P & J Sandwiches

I am, as I write, consuming a peanut butter and jam sandwich. My family know what this means - I've had a trying day. I had to reduce my programme from a running time of 16 minutes 15 seconds, to fit into the time limit of 13-15 minutes. I managed to do it (*huge relief*). But back to the sandwich. What, you may be asking, does a peanut butter and jam sandwich have to do with stress? In simple terms - it's my comfort food. We often don't realise that food does much more for us than just provide the nutrition necessary to survive. We're rigged so that we don't just need food, but we actually enjoy it. Not only that, but by means of psychological association certain foods can bring us relaxation, comfort or happiness beyond any nutritional or gastronomic qualities they may have. For example, if (as in my case) you frequently recieved peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch as a child, and these times were good and happy ones, for the rest of your life you may crave P & J sandwiches when in need of a bit of comfort. For my dad it's tea, and cold toast with thick (think cheeselike) butter on it. For others it's roast beef and potatoes. Whatever. This impulse (fine in and of itself) can also have a darker side. I know someone who was often deprived of food when a child and also underwent many other hardships that no one (let alone a kid) should have to face. For years after these conditions had changed they would steal and hoard food, overeating whenever they could - seeking to fill an empty spot that refused to go away. I'm aware that all these massively obese people are now blaming their genes, but it smells of a cop-out to me. Many of them have had troubled pasts, and eating has been their way of blocking out their problems. We shouldn't despise them for their lack of control, or give up on them because 'their genes caused them to be this way'. We should have compassion on them and, when given the opportunity, attempt to help them at as many levels as we can.

All serious issues aside, isn't it great that a necessity should give us so much pleasure? Praise God for his kindness. Now, where's that peanut butter jar . . .

Retribution vs Rehabilitation

Last night I was watching a current affairs program on television (no, it wasn't Coronation Street), and they were discussing the sanity of the New Zealand governments recent choice to install under-floor heating in new prisons. In the debate the party supporting the installation frequently said "prison is not intended to punish criminals, but to rehabilitate them". And no one disagreed. Now quite apart from the fact that not even a half-brain soap opera hack writer would consider lack of under-floor heating as punishment, one has to ask the question - if prisoners aren't in jail for punishments sake, then why are they there at all? Well, didn't you hear us, the heating fellows will say It's so they can be rehabilitated! Ah, how benevolent, how nice, how civilised, how utterly stupid. It's all very touchy feely humanitarian but do the idiots who think up these schemes ever sit down and think it all through? Rhetorical question. If someone does something morally wrong you punish them. It's called "retribution" folks. Not vindictiveness or knee jerk reaction, but retributive justice. They cause pain and disruption, then they will be painfully disrupted. However, if someone is sick you rehabilitate them. The problem is that according to the worldview of our society there is no such thing as a moral wrong, and criminals are not evil or erring, but maladjusted and sick. It's psychological sickness of course, the only unusual symptoms being the criminal behaviour. How do they know that they are sick? Because they exhibit the symptoms. What symptoms are these exactly? Anything considered illegal or socially detrimental. That's the bit that worries me, quite frankly. Not the half-baked circular reasoning; that's fairly standard. It's the fact that a government may decide what qualifies a person as sick, and what procedures will cure them. A prisoner being punished has certain rights that may not be violated - and if they are violated, then the state is in the wrong. But any measures can be justified to 'cure a sick individual'. It can all be done for the greater good of the individual and society at large. If the government decides that dissenting from its policies is literally madness (it's been done before) then they will feel fully comfortable in purging that crippling madness from every 'sick' mind. If the government deems religion to be harmful to a modern society (it's being done now) then no one will have any grounds for complaint when they go to uttermost extremes to crush that 'disease'.

No one in high places realises this, of course. They're too dimwitted and/or lazy to follow ideas to their logical ends. At least . . . I hope so.

Broken Minds

Today I really got inside of Richards duplicitous head. (Alright, I know I set myself up; let the wisecracks roll.) I'd had a vague idea before that he was in conflict with himself - that was fairly obvious. But after careful reading and thought I realised that dear Bill Shakespeare had written the original Gollum, self-debate and all. There really are two conciousnesses wrestling inside his head, each vying for prominence. I was going to describe him as 'confused' but I realised that this was decidedly not the right concept. He's not confused at all in his own mind - it's as simple as "Richard loves Richard - that is I and I." Each time he speaks he makes perfect sense to himself, even though another part of him will disagree seconds later. It would be frustrating, I'd imagine, but not confusing.

I occasionally wonder what it's like for people with mental conditions that alter their perception of reality.  Do they realise that others see things differently? Do they try to resist their condition? Do they have insights into reality that we'll never discover? A wee while back I watched a documentary about a man with a seven second memory. A rare disease destroyed vital areas of his brain in when he was in his thirties - he is now over seventy. He was a great composer before his tragedy; even now he can still play the piano, and often hears music in his head. He can recognise his wife and remembers her (but not their meetings) when she is gone, but these two things are almost all that is left to him outside of his seven second window of awareness. He's kept a diary since his illness. It's filled with entries like "This is first time I've been awake since being ill. Now am truly awake for the first time. Scratch that. No recollection of previous entries. I am really awake for the first time now." I couldn't help going to bed that night thoughtful and saddened. There's no way he could know all that he was missing, but desperate frustration is evident in his writing.

His case is extreme, yes, but I don't think he'd be unique in his despair at failing to interact effectively with life and people around him. To be crippled in the mind (yes, that's what it is, I don't care what the PCers call it) is perhaps the most terrible of the infirmities. Deformation of the body is sad enough - can we imagine what it's like to have a deformed mind?

Symphony

For intents and purposes, shooting The Warren finished for me today. There are still a few scenes to do but they're minor really, and I won't be able to be there for them. It was a wee bit sad (it always is for me after finishing something of this sort), but this was tempered by the fact that there's editing and re-dubbing and drama-coaching for re-dubbing and working on special features - still to come. There is a special quality though to shooting that's different to anything in pre or post production. Maybe it's the live, on the ground, largely by-the-seat-of-the-pants type interaction between director, crew and actors.

As much as I am a lone-wolf, an individualist and a non-people-person, there's still something immensely satisfying in working in a good team. There's a functional beauty that comes when each member plays their unique part with a larger goal in mind. Not that teams are all idyllic cooperation and smooth clockwork. When you bring together people who are (naturally) very different, there are bound to be misunderstandings, disagreements and clashes. It's the way these are dealt with that makes the difference between a disorganised failure and successful enterprise. You can do a lot by yourself (much more than many would suppose), but you cannot be more than one person. (Sorry to break that to you, Mathew.) Which means that to a certain extent, though you may be immensely talented and versatile, anything you produce will have a sort of mono-dimensionality to it. Often that's fine - collaboration on things such as poetry or artwork rarely works out - but many projects, like building a memorial or making a film, would be dead flat-line if it all came solely from the mind and effort of one person. The richness found in these works comes from a combination of the ideas, styles and innovations of a range of people.

So often we find ourselves wishing If only they could be more like me. Secretly of course, because deep down we realise that this is foolish thinking. If "they" were more like "us" then that would iron out numerous problems, no doubt; but it would also eliminate vital viewpoints and inspirations that we will never have ourselves.

A violin solo is a wonderful thing when performed by a master. But when an entire orchestra swells its magic through and through an audience - there's nothing that can match it.

Very Life-Like

Well, both Dad and Mom are back home now, so things are back to - well, not normal, but at least to almost how they usually are. And I received the Narniaweb T-shirt that I ordered nearly a month ago. On the back is a portion torn from the classifieds section of a newspaper, listing: For sale - Fine collection of stone sculptures. Very life-like. Ask about our custom-made specials. - The White Witch. This evening I started to think about the ad, and the story it referenced. It was an interesting choice, after all, to have a villian who didn't kill her enemies outright - but instead froze them indefinitely in lifeless stone. Perhaps Lewis just made that up on a whim, or maybe he was influenced by Medusa of Herculean mythology who had such a terrible (in the old sense of the word) face that anyone who looked at it was turned to stone.

The point about it that caught my train of thought though was the fact that stone doesn't change. It's immobile, inflexible and dead. Living creatures, on the other hand, are constantly shifting, changing, and becoming something that they weren't just a moment ago. Aside from the obvious fact that we're moving all the time even when at our stillest, it's fascinating to note that our body completely renews itself (inside and out) in a matter of about eight years. Which means that by 2014 I will have a completely different body, and will've left the old one (yes, in stages) by the wayside. From conception, we're perpetually in motion and perpetually changing. And not just physically. Our soul grows and alters, our mind is shaped and pruned this way and that. It's a natural God-ordained process. Like most of those processes humans have attempted to tinker and mess with it, with dire results. Sometimes we don't want to change, we like things the way they are - or were. But there's no surer way to make someone useless than to trap them in the past. The future won't be utopia but that's where we're going nonetheless. Those who continue to cling to who they were and what once was - those who look 'life-like' but have stopped themselves from living - will inevitably damage themselves and those around them. And it will take the breath of The Lion to make them flesh again.

I'm preaching to myself here - I like stability, and knowing where things are at. I enjoy being comfortable. But I'm realising that comfort and life (or should I say - living) rarely go hand in hand. We must continually shed the old familiar skin, or become crippled beyond use and effectiveness.

Viewing Violence

I was thinking today about some peoples aversion to the fictional portrayal of violence, and the possible causes. They'll rarely explain to you This is why I don't watch violence when in its fictional form. Many just seem to have this vague notion that 'violence is bad'. Which, vaguely speaking, is vaguely correct. Vaguely. Having violence done to one person by another is never an ideal situation. And it's usually harmful. (That's the point, I think.) Sometimes it's far worse than 'not ideal'. It can be very bad indeed, atrocious and at times plain sick. However there are times and places for violent deeds. Almost everyone agrees on this whether they say so or not; it's a question of where one draws the line. There are many who wouldn't think twice about physically disciplining their children. There are few who would (in actual practice) object to defending themselves by violence when necessary.

Viewing it when portrayed for dramatic purposes is admittedly a different issue. But why are they objecting? Maybe they just don't like to see disturbing things. Fair enough, but I hope I don't have to depend on them in an emergency. Is it that they don't wish to expose themselves to anything that is 'not ideal'? If so, they need to find another planet posthaste. Or a very deep hole. Do they fear that they will become more violent themselves by watching it? In reality this rarely occurs, and certainly won't if the viewer is worrying about it occuring. Perhaps they don't want to become callous to the gravity of similar situations in real life. This at last is a real possibility. But still, I'm afraid, not a very high one. It is possible, after watching miscellaneous bad guys blown up or shredded or whatever, and a few sympathetic characters bite the dust, to walk away with the general impression that life is cheap and suffering is shallow - but probable? No. If someone is already under that illusion, then the portrayal will perhaps reenforce that idea. But if you know the price of pain and acknowledge the sanctity of each individual life, there's not much chance of that changing.

We live in a hard world. Let us realise it, adapt to it, and move on.

Children or Animals

Never work with children or animals, the old actors say. Well, fortunately in The Warren real live animals have been kept to a minimum. There's not too many real dead ones either. But children? The cast practically consists of children. Which can be very cute I grant you, and in this case justifies the ridiculousness of the plot, but they can be . . . special to work with. It's not their fault. Mostly. They can't be expected to act like adults (who are moderately predictable) or even teenagers (who tend to be predictable in the extreme). Kids will do things that would never even crawl across our consciousness. One thing you can always count on though: give a few boys some plastic guns (as we did today) and they immediately transform into mini-Rambos - yelling, shooting each other (complete with improvised sound effects), and not paying attention to anything that's going on around them. You have to be prepared to repeat instructions at least three times and then allow four takes before one of them says "Oh, you meant you wanted us to do that?"

It's not all bad. Sometimes an inexperienced child gives you gems that a mature actor (with all their preparation and polish) could only sit back and envy. When they can forget that they're supposed to be acting, truth shines out of them in a raw and beautiful form. A few months back I was writing some lines for a particularly important scene. It was important that the words were spoken with conviction and truthfullness, and yet when I set them down I doubted that we'd get anything better than a bit of sentiment washed over the top. It was, in my opinion, a difficult piece. The girl who was acting it however, wasn't aware of this. And so she breezed through the scene - instantly conjuring up the vital thoughts and emotions. First take. We did two more takes after that (oh we of little faith), but they were superfluous and the initial one turned out the best.

Having said all that - if I ever work with an all-child cast again anyone reading this has my personal permission to take a plastic spray-painted machine gun and smack me over the head with it. Hard.

Illustrating Dreams

I started reading a book today. Which wouldn't be so unusual if I hadn't already been reading two others. I used to belong to the school of 'finish one book before even glancing at another'. I'm afraid I've slipped (for better or worse) decidedly out of that camp. There are so many books crying out to be read! And the library (the public one, not my private one) exacerbates the problem. Because I pop in (just to have a squiz) then all of I sudden I see a title. A cover. A blurb. And I'm hooked. It only makes it more chronic when I'm on to an author who has written reams of good stuff. So I come out (heavy laden) with a deadline by which all books must be returned. Well, you can guess what that does - library books get automatic priority over anything I own or am borrowing from friends. I have gracious friends. It's not that I stop reading everything else - they just get put on the back burner. I'll do a chapter or two now and then, but visitors come first. It's a three week deadline, so that gives me time to read almost anything I couldn't help myself checking out. I never seem to remember this fact however. Or perhaps it just doesn't register with my brain. (There is a difference.) Not wanting any gem to get left behind I start (over the course of about four days) on three at once. Plus the two that I was reading previous to my library trip. It's a bit pathetic really. I'm about as disciplined as a three year old with a pile of sweets in front of him. The ununsual thing is that it doesn't appear to negatively affect my reading experience. I find that I can easily make the switch from the country Englishness of Horwoods Duncton mole tunnels, to the grimy yet comedy filled streets of Ankh-Morpork, to the high pressure world of international politics in 2020. As I turn to each my attention and emotional investment is undivided; all other stories are forgotten. Perhaps it is this 'total immersion' that attracted me to books in the first place. When people speak of being 'lost in a book' the phrase may be more than a fancy way of saying that they enjoyed it. While reading an absorbing (another interesting word) story, I hear very little of what is going on around me. My breathing changes. I shift or hunch if a character is in pain. I grin like an idiot when a long awaited development is unveiled. I'm told that people do similar things while dreaming. For me, that's what reading a good book is - illustrating a dream along tracks that an author has laid. I'm often asked if I've ever dreamed of flying. No, I reply, I never have. Yet that's not quite true. I've tumbled in the arms of the wild West Wind, soared on an eagle above the Ash Mountains, and floated on the breath of a golden Lion. That's enough for me.

The Forgotten Virtue

Wytpaygitis. It's a common disease among writers. You look at this white page and you think - how the fat am I going to fill that up with intelligent looking squiggles. And is it worth it anyway? Tonight I had to prepare a prayer topic for Wednesday's early morning meeting, and I was dead sure that nothing was going to come. I sat there gazing into the blank void, mentally probing at doors that didn't want to open. But something came, as it always does. It happens for me every weekday.

When you hit a wall, get up and hit it again. They're rarely as solid as they seem. Yeah, it's going to hurt and it probably won't look any different from the last time you did it, but it's a faith thing. One of the least extolled virtues is also one of the most practically valuable: pigheadedness. The ability to keep at a task for an indefinate period regardless of progress made. As we are no judges of people, so also we are poor judges of progress. How many times, I wonder, have we thrown in the towel when we had but to place the last straw on? And it isn't as if the interim time is wasted. Life may not be all about the journey, as the Eastern philosophers would have us believe, but neither is it solely about the destination. Sometimes we are so busy conniving and pushing and straining just to reach the goal - and then realise too late how much of the end we really missed. There's a balance to be struck, as with everything, but the malady of 'drop it if it isn't working' seems to be the more troublesome. I've loved to write for years; why then have I finished but one of the myriads of projects that I began? It wasn't working. I couldn't see a way around it. Too much effort for too little result.

What would have emerged if I had continued? Where would I be now? No, child. No one is told what would have happened. But anyone can find out what will happen. Because we can change that.

Out of the Blue

I injured my leg today. Or, more accurately, I realised today that I have injured my leg. I'm fairly sure that the initial damage was done as I was pelting down a mini mountain, running from one shoot to another. After so many years of neglecting to climb 'The Mount', running down it with a heavy tripod was possibly not a wise idea. I didn't feel anything out of the ordinary though, aside from perhaps the slightest of twinges. Then came Thursday with the busted tire and a whole lot of walking. Still nothing. Friday I decided to go easy on myself and didn't run my 5 km as usual. The weekend too was fine, although looking back I can remember once or twice I felt some very minor discomfort in my right leg. Which brings us up to this morning. Up out of bed, check emails, blogs and fansites, then dress and out the door for exercise. I noticed a bit of pain towards the end of press-ups, but that's not wildly unusual. So I began my run. At the beginning I knew something was a bit off, but hey, if you stop your run for every niggle you'll never go, right? Half way through though things were different. The pain had become pronounced and I was starting to wonder how far I'd get before I had to slow to a walk. I didn't have to wonder long; a few minutes later I was walking (shuffle-limping might be a better way to describe it), and still at least 2 km from home. It was quite painful, but not agonising - you know the type? Anyway, I got home (late, obviously) and began the day. And realised that I really had mucked the old knee up quite thoroughly. It's fine at times, but when I've let it sit bent for a while (something I try to avoid now) it's agony to use it again. I'm sure it will heal itself up given rest and a couple of days - but it was surprising how it came out of the blue this morning. At the time it seemed to pop out of nowhere, for no reason at all. Only afterwards when I sat down and thought it out, did I realise that there was a (portentous, had I but noticed) series of events leading up to the 'out of the blue' incident.

Things rarely do spring up 'out of the blue'. Almost always there's a trend or pattern leading up to them that, had anyone been watching, would have indicated the final outcome rather clearly. But we're not watching. After all, we can't watch everything. No matter how hard you try, you can't get hindsight until the fat lady sings. A fact which has annoyed many generals, politicians and boyfriends down the ages. We can at least though be a little less astonished when a person turns around and does something totally 'out of character'. We're not actually very good judges at what is in or out of character for any given person. We are not in possession of all the facts. It's hard enough for me to predict what I'm going to do a few months down the line - should we be so arrogant as to assume that we really have someone else pinned? They were such a nice person - how could they have done something like this? First off, there's not many nice people in the world. I'm certainly not one of them. I (and many others) are in the category of nice bits mixed up with some quite nasty bits. And secondly - how on earth would you know if they were nice or not; callously prepared to do 'something like this' or comparatively innocent? There's the other side of the coin too - how many people have become evil largely because everyone assumed that they were?

Maybe we need to notice the ones close to us a little bit more - and think past the surface. But it's a dangerous game to play clairvoyant. We cannot treat people differently because of things they may do. Just don't be shocked when I let you down. Love Man. Trust God.

Spheres

Imagine a world in which you never grow older - in which you can be child forever. This is Neverland. I've just finished watching the fine film 'Finding Neverland'. It certainly is thought provoking stuff. One of the concepts I was most surprised to find borne out in the movie was the idea that being a child was good and wonderful and something to be treasured - but at the same time 'growing up' when done at the right time and for the right reasons is glorious too. James Barrie (played superbly by Johnny Depp) displays little evidence of having grown up, (in a deleted scene when a boy asks why he doesn't have children, James explains that you have to be an adult to have children) he does applaud and encourage the boys he loves to make the passage to manhood.
There seem to be largely two schools of thought (or action) concerning this: one is that people should retain the irresponsibility and self-centeredness (they wouldn't put it this way, of course) of childhood well into their adult life; sometimes till death. The other is that children are stunted humans who have to be fed strong food and complicated ideology to 'unstunt' them as quickly as possible, so that they can fit into 'mature' society. Both ideas are killing us.
Children seem, in a sense, to be sphere shaped - they encompass the world on all sides and interact with it on many planes. Adults (by and large) are either trying to hang on to that small spherical shape (because it's comfortable, or they're afraid, or . . .) or stretch themselves out so they seem taller, but in reality they're whittling down the variety of world that they can see. What else can we do? My humble suggestion: remain a sphere - but get larger. We weren't meant to live child sized all our lives, but we were designed to live child shaped.
Blessed are the child-shaped, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven . . .

Unremarkables

My bike tire sputzed out today. I really should've got it replaced weeks ago when yellow started showing through the black, but no, If it ain't broke don't fix it says Christopher. Not always a good motto. Fortunately it happened on the way home from early morning work, and not on the way there. That would have been annoying. As it is I did do a lot of walking today but nevertheless managed to keep mostly on schedule. The new tire was fitted this afternoon thankfully, so I can now start worrying about when the other is going to give up the ghost. Far and away the most worthwhile investment I've ever made, my bike. I haven't been unduly rough with it, but it terms of mileage per time owned I've certainly pounded the snot out of the poor thing. It tells me about it occasionally too. But overall it's a good steady workhorse; designed not for racing or mountain biking - but specifically for riding the streets.

It reminds me sometimes of a type of person one meets every now and again. They're always there, in season and out. They have their little faults but mostly they are of the unobtrusive sort. They don't have many remarkable gifts, apart from having many unremarkable yet extremely useful ones. You tend to hardly notice that they're there unless they leave (a rare occurance) at which point you begin to realise what they were doing. They are perhaps one of the best types of people to have around in a pinch, yet they are often overlooked because they are so efficient. So what am I saying? Notice these people more? Appreciate them before they wear out or give up? Well, yes that would be nice - they certainly deserve that. But it's better to be one yourself. The world doesn't need anymore 'personalities', 'heros' or 'kings'. All good in moderation of course, but almost everyone seems to be trying to stand on somebody elses nose just to become a bit more noticeable. By and large it isn't working. It is making for a classic black comedy situation and a whole lot of trouble but not much else. What everyone needs though is someone who'll watch out for them, make them look good, and not give a fig for the credit. I'd like that. Wouldn't you?

Pied Beauty

Filming, filming, and more filming today. It's so fun! Okay, sometimes it's frustrating and painful too, (I needed to go to the chiropractor after one of the scenes I shot. Not kidding.) but you're still in a process of telling a story, which for me is an innately joyful experience. It may be tiring, trying, and downright infuriating occasionally but there's something deep in me that's saying Yes. This is what you were made for. It's not the same for everyone I'm sure, however it is surprising how universal the human attraction to stories really is.

Maybe not everyone feels driven to tell stories - but I've yet to meet a person who doesn't like to experience them. Individual taste varies greatly, but the fundamentals remain. We all love to live with characters through their struggles and triumphs, rejoicing when they rejoice and mourning when they mourn. It comes as second nature to us to relate to them, even if we hate them.

What spawned this love for the story? Is it a merely societal phenomenon, or is it something that was deposited in each one of us as we were made in the secret place? I'd have to put my money on the second, though I can't find any waterproof arguments to back it up. Perhaps this is one of the many ways in which we were sculpted in the image of God. He who created all did not withhold the gift of making from us. Fractured and grimy mirrors though we are, through this we discover one more way of becoming more like Him - creating that which was not there before. We craft works of mottled beauty and power ex nihilo. And though we will never here reflect or refract His light perfectly (some things are lost forever, and God will not wind back the clock) through our pain and faults will come something hitherto unthought of - like the dappled and many hued light in a cathedral, as the Sun falls through stained panes.

Poetic License

Yesterday I launched the second annual Original Poetry Competition on Narniaweb. It was fairly popular last year entries-wise; the surprising thing was that we didn't get so many people voting. One would have thought that it's easier to vote than write a poem, but there you have it. Hopefully we can get more of the non-poetic community involved this year.

Poems are odd things. You write one and you think you know what you're talking about (or maybe you don't) but then someone says Oh, I thought you meant such and such. You meant nothing of the sort, but you go back and take a look at it and discover (sometimes) that it really could've meant what they thought. I'm not of the school of thought that holds that the original idea of the author can never really be communicated, therefore all interpretations are valid. But occasionally one can read/hear a poem and extract something from it that the writer never intended to put there, but it fits perfectly and contains valuable truth. So what do you say then? That the author subconciously willed the possibility of that interpretation? Or that the author is right and you are wrong? If forced to choose between those two I'd have to agree (provisionally) with the latter 98 times out of 100. But those who are restricted to thinking that there is only one right (therefore valid) interpretation of a poem are missing something. We must keep in mind what the author was thinking when he created it - but it would be a sad waste to throw out the truths that we found in it. They may be just as pertinent as the originals. Perhaps even more so, for when you uncover a new thing it can tell you a great deal about yourself.

This is what makes poetry special and unique. Movies provoke your senses, written stories feed your imagination, but poetry - poetry can be a craft in which to sail to unknown shores - some far away, and others surprisingly close to home.

English: Gut and Intellect

I was having a conversation with my sister today about the value and properties of different languages. It was her opinion that Italian and/or Spanish are far superior to English by virtue of their musical qualities and mellifluous vowel-laden words. Coming from the opposite angle Professor Tolkien (whose teachings on language I consider invaluable) saw the 1066 invasion as an extremely regrettable fiasco, in that our (till then) pure Saxon language with its strong muscular visceral sounds was polluted through the introduction of soft French-based words courtesey of the Normans. So "Hé laered hine rídan / And wealdan méce / And standan fæst / And féond ne forhtian." became "He taught him to ride, / To wield a sword. / To stand strong /  And show his enemy no fear." And looking back, it is hard for me not to yearn for what was lost. But in spite of that, I believe the Norman invasion was a very important blessing in a very thorough disguise. You see, I think that with our Saxon roots we as Anglophones have something special that all the Romance languages lack. Where else in Western Europe (apart from Germany) do you find words like good, bad, cut, grab, hard, thrust, bite, gold, God, Hell, love, wed, stand, hate, sweat, cry, rip? Sorry, I got a bit carried away there. But these are strong words that evoke a vivid picture of the things they represent. Having said all that, could our great poets and playwrights have attained the heights that they did without the gentler, more refined, cultured sounds of Latin based words? I think not. From that side of the family we have gained majesty, Paradise, illumination, puissiance, honour, regal, mercy, idiot. Which sums it up nicely. Seriously though, can you imagine a Spanish Shakespeare? A German Byron? A Russian Milton? Impossible. We have been blessed with a speech that has one foot in the gut and the other in the intellect. Remember this when you talk, and don't sludge through your words as if it's Orkish we have to work with. A great gift has been given to us. We'd be sad fools to trample it.

The Humour of Horror

Well, it's official - The Warren (new pics coming soon) is back in full swing. Yesterday was the first day of shooting in months, and man did it feel good getting into it again. We got through three different scenes and for a (astonishing) change we weren't madly rushed for time. Over the course of the day we encountered horror, humour, and sometimes an odd combination of both. Someone once said that there's a very fine line between tragedy and comedy. I would venture to say that there's an even finer line between horror and comedy. It sounds unusual for any of these genres to be mixed, but the truth is that practically it can often work very well. Witness 'Jakob the Liar' and 'Braindead' respectively. On second thoughts don't witness Braindead. But the question I'm asking is - how can/why do we find tragic/horrible events so funny? To be sure, often we don't, but have you ever noticed that 'Funniest Home Videos' shows are dominated by people injuring themselves or having a very bad day? Noticed the enduring (ancient) popularity of slapstick humour? Noticed how if you want to make kids laugh, all you have to do is pretend to hurt yourself? Spotting a trend, anyone?

So then, why? Is whole human race is sadistic? Sounds dramatic, but highly unlikely. Do we enjoy seeing others hurt or sad because it makes us feel good about being more fortunate than them? Possibly, but this couldn't account for such a wideranging phenomenon - for example, do we not have ample examples of people who are suffering as badly (or worse) as their onscreen/stage counterparts, and yet they are enjoying themselves no end. Could the answer be something rather deeper and more fundamental, that few are willing to consider - we realise, in the roots of our psyche, that we were never made to live in a world so crushed by grief and pain. And the incongruency - that we, the children of Heaven who were destined and designed for the Blessed Lands, are bruised torn and battered by malice and chance - makes us laugh.

"Our movement is contained within a larger one..."

The programme for the Comps. has still not arrived. It's weird how much this is dominating my thoughts; after all it's not like anything that it will tell me is going to make any difference to what happens. I won't have to reschedule anything. It isn't a pragmatic (perhaps not even a reasonable) impulse that drives me to check the mailbox at 12:30 pm precisely every day. Rather, it's something that is comprised of four parts curiosity, three parts compulsion, and three parts of plain old "It's bally well supposed to be here by now, hang it!".

Meanwhile my prep for the same is going rather more according to plan. My programme (the performance item, not the booklet) is taking on a somewhat unexpected air of spontenaity, which has come as a pleasant surprise. My greatest weakness as a performer (as far as I know) is over-craftedness and lack of from-the-gut speech and action. So I'm quite pleased at the turn things have taken (probably largely nothing to do with me). It began with the programme theme. Last year I picked a theme that sounded noble and deep, then chose three pieces to suit it. The result wasn't horrible, but it was a wee bit contrived. This year I stumbled on three pieces that I loved at first sight (and still do months down the line) - and then all of a sudden a theme sprang up from them. And the surprising thing is, it worked. How well it worked we'll find out in July, but I've got a handle on it in my head and heart; that's got to count for something. I still havn't fleshed out exactly how I'm going to present it, but it has to do with our inability to change the great things in life and our struggle for control. All three pieces feature a character who is utterly out of his depth, and yet only the last individual will admit his complete helplessness and submit, almost, to being carried along. A profound dialogue which one of the characters is involved in (not within the bounds of my programme, unfortunately) centres on travelling in a boat. You can move around and rattle about as you wish, no one is stopping you, but your movement is contained within a larger one which carries you along inexorably . . . This is the key note for the whole theme. A little non-conventional? Certainly. But that's what came, and I'm not complaining. Maybe it's a idea people need to be exposed to. Maybe it's something I need to learn from - for in performance, though the audience always comes first, you may in the end gain more than anyone else.

Death & Empathy

Last night I watched a chilling documentary on a serial killer who posed as a doctor - giving his patients lethal injections under the guise of caring for them. At least, it was supposed to be chilling. Here was a man who killed again and again just for the thrill of it, all the while playing the perfect GP. It's the stuff of (dignified) Hollywood horror films. And yet it completely failed to enage me at any level deeper than the intellectual. Am I hard? Am I cynical? Am I over-exposed to news of evil and destruction? I don't know. I could be any, all, or none of those. The same phenomenon occured for me when three thousand Americans died in the 9/11 catastrophe. Yes, I prayed for the victims, I agreed it was sad, tragic, the perpetrators should be punished, et cetera - but I felt no pain, I experienced no shock; I merely watched. I hadn't expected it, but wasn't surprised. It was like attending a golf tournament as a spectator knowing nothing of the sport, and having little preference as to who wins. You politely clap good shots, and half-hope that some unlikely candidate comes out on top just for the novelty of it.

Is it a sign of our media saturated times that I can immediately empathise with Eric Liddel as he joyously breaks the tape, Frodo Baggins as he crawls agonisingly up the slopes of Mount Doom, and Cinque as he crys out passionately for his freedom, but I feel nothing when a real person dies? True, I don't know them, I'm not acquainted with their larger struggle, there's no emotive music in the background to create the mood . . . but these people didn't die in the morning, have a lunch break, and then do Take 2 in the afternoon. They've left us - permanently.

I'm afraid today I'm leaving you with more questions than answers. Perhaps you can't relate to this and are just wondering if I am a good person after all. Though if there's one thing I've learned, it's this: my problems are not peculiar - many others share them. As soon as you say No one has any idea what I'm . . . you're just talking a load of rubbish. There's more human in us than individual (even if the individual is the key part). People may be unique - but they're not very different.

To Pin A Blogger

I was having a conversation with a good friend last night (after I'd posted my last entry) about blogging. I mean, why would someone pour out their random thoughts to a largely unlistening world about the most trifling aspects of their life? Who are these lunatics called 'bloggers' and what is their motive? Well the first question we might ask would be that of Pratchetts 'everyman' guard cum policeman cum ambassador (yes, that was a funny episode) cum detective, Sam Vimes: "Where's the money?" (Usually very good method of untangling mysteries, by the way) The short answer - nowhere to be seen. Ya ya, you're going to tell me that some people actually make a lot of money off it yadda yadda. That's like saying The ultimate solution to get rich quick is to write 800 page novels. Yes there have been spectacular successes but unless I become an English royal sometime soon (highly doubtful) I won't be one of them. Neither will any of my friends. Probably. Well then, perhaps you think we're just oozing with thoughts, ideas and experiences and must pour them out or burst. *Cue rude buzzer noise* Wrong! Most of the time when I come to write these entries I'm thinking What the fat am I going to talk about tonight? Because I don't lead an exciting life. I'm a cleaner! And I'm not constantly pondering deep and philisophical matters, contrary to the opinion of some. So why all the effort then? Answer: We like hearing ourselves talk. Or more precisely we like crafting, then reading, our own posts. How egotistical! I hear you say. How self centered! And you're not? But really, is that not a worthy enough cause? It's more than just self-congratulation (though it, admittedly, certainly contains a bit of that). In listening to oneself think, one discovers new concepts, ideas and personal aspects never before considered. You don't 'find yourself' (anyone who is trying to do that, you have my deepest sympathies), rather you explore yourself. If you think that's a bit esoteric, give it a go. The results might surprise you. Or terrify you.

Having said all that, when we minor bloggers recieve a comment it brightens (if not our day) our hour. We like to know that people out there are listening. And I do try to make my 'explorations' interesting for those who have no such goals. Even to the extent of taking on the role of social commentator and entertainer. Both of which I'm enjoying immensely, though they sprang up accidentally as it were. What began for ourselves grows and reaches out to others.

In short: Long live the Blogger! May their days be many, and their memories sweet.

Orange Socks

Well, I've reached the end of my first day of excercise sore, but with a good conscience. My comps pieces are benefiting from a bit more serious attention too - just hope I can keep it up. Right after the competitions I'm heading off to the North Shore for a five day course in Video Production at Southseas. It'll definitely give me a taste of the place, and hopefully make 'next year' decisions easier. So I'm looking forward to that, but closer to hand I'm anxiously awaiting the programme for the comps. Not to be confused with the programme class, this is the booklet that lists all times and dates for classes, and (more importantly for me) all competitors in each class. It always gives me 'the hurry up' when I see those whom I'll be up against. Fear is second only to love as a motivator. Then comes money. But of course I'm doing it all for pure artistic joy and would never even take into consideration any *coughthousanddollarcough* prize. Shame on you for thinking it.

 

I was watching a period film on Sunday which featured a cantankerous old eccentric. Then I read a book which dealt with a flamboyant young eccentric. And I fell to thinking afterwards that eccentric people are becoming more and more rare. There's no shortage of absolutely off the wall weirdos out there, but I'm not talking about that. By eccentric I suppose I mean those who are so severely individualistic as to defy, to a large extent, society's rules and expectations. Oh, I know they're still out there, even whole communities of them. But the cold fact is that they've declined in number dramaticly, certainly from the Victorian era, but even since the 30's/40's. Why? Well, there's a few things necessary for eccentrics to thrive:

1. They must live in a time of relative peace and affluence. Otherwise they change or die.

2. They must posses a strong sense of self as seperate from the society in which they live.

3. They must be able to think for themselves.

There may be other criteria that I have missed, but lets examine those three. Most of the western world (our world) is peaceful and relatively affluent. There are few catastrophic dangers forcing people to integrate with others. So #1 is irrelevant. Strong sense of self . . . well in the lowest sense I would say that #2 is true for today. I want [whatever it is] and I'm going to have it; to blazes with anyone else. Yes, I don't think we on Earth will ever be free from that. But taken in another sense, #2 can mean Yes, I'm aware everyone else says that orange socks are distasteful, but I like them. So there. This is something we're losing fast. Is it courage we're losing, or willpower to do anything that runs against the stream, or intelligence to be anything more than stupid sheep? Which brings us to #3. Is this the key factor in the demise of the grand individualists? Can people no longer be bothered to work things out on their own? To decline to take anothers word for something, but to come to their own conclusions. To figure out who they are and what they think. To refuse to bow to molds, boxes and prescriptions. Can we not be bothered? If this be the case and a cure not found soon, humanity will march cheerfully into a deep suffocating quagmire, and be swallowed up - by itself.

The Great Cure

My brain is fried. I know, I know, that's not news for some of you but . . . I feel really tired for some odd reason. I haven't been expending much energy lately. Been getting to bed at reasonable hours. Haven't been under pressure. You know what I reckon the problem is then? Not enough hard work. Sounds counter-intuitive, but I think that must be it. When I've done a hard days work my muscles are tired, yes - but I don't have that sapped, fried feeling. My mind is invigorated when my body has been pushed.

That's my theory, actually, for why stress is such a big thing today. People are always going on about how society is becoming more stressed, how we need more drugs and counsellors and heaven knows what else. What people really need to get off their butt, out of the office, out of the building, (out of the city if possible) and do something physically hard. It doesn't really matter what. Dig ditches. Walk 15 km. Climb a mountain. I guarantee after a week of that lifestyle stress would be amongst the smallest of your problems. Now I understand that most of us can't pop off and climb a mountain every day (though if you live in my area, there's a sizable hill you can try), but the key is physical exertion. Preferably outside, not in some high-image low-function mirror-filled pop-playing gym. Get out there and run, do press ups, smash the snot out of someone if you happen to own boxing gloves (and they do too). At this point a lot of you will be asking Yeah, but Christopher, exactly how much of this stuff do *you* do? The simple answer: very little. Why? I'm L-A-Z-Y. I always intend to start these things, but I never get around to it. But now you all know. And I am formally declaring (this time in the presence of witnesses) that I will start an increasingly vigourous excercise regime on Monday the 5th of June 2006. Phew. I said it. So I'm banking on y'all to hold me accountable. As of Monday you have my full permission to heckle me about it if I haven't been keeping up. Anyone else? Tell you what, it's not much fun while you're doing it (not at first anyway) but for the rest of the day you feel alive. (Yes, I have done it in the past, but it's been extremely sporadic)

Also as of Monday my Comps. practice will begin in earnest. I'm out to kick butt this year, and I won't do it by sitting on mine.

Here I come.

Salad

I have finally finished the twelfth book in A Series of Unfortunate Events. The thirteenth and last will be coming out on Friday 13th of October. No it's not a coincidence.
As the series begins, (and indeed, the whole way along) the author implores you to put down the book you are reading, and go look for something that won't keep you up all night weeping. Melodramatic? Probably. And for the first half (or so) of these books one doesn't find much to be overly distressed about. The children are always unlucky, and hardly ever happy, but one expects a protagonist to have seemingly insurmountable obstacles to overcome. If the whole thing's a lovely picnic, then one might as well go to sleep now. But there is a subtle shift around halfway through, when the children start to question whether the things they've had to do to stay one step ahead of the villain (lying, tricking, helping to set fire to an establishment) are turning them into villains themselves. They had very good reasons for all that they did, but still . . .
The most disturbing thing is that the author makes no attempt to clean up this problem for the reader. In many/most stories there are good guys and there are bad guys; you root for the heros and boo the crooks. (Unless of course, you know the protagonists are crooks and are cheering for them anyway, cf. Oceans Eleven) Any subtlety is derived from trying to figure out if seemingly ambiguous characters are actually good or bad. Snicket, however, does not allow us this comfortable and simplistic view. The Baudelaires are the protagonists, our sympathies are with them the whole way - yet they often do things that we (and they) are not sure are the right things to do. Their morally questionable (and often deliberate) actions result in pain, devestation, and occasionally death. They didn't intend for all that to happen, but it still did, and they wonder exactly how much of the blame they should be wearing. Not knowing if your hero is actually good creates a far more uncomfortable sensation than merely watching them go through terrible things. All this in spite of our awareness (should we admit it) that we are not wholly good, that we do things we are ashamed of, that we hurt and damage other people sometimes permanently. To paraphrase one of Snickets characters, people are not just 'noble' or 'villainous'; they are more like a salad: lots of things mixed up together. This is a reality that many have avoided, because it isn't comfortable. It's much easier to slice the world down the middle and plop oneself on the 'good' side. It takes courage to look in the mirror and see not what one wants to, but what is really there. Yes, we are the children of Heaven. But let us not in our arrogance and fear forget that in each of our hearts lurk the deep places of Hell.