καιρός

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?).

Fin de la semaine.

And another week draws to a close... Admittedly, it's been something of a mixed blessing in terms of weeks, insomuch as I managed to write another article for my other blog, which, once again as my own worst critic, I suppose I am relatively pleased with. In fact it was more difficult to write than might seem readily apparent, as I have become so used to writing on an AZERTY keyboard of late that I kept punctuating every sentence with numerous Qs and Zs which proved tiresome to say the least. The perils of habitual usage of a French laptop. Equally so, I found it difficult to incorporate other ideas and motifs into my article on "The Wanderer", a splendid Anglo Saxon poem, in the manner in which I had done previously with "The Dream of the Rood".

My laptop is away being repaired after the keyboard stopped functioning a couple of days ago whilst online. Whilst on the world wide web, I managed to catch up briefly with a few friends, not least Mark whom I hope to catch with soon, with Heidi in Finland who's worrying about her dog Coco (recently spayed), and to scribble down some notes down about a book called "Sacrifice" by Enel (the pseudonym of Mikhail Vladimirovich Skariatin) dating from 1923. After an excessive number of expletives in English, French, Danish, Italian, Swedish and German, I retained my self control despite the swear words and obvious frustration felt. I then picked up the telephone and called the head office to report the fault. After twenty-five minutes of anguish/speaking to "Kieran", a call centre operator in the back of beyond in India, wherein I had to spell everything twice and explain that French postcodes were different from British ones, as well as telling him my name three times, which culminated in my being addressed as Mr. Kris at every possible juncture. I loathe this familiarity in which people, especially strangers, use your first name, and tag it on to end of every sentence; this truly grates on me in whichever context it occurs. After much straining of the patience, we got somewhere. After speaking to "Kieran", I spoke to UPS to arrange a pick up, and their courier was around in approxmately twenty minutes which was mighty impressive by comparison.

Today is a beautiful, bright day, one in which were Akhenaten alive and in Northern Europe, his worship of the Aten would have been justified; nonetheless I find myself feeling fatigued and suffering from a headache. Neither right nor fair! Furthermore, I feel uninspired and indifferent. This morning I had a great idea for subjects to doodle over the weekend but there seems to be some barrier in the way of my getting the drive to put these words down. It's not writer's block, because I have a good idea of what I want to say, I just lack the incentive and the desire to do so. Maybe later this weekend.

The other blog has received a lot more visits this last week. It surprises me how many people happen upon it through Google, and from so many different parts of the world, yet, thus far it only as four followers. Not that I am ungrateful to those following my writings and doodlings, far from it, I just don't understand why there aren't more. Admittedly perhaps, it is scattered in what it covers, such diverse themes that I have touched upon Gnosticism, Anglo-Saxon poetry, and Akhenaten and aspects of his reign. But surely this makes it more interesting than one specifically thematic in style. The Akhenaten themed writings appear to be the most popular, based upon the specific visits to articles,or the strange things searched for under Google. One of the strangest of late has been "was Akhenaten Gnostic". I chortled to myself when reading this. Clearly someone has read Keith Laidler's "The Head of God", which might be best described as rather confused in its historical understanding and interpretation of various historical episodes, but, when taken with a pinch of salt as regards the veracity of some of the statements made, is an interesting endevour to understand the worship of heads, normally under the guise of the name Baphomet, by the Templars. Even the theories proposed in the various works of Michael Baigent or Graham Hancock make more sound sense than some of the hare brained suggestions presented by Laidler which have been proved to be erroneous to say the least.

Maybe over the weekend I shall attempt to write some more on one or both blogs, but in any which case, I wish you all, dear readers, a happy and joyous weekend !!

PS: My first entry using an iPad, not as an bad experience as I feared, though admittedly I miss my AZERTY keyboard.