mediaeval literary tidbits and, as such books (or commentaries on them) are difficult to find, I have leapt forward in time somewhat to the Renaissance (one of my first loves in artistic terms) and been seeking out monographs on paintings, or on particular artists, or even exhibition catalogues from this time rather than far too many generalist non-specific works. I initially considered limiting myself just the the Northern Renaissance but have decided to more wide reaching although I admit that of all the periods that seem to resonate within my soul, I am finding myself especially drawn to the fifteenth century, with an occasional foray back into the thirteenth and fourteenth, and also the sixteenth. In between my quests for literary gems, I do enjoy looking for books for others - if I can find them. I used to sense and now recognise Stephen's frustration at not finding much on his chosen period - that is Baroque and Rococo with his leaping forward into the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I have managed to find him a few special treats I am proud, not least one on an American 20th century architect which I can safely say, he never expected to find, new or otherwise, in this country.
So, here we are - a brief catch up, a somewhat succinct explication as to my absence over this hiatus since 2012. I shall boast myself, attempting to find strength and desire, and fulfillment of creative yearning allowing my inner self to sum up the inspiration to scribble some pensées; in the vague hopelife shall start to prove more stimulating and I can allow my pen to run away with me, once more, once more....
Nearly a year has passed since I lost doodled my thoughts and ideas on here and even longer on 'Echoes From the Gnosis'. Time to rectify the situation, methinks, me hopes. So hopefully more pontificating upon the quotidian existence or streams of thought like a sixth river (though my mind often feels like it has drunk from the Lethe and savoured Lotus fruit-pie) - and to flow through the Erebus that is my mind, hopefully bypassing Tartarus and who knows, maybe a whistle stop tour to the Isles of the Blessed via the Elysium Fields before safely arriving upon Gaia's shores once more.
Of late, there has been rather a lot of escaping into the past for me. By my own admission this has been, at times, rather tumultuous in nature and despite the occasional outburst of tears, it has been rather calming and soothing as well. This escapism has ranged from watching a film - My Week With Marilyn - which despite my initial reservations over watching Kenneth Branagh, an actor I find most awfully over-rated, playing a rather credible Lawrence Olivier to an excellent performance by Michelle Williams who captured some of the magic that was Marilyn Monroe, from the ridiculously ephemeral turn by Emma Watson (she of that irritating franchise that is Harry Potter) to both Judi Dench and Eddie Redmayne; fine actors who evoked the period in which they were cast. A film which I must confess I did not expect to enjoy but found myself doing so.
Another foray has been into my own past. Thinking and pondering over things and I readily admit, this has been the cause of much of my tears over the last couple of days. Perhaps, as usual, too much soul searching and over analysis on my part - unable to change things yet somehow seeking to understand, digest and move forward. This isn't always easy; especially when so much of the present is undone, stressed, seemingly angst ridden and confused. My life is undergoing a metamorphosis of sorts, a change if you will. Some of those in my life are aware of this, some are oblivious and others still remain ignorant; not wishing to know, understand, or perhaps even just turning a blind eye to all the proceedings that are going on. I have been reflecting somewhat upon past mistakes, errors of judgment and misfortunes, as well as my own stupidity and gradually - I hope, somehow, I am turning my back on such events and their outcomes which have seemingly impinged upon my life. In short, although at times I feel close to the edge of a metaphysical, metaphorical abyss; I don't want to fall in, and have a nervous breakdown before the age of forty.
So, this afternoon, I went to the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Slightly outside of my usual "comfort zone" if you will, in terms of both the art and period I know and understand. Having been dubbed both a "Renaissance man" and a "mediaevalist" in recent times (both compliments glad received); I chose to spend an afternoon in the company of artists such as Poussin, Gainsborough and Rubens. This might seem to those who know me best as being rather a daunting undertaking, and certainly rather alien to my being to say the least. In terms of art, despite the occasional and rather daring foray into more modern works such as Uglow, Modigliani or Klimt, I rarely step beyond the late sixteenth century. Yet earlier, I found myself transfixed unexpectedly by the glory of some of the works which I was witness to, and despite the crowds around me - found myself largely able to shut the majority of the other spectators out and concentrate upon the glorious spectacles in their gilt frames in front of me. For me, it was like discovering the glory and beauty of a whole new world, and something which rather ridiculously I had overlooked. For those who have long since dismissed art they do not understand, I say to them, open your eyes and look, and your ears and listen. For indeed, there is beauty all around. Not to say that I am going to start listening to rap, hiphop, or dance music - nor appreciate graffiti (or 'street artists') and start to sing its praises but maybe, just maybe as I approach my forties next year, I find myself being more accepting, appreciative and open minded; lifting the blinkers and enlarging my scope and panorama. Even at times when I feel that I am so set in my ways, I enjoy to be pleasantly surprised and discover something new.
Le Triomphe de David - by Nicolas Poussin - in the Dulwich Picture Gallery.
At present, this seems to be a time of καιρός, hence the heading. Rhetorically speaking, kairos is
a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved. I am not there yet, yet I feel that moment beckons and is close at hand. I can only hope that I do not miss it, and the opportunity does not bypass me (once again?).
I don't normally post a photograph of myself despite talking about my thoughts, ideas, impressions, opinions and dreams, but here is an exception. Yesterday I celebrated the last birthday of my thirties before turning XL years this time next year, so I thought I would share an up to date photograph. So here I am, on my 39th birthday, taken a stone's throw from the British Museum for those curious to see the individual behind the random ramblings that crop up on this blog at sporadic and erratic intervals here at Sermons of the Refuter, and on Echoes from the Gnosis.
Despite the various forays I have been making down Memory Lane, it somehow feels like, rather than opening old wounds (for much of what I have recalled has long since past) but rather like discovering old scars beneath fresh bruises. I cannot deny who I am but sometimes it feels like that past was in a different or previous life to the one which, at times I struggle through, now. Despite now being in my thirties (some would say 'late thirties' - eek), my life still seem to be, more often than not, in a state of flux and turmoil. Twenty years ago I was at college; a rather morose, moody individual with terrible eczema on his feet that made it difficult to walk, who would listen to R.E.M., and was reading André Gide's La porte étroite and Albert Camus' L'etranger and La peste (a vile book which no troubled teenager should be inflicted with, being SO depressing). Ten years ago, I was more confident, yet on anti-depressants and travelling around Europe and the United States interviewing film directors and actors, actresses and technicians for a mixed bag in terms of quality European low budget horror movies dating from the 70's and 80's as well as for an abandoned book project on an Italian film director, Lucio Fulci. I was mainly listening to Blur, The Dead Can Dance and Tibetan horns and Georgian table songs. In terms of reading I was reading Dennis Wheatley, Italian film writers Antonio Bruschini (RIP) and Antonio Tentori, and about all sorts of esoteric matters.
And now...
Well now I am a civil servant cum writer. No longer on the anti depressants yet not always coping especially well with life and all it chucks at me, like a child throwing mudpies at a moving target. Quietly confident in certain areas of life, yet still rather shy. Listening to the Tallis Scholars, Tori Amos, Bat for Lashes and Sister Marie Keyrouz. I also do still listen to Blur, to The Dead Can Dance, Tibetan Horn and R.E.M. and more besides. My scope of reading has magnified in terms of fact and fiction, and I read both in English and in French regularly. Lots of history, Jungian psychology, mediaeval texts (most recently the mystery plays) and nouvelle generation fiction.
When reading these three brief descriptions of me; it seems, from an outside view, that this person is a somewhat fickle beast, in some ways there are constants, and in others each decade has made the previous incarnation a long and distant memory and that I am still trying to form myself and my identity. I suppose this concept of who I am would mainly arise from still having a vast lack of stability in my life, be it in the form of relationship, base, passion or consistant interest. In certain ways, I suppose, that I want to disown my previous 'incarnation' and with the blind faith and hope that this mercurial temporment that seems to invade my being will at long last find equilibrium, stability, peace. Ten years ago I was described in an article in the Guardian as being a 'film historian'; these days I rarely watch a DVD a month. I see people around me who would appear to have more constants in their lives - Mike with his love for black t-shirts, horror movies and death metal bands (like Slayer and Celtic Frost), Fred with his endless passion for cinema, etc. I suppose that I turned my back on film for many years and it was only when I met the likes of Adam and Amicus (their real names, not Jungian pseudonyms) that I started talking about these movies and the people I had met once again. Yet, I suppose, in a certain way, I do not really desire connection with being the man who worked (jointly or otherwise) on those extras. Mike now basks in the limelight and the glory of those days although at the time it was redominantly me who did the detective work or spoke to agents (and spoke the languages) and contacted the people. At first, reading of Mike's subsequent life in this field used to make me feel annoyed, bitter, for all the pundits which he was recieving but ultimately I was happy for him He is surrounded by his friends (people I generally do not feel I could truy connect with - unable as I am to enjoy death metal, wear black t-shirts, find tattoos attractive and 'awesome', and appreciative of nonsensical, sanguine horror films).
Each time I keep hoping that someone will see me anew, and not for who I was. Yet who I was is who I am, no matter how many masks I wear or how much change I seek to make. I just hope that people liked and better still, loved, me for who I was then and will still want me now. Despite the different facets I have in my everchanging, ever evolving personality. Maybe one day, when truly happy, when there is a syzygy of the anima, the animus - within my soul will I be truly happy. I feel I miss that connection for I have only tapped into it upon occasion. I feel I have it when things are new, fresh, yet invariably, but not always, does it turn to disappointment, disillusionment yet I still grin and bear it.
Like minded souls apply here please.
So where am I now? The answer is that I simply do not know. I feel a life with rather too many regrets, and with elements of uncertainty ahead and a need for stability. Equally so however, I see some one who enjoys learning, growing and is continually inspired. Hopefully who also appreciates and loves beauty, talent, and is valued by those who are true friends. Sometimes, despite the crowding up of my mind with facts, it feels like a somewhat vapid existance, bereft of emotion, connection, and true happiness. An inner longing, a need to be appreciated, valued, understood and to be able to share that spark, as well as those passions, enthusiasms, interests on a regular basis rather than occsional flashes in the pan that lift life above the truly mundane.
For those who have crossed my path and to whom I have promised things yet not delivered upon those promises, I am truly sorry, you know who you are...
One of my traits I am guilty of, and painfully aware of my own culpability (yet do not know how to undo) is a desire to please people, friends or simply those who cross my path, and make rash, foolish promises that I cannot always live up to. I keep telling myself to stop making such promises as, ultimately, I fear that I will just let people down and in the ultimately, they will end up abandoning me. I have no wish for this to happen, as I have been told that I am a good person; that I am likable, personable and that I am enjoyable company. Yet, despite such favorable attributes, at this point in my life, not many true enriching and loyal friends are to be found in my life for me to share such qualities with. And I do not know how to change the dynamic of this status quo. Where does one meet such people to enjoy such an existence with?
Amongst the attributes I used to believe I had was and is an ability "to communicate at all levels". I feel no longer in possession of this quality for the simple reason being that I have lost patience, confidence, and faith in myself, rather than in people. It is too easy to blame others for one's failings, where ultimately the blame rests upon your own shoulders. This has been down to my missing opportunities, and making rash and foolish errors of judgment. Such traits would appear to be a permanent stain on my being, my soul. It feels rather like I am sleepwalking through life, damaged, stained, much like Lady Macbeth "What, will these hands ne'er be clean. . . All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand". Despite my best efforts to start afresh, again and again - at this point in my life it appears that the sins of the fathers are finally catching up with me.
Does not Dionysius make it sufficiently clear that there can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms? (Cicero)
If this is true, I'm screwed...
I have made many a faux-pas in trusting and counting on the people whose paths I have crossed, in some instances the friendships I have made, and the paths I chose to follow. Recent events have included my trusting someone who ultimately stole from me, and this damaged my self worth beyond words. Other unfortunate mistakes have been my inability to not express feelings, good and bad, when perhaps I should have done and instead played the diplomatic card. This article you are reading, dear readers, is not written to wallow in self pity but as an apologia to those I have disappointed and let down, whether on a small scale or one of a more grand scale. I never mean to break my word, my promises, but I feel I will invariably disappoint. This will result in my losing you as a friend for I shall never live up to what I perceive to be your lofty expectations of me.
For he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be in careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit. The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it? (Jeremiah 17: 8-9)
However, I do not want to continue to walk life's path like some sort of Via Dolorosa, feeling a profound sense of regret at every turn. My wish is to feel strong enough to express my yearnings, my true feelings and my desires. Yet, owing to this inner turmoil, I feel regret, I feel remorse, I feel lonely. I find myself meandering along this path with a sense of inner disillusionment with an unkempt mop of hair to hide behind, wandering with worn down shoes, an empty belly, a fractured heart and a soul that yearns to cry out how it feels. I feel the need to exorcise the demons and purge the disappointment that lingers in my heart. I am too scared to express my thoughts vocally, in an obvious manner, for fear that there will be no response to my plea. And if I do express them, that no one will open their eyes to see, their ears to listen; and by extension open their arms to embrace, support and encourage, me. Those true friends out there will not run from reading these words, my cry in the dark, but listen and understand. You are needed... so much!
So, despite such inner conflict, from me, there will be no talking of love for fear of rebuttal, no expressing and sharing knowledge for fear of being mocked, despite this intrinsic need to overcome this sense of loneliness and to be loved once again...
To conclude, in the words of Swinburne:-
But half a man's days--and his days were nights, What hearts were ours who loved him, should we pray That night would yield him back to darkling day, Sweet death that soothes, to life that spoils and smites? For now, perchance, life lovelier than the light's That shed no comfort on his weary way Shows him what none may dream to see or say Ere yet the soul may scale those topless heights Where death lies dead, and triumph. Haply there Already may his kindling eyesight find Faces of friends--no face than his more fair-- And first among them found of all his kind Milton, with crowns from Eden on his hair, And eyes that meet a brother's now not blind.
A recurrent motif that used to regularly feature as part of my dreams resurfaced from the Subconscious and back into the Conscious as I was walking down the street the other day on a pleasant balmy Saturday morning on the way to the bus stop to head into town (a frequent Saturday ritual for me).Between my late adolescence (troubled years!) and my mid to late twenties, I found myself able, during my dreams to be able to separate my body from my soul.This imagery and attribute still occasionally features in my dreams, however it is more of a guest appearance to one which I am habitually allowed to revisit.
The Lovecraft-esque inscription in Paura nella città dei morti viventi.
Generally, such an occurrence would take place if I was meant to be in two places at once, or i had made a promise to do one thing but had been made or encouraged to do another.In order to do both things, I found myself able to divide myself up into two separate entities, both aesthetically identical however one of which was my body and one of which was my soul.The body side of my ego retained all its human attributes and possessed neither special powers nor any apparent and evident differences which separated ‘me’ from any other person; except I would be bereft of most of my feelings, and was emotionally/physically numb...I could talk and communicate but I would be subdued, removed.“A shadow of myself” yet without a shadow, so to speak.By contrast my soul could fly, and though I could be seen, this side to me was more like a ghost.I was also more in touch with my feelings within my soul, and it was my soul I would end on my more emotionally charged assignments, seeing loved ones, doing tasks and duties that required feeling rather than simply automated attendance, or just my presence.At the end of the day, body and soul would rejoin, able to share in experience and memories, and be as one again.
These dreams became less and less frequent; indeed all my dreams followed a similar fate, when my doctor put me on strong medication in an attempt to combat a severe bout of depression that plagued me during this time.After attempt with two particular types of anti depressant, neither of which worked, my doctor placed me on Venlafaxine.Initially he started with 75mg a day, then 150mg, and finally I was on 225mg a day to combat the deep melancholic depression that was affecting me in such a pronounced manner.To their credit the pills certainly worked, I no longer felt such deep Depression, instead I felt a degree of neutral ambiguity to my existence, and to that of the world around me.However, there were side effects to taking these pills, none of which really seemed to matter as I wandered through this haze like existence; these included a complete loss of sex drive, an extreme change in my metabolism and when sleeping, an infrequency in dreaming therefore my Unconscious never seemed to surface and my thought patterns were limited. At the time however, the worst side effect was the change in metabolism.My waist had previously been a mere 29, which admittedly was a complete nightmare for buying jeans and only Armani jeans seemed to suit my then-build and slender frame.My waist went up and up, and finally I ended up with my waist being somewhere between 34 and 35, with a rather pronounced Akhenaten belly (for the first time ever) and a rather fat arse.I remember the weekend I saw the light and what had happened to me, in that I was sitting on the common and it was pointed out that I had become rather podgy to say the least.I must confess I initially dismissed this statement as it was being pointed out by someone who sees an inch of body fat as being overweight.It was only the following day when going into central London and not being able to fit into a pair of rather nice shorts (and being told I needed size 36) that it dawned on me what had happened to me.
Venlafaxine
So over a week I weaned myself off these pills.Upon reflection I should have done it more gradually, but, other than the last night where I had rather vivid dreams once again, and I had the equivalent of ten nights’ sleep, I managed to do it.I say ten night sleep, because my body clock kept on waking me up every hour, on the hour, and I would awaken, refreshed, ready for the day and then realise it was only 3am, then 4am, etc.Since those days, I have lost a lot of weight, my waist is back to 30-31 and I have most of my sex drive back.There have been times when I thought I might be better going back on anti-depressants over the years but I like being in touch with myself, my feelings, and I have no desire to balloon in weight once again and become rather podgy and rotund once more.
However the greatest loss is one that cannot easily be explained.After this time I felt that at some point or another, somehow, my body had become separated from my soul and somehow the two had never quite become conjoined again and that I had lost some of my soul along the way.Admittedly a lot has happened since then, not least failed relationships and disillusionment at myself, my path, and to an extent others, so that could have affected things in the subconscious as well.But somehow I still feel numb, lost, disheartened, and like I have lost some of who I am and that my ka is out there in the void, trying to find its way home.
For now, I feel like the Traveller in Walter de la Mare’s The Listeners. Both in body and in soul, with my soul representative of the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door, and the seemingly empty house, representative of my body.The attempts to enter, or at the very least to illicit a response, but though one senses a presence, other than the sound of the bird flying out of the turret, there is nothing.Nothing other than a sense, a feeling... I first heard this wonderful poem when I was entering my teenage years, and the words have resonated through my mind ever since.The closing stanza of the poem is as enigmatic as the one with which it opens, leaving it’s reader none the wiser to the Traveller and the reason for his coming to the remote house.T.S. Eliot, in his poem to Walter de la Mare, added to this sense of mystery in his words below:-
When the nocturnal traveller can arouse No sleeper by his call; or when by chance An empty face peers from an empty house;
By whom, and by what means, was this designed? The whispered incarnation which allows Free passage to the phantoms of the mind?
In reading about dreams, it always surprises me how many people have dreams which play out in monochrome rather than colour. For as long as I can recall mine have always appeared to me in bright vivid saturated colours; the only variation over the passage of time has been the language in which they play themselves out in which I, and other individuals (when there are other players), converse, communicate and interact. My Unconscious will generally tend to acclimatise to the location in which I find myself. For example I recall that when I used to make my frequent trips to Rome about ten years ago that Within a short passage of time, even though I was speaking in English to my American ex-business partner, that subconsciously and consciously I would immerse myself in thinking in Italian as best I could to prepare myself for the people we would invariably be meeting. This would happen from the offset, after having met Mike at Heathrow Airport, who having flown on the "red eye" from Boston to London, we would head onward to Rome. I would make banal conversation in Italian with the taxi driver from the airport into central Rome (I remember with great fondness those taxi rides and each time mid morning Rome would seem enchanting and magical) whilst Mike sat there and generally would doze to catch up on the lack of sleep he had experienced the night before during the long haul flight. As an additional note, I also enjoyed telling the touting illegal taxi drivers at the airport to get lost, as they had believed us naïve and foolish tourists without the slightest comprehension of Rome and the costings of a taxi into the centre. A sudden leap from 30 € to 70 € just boggled the belief and imagination.
In addition, where it seems most (but by no means all) individuals have dreams which, which when they remember them, tend to be more along the lines of traveling to far away places, of a sexual conquest or desire, or to winning a large cash prize, the descriptions of such dreams and events give rise to the belief that the dream itself is rather bland and shot like a rather mundane episode of a daytime soap opera. My mind will simply not allow me to have dreams of that nature. To cite a few cultural references in respect to my dreams, my mind prefers to conjure up an image narrative usually with a number of allegorical motifs as would be directed by the likes of Greenaway or Fellini, with costumes and mood mirroring the paintings of Rogier van der Weyden or Hans Memling, and where protagonists will converse in Latin, or French, or Italian, or Early Modern English. Occasionally there are other sounds and noises as well in these dreams such as echoing bells, chant or simply the sound of wind or rain, all depending on the context.
At present, however, my traveling is minimal, regrettably, yet this seems to have allowed my unconscious to take its own flights of fantasy. I suppose my mind is restless and my dreams and thoughts tend to migrate into other languages in any case. For, at present, I no longer have the external stimulus to unleash these other languages into my brain and mind, and by extension dreams.
One of my most recent dreams placed me in a sixteenth century time frame (yet it appeared to be the present, rather than the past). I was in a great domed hall, at first, with the only sound I could hear in the hall being the sound of Psalms being sung in the Greek Orthodox tradition. Please note this sound was not like that of say, Byzantine masses or the omnipresent Mass of St. John Chrysostom, or as simple plainchant or sarum chant. The former sound appears to be Western conception of how Greek orthodox masses should sound based upon track 5 of their new age "Moods" or "Chill Out" CDs. Albums such as these were at one point hugely alongside ones selling pan pipe renditions of popular songs and soundtracks (cue: "You Take My Breath Away" on the pipes.) No, the melody and structure of the chants that resonated in my mind were far more modern, yet mirroring table songs that had been sung for many decades, nay, centuries before.
The domed room was candle lit, yet bright. Warm yet stuffy. Outside, all was dark, and the wind blowing. The moment, timeless, contemporary yet harking to some "other" time. The air heavy and infused with a heavy fragrance of incense; a scent that mirrored Ouarzazate by Comme des Garçons, mingled with that of a Romanian monastery suffused with a slight peppery top-note to invigorate and alert the nostrils. In the centre stood a high priest, dressed in bright red cardinal robes with a long beard, and looking like Saint Jerome. He stood there, muttering, mumbling, his voice low yet his expression and mannerisms animated. He decided to deliver his diatribe in a manner mirroring the patristic writings, but rather than an angry rant against the likes of Marcion, or Valentinus, or Basilides, or heretics of a similar ilk; he addressed more relevant and personal issues, for those who would listen. He spoke in English, and as his voice lifted, the candles which surrounded him shot flames upwards like flame throwers, as if to lend a sense of theatre to his gestures, his statements. For the few who listened, his words didn't seem to be being followed attentively nor appreciated - despite the passion and enthusiasm in which he spoke and addressed his limited congregation. His words, from what I can recall, were on the lines of those below.
"Inasmuch, those men who set the truth aside, who speak as does the reviled hierophant, with his lying words and who shall take shallow harlots as his consorts, and by the cunning of their conjoined craft, shall cause many to believe the empty and shallow promise of their words. Her deception through apparent beauty, and his through deception. Through such deceptions, they shall lead many away from their true path and by the strength of their conviction and earnest in their trust, be fooled, as the naïve child led astray by a corrupt teacher. Oracles and false promises shall he make, to those lost in the desert without direction. His promises, lies, to all who listen but the very few.
The harlot shall be his consort, his accomplice and his bride, as surely as Deception needs Lies, does Man need Water so to live. This tawdry Harlot shall ask that he inflict wounds upon her fair flesh, flesh for all men to see, and despite such pleasured suffering, she will allow their deception to breed, as surely as a babe would slumber in her womb. Together they shall create further perdition, and other vile issue shall issue forth from these miscreants; Fraud, Theft, Deception to name but a few. Yet he does have no true desire of her, she is simply a vessel to serve his perverse desires and mask his losses. For he will seek other consorts of beauty and she will lay the path for others, some innocent, some accomplices, to his heinous deception.
The Beast shall be marked, and he does brag such falsehoods of a musical ability, or artistic talent, or of sexual prowess, and more beside. His cunning and his shrewdness outshine his intelligence; the lies outnumber the truths. He has the appearance of a vagabond, yet even the wise shall be deceived. His arms marked with stars, and amidst them the portrait of a clairvoyant - a vile sorceress - yet such visions are hidden beneath a thick coating of hair which does cover his entire body, from his eyebrows to his toes. Despite such appearances, many shall still be fooled in their minds and hearts, their limbs and souls stained. And by the ninth hour his deception shall leave those vulnerable unclothed, suffering, destitute, broken, bereft of belongings, and wary of all others.
Such is the tale that the true shall speak, and seek retribution and justice for his vile deception. Yet ,who shall hear their cry? The Law be both blind and deaf, unwilling and unable to punish the perpetrator of such deceptions and evil. He shall go unpunished, and shall prosper in hand and raise up a new belief from the Eternal Sea...."
Through the chamber, the words boomed, and soon thereafter started to spin. And I had to flee, I felt giddy, disorientated, sick. Yet, outside this domed building, in the dark, were four winged lions, like lamassu; growling and probably four times larger than life size, not allowing me to flee into the open landscape. However, if I returned to the sanctuary of the the domed room, and although one felt safe therein, almost comforted, in a womb-like environment, at the centre of all this was the recurrent burr of words I didn't want to know, to hear, to understand, and from which there was no escape...
This month has been rather an odd one for me. I have been writing a fair amount on here, viz. The Sermons of the Refuter blog whereas by contrast, I feel rather guilty to admit, I haven't managed to put together an article of any scope for my less personal, more pseudo academic blog Echoes from the Gnosis. In fact I feel rather guilty, because after having started to write a few paragraphs/pages for Echoes a few articles, after a few paragraphs, midway through I have just saved the document and not returned to it as writer's block (damn it!) would seem to strike me down midway through. Despite having various sources, notes, plans, ideas, quotations in front of me, I seem to lose inspiration and just stop, dead in my tracks. So articles are forthcoming, all is not lost; I just need my enthusiasm to return to the fore once again. To my dear dear readers who follow both, please accept my sincere and humble apologies for such an empty June. rest assured, I have a plentiful variety of themes and subjects that I am toying with approaching and sharing my thoughts but for now I feel in a state of abject numbness mentally.
My SAD seems to have subsided to a large degree. This is mainly due to the improvement in the weather as today has proved to be bright, balmy and blue skied. Part of me wants to leap into one of my books once again and read something thought provoking, or to increase my knowledge upon something. But I feel withdrawn and still unfocussed which may or may not be due to a lack of good sleep over the last couple of weeks. Even my dreams seem to rather tepid in nature which is most unusual for me, and from the little I can recall, they seem rather short lived whilst they are taking place and, by consequence, even shorter lived in my memory.
So in terms of reading material I have been reading short articles, and slim paperback books. These have included a few of Jung's articles in Aspects of the Masculine, published by Routledge, as well as G.R.S. Mead's Apollonius of Tyana, Morton Smith's The Secret Gospel, E.M. Tillyard's The Elizabethan World Picture (for the umpteenth time)and Roger Sherman Loomis' The Develpment of Arthurian Romance. All of them short, succinct books and entertaining reading and a suitable way to feel one is skim reading yet not. And one has finished reading something with q sense of accomplishment, moreso than one would feel from having read, say, Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer.
I have had a few strange little coincidences take place. I considered writing a pair of book reviews, this time on something fictional, of Hilary Mantel's superb Wolf Hall and the sequel, which Bring Up the Bodies. Yet by coincidence, I read mention of Bring Up the Bodies in another blog so I abandoned the idea, plus, as I have stated above, perhaps I am not in the best mood for reading (or writing) anything of considerable length at the moment. After this, I did consider and toyed with the notion of writing a few poems once again, to take my mind off what was going on and well, to allow myself to be creative once again, and maybe to publish one of them on here. However I started to doodle some ideas and out of my thoughts, a couple of handfuls of lines came to mind. I have not published them here for they will seem an act of plagiarism. And that simply is not the intention nor the case. Either my subconscious was remembering the words or, for some unbeknownst reason, my thought process resembled rather uncannily that of Edmund Spenser, as numerous motifs and ideas found in his Prothalamion were echoed in my attempts at writing poetry, even the reference to the weather, and the fragility of my mind at the moment.
To quote Spenser, rather than my comparatively mediocre doodlings:-
Following on from having seen other friends conducting self interviews on their blogs, I have decided to carry out a similar exercise here, albeit in a slightly abbreviated form. Despite the fact that I enjoy discovering information, facts, etc - sometimes it is equally fascinating, in an occasional flourish of egocentricity, to engage in some introspection and answer some questions about oneself, whether posed by others or not. One question has provoked me to respond in discuss an aspect of myself in more depth so that may well be the next topic or the one following on here. Anyway here we go:-
June 2012
What three adjectives describe yourself? Contemplative, Paradoxical, Inquisitive. (Some might interchange the word "Inquisitive" with "Eccentric" but that's not for me to say).
What is your greatest achievement? In some ways, still to come. For the moment, or if that moment doesn't arrive, I hope it's from being thought of as being a true, loyal and good friend. I always feel the best way to tell a friend is one who appreciates you, is delighted to see you and spend time in your company discussing everything. Also, for more intimate friends, those who's influence and interests rub off on you, and a little part of their soul becomes part of yours, being able to share and understand passions together. I have several small achievements I am proud of, such as being interviewed by The Guardian about a documentary I made, but I can't think of a "greatest" at present.
What’s your favourite smell? Incense burning in charcoal, dry vetiver, oak or yew smoke, spikenard, nutmeg, naptha, pine cones, and freshly ground coffee. All mixed together and inhaled slowly and leisurely as each note penetrates the nostrils. I also like the smell of Dove soap on warm flesh (mine or someone else) or if I'm feeling opulent Bien-être by U - Douche gommant à la cannelle et au sucre, on me, after a long day. By contrast I loathe the smell of sweet (and generally cheap) perfumes and aftershaves; as well as mimosa, haddock being cooked, and household bleach.
What is your favourite taste? A salad of rocket leaves, artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes, olives and fried haloumi cheese. Or assorted, roasted, salted nuts. Washed down with a glass of Pineau des Charentes or fresh zesty orange juice.
What’s your favourite piece of music? Almost impossible to answer. I, myself, am not musical as I can't sing nor play an instrument (weak tendons in my fingers), but I love and appreciate music, and am unable to imagine being without it. So, in response, possibly Spem in alium by Thomas Tallis. Or Aleluya. Non vos relinquam orphanos by Léonin.
What would you like everyone to read to read? Why? At risk of sounding contrived, I agree with the others upon whose blogs I was inspired to carry out this (self) questionnaire; a world where everyone could read rather than dictate what specifically they should read.
What website would you everyone to visit? Why? A similar response to the one above, my knowledge of the Interweb is rather restricted and limited, so if I had to choose I would say Google, it has the potential to be the font of all knowledge.
What is your favourite sound? Early morning birdsong; Tibetan horn; The call to prayer reverberating around the valleys in Cappadocia.
Cappadocia
If you were an animal, what would you be? A hedgehog with savvy who knows how to cross roads.
What do you like to do in your spare time? Read; Devise ideas and plans for various creative projects; Map adventure games from the 80's; Troll around bookshops; Meander aimlessly with seeming purpose and direction.
What do you like most/least about your job? What I enjoy the most is the writing and researching, uncovering facts or data and presenting it in reports or briefings. This applies to my work in policy as much as to my work as a writer. I also enjoy the fact that hopefully the work I am undertaking is somehow making a difference and improving people's lives in some way or another. I dislike the abyss of creativity and imagination I find at times in my work, and people not understanding my strengths, abilities as well as mundane approach by so many. Lack of appreciation also can be damaging to the soul.
What would Heaven be like if you were in charge?To the east, like the valleys of Cappadocia, with fairy chimneys and stylite hermitages, and filled with troglodyte churches to be discovered. To the south, like Xanadu complete with chasms with caves of ice as in Coleridge's Kubla Khan, to the west flowing plains of glorious flowing green sunkissed countryside, filled with hills, trees and abandoned ruins. In the centre, a "pleasure dome", with a great library in the centre, much like that of Alexandria or mirroring something out of Borges' Library of Babel, filled with books to grow and expand upon one's knowledge, above a museum filled with wondrous ornaments and paintings. Surrounding this complex, comfortable bed chambers for sleeping, at peace, with feather filled duvets, and fluffed up pillows. Inhabiting this pleasure dome would be dear friends as well as intelligent, charming, attractive and open minded, adventurous souls; happy to discuss, talk, and amuse. All in a peaceful, tranquil, and stress free, environment. In short, bliss.
Borges' Library of Babel, as envisioned by Erik Desmazieres.
When and where are you happiest? In summertime, bright skies, sunshine, and in the countryside, away from city fumes and stress with a couple of books, some cold fresh juice, a packed salad for lunch with the opportunity to walk, explore, and relax under a tree. In the past, I remember being happy standing naked at around midnight, under the star splashed sky, in a field a few kilometres outside Rennes-les-Bains, overlooking Rennes-le-Château, in 1998. I doubt I could do that now thanks to Dan Brown and his pulp fiction best seller. Also exploring the caves and churches in Cappadocia where it seemed no one else had been for many years.
Something you are never without. One of my book/man bags with at least two books in it, together with my iPod, normally updated with music I feel will fit the mood of what I am reading and blot the world out, and which I (generally) never get around to listening to. Also my silver necklace around my neck (quelle surprise!) and a Berber silver bracelet on my wrist.
One of my (two) trusted book bags that accompanies me everywhere.
What is your most appealing habit? Approachable, understanding, empathetic and incorporating those attributes into being gentle and well mannered.
And your least appealing habit? Being unreliable at times, which has lead to my endeavoring to do my best, rather than make rash promises I fear I might break. Or projecting external insecurity when inwardly confident. Apparent and more often than not, evident exasperation at the stupidity of others.
What trait do you most dislike in others? Ignorance and stupidity, and the acceptance that it is somehow cool and acceptable to be that way. Be that in speech, outlook on life or just a lack of general awareness and intellect. The appearance and outlook of the modern youth who wear "hoodies" inside buses or hang around streets, looking miserable and threatening. Also aggression, violence, and disregard for the beauty of nature, its plants, wildlife and natural forms.
What is your most treasured possession? My books. Closely followed by, if it had to be just one thing, either my Khodynka Cup of Sorrows, not rare but imbued with history and sentiment, or my Roman lamp, dating from the 2nd century AD. On a purely sentimental side, it has to be Little Fro, for those who know me well, will know who and what he is.
A selection of "Cups of Sorrows" - I have just the one.
If you could have a supernatural power, what would it be? To be able to read other people's thoughts and minds.
What words or phrases do you overuse? "I don't know but..." and then give an opinion or the correct answer. I do tend to call most people I am close to "Darling", "Dear", "Sweetheart" or "My love", and therefore punctuate the end of most sentences with one or another of those terms of endearment. I was told I used to say "Wouldn't you say?" (or words of that ilk) at the end of most sentences. My excuse was that at the time I spoke and thought a lot in French (I still do) and was translating the expressions "n'est-ce-pas?" and "non?" into English.
What single thing would improve the quality of your life? A prize winning ticket for the Euro-Millions, or a time machine.
How would you like to be remembered? I have (at least) two personas in me. There is "Kris" and there is "Kit". For the most part, my true (or oldest) friends know me as "Kris" (but by no means all) and the majority of work colleagues and business (but by no means all, again) contacts know me as "Kit". Even now, some people choose to know/remember me for the work I did some ten years and more ago when I created extras for DVDs and interviewed actors, directors and technicians. Yes, it is wonderful to be remembered thus, however, people assume as a result that I should fit into some sort of cliché associated with those films. That I should wear black t-shirts embellished with movie poster art on it, or SLAYER, or GOBLIN, or the like on it; or that I have strange tattoos and/or body piercings; or that I like gore and horror movies (admittedly I like thrillers, trashy or intelligent), and that I should listen to death/heavy metal. Nothing could be further from the truth and people end up disappointed and disillusioned as a result of who I really am. My look was never anywhere near the above, and have mostly moved on from cinema, and readjusted to different pursuits since then. Others have seen different sides, such as work colleagues, but I just wish people would see and have a more balanced view of what makes me, well, me. All different facets, not a compartmentalised self. On a positive note I would like to be remembered as being kindly, genuine, knowledgeable, a good sincere and true friend, regardless of whether you know me as Kit or Kris, and under whichever persona; whether past, present or future. In short: "a good natured, slightly enigmatic soul with a brain, a heart and a naughty side."
What music do you enjoy playing/listening to most? I enjoy listening to choral music and chant. But equally so, I do listen to Ella Fitzgerald, troubadour songs, Ravi Shankar, the dreaded genre of music branded "New Age", and assorted pop which include Bat for Lashes, Etienne Daho, Tori Amos, Annie Lennox, Dead Can Dance, Françoise Hardy, Florence and the Machine, Espers, and Rufus Wainwright.
What did you dream of being when you were younger? An Egyptologist/archaeologist, a photographer (much like Thomas the photographer in Blow Up), and yes, an alchemist.
David Hemmings, the photographer in "Blow Up", an influence and inspiration.
What were you like at school? Stressed and mostly lonely, attributes which have segued into my adult life. I made some ill informed decisions as to who I thought my friends were, and ultimately weren't, and that has impacted on my later ability to trust people and make friends in later life, as I still don't always trust my own judgment. I was seen as being different, shy, and reasonably bright - again, perhaps I still am. I certainly lacked inner (and outer) confidence, but thankfully that has mostly dissipated as I have increased in years and wisdom. I certainly never really "fitted in", suffered from depression (which wasn't fully understood then), and was mostly glad when those years were finally over.
How do you cheer yourself up when you are feeling down? Read mediaeval and Renaissance poetry whilst listening to music, practice Yoga and Meditation, or to call friends, in certain cases to catch up with people I haven't spoken to in ages such as Catriona, Dagmar, Carlo, Sébastien. It's always wonderful to so catch up no matter how much tempus has fugited.
Who has been the best teacher you have ever had? Mme. Greenhalgh, a delightful petite Niçoise, who made me love the French language; she was inspiring, witty, supportive, friendly and encouraging, but 'old school' and not trying to 'hip' and 'cool' to be liked; everything a good teacher should be. I hope she is still with us, as she would be in her seventies by now. I think of her fondly even now.
Something that few people know about you. Hmmmm... whilst retaining discretion... I read very slowly (despite having an endless passion for books). I suffer from terrible agoraphobia, especially when walking across bridges - over roads or rivers. I am hopeless with remembering numbers, although if they are dates, I am and can.
Akhenaten, Nefertiti,and the Aten: A time of so unsolved many enigmas
If you could go back in time, where would you go and why? Fourteenth century BC Armana, to solve the co-regency question of Amenophis III-Akhenaten, to see what Akhenaten actually looked like and to gaze upon the beauty of Nefertiti, to discover the true identities of Smenkhkare and Ankhkheprure-Neferneferuaten, to discover the parentage of Tutankhamun, and to discover who is buried in KV55 and where all the other Armanan royals are buried. Or to be in Alexandria in the first century when Simon Magus was there and to hear his thoughts and ideas, as well as to visit the wonderful library, and just to move in Gnostic circles, hearing the differing philosophies in circulation at the time. Or simply to be a Renaissance prince, cherishing the ideals set out by Machiavelli, enjoying the arts, architecture, music and culture surrounding me, understanding allegory, enjoying the works of Ramon Llull, Dante, etc, etc.
What is your best learning memory from school? I thoroughly enjoyed learning Latin, after the first term, when the Latin master finally chilled out (maybe after seeing the approach the student teacher had, and the positive reception it was greeted with by the boys). The class had just seven of us. But it was wonderful learning how to decline verbs, conjugate nouns, in such a rich and textured language, and at such an early age.
Are you a tidy desk or a messy desk and why? I would say "Organised chaos", I am not O.C.D. by any stretch of the imagination, but I cannot abide things being messy and untidy either. My desk is never clear; I have various objects on it, a pile or two of books, as well as papers, computer, lots of pens, pencils, and a pack or two of salt liquorice on it. Plus normally a cafetiére and a coffee mug on it.
What’s your favourite thing to do when it rains? If I am outside, to run under a big oak tree or the like and sit and watch. If I am inside, I tend to become very introspective, and sit and watch the rain streak down the windows. I can't abide people who stand aimlessly under shop awnings; waiting, waiting, waiting for it to pass, it seems like such a waste of time.
Rain
A poem you know by heart The Listeners by Walter de la Mare.
What would you like to learn to do next?Read and understand Anglo-Saxon English, or drive comfortably and competently.
What question would have liked me to ask you? After all these questions, are we any closer to knowing the real you?
What would have been your answer? I don't know, get to know me and find out!
To think, a decade ago I started a strange journey in my life, and yet, upon reflection, the person I was ten years ago is someone who I would barely recognize any more. Ten years ago I was working in a somewhat self created role that would later be listed on my CV as "DVD Supplement Producer. Despite having conversed in three languages, conducted located numerous well known and obscure actors, directors and film technicians, written and directed a documentary and been interviewed by a national UK newspaper, The Guardian, various unimaginative, uncreative recruitment agencies would relegate those two and a half years to a single sentence; proclaiming those experiences to be irrelevant to the (generally banal) roles they were considering me for. That said, although I am aware that those experiences and that work was part of who I was, I find it difficult to maintain much of a connection with that time in my life.
After it all came to an end in Spring 2004 I found myself feel uncomfortable discussing those experiences and reminiscing with people about them for many years. Partially because, I guess, I thought that no one was especially interested, and for the most part because I felt ill at ease discussing those times. To be honest, unless I am in good company, I still do. It was only when I met Adam, who was soon to become a good friend, and his infectious enthusiasm for European cinema, and his desire to hear stories of those trips to Rome, to California, to Torremolinos that I felt sufficiently comfortable to talk about them again. If Adam hadn't unlocked that doorway to my past then, to be blunt, I feel that I would not have talked about them again. This reluctance to discuss this period of my life was accentuated by the release of a DVD by my former business partner entitled Paura: Lucio Fulci Remembered. Mike had originally conceived of this DVD to accompany an unpublished book of interviews with a large plethora of individuals who had worked with an Italian film director, Lucio Fulci, idolized by Mike and numerous genre cinema fans the world over. Despite having worked extensively to locate a lot of the people who spoke on the disc, I did not wish to finance it, nor spend hours compiling the translations for Mike. As a result, and I suppose a misguided sense of betrayal on my part, I was bestowed with minimal, nominal and almost token credit on the disc. Furthermore, Mike was soon after to express his disappointment in a number of interviews relating to the release of the DVD which built up further barriers between me and my affiliation with European cinema.
FF: It sounds amazing really. Oh... You actually will only have 49 of the limited edition copies because one is definitely mine. There's a lot of talk about what you are doing with the DVD yet no mention of Kit's involvement...
MB:...He’s distanced himself quite a bit from me, but even more from our once business partnership. I really don’t want to speak badly of him because I love him like a brother, but personal issues have plagued Kit since I’ve known him, and this past year has been especially bad. He had no real interest when I was initially putting the Paura site together over a year ago.
(Shocking Images)
Is it any wonder that I have distanced myself when my former business partner klaxons on a public forum in an interview that I have had personal issues plaguing me for as long as he has known me. And now, Mike is seen by his fellow Americans as a champion of European cinema because he has brought numerous guests to conventions for fans in their black t-shirts to meet and ask them to sign their glossies, or their posters, etc. Yet ten years ago, Mike had no real idea who Alida Valli was (other than that she had appeared in Suspiria) or who Romy Schneider was after we befriended her half sister, Sascha, and ate at her home on several occasions. To Mike, it was not a priority nor of any real import to know anything other than sketchy basics on these actors and their careers (cue print outs culled from the IMDb) nor to be able to communicate in any language other than English (I had to act as translator too). Even learning the basics in Italian might have added a dimension to meeting people, yet Mike saw this as unimportant and almost "surplus to requirement". Pointing a camera and penning a few questions was enough, it seems. My self respect took a bashing then for various reasons and on various levels.
This article is not an attack nor diatribe against Mike and the way that he (and by extension, I) conducted ourselves after our work at Media Blasters came to a rather abrupt end back in 2004; Mike and I are of different mindsets, all the more now as, next year, it will have been a decade since we last saw each other. I still hear of Mike from people we both met met and have befriended, and thanks to Facebook, I have managed to retain some degree of contact with as I always feel rather nervous and hesitant to pick up the phone and "touch base" with those I haven't spoken to in many years. When I met these people it was partially due to a fascination in their lives and their careers that spurred me on, but when that was forged into a friendship, partially due to a sense of being awestruck that X, Y, or Z would want to befriend me but also a lack of self confidence in my making friends with people; famous or not. My hesitation in helping Mike with his conventions has arisen from liking a number of the people he represents and my inner worry that by acting as some sort of "manager" to them, I would lose their trust and friendship. To me trust and friendship is vital to any connection with someone which one cares about. I also am aware that I have had the tendency to disappoint and to let people down, so I didn't want that flawed character trait of mine to interfere and possibly damage any friendship I might have. Also, to be honest, I feel I would be totally out of place with Mike and his friends, who hang around with him and these personalities; many of Mike's friends are adorned with tattoos and wear black t-shirts embellished with horror film titles or heavy metal bands (Neither of these fit my outlook, persona nor taste).
Italy came into my thoughts because I was talking about cities in Italy and also I was conversing in Italian in one of my dreams last night. I am so out of practice with my spoken Italian and it was horribly rusty last year when I was in Venice that I felt embarrassed speaking it in the hotel and lacked confidence when I was looking around the bookshops for art books. I still feel I can understand enough when reading it and when hearing it. I guess I am lacking the inner confidence and well, having spoken in French on a regular basis since 2005, has made me blot out a lot of the Italian I acquired. I still feel that my vocabulary is reasonably strong yet erratic, however it is that old bugbear of syntax and grammar that continues to elude me. Also, I have returned to being more self-conscious, uncomfortable and introverted and one of the side effects of this has manifested itself thus. Furthermore I am getting older and my memory has neither the capacity to retain information, nor is it as strong as it once was. I find it difficult to remain focused as well.
My passion for cinema, in particular Italian cinema, has largely dried up since those days in Italy. I am certainly no longer interested in collecting unusual and obscure b-movies nor the materials connected with their release, be they movie posters or lobby cards. Another reason why I find it difficult to identify with that person who a decade ago was collecting DVDs, watching movies and creating databases in an attempt to identify cast members, or cataloging releases of these movies around the world, or such like. I cannot see that person anymore, I cannot recognize him and I do not identify with him anymore. He seems so far away. A different person, a different time, a different dimension. In some ways it feels like a great loss but at the same time it feels like one is mourning for a person who one never knew. I suppose I feel somewhat jealous of those who have had lifelong interests and passions such as cinema whereas most of mine I tend to tire of, they wilt, they fade, and they get forgotten. There is also a degree of snobbery at play as well, I suppose, in as much as I feel like I have grown up and that my interests have become more attuned, more mature, and more sophisticated as I have advanced into my thirties. Yet these interests actually tend to hark back to a period prior to my becoming interested in cinema; those interests being art, history, archaeology, books and languages. These seem to be important supportive pillars to my being, my personality, and are constant, rather than mere diversions and deviations along the way.
At the moment in life I feel rather plagued by self doubt. I long for consistency in my being and that seems to be sorely lacking. I find this not just in myself but generally in the friends around me. It makes me question my validity as a friend owing to their inconsistency in keeping in touching, in retaining and remaining contact with me and I am continually ascribing blame to myself for this shortfall in a number of friends and my feeling that it is me that makes the first move, more often than not, to retain some form of contact with people. This is not always the case but sometimes it does seem to be terribly one-sided in nature. I question whether, as has been the case, that weeks, months, years would drift by. I find that when I tend to think about people I will want to get back in touch. Also people who once were enthusiastic about our friendship mostly seem to vanish. I fret, stress, worry and wonder what happened and whether it was something I did wrong to make them lose interest in me and our friendship, or simply they did not want to stay in contact with me. Maybe I am low down in their list of priorities. Maybe they did not value me on the same level in which I valued them. I treat all my friends with equal respect, value and worth, and those people who aggravate and annoy me with the same disdain and contempt. For sure, years of friendship can and does add value and worth but I feel disillusioned by those who claim to value my friendship yet simply disappear without reason. It diminishes my fragile worth all the more and makes me worry for how I am perceived and what impression I gave and whether it was because of simply being myself that they fade into the ether.
This statement, although seemingly paradoxical, reflects of what seems to be going through my being most of the time of late. Ascetism is far too strong an expression, hence Brahmacharya seemed more in keeping. It's a good way to excuse the current repression I am feeling at the moment, and for the most part, keeping to. This, however is no bad thing, even if at times it leads to insurmountable frustration on my part at times, it is better than simply "making do" and selling oneself short, an easy way out or escape for most.
Despite feeling that my emotional intelligence is somewhat sapped of its lifeblood at the moment, it is not easy to determine whether this is due to external forces bearing down or whether it is internal. It feels almost like a Trappist existence at times, yet there is little or no need to be loquacious at the moment, or if there is, there has to be some raison d'être behind such a state. Admittedly, I used to be the first to feel the need to talk to cover up awkward silences rather than sit there contemplation and reflection when in the company of others, or another. I feel that my mindset has changed, I enjoy conversation with like-minded individuals, verbal foreplay if you will, rather than have to listen and/or reply. I have become more and more accustomed to my own company, no longer prepared to settle for mere mediocrity to fill in a void. Abstinence and a Johannite lifestyle admittedly would probably be rather harsh; my skin would be too sensitive for camel hair (I can't even wear black cotton), and I don't feel especially partial to the haute cuisine diet of locusts and honey. I also need my books around me to escape into, be it to read or to discover something new. Would I be allowed a library in my desert cave? Which leads on to the hedonism of my being.
People probably wouldn't see me as being a hedonist, certainly not in the obtuse manner that is screamingly evident in the conduct of others. In some ways, I guess, I would be seen as far too sensible for such an attitude. Yet deep within me there does lurk that inner need and the ribald pleasure one can derive from such moments. Most of the time, I believe, such pleasure is not obvious nor evident. For me, trivial though it might seem, simple delights can seem like hedonism when compared to the rest of my rather mundane being. It can be seeing new books on or in my shelves, it can appreciating the taste of something delicious, or it can lying in bed on a sunny afternoon and touching, caressing, savoring the company and intimacy with someone one can appreciate, enjoy for their company and all that it entails as much as their being. Yet for me, such hedonism is rare, yet perhaps, when it happens, that is what makes it all the more exquisite. From time to time the apple of temptation is offered my way, more often than not I do not bite into it, simply because I know that were I to bite into it, it would have a bitter, vile taste, or I would end up munching upon a mouthful of maggots, more than sweet pulpy apple, beneath its shiny surface. Either that or Temptation simply presents herself in the most undesirable of forms, and either makes my insides feel revulsion, abhorrence, or disdain.
<>
<> <>
Temptation: Adam and Eve by Lucas Cranach the Elder.
Boethius has his heroine, Lady Philosophy explain hedonism:-
"Some men believe that the highest good is to lack nothing, and so they are at pains to possess abundant riches. Others consider the true good to be that which is most worthy of admiration, and so they strive to attain to places of honour, and to be held by their fellow-citizens in honour thereby. Some determine that the highest good lies in the highest power; and so they either desire to reign themselves, or try to cleave to those who do reign. Others think that renown is the greatest good, and they therefore hasten to make a famous name by the arts of peace or of war. But more than all measure the fruit of good by pleasure and enjoyment, and these think that the happiest man is abandoned to pleasure."
Though Lady Philosophy is ultimately condemning such sentiment, one cannot help but turn the condemnation on its head and see the point behind such thoughts. We are not talking a Utopian ideal here, espoused by Thomas More and which, to the modern man might seem to almost communist in nature.
"There is no reason for giving a denial to any person, since there is such plenty of everything among them; and there is no danger of a man's asking for more than he needs; they have no inducements to do this, since they are sure that they shall always be supplied. It is the fear of want that makes any of the whole race of animals either greedy or ravenous; but besides fear, there is in man a pride that makes him fancy it a particular glory to excel others in pomp and excess. But by the laws of the Utopians, there is no room for this."
My current and previous frustrations, I guess, lie from a yearning or internal desire to be decadent yet to neither act upon it nor be willing to accept the consequences thereof. So as a result such thoughts, fantasies and their ilk remain for the most part lodged within my head and tend to mutate and be released as frustration, implicit or explicit, evident or hidden. These took on many different kinds, shapes, forms - yet generally they remain internalized and I allow them to build up; yet it is the obvious frustrations, mostly over and at the inadequacies or misconduct of others, certainly over and above those of my desires and yearnings, that when they are let loose, take the shape and form of pent up anger and rage. Fortunately, owing to my pacific personality these displays are rare, but they have been known to surface from time to time when the screaming in my head has got too much. This was most evident in 2010-11 when my frustration manifested itself as stress and that caused more harm to me than those to blame or those in my immediate environment. Yet when it did manifest itself as rage, it was greeted with disbelief and/or condemnation by those concerned, for the fact that until then I had not expressed my thoughts and feelings sooner and more vocally!!
As a result of becoming so internalized in how I feel, it means that most everything else has become remote, seemingly elsewhere and hidden from view. Not just the negativity, the pain, the angst and the frustration but also most of that which is positive. Being inherently rather introverted has only accentuated this and made more reluctant, partially out of diplomacy, to express such thoughts and feelings. These thoughts and feelings include love, desire, affection and in certain cases reflect positive self worth and qualities. This is not an emotional hijab. Part of it is fear of being misunderstood and rejection, but, in addition it is because everything has become so entrenched in my being, it feels like pulling a screaming mandrake from the deep soil, each and every time. So why make my ears, as well as those of others, suffer each and every time?
