Jane Austen, IS, Foucault and of course rats

I've recently been trying to read "Persuasion" by Jane Austen - partially as a distraction, and partially because the name has always jumped out at me in that singular way that only Jane Austen can: there is something so dry and enigmatic, and yet unpretentious about her titles (and portrayals). Also, the idea of a less-beautiful, aged but wise heroine feels more than a bit poignant. Also I fucking love sailors.

I'm only at the beginning and I keep having to re-read pages because my eyes keep dripping from the page in fatigue (and probably also because Austen's characters generally take a bit of wearing in before they fit and become interesting). This means that I keep staring at sentences, when they suddenly jump out of context and feel abstract - or rather, bizarrely relevant. 

Specifically, this keeps disquieting me:

"It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and melancholy of so altered a village, and to be out of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne."

This is in the context of a man having to rent out his home to Admiral Croft because he is very deep in debt due to his... unwise purchases. This is a man consumed by his own self-worth: he is obsessed with his own (and others') beauty, as well as the social status of his family. 

Anne is a quiet but admirable woman (unmarried, late twenties). The person whose thoughts these are is greatly fond of Anne, although many others are embarrassed by her - as one who has lost the bloom of beauty and was reaching old-spinster territory. So far, she feels tossed about like a hot plate between people, and filled with regret (and many loud despairing and nervous sighs).

This idea that is was "painful to look upon their deserted grounds" - an image of house, still furnished with many generations of a family's possessions, empty of the people who define it as home, left for those whom have the money to afford it - felt reminiscent of how I imagine it looks and feels in Syria right now. And perhaps, the "pain" is felt not only as the genuine loss of the house for the family, but "still worse" that the place will become occupied by people who will not see it as 'home' but as a 'house' - a "ground". 

In the same way that (Foucault) words take on different meanings depending on who and where and when they are said, places too lose and gain meaning from the same factors. The room in which your father died is seen as merely a room, perhaps with some coffee stains on the table. Indeed, I think this is the "solitariness" that Austen describes at seeing a place move on. In Syria (and elsewhere in time and place), land which to a family means the whole context of their life is degraded to a mere political conquest. Having to flee one's home is more than just losing what you own and to strip yourself of familiarity and memory, but also to strip the place of the same - leading to a feeling of injustice and many other complex emotions I cannot possibly understand, never having been forced to flee my home. Perhaps Anne here, one hand always tracing her footprints, can be the symbol of memory and a time left behind. 

This book, apparently, explores how Anne retrieves a past and possibility she'd thought was lost (and her fault). 

Persuasion. 

I anticipate that I shall learn a lot from this book. 

Purgatory and of course rats

Sometimes we need to go back to heaven and hell to give ourselves context. Sometimes I miss the definitive sense of direction and hierarchy that the priests I knew as a child would instill in me, sitting in the corner of a pew at church.Christ's pale wet face, a confusing yet poignant sign of redemption, a beacon between the arches. Or (my favourite) chancing upon a near-empty church on a Saturday afternoon, hearing that distinctive clop of my shoes across the cool tiles, standing before the heart-warm prayer candles when an organist begins to practice. At first, a few big heavy chords, before the harmonies break and the roof of the church seems to swell and splinter with the discordant cries of ancient longing, "O, O," like lost whales.

When we burn in purgatory, our past is burnt off of us and we become free of our memories. All conception of self  - our pride, our presumed morals, our likes and dislikes - vanishes, alongside our pretension and guilt. 

I, for one, think purgatory sounds like just what I need right now. And I bet that idea curled some pangs of longing in your belly, just now. 

And here comes the obvious leap: what is stopping us from visiting purgatory right now, tomorrow, this evening, when you're lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, unsure if you can actually see or feel or think anything at all. 

Broadchurch and of course rats

So I've been worrying about a few things recently. Mainly small, but grating, permanent things. Ultimately insignificant, but disturbing none the less. Things that are gonna stay with me forever. Been trying to get over them, cos ultimately, things are only significant/painful if you allow them to be.

I've also been watching "Broadchurch", ITV. It's one of those who-dunnits about an 11-year-old boy in a small Dorset town. It was good (despite being ITV). At the end, they hold a funeral for the boy.

There is a church service, in which the priest quotes Ephesians, "Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you". Earlier, a man with a very painful past had said on the beach on which the dead boy was found, surrounded by huge cliffs (very similar to the "Seven Pillars of Wisdom"), "God will put you in the right place in the end". Later, after the funeral, the family and community had gathered on these cliffs and lit huge torches, and up across the whole coastline, other communities joined in solidarity. The mother "saw" her dead son standing before the cliff. 

As I was watching this, I had my (blind) cat purring on my lap, and these images and words roused in me this sense of acceptance and peace over my "things". I'm not a hugely religious person - much of me wishes I were, but lo! I am of scientific soul by blood - but I try to believe in a God, because I would like to think that the world isn't as lonely as it sometimes can feel. I find it so easy to brush through each day without a true thought towards our relationships with people around us, and the context of our existence. It is like when you see an old man, back hunched, unable to look up, only able to stare at the ground as he walks around. When was the last time he saw the sky? He would be incapable of lying down in a field. To what extent is he conscious of this lack of sky? Does he angle himself so that he can catch the reflection of clouds and sun in the windows of buses and trains? What is it like to feel rain on your back, and not be able to see where it's coming from? I suppose that's a bit like what it is like living in a world with no proof of God. One must have faith that there are clouds above.

But "Broadchurch" did give me a sense of hope that there is a context. That in time, I will be "Put in the right place", provided I do what I see as righteous. I think this is true regardless of God, as if you do what you think is right, you shall be spared guilt and feel strong in your cranny in the world. But I do like the idea of an angel (especially if they are the original meaning: not furry birds, but ancient warriors of the afterlife) somewhere nearby. I'd had a revelation recently in a mock exam: an image came to me, of myself standing in a forest, by a hut, alone. The realisation that, despite family and friends, one is always ultimately alone, as one looks out for oneself better than anyone else ever can. We all have goals. See divorces, abuse and murder. As "Broadchurch" tries to remind us: you can never truly know someone. And, as I believe, you can never truly know yourself: ultimately, we may in fact just be vessels for bacteria anyway! Why bother with goals!

But with a God or angels, you're not alone. 

I've also been thinking about death a bit. Sitting their with my cat in my arms (staring into his fragile ears), at that present moment, it was just wonderful to revel in the feeling of not having lost something yet, that one day, I will lose. 

We must remember to always appreciate and love the moments we share with people, because one day, we are going to lose each other.

Peace and love, faithful readers.

Ahab and of course rats

O, if it were in my grasp, Ahab, I would. 

And I would tell you, dear procrastinator, about him and the woes which surround himself and myself.

But Alas, that would be weird. 

So instead I shall speak in  an awkward and strained, vague tongue, so that I may look dear Ahab in the eye again and not feel yet more guilt. 

Consider this, O intimate friend, an exercise in self-expression - which, due to my British heritage, I have naturally lacked since birth - and a reconciliation of heart and fingers.

Separated by near every conceivable social constraint (and your own indifference, admittedly) I stand a figure below the cliffs, hazy in the fog as you come into harbour on your worn whaling boat. A brief periphery. Irrelevant and quiet, but peaceful only because there be no words that could change a thing. It is said the sailors could smell the perfume of their ladies of Salem even whilst amidst the tumult. But where does that leave me, if not sitting quietly on the rocks, the tips of my dress wet in the swash, and waiting aimlessly for no one.

Yet perhaps this bough tearing in through the mist is but a mirage - a nod from Above, a reminder to keep watch and faith, as if there can be two marvelous people on earth, then there can certainly be three.  

Therein, I shall sit still and enjoy your coming and going, Ahab, from my harbour, and wait for a seaman of my own to part the waters.

Secrets and of course rats

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, you have lent me your ears.

And so now I think it'd be cool if you told me a secret. As a comment? Or by bottle in the sea.

Regardless: secrets are fun and humanising and it's damn swell to share them.

I'll start: I'm a time traveler from three days in the future and I've come to tell you that something awful is going to happen soon.


Your turn.

Ahab and of course rats

Remind me to, at some point, tell you about my lovely lovely Ahab and why it's so totally awful. I can't now because I'm seeing them tomorrow and it's apparently late (in relation to when I have to peel myself out of my bed tomorrow, at least).

But for the mean time, so you know what I'm feeling, trying giving this stuff a listen:

Piazzola's Kicho (especially the slow movement. The fast sections portray the angst though I suppose)

Mahler's 4th symphony, movement 4 (this is just a general feeling towards everything. But especially Ahab.)

Rapunzel and the like and of course Rats

Johanna (Sweeney Todd) and Rapunzel. Both two beautiful, delicate blonde girls (not women) that scream chastity and virginity and submissiveness, with their clean uncut hair (is that literally a hymen reference?!) and pale skin, symbolising that they are untouched by the cruelty of the real world.

And why are they seen as symbols of beauty and perfection? Perhaps it is the "possessive alpha male" that wants a woman untouched by any other man (raised only by the Witch, or in Johanna's case: the judge, who intends to keep her for himself) and wholly innocent to the cruelty of the real world. Wanting to love something "perfect", totally separate from the horrors of the world that the other has experienced - the girls offer an escape and alternate reality. Or perhaps (back to the big scary [read:vulnerable] alpha male) it is the girl's total reliance on one other to take care of them (protection, and providing food and shelter) that satisfies the possessive, insecure part of the man/woman. These girls are the naive virgin archetypes. 

And yet, they can be feminist figures too! Past their appearances and "femininity", these girls actually also show how when women are kept as children, kept naive and sheltered, they resort to deep longing and (ultimately) escape and rebellion! These girls are so inspired by their cages that they rip their way out, beaks and feathers plaited into an escape rope. Johanna tries to run away with that blond guy, and obviously Rapunzel has her prince. (Oh hey a pinch of salt to the feminists: it is the men that steal them away, rather than their own individual efforts. But none the less: girls, breaking free of their oppression.)

I was trying to think what these girls would actually look like, if they lived their whole life locked up in a room. 

No sunlight: sickly palor [read: pale as fuck and blotchy skin]. Rickets. Weak bones and teeth. Sensitive, mole-like eyes. Also, depressed as fuck. 

No exercise: (obviously) fat. Inability to sleep. Very low muscle development and a bad circulatory system. Look older. 

All in all, a crazy ugly ill person. I'd love to see a representation of Rapunzel like this, rather than the perfect blonde that they show. It'd be way more interesting to see a rabid girl ensnaring a prince and then hijacking his horse and riding into the distance. I think a lot more people would relate to her that way too.

I bet afterwards she'd become a bandit.