obscure origins 2

Some years back I met a lovely man called Carlos Luis Caceres-Callazo through an old friend. From a Puerto Rican background, he had trained as a lawyer then, to the disappointment of his family, instead of pursuing a career in law, decided to work for the UN High Commission for Refugees. At the time I met him, he had just started working for the UNHCR in Moscow and he entertained us, recounting his experiences there. These ranged from the mafia connected, strange gay bars that sprang up here and there, only to disappear again (including one with a huge glass tank in which naked young men swam), to his bafflement of the regularity he was stopped by the police in comparison to other foreigners there. The penny dropped when he began to work with Chechen refugees – through coincidence or some mysterious genetic synchronicity, he realised his hispanic appearance, resembled that of a Chechen.

Sadly, his life didn’t end well. After Moscow, he was sent to West Timor where, along with other UNHCR workers, he was murdered, burned and dragged through the streets by right wing militia members.

Remembering Carlos

See www.qsl.net/kd4syb/

and http://members.tip.net.au/~wildwood/01junresponsibility.htm

where did all the music go?

Over the years, I’ve accumulated quite a bit of music, first on vinyl then CDs. In my early teens it was mainly Glam, especially T Rex and Bowie, late teens, it was Gong (with their pot-head pixies) and Steve Hillage (blush), dub, then a bit of punk, Poison Girls and Twotone, Ska, 80s electro, Human League, Cabaret Voltaire, Bowie (again), Psychic TV, old R&B, soul, Marc Almond, latin, lounge and the odd bit of Britpop & Amy W. I especially liked dancing to it all, even including Latin & Ballroom at lesbian & gay tea dances. I also listened at home, though I’ve never been able to handle background music whilst I’ve been focussing on something else.

But now, I never listen to it.

Why? I guess like most people music is associated with moments in my life but as too many of those times have painful associations, as I moved on, I sealed them off so that to listen to them now brings up the hopes I had then and the disappointments that followed. They were connected so much to the social side of my life that, with bad health and disenchantment, I’ve lost touch with. The problem with shutting off Plan A when you move onto Plan B, is that, eventually, you run out of alphabet, run out of words and run out of music.

salad days

I’ve lived in London for more than 25 years, first in ‘short life’ and, more recently in a small street level council flat. In each of these places, I’ve had a share of a back garden although I’m ashamed to say that (in spite of having a degree in Botany) I’ve done very little gardening until recently – originally because I was plain lazy and more interested in going out, then because I shared my house with keen gardeners who took over things.

Now, my share of the back garden is a 4m x 4m plot and I’m glad that, a few years back, before my back got to be so bad, I got around to clearing, digging, landscaping and planting. Rather pretentiously, I originally had the idea (borrowed from Japan) of the English landscape in miniature – pool, brook, hillock, predominantly native plants with a hawthorn and wild rose hedge on two sides with ferns, birch, oak and willow. Typically, the result is considerably less refined than this, though most of it’s there, with a babbling brook spiralling from the top of the grassy knoll into a pond. A few exotics have crept in: Gunnera, Passion flower, olive and fig trees and it regularly gets battered by foxes and ravaged by slugs and snails – an Angelica lasted a few days before being reduced to a stalk, lupins, delphiniums and goji have gone a similar way. Attempts at growing butternut squash and tomatoes failed and the yield of strawberries and blueberries has been minimal.

This year I decided a different tack to escape the slugs and snails and planted a windowsill trough with basil, parsley, butternut squash, nasturtiums and a cheap pack of mixed lettuce and wow! So far, so good – I have an explosion of lettuce that is difficult but delicious to keep up with consuming. If you’ve a sunny windowsill, secure your trough safely and keep watering – highly recommended!

being an individual

Some time back I got to know a very likeable Bhutanese monk who was teaching at a meditation centre in the UK. As the weather was getting chilly, it was thought it would be nice to buy him a fleece jacket and, when asked, he requested a maroon one, similar in colour to his robes. Although, eventually, a suitable jacket was found, initially, only a red one was, which he had declined as he felt it would make him stand out from other monks – preferring to keep to a ‘uniform’ appearance.

This made me reflect on our modern obsession on being individualistic which, perversely, seems to result in hordes of Jordan and other clones, whereas with this monk who was making great efforts to conform, his naturally, uncontrived, individual qualities shone delightfully.

obscure origins

As a teenager, I was on a youth expedition to Jamaica, studying plants and was bemused to find many locals asking whether I was Cuban. More recently, in France, some have thought I was German, in Egypt, Lebanese and, just recently someone thought I might be Moroccan, like himself.

Sure, in bygone times, when I had hair, it was long and very curly. I also tan extremely though abhor sunbathing and tend to keep to the shadows if the sun is hot. However, being white, British, I am a little baffled by this though also a little pleased as I delight in our diverse origins and am very attracted to the idea that random genes showing through might be indicative of exotic ancestry. Perhaps that might also arise from a lifelong feeling of being on the fringes of society or any groups I might nominally belong to.

My father and late uncle spent some time tracing our family history to various corners of the British Isles and the unusual family name to Pembrokeshire – nothing especially exotic except for a maternal great-grandfather called Wallace Omar, so last year we took the plunge with DNA ancestry. Although not quite as expensive as it once was, it’s still not cheap so the most finely detailed options not really affordable. I waited with baited breath for the results only to be faced with the anti-climax of discovering my origins were pretty bog standard Northern European. Yawn.

I suppose I had succumbed to our modern desire to be different, special, individual.

the accent of confidence

Faulted only by her modesty, Sylvie, speaks excellent English. She loathes her accent whilst myself and her many other friends find it delightful. Once, when I questioned her view, she related an invitation she had once had to a meal with a French friend’s family who had an English guest. She had been enjoying chatting with him during the meal until the mother of her friend interrupted, reproaching her for ‘putting on’ the (Clouseauesque?) accent. Of course she felt mortified having been doing no such thing but I can understand how the unwarranted accusation might have dented her confidence.

On the other hand when I saw her with some Francophone friends recently, she was again insisting that my French was very good (it really isn’t) so they were asking me whether my reticence to use it was mere laziness. I should add that, aside from my patchy recollection of French grammar and inadequate vocabulary, I was also hampered by a temporary dental plate (awaiting a new bridge) which made speaking English a challenge. Having inadvertently left the plate at home the following day, however, I did make a brief attempt at conversation.

On a previous occasion, I had discussed trying to learn to speak a language with an English couple I know. Gwen, like myself, perhaps a little uptight, trips, embarrassed by the mess she hears herself making whereas David just stumbles along, confident that he will learn from any mistakes he might be making. I reckon he has the right idea but I still worry too much that I’m being so insulting if I mangle a language. However, a while back, during at not very successful attempt to improve my Arabic in Egypt I sort of managed it...

The most wearying things in Luxor, Egypt is the constant hassle – as a man, travelling alone, any attempt to enjoy a relaxing glass of tea in a Café (even away from tourist areas) is usually interrupted by a barrage of unwanted, intrusive and, often dubious, conversation (in English) from local young men. At some point I realised that, as I had reached the point where (I’m a little ashamed to say) I didn’t care if they felt offended by my poor Arabic, I was free to dive in, drawing on the little fus-ha (standard) and even more patchy a3mmya (colloquial) that I knew, conversing in the direction I wanted, away from their unwanted offers of trade in Egyptian bananas. Confidence, a little boosted, later on I attempted a conversation with someone else who seemed thrilled that a foreigner could speak (a little Arabic) as, even those who are resident there, rarely do. Our conversation covered a variety of areas, including Barack Obama and US politics – though much felt like a poorly tuned radio station, fading out most of the time – I was surprised at what I could follow and it was most enjoyable. 

on the other hand

Recently my Monégasque friend, Sylvie, lent me a DVD set of Pushing Daisies. Although our taste in movies and TV overlaps greatly, I was doubtful that I’d enjoy it as the trailers I’d seen lead me to think it was going to be syrupy clever American pap ...

Delighted to find I was wrong – sure I could see a connection with the excellent Amèlie but they had taken care to make it much more than a lazy clone. On a whim, I watched it with French subtitles which added an extra dimension. My French is rusty and I could see the subtitles were abbreviated but it was delightful to see how they’d chosen alternate French idioms.

Having watched the first series almost back-to-back, I wanted more but my timing was off as the second (final) series had just finished on UK TV (and not quite out on DVD) so had to resort to iTunes via a slow Virginmedia cable. Yes, I enjoyed it almost as much as the first – I say almost because I had no option for French subtitles. I missed that extra cultural richness and also realised that they had also given me a sense of watching it with my Francophone (though fluent in English) friend.

lost in translation

Watched the interesting ‘Feast’ set in Japan last night but found myself irritated by the laziness of translation. Whilst exploring the ‘Big Penis’ festival, the local priest says the penis is regarded as ‘a God’. Whilst I don’t understand Japanese, I did recognise the word she used as kami. Certainly the capitalisation of the word god was inappropriate as is the word, which is etymologically linked to the idea of a Lord or Big Boss – perhaps OK in a Judaeo-Christian context but not here. Deity, connected via deus to Sanskrit deva meaning something (special) than shines (& so touches the heart) might have been better, or perhaps spirit. The Japanese have many kami that symbolise the essence of aspects of their lives, environment that are felt to be worthy of appreciation and celebration (better words than worship) with feasts and festivals. Other traditional cultures have similar notions though use different names (eg Tibetans with drala).

Later in the programme it is stated that the Japanese belief in Shintoism and Buddhism was contradictory, as was their claim not to be religious. The confusion arises from merely skimming superficial meaning rather than examining the experience the words refer to.

Perhaps it is too much to ask of a TV programme made for mass consumption (even on BBC4!) and, although gimmicky, by participating in the ‘Naked Man’ festival, the presenter might – through experience – have got a fleeting sense of what was going on – inasmuch as anyone could on such a fleeting visit. Without depth such programmes run the risk of descending into opportunities to giggle and poke fun at ‘superstitious foreigners’.

Wonders of modern technology

Oooh! Aaah! Just because you can do it, doesn't make it clever... or interesting.

-- Post From My iPod Yawn!

grand prix

Knowing I have a Monégasque friend, my parents have been asking me whether I’d been watching the Grand Prix. Given that I have no interest in motor racing or any other sport and the fact my friend lives in the old town (in a small flat, almost opposite the palace – so she has posh neighbours!), aside from accidental glimpses whilst channel surfing, I had not.

To my delight, however, she gave me a surprise call last Sunday and began by asking me whether I could hear the race in the background. I said I was surprised to realise I could, to which she pointed out that Monaco is a very small place (which I knew) and that it was said that the cars could be heard up to 50km away (which I didn’t know).

I went on to relate the previous night’s mishaps and she suggested, in respect to the bottle throwing incident, I might like to borrow her delightfully eccentric elderly aunt as, when faced with such petty antisocial behaviour, she is singularly adept at putting such miscreants in their place – and so found yet another reason for wishing my best friend didn’t live so far away. Even with the language barrier, I’m sure her aunt has the presence to convey the appropriate sentiment!

a night on the town

Last Saturday, I had an irrational urge to take a step out of my hermitage and go for drink in a local pub. I’d had an ill starred first date in the Hemingford Arms last year that was commandeered by a fellow drinker – myself and date feeling prevented by compulsive ‘niceness’ to escape. However, I reckoned, if I was to head there alone, I might benefit from the friendliness of the clientele. Arriving at about 8pm, the pub was busy but mainly groups so, after an hour of nursing a pint without conversation, I rashly decided to make a break for the local gay pub just down the road, near Kings X...

Not the wisest of choices as it proved to be practically deserted, reminding me that I had made this kind of mistake before – gay pubs in London tend to be very quiet on Bank Holiday weekends, at least at around 9pm. A further pint was duly nursed there and I did actually manage a short chat with someone who worked there, slightly surprised to hear him, after introducing himself, add that he was also known as Sue. Whilst, generally, my dislike of modern gay bars reinforces my reclusiveness, any nostalgia for days gone by doesn’t include the fondness for gay men to adopt so called ‘camp names’ though I did appreciate the albeit brief friendly conversation. Having endured almost an hour of otherwise solitary supping and deciding that the downstairs Masters & Slaves event was unappealing, I paused for a cigarette outside before escaping home. Standing there with a handful of other smokers, I noticed a trio of ‘lads’ walk past before they paused conspiratorially just around the corner, then running past & chucking a bottle of water (or perhaps something recently excreted) in our direction. Fortunately it hit a parked van in front of the van rather than anyone standing nearby and I found myself wondering about the mentality of someone who finds such a ‘courageous’ act necessary to bolster their machismo.

Heading back home by bus, mind undoubtedly addled, having consumed two pints of lager (such uncharacteristic ‘binge drinking’), with further rashness, I decided to visit my nearest local – quite a ‘basic’ pub. For my delectation there was a noisy wedding reception in progress. A third pint was duly nursed as I lapped up such delights as a couple of intoxicated women danced on the bar, precariously, to such classics as ‘YMCA’ and ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’.

Finally, filled to the brim with an evening of such exotic delights, it was time to head home – thankfully 5 minutes away. Quite surprised not to be bogged down dwelling on the fact that the evening had not really delivered what I had hoped for – very little social intercourse (let alone any other variety) – I arrived back with a wry smile on my face... but also a resolve not to repeat such a folly, at least not until I’d forgotten how ghastly it all was – perhaps in a year or two.

tendrel

In a nutshell, Buddhism, describes ultimate truth/reality as being empty – not meaning nothing but beyond the scope of conceptual thinking whilst this manifests in a way we generally apprehend as connecting patterns of meaning. In classical Buddhism, the negative aspect we make of this is outlined in the 12 nidanas (links of interdependent origination) – a vicious circle where we reactively create our own suffering. Many methods are taught for breaking free from this and becoming liberated. 

The Tibetan term for nidana is tendrel. On the other hand tashi tendrel was what they called auspicious coincidence, usually reserved for moments of good fortune.

It is so easy to get bogged down, struggling with the stuff of life that the idea of escape seems impossible – if only we could get rid of the messy stuff...

Typically, however, Trungpa Rinpoche emphasised that the important thing was not to struggle to eradicate the stuff but recognise the whole circle as tashi tendrel – appreciating all the interconnected, messy stuff as the perfect opportunity to wake up, here, now and delighting in the beauty of our bittersweet lives (and a sense of humour is as essential and the courage to be willing to look at what is happening rather than chasing a fantasy).

Anyhow, enough! The devil (and, perhaps, the angels too) is in the detail so intend to steer clear of philosophising, proselytizing etc. The proof of the pudding is in the eating so hope you pop by for an occasional taste...

inspiration

My main inspiration is the late Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a meditation master and all round extraordinary human being who escaped from Tibet, following the Chinese invasion in 1959, finally settling in North America (via India & Great Britain) where he shared a vision and innovative methods for appreciating every aspect of our apparently problematic lives, without hiding behind the robes of mystical exotic.

Recognising that, in spite of sharing much in common as human beings with Tibetans, in the modern world, many things for us are profoundly different – psychologically, culturally and environmentally – which necessitated stepping beyond the cosy cocoon of many traditional approaches whilst being totally authentic to the essence of the wisdom of his training – one strand of which he described as the ‘Mishap Lineage’ – hence mishaporama and appreciating every detail of life – even the uncomfortable ones.

why?

Having recently become a rather miserable recluse due to health problems, hope this will give me a helpful output for otherwise frustrated desire for expression... hoping a sense of humour might rescue this from becoming a personal vomitarium, instead sparking the odd wry/rye smile from readers (if there are any). 

what?

Welcome to my first stab at blogging which, mindful of the erratic aspect of my temperament will leave plenty of scope for all kinds of odds & ends with associated tangentia (some neologisms too – I like language – and am prone to going off on tangents), some pretty random elephants and, perhaps, some serendipity amongst the running catastrophe of discovering what it is to be human in this world we share – in my experience, more thorny than rosy...