Tea-stirring Times

We live in tea-stirring times, so tea-stirring in fact that my thoughts go round like a teaspoon circling tea-dyed water which being made up of thoughts, too, is mud-like; viscous. The spoon, then, has not the same brisk purpose. That's why it's so much easier to have a straightforward cup of tea. No milk, no sugar please, I'm a black tea kind of girl. (When will I progress to using woman? I've long passed the age of girl; girl, however, sounds better doesn't it? For you must admit it gives a certain ring to that sentence, like a teaspoon dinged on the rim of a cup as if to signal the end of the stirring ritual or to grab someone's attention.)

Tea-stirring times is not a phrase coined by me – why would you imagine so? Did you by the way?- although I do like my tea (black or herbal though it may be and limited at the most to four or five cups per day) but by Christopher Isherwood's Mr. Norris, and who knows who it was coined by before him? Perhaps the real bald, wig-wearing, sexually deviant man of contradictions. (You're interested now, aren't you?) Or perhaps it came into usage at some earlier point in history when times were also tea-stirring.

The British believe a cup of tea makes everything better. Strong tea. Milky tea. Sugary tea. Good for shock. Good for scandal and setting the world to rights. Good with anything: breakfast, lunch, dinner and in-between. Good at any time. It's genteel – dainty and ladylike; it's builder – down to earth (a spade's a spade) and masculine. A cup of tea is rarely refused: 'Love one', we say with a sigh when asked, no matter how it comes: in a pot with a china cup and saucer, or in a microwave, dishwasher safe mug. And tea, however it comes, must be stirred. The impulse to do so is automatic. The liquid, even if unsweetened and black, must be agitated; a brief vortex created. For if it isn't, well, what will happen? The taste will be different, your fortunes if told will be reversed. No, seriously, I don't know what might happen if this ritual is neglected; I still stir. And stir ever more vigorously, too. My mug becomes a percussion instrument: I ding with the spoon, I tap with my short nails on its sides. The teacup, though squat and circular, becomes a triangle: its tinny small ring high-pitched but faint; lost unless the atmosphere is hushed.

Silence. Tea is being drunk.

Two friends together sip the brown brew at the same time; at another table, a woman takes thirsty gulps whilst her companion, across from her, nervously nibbles the corner of a sandwich; a man sitting alone stares into the cup: is it full, half-full, half-empty or empty? A girl at home, with a fresh tea before her stops talking to herself and lets her thoughts wander, before her fingers once again waggle impatiently and poise themselves over the lettered keys.

Break over. Pause done.

Nothing is better, not really. Nothing has been resolved, for plans formed when drinking tea rarely come off ; an idea may bear fruit or it may not, and tea though it may have planted the idea won't be the deciding factor. Tea, like night thinking, makes everything clear and then sense kicks in and the feeling fades.

Talking, sharing, doing recommences. People come together, part, with kisses and hugs and declarations of : 'We must do this again!'; those, on their own, check the time and make a dash for the door; those with nothing to do, sit or make a pretence out of waiting for someone or something. Some, deeply alone, make no pretence at all. They do not even think, they just sit, hunched with eyes glazed until they become aware tables are being swept around and the only voices they can hear are those of the staff; all too ready for the chairs to be stacked and the Closed sign to go up.

Politics haven't been touched on, for whenever an opening was ripe neither a teapot nor a teaspoon could be seen, could be found, and you don't, well, you shouldn't if you do or attempt to, discuss politics without tea. For it makes a whole mockery of living in tea-stirring times. So many comments can be averted or disclosed with tea: pouring distracts, the spoon adds further emphasis to what is or is not being said, and the cup conceals the mouth.

Picture credit: The Tea Set, 1872, Claude Monet (source: WikiArt)

This post was penned in 2019.

Free Hand, Free Mind

I read of twentieth century wars and historical events and somewhere in my reading end up thinking: what would van Gogh have made of this? In thought and art. 

I own a volume of his letters and some reproduction prints, but I'm not sure how he would have coped, if he would have coped with the annihilation of war, world war, had he been of the same nature, just born much later than 1853. These events, if nothing else, would, I think, have driven him to the brink of madness. Or brought a severe and lasting depression on to darken his vision and torment his mind.

The land he admired torn and churned up; its peoples broken apart. His Starry Night would have been a very different Starry Night, capturing an unusually peaceful still evening before once again the skies were abruptly split by the machinery of war and people were running for cover.

Yet all the same I wonder what art would he have made? What studies and paintings? A bias part of me thinks they would have been amazing; amazing as in what in reflection they would tell us - those of us that weren't there - and provide, as I'm supposing, an entirely different interpretation of those times. Vincent van Gogh's vision of war would have been striking. Chilling, even, had he been able of course to pick up a brush and paint it, because I'm still not sure had he been around during the first or second world wars he would have been able to. I don't think his impulse, that creative streak in him, to sketch, to paint, to capture colour would have prevented him, but his intenseness might. His own character. The horrors of war might have made him turn away, retreat or deny it was happening, or perhaps his art would have been more brush swirls and vivid unnatural colours; abstract-like, all texture and motion, nothing distinct like an optical illusion of various shapes and shades. The world as he saw it disturbed. A mental, a visual adjustment.

But if he hadn't been able to paint it, he would have written of it – to Theo, his brother, if nothing else, of that I'm sure. Perhaps commented on his latest efforts, where he had been and what he had seen, whose likenesses he had drawn or felt compelled to remember, and on the nature of warfare: the scars it brought and the scars it left, on lands and peoples. The hardships, the poverty, the food scarcity and any 'luxuries' or kindnesses that might have come his way.

But, you say and quite rightly too, other artists, writers and poets who were there have captured these wars? Paul Nash, David Bomberg, Edward Ardizzone, Edward Bawden; Siegfried Sassoon, Robert Graves, Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke; Ernest Hemingway, Martha Gellhorn, Erich Maria Remarque and Christopher Isherwood to name but a few. Participant or non-combatant they all depict and record aspects of war, some that we'd like to forget but to do so would dishonour lives: all who survived and all who fought. 

Then there's the novelists that scatter it amongst their leaves: in the background but not as the overarching theme, as well as those that bring it to our attention now, in realistic detail, like Michael Morpurgo.

War easily enters the world of words and pictures.

Free expression. Art as therapy.

War makes an impression. Art marks a passage of time.

War shapes lives. Even Homer's Iliad could be said to be an example of this. Wars and other events preceding any that might occur in our own lifetimes can still years later influence art and minds. The shadows of it forever cast on the human psyche. Ghosts of the past rise up, fade, then again rise. There are stories that need to be told, moments caught. Writers, poets and artists are best placed to do that – at the time of it happening, upon reflection, or in the future. Interpretations are never merit-less; a new perspective can always be learned from, and that includes a new perspective on an old one. People change. Memories, opinions soften or harden. Facts are sometimes fact and sometimes not.

One Man, alone, can't defy the world, but he can express what he sees, what he feels.

Picture credit: The Starry Night, 1889, Vincent van Gogh

This post was penned in 2019.

The Contest

Life, every single sphere of it, is a contest, a competition. Rivalry exists, in nature, or is made, by humanity.

Outwardly, it serves as entertainment; inwardly, as dogged determination to be recognised, to survive, to overcome.

A struggle with witnesses or without. An audience of few or an audience of many. Friends, family, colleagues. A public that's paid. To watch silently or shout encouraging words, utter consoling sounds.

Breaths are held at the spectacle. Emotions that threaten to rise to the surface are fought against. There are gasps, there are flutters. There are sighs. There are worried as well as jubilant expressions. Childish delight is there too as is irritation, frustration and anger.

The speaker speaks, the listener listens, waits his turn. The lips move, the ears hear.

The writer writes, the reader reads and critiques – to himself and to others – the words set down on the page. One more concerned with language, the other with style.

The actor goes through too many emotions, in and out of character. They constantly play off and against each other, always in role or rehearsing a part.

The athlete uses all his strength, all his skill to lift a four-hundred-pound weight; the athlete, next in line, dusts his hands with chalk, and with his eyes measures up his adversary.

Life is full of vaudevillians.

They are there too among the workers: the factory, shop, office and business people.

And also among the philosophers; and undoubtedly amongst the politicians and Heads of State.

Contest of politics, of debate, of opinion and thought – of what you say and how you say it, as well as the tone you deliver it in. Stare down and yell over the competition; or be moderate and rational but witty. Flash insincere smiles to the audience and to the cameras.

Contest of personalities, contest of celebrity - those aspiring to such heights and those trying to keep their profiles visible. Their name in lights. Their person instantly recognisable. And of all types, too.

Thespians, of film and TV. Politicians, from every party.

Sports men and women, of all sorts. Writers, of all genres. Philosophers, of all schools.

Members of the public, from all walks of life.

There is no science. Some people just want fame, super-stardom or lesser degrees of it. Some want that and power too.

One contest is like another: conquered sport, conquer writing; conquered writing, conquer film; conquered films, conquer politics. Lead: be an spokesperson, be an activist.

And win. Every time. That apprenticeship, that contract, that talent show. Outbid, outrun everyone else. Run rings around them.

Even a loss is a win, if other contests are won. If a balance can be struck between work and life, between stress and calm. Between wealth and poverty.

Conquer yourself...

No, that can't be done.

But what kind of contests are these that can only be lost or managed?

The internal, which exist between head and heart, between mind and stomach. Between cells and organs. Between skin and bones; hair and nails. And between the camps of the brain itself.

Conflicts arising between, as well as in, chambers. Though the cause of this infighting is not, as mythology might tell us, a woman, but a state of being. An emotion felt. An ache, a pain. Looking for release or dissolution. Distraction, even.

Where distraction triumphs, the contest, the conflict continues, until a deeper hurt, a larger wound, a heavier blow comes about. Destruction follows.

The mind, then, is friend and foe. Comrade and opponent.

Picture credit: Warrior, 1982, Salvador Dali (source: WikiArt)

This post was penned in 2019.

The Greatest Spinner

What became of Arachne of Lydia? She boasted and won, but lost. That much we know. All spiders die, so I guess she did too, as nowhere does it say she was cursed with extra legs and immortality, so how then might she have met her end? By boot, by broom, by a rolled-up paper, of natural causes.

And where? In a damp stone cottage, in a villager's house, in a mansion, a palace? Was she free to hang wherever she pleased or was she caged like an exhibit?

Does Arachne not have an ending because in presumably spawning children, and lots of them, she created not just amazing webs but a vast lineage, like and unlike her in size and shape yet all able to weave and spin? Only she can claim she was once mortal; all through her can claim to possess a great skill.

Which is better: spider man or woman or Man, in male or female form? Arachne of Lydia would be able to answer that, as would those comic heroes. I could reason it out, I suppose, but it would be unfairly biased, for I think all spiders quite hideous and only appreciate their creations when sunlight falls upon them and they've abandoned them or are nowhere in plain sight. I personally would never choose, despite this incredible gift of weaving, to be a spider, though I guess Arachne didn't either. She was foolish.

As mortals, have we learnt from her folly? Insult someone, unwisely and unnecessarily, and your life, your reputation might hang by a thread.

So should we not insult anybody? Well, ways and means, ways and means, is what I would say. Diplomacy. Britain seems to have lost the knack – did it ever have it? It must have at some point, mustn't it? Except now, or over the last few years, the country seems to have descended to name-calling and verbal attacks, all of which says very little of consequence, or gets anybody anywhere. Even politicians can't be relied upon to set an example to the nation. No, in some instances they whip the hysteria up or are so concerned about their own public image and their ratings they join the people: the popular opinion of the day, speak at rallies etc., regardless of how it might affect any other, possibly more important, relations.

The product of spin. That's what we all are. That's what we all swallow. At first an old lady accidentally swallowed a fly and then she purposely swallowed the spider. The spider wiggles and tickles inside her. Hmm, there's truth in the rhyme. A prophecy foretold.

Challenge and boast. Boast and challenge. But not to inflate the ego. Or because it can be done i.e. the medium is there to do it.

Spiders, despite being merciless with their victims, are (I think) quite humble creatures. The myth of Arachne feeds into that: reduced from maiden to spider, and yet permitted to retain the skill she bragged of. Lowered but not entirely crushed. Perhaps Arachne, though, would have preferred the latter outcome. Ovid had her attempt it. As really, I don't see that spiders lead very interesting lives, but then weaving – with needle and thread - has never been a passion of mine.

Weaving, as in storytelling, rather than telling tales, well, yes, there's that. But spinning is altogether different. It's a persuasive art. And is much more brash in style. Those that master it, or are the masterminds behind it, can be guaranteed to tell a good yarn. The sales people of the world. Let down a thread and reel them in. Toy with them for a while or trap them forever, mummify and benumb them.

Net of hypocrisies. Web of lies.

Yet nonetheless a skill. Abhorred and admired. Nimble mind, silver-tongued and winged fingers to gesticulate, to accompany their smooth and rousing words. Much like an orchestra conductor. An individual, a crowd of people will soon all sing the same tune, in harmony. In one accord, even when the interpretation changes to suit the agenda. These 'leaders' have what a spider lacks: Charisma, with a capital C.

The skill of the spider then has evolved. As have the modest webs of old, of mythology. The greatest spinner does not mean what it used to mean.

A small brown spider weeps.

Picture credit: Arachne, Paolo Veronese (source: WikiArt).

This post was penned in 2019.