Charla's space

bookworm me

I have these new, completely unsharpened Penguin Pencils, classics really. They make me want to write simply and quickly with pencil and paper, not with pen, not with keypad, but with lead. To sharpen one and hold it in my hand means that I will embark on a great journey of words, with the spirit of the author and the book urging me on in some way. Each pencil has the famous Penguin and a well-known title along with the creator's name; a book cover in the round. Yet I hesitate. I wait, with Great Expectations; with poised hand.

And so I turn again to reading. For a few months now, I've been caught and captured by books after a long, dry spell of not finding the ones that resonate. This reading renaissance is like nourishment. I seem to be devouring the right ones at just the right time. They comfort and inspire, become a part of my world; give me energy; help me think. I relish the beauty of the stories and the weaving of words.

Here's my list, the most recent first:

The Hours, Michael Cunningham
Holes, Louis Sachar
Ella Minnow Pea, A novel without letters, Mark Dunn
Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson
The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold
Fair and Tender Ladies, Lee Smith
Raney, Clyde Edgerton (wouldn't recommend, but something spoke to me)
Light on Snow, Anita Shrieve
Shadows on the Mirror, Francis Fyfield

On the lookout for the next one...
or maybe I could pick up another Penguin Pencil, Words and Deeds, say, and see where it takes me...

respect

Picture this: yesterday, early morning train going south from London Bridge, seats fill up steadily and inevitably. Across from me, on the other side of the table, a middle-aged man reads the news review section of a Sunday paper he picked up from a nearby stranger. Before picking it up, he asked the stranger politely if he could have it.

To my right is another man, middle-aged as well. He looks at me, not unkindly but wearily, when my phone rings. I speak quietly and gently so as not to annoy him. I don't mind making this allowance. (I know the feeling of having my nerves frayed by loud mobile phone talkers who imprison those around them with their voices, with details of their lives. There's an infringement somewhere in all of this). When I finish he looks at me again with a 'thank you' in his eyes.

The train continues to move us along. People flow in and out of each other's spheres. Four teenage girls join our space. One sits on the seat around our table while the other girls take the few empty places across the aisle. The girl sharing my table has a phone in her hand. After a few minutes, music blares from it. I feel a jolt. At first I think it's a ring tone and prepare myself for the onslaught of a phone conversation. But the music doesn't stop. I notice the people around me looking uncomfortable, annoyed, shifting in their seats. I try to find the most effective words to ask her to turn it down. While I'm mulling it over in my early morning brain, the man next to me speaks. He asks her if she could turn it down. She rolls her eyes, swears, but eventually does. The man across from me looks relieved and disappears behind his paper. People settle.

Then she turns it up again. I see the man across from me try to calm himself. He seems a bit unsure as to what to do; he seems to be building up some courage. He then says,
"Hey come on, please can you turn it down again."
The girl ignores him. Her friend shouts, "Why should she?"
"Because it's a public place, you're sharing the space with other people," he says.
"It doesn't take a fucking genius to figure out there are other people around. Tell me something I don't know, you idiot," she says
The music is still blaring.
The man looks defeated. He tries to say something about respect. She tells him to shut the fuck up.
The girl with the phone is smiling. The music is still blaring.
The man next to me is staring at the girl who yelled at the man. I want to say something but no words come out. Her aggressiveness forces us into a shocked, impotent silence. So he stares, the man next to me, telling her with his eyes.
"Do you have a staring problem? Quit staring at me," she says.
He looks stunned. She shouts at him more. Aggressively, without reason, robbing him of the chance of responding. I catch her eye. She glares.
The music is still blaring.

The next minute I'm off the train. I wonder many things as I walk. Mostly I wonder if we'll always be like this. Warring. Forcing our rights. Claiming our sphere without regard for others. Justifying. And yes, I could laugh about the whole event and say so what, but somehow I can't. Mostly because it wasn't really funny (not even in a teen movie kind of way). And mostly because it's a fragment of a bigger mirror reflecting the actions of the world.

the silence of words

As a dramatherapist, I feel my way through life. Sometimes, most times, so many aspects of living are beyond words, and my work asks me to intuite what might be going on for my clients, some of whom are non-verbal. Non-verbal. Without words. But not without feeling or expression. Words can get in the way of what we really mean, but communication, a flow back and forth between people, that is essential. That is the core. A look; a smile; a nod of understanding; mirroring of body movements or actions to show you see one another, appreciate and care for one another, all feed our spirit. And equally, a grimace, scowl, cold stare or freeze-out communicate just as strongly and mark boundaries. These can also stop us in our tracks and mortify. All without words. Feeling comes from my solar plexus area, or my heart. It's quick-fire and lets me know what to do next when I'm working with someone, or when I'm living my life. Yes it can be wrong, this intuition, but so can words. And I love words, yet they falter for me often, or I falter in using them when I'm in the grip of something ethereal, which life is. Yet as long as there is energy flow and real communication, there will also be words, because words are concrete symbols for how we each experience our lives (for those of us who are verbal). And I think when we feel safe with one another words become a freedom, and a way to bring us closer. Ben Okri writes in his book A Way of Being Free:

"Yes, the highest things are beyond words. This is probably why all art aspires to the condition of wordlessness. When literature works on you, it does so in silence, in your dreams, in your wordless moments. Good words enter you and become moods, become the quiet fabric of your being. Like music, like painting, literature too wants to transcend its primary condition and become something higher. Art wants to move into silence, into the emotional and spiritual conditions of the world. Statues become melodies, melodies become yearnings, yearnings become actions."

Words become a part of my bones, become silent and glowing inside of me when I read them. Words spoken are my meagre attempt to speak of that glowing, to make that glowing real to someone else, and to make me understood and real to others. Clamour can be a result of such speaking, yet when resonance or intuition happens, the people who do understand to some degree will see beyond words, and see that glow simply by sitting next to me and I to them.

wordscapes

Words escape me at the moment. Resting and reorganizing get in the way of thinking in a linear manner. What's so wonderful about linear thinking anyway, I wonder?

The truth is both dreaming and goal-thinking have their merits, and both have their times, yet integration seems the best way forward for human beings, science and psychololgy. In an All in the Mind podcast, Guy Claxton, a cognitive scientist, talks a bit about his new book and explains wonderfully why myths and metaphors of the unconscious mind are just as important in our lives as the strides forward in neuroscience; both inform each other and support the other. I agree. The podcast is from 22 July 2005 with the tagline Our minds are wayward beasts.

the ultimate outsider, mercury's poet

a man walks away
when every muscle says to stay.

how many yesterdays? they each way heavy.
who says what changes may come
who says what we call home.

I know you see right through me,
my luminescence fades,
the dusk provides an antidote, I am not afraid.

I've been a million times, in my mind,
this is really just a technicality.
frailty. reality.

It's time to breathe. time to believe.
let it go and run towards the sea.
they don't teach that,
they don't know what you mean
they don't understand,
they don't know what you mean.
they don't get it, I want to scream.

I want to breathe again, I want to dream.
I want to float a quote from Martin Luther King
I am not afraid I am not afraid I am not afraid...

from REM's The Outsiders on Around the Sun
(Buck, Mills, Stipe)

I watched an interview with Michael Stipe last night. It was done about two months ago in Australia on a program called Enough Rope. I admit, I'm a fan of his. What I love most is his use of language, how he captures fleeting moments in non-linear wordscapes and images. Yet to my soul it all makes sense. The timbre of his voice, his accent, the music, all sit well with me, nourish me. There's a familiarity, a poetic sensiblility that only needs half words and hints to shine through. And that kind of sensibility has its flip side too. Vulnerability, pain, flight, escape, 'seeing through' with faraway, wise eyes, being and not being present, picking up vibes. He talked about when he was a child and how he felt when something was wrong in the environment around him, that he was the one to voice it. To ask what was going on. He talked a lot on the program, and seemed to open up, state things directly and honestly. His discussion of topics, his very essensce, was mercurial: he joked and smiled, became serious, almost grey, his eyes so filled yet so vacant; he left so many times. He revealed so many shades of himself.
What struck me though, and I mean really struck my heart, was when he suddenly, after talking about high school, said:

I consider myself to still be kind of a nerd and not particularly talented, attractive, interesting, intelligent or anything else. I used to wonder why my friends hung out with me. Then, you know, of course a little bit later in life I figured out that I do have qualities that are worth while. The degree to which I apply myself as an artist, as a song writer, is at the very least absolutely sincere and giving everything that I can. And that counts for something.

These words seemed to come out of nowhere. And they took me aback. His honesty touched me. As with everyone, he has darkness, and maybe most importantly, he's not afraid to show it, to open it up for others to see. That is human. That is real. And it's what can connect us as much as love, for it too is love. To be able to go easily to one's dark spots and take other people along is truly a gift. It's about the whole picture, the shadow and light. The expression of both, the living of both, is what artists seem to strive for, what the poetic space is all about.

If you want to catch the interview, it's streaming at REM's website

riding along on the crest of a wave

The sun is shining, and the views over the Thames are most extraordinary when days like this come along. To fully absorb the vistas and the warmth, I decide to journey to work along the river on the Clipper. One of the stops is right at the end of my road, minutes from the door. No rushing to the tube, no stumbling over pavements as my feet try to run ahead of the rest of my body. I see the boat coming up as I'm strolling down the ramp. No crowds. A handful of people standing in the sun, smiling to each other. I can breathe. I see a stack of Metros and I take one. The woman next to me asks with surprise if it's free. I nod and smile. After a minute we both leave the papers and comment that the day's too beautiful to keep our heads down.

Every time I've taken the boat, it's felt like entering a parallel London universe. One that's expansive and not so sooty. Getting to my destination feels a bit like starting a vacation. The crew are so friendly and open that my imagination creates a film scene where each passenger, as we walk on, is offered a cocktail with an umbrella. In so-called reality, hands do reach out to help passengers embark and disembark (okay this might be about avoiding lawsuits, but it does feel nice).

When the Clipper gets moving, sometimes, like today, it goes fast enough to send sprays on either side of the boat. I daresay the speed creates crested waves to bounce along. My small but delighted smile belies nothing of the yippee dance that I'm doing inside. I can almost feel the wind through my hair. By the time I get to Savoy Pier for the short walk to Embankment tube station, I have post-carded images of London montaged together in my head. The Eye, Tower Bridge, Canary Wharf, the river diamonds, the sky, red buses over bridges...There's a richness to my senses that I take with me as I disappear underground.

silent voices

There are so many people without voices. There are so many voices crowding others out. In our own countries (many of us have more than one land we call home) people are outcast due to lack, a lack so pervasive as to silence whatever human and creative expression they possess. This lack can range from tangible resources to self-esteem.

Everyone has a story. Everyone has a light. Everyone has a frustrated artist in them. Being, existing, is artistry. Creativity and expression are pieces of everyone's domain. Yet we don't listen. I mean really listen. To the woman in prison; to the prostitute on the street corner; to the older people with dementia sitting side by side in a home not able to reach out to each other; to the severely disabled people who can't communicate verbally, but who express their choices when given a space to unfold; to the small children growing up in poverty next door to us; to the parent who abuses; to the partner who's been abused; to those facing mental health challenges.

We don't listen unless a Hollywood movie has been made about someone's plight. For every one person whose story is heard there are possibly hundreds who fall through the cracks of society's fabric. To not be heard is analogous to not existing, or just as potent, feeling non-existent. And so there's a broken bridge between the normal and those who we might like to forget. Yet if we're all connected, and we all share this earth, how can we continue to split the other from ourselves? To make another country evil, makes our country good. To make someone abnormal, makes us normal. But don't we each hold all extremes?

Paracelsus said that humans are a sun and a moon and a heaven filled with stars. Vast and opposing. Jung spoke of the sitting with, or in, or on the edge of internal paradox until a third entity emerges, the transcendent function, or union of opposites. Creatively, from this marriage, new situations and conscious attitudes may arise because the perspective has shifted. I’m not suggesting this is easy, but a small step can have a large impact.

Victimising those with weak voices is not the answer. An attempt to understand might be. Understanding comes from listening without judgement. To listen also means to allow and support someone else’s voice. Respectfully, on both sides. Offering people the choice to tell their story, to use their voice is a way to be truly inclusive. Is it possible? Or will some people remain silent because the jump is too high or the space isn't available?

I don't know, but I do know that I'm inspired by the individuals who are attempting to create technology that potentially gives all people a chance to be creative and to be heard, if they choose. Hopefully that ethos of equality will make a dent in our daily lives, so that we may integrate our beliefs with our actions and truly listen to and tell each other our stories, no matter how different they may be.

I come at this discussion from a psychological perspective as I facilitate, without technolgoy, enactment and storytelling and spontonaity in my dramatherapy work. My boyfriend fills in the technology bit and is doing interesting and thoughtful work through his blog with communities and technology and creativity. And I happened upon Ejovi Nuwer's blog Technically Speaking which made a bridge for me to my country and the silences that are there.

iShuffle

I travel with my new iPod shuffle.* I myself shuffle, dance, and stream along the avenues of my life with a soundtrack amplifying my movements and thoughts, lighting everything I pass or touch. Everything I come towards, circle around, or see fleeting from the sides of my eyes—shapes, images, colours, flying scarves, laughing faces, lonely eyes—become sparks, pods of energy.

And I love humanity. I tingle. My aura expands and stretches. And most of all, most beautiful of all, I created this little world that whirls and sweeps around me in colours as bright as autumn blazing and as delicate as spring. I chose the music and I chose the poetry and books and stories that seem to live en potentia in my body, resonate in my skeleton, rousing my heart to song.

The tiny instrument jumbles the tracks, shakes a synchronistic die. I carry this creation into the world with me, and it reminds me how creative we can all be. How technology is making it possible for each of us to manifest the artistry that runs in our veins. One day maybe we won't need the gadgets (as wonderful as some of them are); maybe we will have learned how to believe in our amazing powers and our capacity to influence the energy around us, and to connect with each other.

It's as if technology is our practice playground in the sense that it makes it more possible to imagine and experience leaps like invisibles and instantaneous energy transfer (isn't that partly what the Internet represents and emulates?). Some technology reminds us of our energy, our connectedness to each other and the universe (like the Native American image of the web of life).

The Internet is maybe a map of sorts, a re-membering or gathering back together the seeming fragments of our modern world. If we can first imagine and experience our historic connectedness in the visible world, maybe we can believe in the invisibles, the magic; the unexplainable, spontaneous, mercurial workings of the universe.

Or maybe we can simply listen to music and smile. Certainly the workings come with a fabulously enticing mixed soundtrack.

*thank you my love