I woke this morning to a cluster of news headlines that made me shake my head in sadness and disbelief. I contemplated writing a blogpost about said headlines but realised that many, many others will be doing the same thing. So I wasn't sure that I could add anything that, if it had not already been said, would have been said within a few hours.
As I prepared breakfast, I heard the unmistakeable opening bars of this:
It behoves us all, at times, to hold back on the judgement, to imagine standing in another person's shoes, to see the world from their perspective, and to remember that each one of us is unique. We are who and what we are and we are all connected.
A simple piece of music so often goes straight to the heart of things.
I'm not referring to my poor neglected blog, of course. The muse has been on an extended vacation and other things have been happening, as things are wont to do, but I just took some deep breaths and trusted that all would be well, writing-wise, in due course.
I always think of January and February as my fallow time; nothing much is done, apart from the essential. The lack of light, the lack of sun, the wet and the cold all contribute to the slow smothering of creativity and then . . . and then just when I think I will be trapped in the cold, wet, grey creative fog for ever, somewhere and somehow a small trigger is pulled (sometimes several small triggers).
Which is precisely what has happened in the past few days; e-mails from a patient reader, wondering where I had gone, and from a new reader, who had stumbled upon a recent post containing a U A Fanthorpe poem. Well, thank you for the nudges, dear readers; they were just what I needed.
And the next nudge came on Sunday. Friends were visiting and after we had walked all the dogs (theirs and mine) we tucked in to a proper winter fireside tea. The conversation turned to two television programmes from the previous evening: Sinatra Sings, which I had seen but they had not, and Lucian Freud: Painted Life, which they had seen but I had not. My love for Sinatra's music was pretty much on a par with one of the friend's love of Lucian Freud's work.' If money were absolutely no object, she said, 'he is the first artist whose work I'd buy.'
I caught up with the Freud programme that night and was struck by parallels in the lives of these two men who, on the surface, could not have come from more different backgrounds. Unless one starts with the family history of exile from another place . . .
Sinatra SIngs includes rare footage of The Voice in a recording studio. Sinatra had an intense dislike of being filmed when he was recording and yet this footage conveys so much of what made SInatra a master of his art. The concentration, the intensity, absolutely in the moment . . . and then, when the recording is finished, he slips seamlessly back into wisecracking mode. And then his face as the recording is played back . . . no words needed.
A Painted Life also included not simply rare but unique footage - Lucian Freud at work in his studio. And in his studio on the very last day that he painted. Contributor after contributor, colleagues, former partners, daughters, models all spoke of 'Lucian's intensity'. That word again.
And all the other parallels: the women, a life lived on their own terms, the hordes of people wanting to press the flesh, the absolute dedication to their art. Awkward, difficult, challenging, brilliant men - with devoted daughters, who spoke of their fathers with love. Tina Sinatra fondly remembering her father sitting by the pool, listening to a ball game on the radio; one of Freud's daughters (Esther I think) is moved to tears as she remembers running her hands through his hair for the first time, when her father was already an old man.
I found both programmes fascinating and, yes, moving, although I appreciate that, in SInatra's case, the myths, the stories, the scandals all have a habit of getting in the way of the music. And there are those who find Freud's work offensive, not least the paintings of his daughters.
It will always be a conundrum. Do we allow the artist's (whatever the art form) behaviour to inform our reaction to their art? I remember once reading a very hissy-fitty comment about a well-known and highly regarded writer who, it transpired, had slept with people to whom they were not married at the time. If the words 'Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells' had appeared at the end of the comment, I would not have been surprised.
As to the conundrum, I rather think that Gay Talese got to the heart of things - as least as far as Sinatra was concerned - in this groundbreaking article, which originally appeared in Esquire in 1966.
I happened to mention Sinatra's vocal accomplishments to an acquaintance yesterday evening. She pulled a face, saying that she found it surprising that someone who so often hit a wrong note, managed to make his voice sound rather good. Wrong notes? How come I had never noticed? 'Not my sort of music. At all. But I do hope I haven't spoilt it for you,' she added. (Er, no; I think it would take more than that.)
Experience should have taught me that now was not the time to mention . . . Lucian Freud. The acquaintance made another face and mentioned the thing about the daughters. The conversation trailed uncomfortably away.
Ah well.
You, lovely readers, will have your own view about these things. Sinatra Sings has already been shown in the US; meanwhile, UK readers can still catch it here until 25 February. (And UK readers can also watch Lucian Freud: Painted Lifehere until the same date.)
Since watching both these programmes, I do find myself wondering what sort of world it would be if the only art that was produced, the only songs that were sung, the only books that were written, the only music composed, had emanated from people who led pure, blameless and spotless lives. (If I knew anyone who had led a pure, blameless and spotless life, I might be able to tell you.)
Meanwhile, I'll just leave you with Frank. In the studio. Doing what he did best. And, as far as I can tell, not hitting a wrong note.
I recently wrote a piece elsewhere on a journey I'd made in Peru in 1988, when I was on an extended assignment in Latin America and had travelled by train from the town of Pisac to Aguas Calientes, the end of the line and the place where visitors could catch one of the boneshaker buses that snaked upwards around the mountainside to Macchu Picchu.
These were challenging times for Peruvians and visitors alike; there was widepread civil unrest and Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) guerillas were locked in combat with the police and the military for the hearts and minds of the populace; thousands of innocent people were killed, entire villages decimated. It made travelling around the country hazardous; impromptu road blocks in the form of boulders would appear overnight, transport was unpredictable - if you managed to reach your destination on an outward journey, there was no guarantee when or if you would get back again. (An impending rail strike meant that I was lucky to get the last scheduled train from Aguas Calientes to Cuzco later that day; no-one knew when the train would run again.) There was galloping inflation and there were strikes and long queues for basic foodstuffs like bread and sugar.
I couldn't tell you why I chose to write about this particular journey; after all, it had taken place almost a quarter of a century ago so it wasn't fresh in my memory. I'd kept a travel journal at the time but have no photographic record of my stay in Peru as my Olympus cameras, films, a video camera and sound recording equipment were subsequently stolen by baggage handlers at Lima's Jorge Chávez International Airport, after I checked in for a flight to Colombia. The baggage handlers succeeded where muggers in Cuzco had not a few days beforehand. I'm not sure if this sort of thing still happens in Peru but then it was commonplace. (I should add that all the above notwithstanding, I fell in love with Peru, met and worked with some inspirational people, and would go back in an instant, if I could.)
Although Sendero Luminoso became notorious for its cruelty and ruthlessness, the police and the military were little better - they embarked on their own killing sprees, sanctioned by the government, to wipe out the guerilla movement. In 1992, Sendero Luminoso's leader, Abimael Guzmán, was captured, put on trial and sentenced to life imprisonment. A retrial in 2004 resulted in the same verdict and he remains in prison in Callao, where he is kept in a subterranean cell. Sendero Luminoso, meanwhile, is still active in Peru.
Writing the piece brought it all back to me and I've found myself thinking about Peru and those perilous times a good deal in the past month.
So you will understand how amazed I was to read in theIndependent last week that that my nearest market town - just seven miles down the Exe Valley Way - had unwittingly provided shelter to someone from the other side of the conflict: Rodrigo Grande, a former Peruvian policeman who is wanted for crimes against humanity. The Independent report didn't name him but our local newspaper, whose pages are normally filled with stories of town hall profligacy, community group activities, cheque handovers, and the like (think Framley Examiner) certainly did.
'We track down the man arrested over allegations of crimes against humanity' it roared in a front-page 'EXCLUSIVE' under the headline 'CONFRONTED'. The paper's reporter (and photographer) had come face to face with Señor Grande on the doorstep of his brother's Italian restaurant in the town centre and, no, I am not making this up. He's been here for 18 months apparently. Goodness; who knew? The funny thing is, a small Mid-Devon town (am tempted to call it 'sleepy' but don't want to ruffle the feathers of the good burghers of said town) is probably the last place you would imagine finding a Peruvian accused of crimes against humanity, which therefore makes it an almost perfect location in which to disappear. Almost but not quite. And, besides, Sr Grande hadn't actually disappeared; he worked openly at the restaurant, never taking a day off, according to the landlord.
Anyway, Sr Grande was hauled off by Metropolitan Police officers at 7.00 am last Tuesday, interviewed at Exeter police station and released on bail until 20 July. Will he be returning to Mid-Devon, I wonder? (Next week's headline: 'Local people seek assurances about Peru's most wanted . . . ')
Meanwhile - and this has absolutely nothing to do with déja vu - the organisers of Mid-Devon's forthcoming agricultural show, which is held in the same town, also find themselves in a bit of a stew over a story linked to human rights abuses in another part of the world. Its newly elected president, who would normally be expected to open the show, is the sister of the King of Bahrain. Yes that Bahrain, where people are being gunned down in the streets and that King, the one who had the British tabloids fuming about the fact that he had been invited to the forthcoming royal nuptials. (But it's OK because he's not coming.) The king's sister owns a local dairy farm and spends the summer here, which explains - apparently - how she came to be elected president. And where else would you spend your summers when you're the sister of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the Middle East?
I mention all this because the AA is issuing dire warnings that the price of petrol is escalating so steeply that we rural types will all soon be trapped in our villages for ever, unable to afford to drive anywhere. But, as you may be wondering, do we actually need to go anywhere with all this international incident stuff happening under our very noses? Forget roses round the cottage door, forget Cath Kidston cuteness; these days country living is cutting edge.
I realise that I have let far too many days lapse since I last wrote a blogpost. I started several and discarded them as it seemed pointless to be writing about the minutiae of one woman's life in these turbulent and dangerous times, with North Africa and the Middle East in turmoil, and the forces of nature in wild tumult on the other side of the world.
So I missed the opportunity of telling you about the pleasure of being involved in World Book Night and giving away 48 copies of the wondrous Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie to young and adult students at my local further education college.
And I missed the opportunity to tell you that Christmas Holly made an almost instant and seemingly complete recovery from her stroke. I too am recovering, slowly and gradually, albeit at not quite such a remarkable rate but then I'm not a dog.
And I also missed the opportunity to tell you what a joy Griff Rhys Jones's television programme on the history of Indian textiles was. Celebrity presenters can often be intensely irritating but Hidden Treasures of Indian Art - one of a series on tribal art - was exquisitely shot and thoughtfully presented by someone with due respect for the subject. UK viewers can still catch this and other programmes in the series on BBC iPlayer - although not for long. If textiles, especially embroidery, are your thing, you will be salivating.
But these, inevitably, were small oases in weeks dominated by coverage of the cataclysmic events happening in New Zealand and Japan, especially Japan. As a representative of Save the Children in Sendai reflected, nothing in the aid organisation's previous experience of working in disaster zones could have prepared staff for dealing with an earthquake, followed by a tsunami, rising radiation levels and a potential nuclear meltdown.
So, we have watched these ghastly events with growing disbelief, finding compassion in our hearts but wondering what, sensibly and practically, to do with it. And while all this has been happening half a world away, people close to me have been going through hard and painful times. My dear friend, the Only Other Blonde in the Village, lost her much-loved mum last week; her mother had a long life, had lived for her family, and died peacefully in her sleep, aged 100. But a mum is a mum and irreplaceable; their passing leaves a deep wound.
Today someone I love very dearly rang me with sad and distressing news and I have been wandering around in that place of ice and lead where shock dwells. The Only Other Blonde and I had to do much mutual comforting on this morning's dog walk; thank goodness for the balm of friendship.
As is so often the case in times of disaster and enormous upheaval, poets can express individual and collective feelings far better than most of us, as we grapple to find a word, a phrase, a sentence that doesn't smack of mawkishness or cliché. It must be more than 40 years since I first read The Second Coming by W B Yeats but it has stayed with me ever since. Other bloggers have quoted these lines in recent days but they bear repetition:
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned . . .
I was thinking about these words when an email arrived from my Friend in New Zealand following her most recent visit to Christchurch, where she holds a monthly homeopathic clinic. She described the scenes of devastation and the experience of aftershocks, which were continuing, and sent thoughful, sensitive photos. This was one of them:
So . . . I trotted off to my post-radiotherapy appointment with the clinical oncologist earlier this week. Not, thank goodness, the clinical oncologist with zero patient communication skills and disdainful of anything that is not 'scientifically' proven. What a difference attitude makes. This doctor came in smiling, introduced herself, spotted 2010's ubiquitous Christmas present that I was holding and let out an "Ah, a Kindle! What's it like?"
I was reading A Tale of Two Cities (downloadable free from Amazon: bargain!), which, she said, just happened to be her favourite novel and which has the very best opening lines of any novel except, perhaps, for Anna Karenina. So I was more than happy to give the doctor her very own personal demonstration, right there in the consulting room. Forget breast cancer, forget radiotherapy, we talked Dickens instead and of the small miracle that is a Kindle, which would enable you to take the great man's entire works on holiday, in your handbag, should you so wish.
But, of course, I wasn't seeing the doc to talk about Victorian literature, nor about 21st century technology, so we did, eventually, get down to breast cancer business. The good news is that I passed the radiotherapy test with flying colours and no side effects and I have now been signed off and returned to the continuing care of my surgeon (ie regular check-ups for the next five years).
We also discussed the decision I had made about what is called 'adjuvant' (ie hormone) treatment and she was wholly supportive of that decision. I'm not going to say what the decision was because it relates specifically to the nature of my cancer, the excellent prognosis I had been given, and my particular family medical history. Suffice it to say that I feel greatly encouraged that both my GP and this particular oncologist take such an enlightened view of the patient's right to make informed decisions about their treatment. And, unlike her colleague, this oncologist is all for patients doing the best they can to support themselves, in terms of healthy eating and keeping fit and focused on recovery.
I wonder if her more flexible attitude is in any way related to maturity experience (ahem), as she is much closer in age to me than her much younger colleague. Will the younger doctor's ideas mellow as she gains more experience, sees more patients? Will she ever reach a point where she might be prepared to acknowledge that science does not, as yet, have all the answers? Let us hope so, for her patients' sake.
But back to kindling (and, yes, I am - much to my amazement - already a huge fan). My Kindle hasn't replaced real, proper books - printed on paper, with covers - for me. How could it? But I love being able to slip it into my bag to read at the dentist while I await the joys of root canal work or when I am travelling. The acid test, for any dedicated reader, is . . . can you curl up with a Kindle in your favourite reading spot? (Under the duvet for me.) And the answer is, yes, you can. Well, yes, I can. So, a huge thank you to the Dear Daughter and her Best Beloved for such an ace pressie.
On a far more mundane level, kindling of the wooden sort is languishing beside my cherished woodburner, as I managed to smash one of its glass panes recently. Just in time for the latest cold snap. So, essential repairs to this have now been added to the tedious and ever-growing list of boring household maintenance chores, a list that has spiralled out of control over the past six months while my mind has been on other things. Along with correspondence, paperwork, stuff for my long-suffering accountant, and general domestic flotsam and jetsam. But (she said) stifling a yawn, who wants to read about that? I'm sure you have enough of your own to contend with.
In any case, I am doing my best to start the year in positive mode. For example, Christmas Holly, the dog who has come to stay permanently, is doing well and recovering, like me, from surgery. She too has had a lumpectomy . . . we've formed our very own home-based support group.
And I've just been given a year's contract to write a monthly blog elsewhere, which comes in very handy, especially as it should pay for three-quarters of a tank of heating oil. Or enough petrol to keep the car running for 20 weeks, which, living in the middle of nowhere as I do, is very welcome indeed. Always good to know that one hasn't completely lost one's professional touch when one has not only reached a certain age but moved well beyond it.
Meanwhile, a plague on all the houses of the purveyors of now hugely expensive heating oil. As soon as the woodburner is fixed, it will be back to the logs for me as I'm still using my own wood - the trees that were felled here a couple of years ago. Come Saturday, my own personal logger AKA the window cleaner, will be here with his chainsaw and trusty assistant AKA his son. There will be coffee; there will be cinnamon flapjacks; there will be a store full of logs cut to exactly the right size - and there will be kindling.
