Thursday, 26 May 2016

The Musical Comedy Cure for Giddybonkersville

Today the kids drove me to Giddybonkersville. The route was thus: Little Minx (not the pop band; though had they been here they might have lent a hand or bent an ear - I was tempted to do the latter) emptied a bottle of talc onto the bedroom carpet floor. Aside: Have you seen their collective LM hair?Cousin It has nothing on them. Their hair could be given its own record contract. Carpet is now a retching shade of pale blue rather than the teal or no teal it once was - an approximation therof - such was the abuse of the blue when mixed with an unidentified liquid. Next, Little Minx's reaching hand found my new glass pepper mill and smashed it all over the kitchen floor. The shards were tiny as was my temper - Tiny Tempah? had he been here he could have danced for me in a Royal Blue Suit, or some Hawaiian Shorts - hold the booty girls, they are NEVER right. "Everybody Go Low," he could have helped me pick up those tiny tiny shards that flew all over the place like a Tempah exploding. "Flippin' loco. Worse than giving away your last Rollo," - check the lyrics out for that one. Anyone would think I was promoting the mini-man; he's just workin' it for this blog.  Next Little Minx took it upon his tiny self - put Tiny Tempah out of your mind for now - to hit his older brother on the head with a (thankfully plastic) yellow golf club.

Next, Kid Three, the fast one who draws all the small creatures, sneezed viscerally on his own work and melted down - his own work and his ability to stay calm in the process. He then insulted his sister's Seuss-style tree that she had drawn too close to the building-eating dinosaur that he had just executed. Sister sobbed. I placated and suggested 'scooter-riding down the prom.' This began with a fierce, screamy scooter pile up at the front gate. I too felt screamy - like there was a scrumsworth of little people fighting for the same ball in my chest - but kept the little screamers in check - within and without. I then ran along the road whilst my three avoided the obstacle course of poo on the pavement, which resulted in scooter pile ups on the pavement on more than one occasion and once, involved the decoration of poo on foot and scooter. Had the poo offender and his/her? dog appeared at that moment, he or she would have left wearing their dog as a hat - don't worry, a live hat. I then sprinted along the prom refereeing the kids as they scared the old ladies out walking their dogs by zooming past them with me yelling alongside.

A happy thing happened on the beach. My kids, who were once attacked by some dogs on a beach in Anglesey, met a galloping dog. I calmed them as the owner advanced with the usual: "Don't worry he's fine with children." He then offered the kids dog biscuits to give Tramp (the dog) and my faith in dog and humankind was restored. I even watched him searching for the poo his dog had left on the beach, deposited as he spied my kids and galavanted off towards us before his owner had a chance to retrieve it. Next the kids did some dangerous things on the rocks on the beach that freaked me out and I insisted we went home. En route, Little Minx refused to scoot along the sea wall, insisting on veering to the other side and the dodgy drop down to the road. Tiny Tempah and all the little people nearly exploded out onto the prom. And this used to be such a quiet Seasidey Retirementy sort of place! The only drama before we came was watching the oldsters drive really fast, then really slow, sometimes missing corners out altogether. Until we arrived. You don't want to compare our missile attacked front lawn with those of our kidless neighbours - theirs are clipped within an inch of their lives. Our place is wild and ferral, and that's just the kids...but here's the rub...

Once home, Sister and I had a good chat about perfection and how unfamiliar with it I am. We laughed with (I think, understanding - unless that was naked fear I saw in her eyes). I then cut everyones sandwiches into silly shapes and we had our usual cheery banter over lunch. During 'nap' time - was ever a word used more loosely? I read and sang from one of my husband's old (and politically incorrect) song and rhyme books. I practised my 'bluegrass comedy accent' and included vocal banjo sounds. Shiny Kid laughed so much he looked as though he might morph into something completely unkidlike. I had so much fun one of the kids had to tell me when I had had enough so that he could 'concentrate on his drawing now.' Why the Tiny Tempah/Little Minx analogies? When I sat down to write, the comedy side of my music loving brain just went there and they came punning into the mix. The thing is, I write for my own amusement, and they just seemed to fit the piece. Happy that you are reading until the end too though. Giddybonkers though you may be. That makes we.


Thursday, 21 April 2016

Musing On Art

I have recently taken to painting again. Art was a childhood love along with singing and dancing, oh and acting. My best friend at primary school and I once ended up putting our self written plays on stage for the whole school. The teachers thought Aggie and Mildred with their posh accents and our mother's costume jewellery were hilarious. We also did cockney women discussing their washing and the price of eggs over an imaginary fence. This was late 70's Zimbabwe. All our cultural influences were British, and a little hackneyed. Last year I staged my first play in London and I recently had a small crack at something reasonably innovative for the stage involving all my loves: God, poetry, dialogues, music, song, visual art and dance. I did it for the joy of it and the exuberance I felt at eleven was the same. Collaborating with the actors was even more fun than the writing of it.

From 2000-2013, I was a novelist. There were exciting times - winning things, good reviews, appearances. Pressure came. To succeed. To perform. In 2013, I looked into the faces of my children and my husband and into my own spirit and began to question my motivations and why I create. So, after the birth of my last child, I decided to lose my agent and 'lay down' my own writing career to help develop other writers for our fledgling publishing company. In the process, I have been rediscovering what an artist actually is. Over the past few years I have had the privilege of nurturing three very talented individuals and publishing another writer, whose work has beauty in it - simply for that reason; I knew we were unlikely to make money from this project, but time will tell. The point is, we are not motivated by money, which is just as well, all things considered. We did it for the beauty - for the soul of the writer, that was in the work.

During the time I was 'successful' as a writer, in that I won a national writing award, had a well -known agent, garnered good press and sold thousands of copies of my first book, I lost my way. I was no longer an artist, looking to reveal beauty and truth; my 'success' was based on opinion, sales, attention, feedback: in short, the opinions of others. Recently I rediscovered some of my contemporaries from my days of agents and awards and fuss over being a 'writers of the future.' I felt a pang - for  what? Their fame? I questioned my wisdom for leaving. But then the wise person I live with reminded me why I left. I did it for the art.

My art needs to exist on the edges. It comes from me and that is where I have always thrived best. Of course I am thrilled when people like and respond to my work, but I don't want to be part of a production machine that brings expectation and direction. It limits. The best art lives in a transcendent space where expectation and deadlines do not transgress. What happens after that is up to the artist, of course. I think motivation is key. Art must come from the heart, unclouded by the expectations of the surrounding culture and all that arises from it.

Monday, 11 April 2016

Educating off piste (not off pissed)

It's been absurdly long since I wrote a post - Christmas was the last one. Actually I drafted this one on the third of March and didn't send it! Then, like Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole I scarpered to London with my daughter for my production, Children of the Resurrection in which she danced.

The year thus far has been filled with a heady mix of book editing, play writing and home educating, the latter being by turns productive and often bonkers, but the children are progressing well using these methods: productive in that it happens most days and on those days English and Maths and many other things are taught to my young children. I use a variety of materials including a basic curriculum that I sometimes follow, but generally we go off piste - hope you grasp the spelling of that last phrase and don't call the social services. Just to be clear, I never go off pissed when I am educating my children (and neither, for the record do they) we certainly travel off road at our homeschool - and yes, in this case we sometimes learn off site, as in today when we met up with some other homeders (is that a new word?!) for various creative activities (including glass painting!) and drama and chin wagging (in my case). We also learn outside, at various castles and National Trust properties, in the woods and down on the beach - with sticks and pebbles and water obvs!

I have found, as I suspected, that the more creative the task, the more engaged the kid is. Thus there is often a zany atmosphere (particularly if my toddler is rampaging around yelling 'bottom!' or 'toilet!' - not as a request but as a response) and a creative task in most things we do. Having said this, I do ram some of the traditional (and the spiritual) into the day: The Lord's Prayer and dictation and proper story telling for my elder daughter as well as poetry writing, and presenting (aka 'show and tell') and so on, but invariably there are drawings, toys and puppets involved and many obstacle courses for PE - inside and out - often on the beach where crazy races feature. Often one activity will produce a theme that is then carried through from one subject to another - the other day PE involved puppets (including our letter 'G' puppet Gilbert who, thanks to my youngest disrupts the class by showing his bottom all the time, and a word building treasure hunt with word and number prompts and ended in a lesson on fractions (that involved cake!) I find with kids, that the more comedy there is, the more they want to learn, though of course there are days when gravitas is required, but not for long.

There are many pleasures to home schooling - not least being at the frontline of their responses - and being able to tailor make the style of education to fit the learner - my son learns differently from my daughter - but quite simply it is a joy to be able to share the learning journey with them, and the many others whom we meet with who have chosen to educate outside the societal norms. One of the things I most enjoy is watching my kids get up in the morning and draw or make paper sculptures. My son is obsessed with chameleons and frogs, so there are many painted and sculpted creatures around the house that he has made with whatever he hauls out of the art drawer. He now seems to be moving on to traction engines. Similarly my daughter gets on with her multi media projects or paints murals on the back of the house or all over the Wendy House. There is plenty of time for her to pursue her dancing and singing interests and to take part in her mother's productions too.

Not trad, but thus far they are well adjusted, well rounded, and well ahead - smaller classes = faster and more holistic learning. And we have only just begun.

Friday, 18 December 2015

Christ, and M and S


I recently attended the spectacular annual carol service at Holy Trinity Brompton, in London. Nicky Gumbel, the vicar there, joked that if we took the Christ out of Christmas, we would only be left with M&S. We all laughed; because it was a good joke, but also because not only was it true, but it was becoming a reality for more and more of this nation. Some weeks ago, an ad to advertise a new Anglican website http://www.justpray.uk/ was blocked as it showed people from various walks of life reciting the Lord's prayer. There was quite a strong reaction from the public. Some thought that this was the right form of action, others thought it was further erosion of free speech; even the vociferous critic of Christianity Richard Dawkins thought it was ridiculous to ban the ad, stating, “I still strongly object to suppressing the ads on the grounds that they might ‘offend’ people. If anybody is ‘offended’ by something so trivial as a prayer, they deserve to be offended.” http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/nov/22/richard-dawkins-says-uk-cinemas-should-screen-the-lords-prayer

Christians are becoming more concerned by the reaction of the culture around them as it is often condemning. More and more, political correctness seems to be the new form of worship in this country, and while it is very important to protect minorities and the vulnerable, this very quickly turns to vilification of the 'other', with the other becoming the other if you follow my irony train. There should never be any vilification of the other, but sadly, there too often is. There is a Dr Seuss story called the Sneetches that illustrates this point very well. It should be required international reading. In my experience, and as a writer, I find most journalists and writers of literature I have met are liberals who are intolerant of anything they deem to be ‘religious,’ which flies in the face of their own liberalism, a tenet of which is tolerance towards those of difference and freedom of press, speech and religion. Most have little understanding of what it means to be a follower of Christ. The term Christian is very loaded – mostly with misapprehension. For starters, there is a tacit understanding that if you are a Christian you must be thick. I won't get into main course or pudding here, but suffice to say there is too much gravy and cream of the wrong order inadvertently piled on top of the meat of the thing. Grasp of irony in this area, there is not. In these circles, it usually doesn't even cross people’s minds that you might be a person of faith - it does lead to some interesting conversations.

Whatever one's perspective, it does feel sad to me, that in a country built on Christian values, an ad that shows the comforting aspect of reciting the Lord's prayer in a traditionally and once free Christian country can cause such offence, particularly when so many could doubtless do with a little comfort, if not from belief in Christ, then at the very least inclining towards the notion of transcendence at a time in our history when it seems that so much evil abounds; though, of course, I am aware that for a vast majority of this country, the word 'Christian,' does not evoke a positive reaction, and there is some blame that the Christian public must own for that and I put my hand up too. Many of us are following the difficult path of Christ, many of us, even those of us in the church, are stumbling about, but ever hopeful, we keep at it!

For many, Christmas is not a happy time, because it brings back unhappy memories of the past, given how loaded with significance it all is in terms of family. There are families who have and are experiencing breakdown. Bitterness sets in when forgiveness cannot flow and it blights people’s lives if left unchecked. Sometimes there needs to be separation when past trauma continues to be inflicted, one way or another on an individual or individuals. The psychologist Dr Joshua Coleman, a specialist in family estrangement believes family estrangement is very much on the rise and points to 'individualism,' as the main cause. "Half a century ago, we saw a gradual shift away from the traditional institutions which were expected to make us happy such as the church and the family, towards the individual's rights, needs and feelings. The rise in divorce is one example - people no longer felt the need to stay married out of duty. You stay married if it makes you happy, if it fulfils your needs. If it doesn't you leave. With the family, it's similar. People find it easier to walk away because it does not make them happy" http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-3346303/Families-lonely-Christmas.html

But there is hope. The message of Christ is one of love, forgiveness and grace. The church is the family of God and is or should be an inclusive environment where the broken hearted can find solace and healing. The church needs to be a place where those that have been rejected and even despised by their own families can find acceptance.  As people are not perfect, the church is not perfect but we must embrace each other and be open and honest with one another 'bearing each other's burdens' as the bible puts it, in order for healing and restoration to flourish. The wonder of the Christian life is that once adopted and accepted, it is powered by the mystery of the relationship of the indwelling Holy Spirit, something that may well sound giddy bonkers to those that have not experienced it, given that it is indeed experiential. Imagine trying to push a train up a hill with only manpower; a train operates so much better with steam or electricity - so it is with the human engagement with the Holy Spirit; and it can be utterly transforming and life-changing.

Gift giving and celebrating with family and friends is valuable, as is the feast; these traditions are part of what remind us of who we are in terms of our humanity and our connections to one another; but this Christmas, let's remember the event that inspired it: the Christ part, the love part, the acceptance of those who have had a different experience, or point of view part, the reaching out in grace and mercy part, the inclusive part; all mighty parts of the magnificent whole that Christ came to give us. 




Friday, 30 October 2015

Roots and Rootlessness

The kids are playing outside in the mud and traipsing it through the house now and again. The sun is shining and it's a beautiful autumn day. Car is packed for the trip to Cheltenham to visit the parents who recently moved into my great grandmother's house. There are photographs of my mother there as a child, when there were still orchards and possibly a fox. My mother relates a story of being taken to feed the chickens and her grandmother shooing her away because there was a small viper.

As a child we lived in a lot of houses in a lot of towns and cities in Zimbabwe and South Africa. My grandmother's house in Borrowdale, Harare, was a home when we were growing up as we stayed there so often as children. When they left and moved into a townhouse some of my roots were pulled up and maybe some tendrils were left in the soil. When we left my last home in Zimbabwe, it was as if I buried my heart in the garden. It took me at least two years to summon it back as I mourned and mourned for house and land and country.

I moved to London at seventeen and lived in posh houses, squats and flats. My firstborn and I lived for sixteen years in a flat in central London where he still is and I am some of the time. We now have a family home in Wales, a small bungalow stuffed with memories and photographs in the loft: this is my husband's grandmother's house.

Thank you God; for grandmothers, for continuity and for life that goes on. As believers our home is always elsewhere, but tracing history, and memories, and a sense of coming home, will always be.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vrEljMfXYo

Monday, 26 October 2015

3 Novels

I thought I would share with you my thoughts on three novels I have recently read. In doing so, I shall share them with me in order to trigger my own recollections since they are so easily forgotten, except in the case of a few, such as Stoner - unforgettable, or now, I think I can safely say, Gilead.

The Fever Tree took a while to get into, I was worried it was too Mills and Boon and almost put it down, muttering as I did about commercial novels and I would have cut the ship narrative at the start considerably, but once it got to South-Africa, some hundred and fifty pages (as I recall) in it became powerfully evocative in terms of prose and the way it captured the SA landscape. It looked at true love as opposed to attraction and choices made/opportunities almost missed and lessons learnt. In the end, it brought to mind some colonial classics: Story of An African Farm, My Brilliant Career, in terms of haunting landscapes that 'speak.'

Fair Play by Tove Jansson looks at the relationship between two women artists and how they make art and life together on a remote island and in Helsinki. Tove's work is like looking through a calm clear sea and discovering more and more exquisite fish the deeper you look. Eccentric characters enter and exit, adding to the appeal of the book, but they become most interesting in terms of Jonna and Mari's comments about them - in their presence. A wonderful book about adventures taken and captured on 8mm film, love, and art; nuances and habits appreciated, picked up on, argued over or not. And of endings. Labora et amare.

Gilead by Marillyne Robinson is a masterpiece. It is flawless in terms of prose, narrative pace and all that it speaks of: life, religion and love. What I particularly liked was the way Robinson portrayed faith in all it's complexity. The generous, yet often conflicted spirit of her protagonist, the dying John Ames, who records for his young son the details of everyday life, often seemingly mundane, but just as often illuminated by a sense of the miraculous, is wondrous. Through the stories of his father and grandfather (preachers as well), a family history unfolds and with it troubling scenes regarding race, poverty and murder. It is a reminder of America's past and perhaps a warning to it's future - a novel with soul and spirit. A classic.

Friday, 23 October 2015

Cleaning Out My Closet

In line with my desire to live more lightly in various ways, I have been cleaning out my closet, literally, though the Eminem song Where's my snare? Is playing in my head. My entire vintage wardrobe, along with several Vivienne Westwood numbers has been snapped up by anonymous bidders. They were very snap happy for Viv. There have been mishaps. I sent my flowery Doctor Martens to someone who was expecting a camel coloured wool coat and vice verse. That took some time and expense to unravel, and unravel I almost did as I messaged back and forth praying that each disgruntled punter would play ball, or boot as the case was. Happily each agreed to send to the other. Thus my past has been passed around the UK, and, in the case of a seventies halter-neck dress, last worn to a music industry party during the rise of Oasis - to the US.

Each item of clothing that has been packaged and sent had a story behind it. The 60's and 70's dresses worn to gigs and parties or on stage during my fleeting singing career in 90's Camden. Or the designer stuff I have from my modelling days prior to that. Before that, I had been collecting vintage clothes since I was a teenager. I used to go to Diagonal Street in Johannesburg and rummage through piles of clothes in basements until I emerged with winkle pickers and sixties suits that I would take in on my mother's sewing machine and later wear to the clubs I was way to young to be at. If those clothes could speak...and they do, imbued as they are with memory. Who will wear them now? I have been surprised at how hard they were to actually give up, even though I had determined to.

Which isn't to say that my glad rags were all bad news. Oh the fun we had! It's just that for me it is important not to dwell on the past but to live fully in the present. We do have photographs after all, though those can sometimes be fraught too. My father passed away nearly two years ago. He was not around when we were growing up. I only met him when I was twenty-one and thereafter on only a few occasions. After he died, my sister and I went to collect his things, including a large box of his photographs many of which were taken in nightclubs and parties in his heyday as a singer and actor and general charmer.  I haven't been through the photographs yet as there was an exhibition that they were needed for and they were only recently returned. I intend to and want to, but the box has a mark of the Pandora about it. I have often found nostalgia a tricky emotion to manage given my peripatetic and sometimes fraught childhood. The clothes that speak of the many lives I have lived, the photographs speak of what was and what might have been. The clothes have travelled on to adorn other lives. The photographs have arrived from Portugal, and what a route they have taken, those potent squares of reminder.