Authentic - Writing & Photography by Sally Draper

Six Years Later by Joseph Brodsky

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 11:49:00 +0000

So long had life together been that now
the second of January fell again
on Tuesday, making her astonished brow
lift like a windshield in the rain,
so that her misty sadness cleared, and showed
a cloudless distance waiting up the road.

So long had life together been that once
the snow began to fall, it seemed unending;
that, lest the flakes should make her eyelids wince,
I'd shield them with my hand, and they, pretending
not to believe that cherishing of eyes,
would beat against my palm like butterflies.

So alien had all novelty become
that sleep's entanglements would put to shame
whatever depths the analysts might plumb;
that when my lips blew out the candle flame,
her lips, fluttering from my shoulder, sought
to join my own, without another thought.

So long had life together been that all
that tattered brood of papered roses went,
and a whole birch grove grew upon the wall,
and we had money, by some accident,
and tongue
like on the sea, for thirty days,
the sunset threatened Turkey with its blaze.

So long had life together been without
books, chairs, utensils -- only that ancient bed --that the triangle, before it came about,
had been a perpendicular, the head
of some acquaintance hovering above
two points which had been coalesced by love.

So long had life together been that she
and I, with our joint shadows, had composed
a double door, a door which, even if we
were lost in work or sleep, was always closed:
somehow its halves were split and we went right
through them into the future, into night.
------------------

Faith Fox by Jane Gardam

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 08:29:00 +0000

Childless and alone in the huge house except for Hugo's sorrowful dog, Pammie surprised all her friends by her heaviness and inanition. Hugo had after all for years been no more than a benign shadow seated with glass and newspaper under a standard lamp, Pammie a stocky seraph flying past him at intervals, eyes fixed on her own ploys.

But Pammie the great organiser of Surrey rituals now could not even give orders for the funeral or the wake. Pammie the paradigm of common sense and courage in the face of disaster, so decisive and practical, now allowed letters of condolence to pile up unanswered, gave up her magistrate's duties and her golf and her singing. Bridge she just about managed, 'for her mind's sake,' she said, 'and as long as nobody says anything', but she was withdrawn and looked disagreeable and her partner grew fidgety and then sniffy. There was a vulgar, old-persons' sort of row and that was that. Pammie stayed home.

But the worst of the loss of Hugo was how it attacked like a killing virus the very gut of Pammie, her sure, religious life. Froze it. Set it in aspic. God melted under its strobe light. And this hard cold light seemed to Pammie to be some sort of poisoned present Hugo had sent her posthumously from wherever it was he had gone when he fell, face forward, across the mower as the late autumn roses sparkled at him through the open garage doors. Hugo's going pierced that layer of Pammie that she had confidently labelled Christian and put of it spilled only a ragbag of old rubbish.
------------------

The Sea by John Banville

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 12:28:00 +0000

"Happiness was different in childhood. It was so much then a matter simply of accumulation, of taking things - new experiences, new emotions - and applying them like so many polished tiles to what would someday be the marvellously finished pavilion of the self. And incredulity, that too was a large part of being happy, I mean that euphoric inability fully to believe one's simple luck. There I was, suddenly, with a girl in my arms, figuratively, at least, doing the things that grown-ups did, holding her hand, and kissing her in the dark, and, when the picture had ended, standing aside, clearing my throat in grave politeness, to allow her to pass ahead of me under the heavy curtain and through the doorway out into the rain-washed sunlight of the summer evening. I was myself and at the same time someone else, someone completely other, completely new. As I walked behind her amid the trudging crowd in the direction of the Strand Café I touched my fingertips to my lips, the lips that had kissed hers, half expecting to find them changed in some infinitely subtle but momentous way. I expected everything to be changed, like the day itself, that had been sombre and wet and hung with big-bellied clouds when we were going into the picture-house in what had still been afternoon and now at evening was all tawny sunlight and raked shadows, the scrub grass dripping with jewels and a red sail-boat out on the bay turning its prow and setting off towards the horizon's already dusk-blue distances.

The café. In the café. In the café we."

Listening to: 'Everything is Alright' by Four Tet
------------------

Just Finished - The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 12:51:00 +0000

In all honesty I found The Virgin Suicides to be a rather disappointing novel, mainly because I can't decide whether I loved it or hated it. The plot is without depth, starting and ending on the basic premise that five sisters commit suicide, with little deviation into alternative plotlines. While I'm not a fanatical fan of overtly dramatised twists and turns, I did find myself to be merely biding my time until the inevitable happened. Perhaps this would have worked better had I been exposed to more imagery, but instead I coursed my way through the book with few highs and few lows.

That said, you could argue that this laboured trudge perpetuates the feeling of inevitability that comes from knowing the book's outcome at the start, and the feeling that once the first domino has fallen, little can be done to avoid total devastation. While stripped of any real beauty, the writing style is wistful and dreamlike, and I was able to breeze through the entire book without much effort.

Character development was on the whole non-existent. While one of the Lisbon sisters, Lux, demonstrates a mishievous and rebellious nature, the remaining girls blur into one character, with seemingly little to differentiate them from one another. Likewise their parents, and particularly their mother, remain a complete mystery, which intensifies the confusion over their repressive and eventually apathetic behaviour. And lastly, the narrator(s), the boys who loved them, simply look on the scene with morbid fascination, but with no real traits or tendencies of their own.

I really wanted to love this book, and perhaps I have missed the point as so many other reviews have given it considerable acclaim, but I cannot deny the fact that it didn't match my hopes in reality. That said, there were some beautiful paragraphs, and while I maybe slightly disappointed, that doesn't prevent me from appreciating it as a simple, wistful and eloquent book.

"They had killed themselves over the dying forests; over the manatees maimed by propellers as they surfaced to drink from garden hoses; they killed themselves at the sight of used tires stacked higher than the pyramids; they had killed themselves over the failure to find a love none of us could ever be. In the end, the tortures tearing the Lisbon girls pointed to a simple reasoned refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to them, so full of flaws."

Lovely mugs

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 14:00:00 +0000

I have fallen head over heels for these gorgeous Alice in Wonderland-esque mugs from Dotcomgiftshop. Now I just have to find an excuse to buy them...

A capital adventure - Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 23:00:00 +0000

In a recent surge of independence, I have been eagerly cramming my diary with new things to see and do yo expand my cultural repertoire. Working in the UK's capital is brilliant in theory. Futuristic office structures stand side by side with vast staples of history; while theatres, cinemas, restaurants and tourist hotspots are accessible in every direction. And with thousands of exciting nooks and crannies to keep you entertained for a lifetime, it is a crying shame that my working week regularly consists of the same route to and fro, without any deviation from my commuter path. So, embracing a slight change in routine, I decided on Friday 13th to take myself off to the Ancient Egyptian section of the British Museum.

Last year I went to Egypt and travelled down to Menya where I visited a tomb in the desert. I wasn't allowed to take photos of what I saw there (something which was sternly reinforced by the AK47-wielding man who accompanied us), so it was nice to get a reminder of the beauty of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. The last photo in this series (of an unnamed Egyptian) reminds me of the mummy in the tomb in Egypt. Isadora - a princess who fell in love with a commoner and died crossing the Nile to be with him.

After my little adventure into the past, I wandered the streets of London until I got to the Duchess Theatre. Opened in 1929, this quaint little building almost seems dwarfed by some of the larger theatres in the immediate vicinity. I had purchased a ticket to see Plague over England, which tells the story of John Gielgud, an actor who was arrested in 1953 and whose case was instrumental in the eventual legalisation of homosexuality in England. Witty, dark and complex, I laughed and sighed my way through three blissful hours, sharing moments of joviality with the couple next door who sipped happily from their hip flasks. A capital idea.

Just Finished - White Oleander by Janet Fitch

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 15:30:00 +0000

I had never heard of this novel. It was bought for me by an American friend who wanted me to try her favourite book. "Oprah's Book Club" it said on the front. "Oh dear," the snobby side of me thought. Another 'Richard and Judy' type novel. My last two experiences of their literary hit list had left me bruised and disappointed. To me, The Bookseller of Kabul and The Five People you Meet in Heaven had been lifeless globules of poorly written tat. Now when I see a book brandishing one of those R&J-endorsed stickers, I tend to steer well clear.

That said, I checked out previous authors to feature in Oprah's Book Club. Gabriel García Márquez, John Steinbeck and Toni Morrison - perhaps I had pre-judged Oprah after all. So I dived in, and what a reward was to be had.

White Oleander is the heart-wrenching story of a young girl's journey through adolescence as her eccentric, bohemian mother is incarcerated for murder and she is shipped from one foster home to the next. The story of Astrid begins with dreamlike reflections of her childhood, focusing on the naive adoration she has for her mother. However, as the book unfolds, Astrid grows wiser to her mother's disposition, and this, coupled with a string of traumatic experiences in various foster homes leaves her disillusioned, confused and unloved.

Fitch's ability to describe people and contexts is quite exquisite. Her inventive use of language and the similes she employs are breathtaking, and I found myself hypnotised from beginning to end. The subtle changes in Astrid's personality as she hardens to her experiences were incredibly effective and realistic. Her radiant naievety is occasionally tinged with Lolita-esque impishness as she navigates her way through complex situations and emotions. Her ability to adapt to her surroundings as a means of survival is both impressive and tragic, as it hints at Astrid's desperate need for constancy in her life. The plot is at times sad and poetic, but glimmers with hope and triumph. Dark and rivoting enought to be realistic, but not so traumatic that it hardens the heart. In all, a writing style to be envious of and a plotline to match.

I would recommend this novel wholeheartedly to anyone wishing to lap up some beautiful and uniquely descriptive literature. To highlight what I mean, I have included an extract below.

The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I. I woke up at midnight to find her bed empty. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.

"Oleander time," she said. "Lovers who kill each other now will blame it on the wind." She held up her large hand and spread the fingers, let the wind trace itself through. My mother was not herself in the time of the Santa Anas. I was twelve years old and I was afraid for her. I wished things were back the way they had been, that Barry was here, that the wind would stop blowing.

"You should get some sleep," I offered.

"I never sleep," she said.

I sat next to her, and we stared out at the city that hummed and glittered like a computer chip deep in some unknowable machine, holding its secret like a poker hand. The edge of her white kimono flapped open in the wind and I could see her breast, low and full. Her beauty was like the edge of a very sharp knife.

I rested my head on her leg. She smelled like violets. "We are the wands," she said. "We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental."

"The wands," I repeated. I wanted her to know I was listening. Our tarot suit, the wands. She used to lay out the cards for me, explain the suits: wands and coins, cups and swords, but she had stopped reading them. She didn't want to know the future anymore.

Just Finished - House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 16:39:00 +0000

First impressions may lead you to perceive this novel as an elaborate gimmick. 100-page stretches scattered with just a couple of words, upside down text, mirror image text, diagonal text, coded text. One story running through as normal while a totally different narrative courses through the footnotes. On closer inspection though, the concept is not random. All of it is intent on mirroring the changes in the House and the effect it has on its characters. Danielewsi takes eveything you've ever thought a novel to be and deconstructs it entirely. The confusion, fear, impermanence and unpredictability of the House in question is reinforced literally to the reader through the random arrangement of the pages. That said, this strange construction at times felt lie a burden. Often clarity eluded me as I ventured though its tangled labyrinth of passages. Something which at times became hard work and downright frustrating. Style over content perhaps at times?

It's true the book is incredibly strange. Half horror story, half academic paper, I found myself as an aspiring novelist reading this debut novel with only one way to describe it: intimidating. However, its weaknesses did become clear at certain points. As I stumbled over chapters in absolute boredom, before breezing through others in morbid curiosity, I found overall that the ineffective character development left me with little concern over their end.

In all, I enjoyed this book, and I'm glad I read it. But I definitely get the impression that it is a fashionable book, and this is where it draws much of its acclaim. That said, it is not without artistic merit. Parts were exceptionally well written and purely for thinking outside the box, Danielewski deserves 10 out of 10.

Just finished - A Working Girl Can't Win by Deborah Garrison

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 19:54:00 +0000

She Thinks of Him on Her Birthday

It's still winter,
and still I don't know you
anymore, and you don't know

me. But this morning I stand
in the kitchen with the illusion,
peeling a clementine. Each piece

snaps like the nickname for a girl,
the tinny bite it was
to be one once. Again I count

your daughters and find myself in the middle,
the waist of the hourglass,
endlessly passed through and passed through

but holding nothing, dismayed
by the grubby February sun
I was born under and the cheap pleasure

it gives the window. Yet I raise the shade
for it, and try not to feel it is wrong
to want spring, to be a season

further from you - not wrong to wish
for a hard rain, a hard wind
like one we sat out in together
or came in from together.

I was drawn to this collection of poems for the simple fact that the author is a female editor in her twenties, much like myself. I found myself resonating with much of the imagery, from the occasional frustration of feeling patronised by older staff members to finding one's own legitimacy in an environment where you often have to upset people by challenging their writing capabilities. In otherwords, many of the poems put into creative form the feelings and frustrations I experience every day.

In all, I found a lot I could relate to in these poems, but their technical merit is nothing particularly special. Perhaps if I wasn't a young, female editor, I wouldn't feel so enamoured by them.

Five years later

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 21:01:00 +0000

Stuffed like sardines into a tin can, face squashed against the grubby tube door, I shifted my gaze from the stuffy, uncomfortable sweat-pit surrounding me to focus on the platform to my right. Outside, hovering by a tatty brown leather holdall, stood a young guy brandishing his 'Cambridge University' sweatshirt. Drifting back to my own student days, and the torments of navigating the London Underground on my way back to Kent with several bags of luggage, it occured to me that 2009 is my fifth year out in the wide working world.

On reflection, I couldn't have asked more for my present circumstances. I love working for a charity, I love the charity I work for, and I love the work I do for that charity. But is this what I always had in mind? Have my original plans and aspirations been fulfilled?

I distinctly remember my first week of uni. While the endless parties, events and social activities have merged into a seamless blur over the years, what I do remember distinctly is being rounded up and herded into the gym along with every other first year, to be ruthlessly exposed to 'freshers address'.

I remember those unfathomable statistics: "150,000 students applied for places at Nottingham this year. Only 4000 got in."

I remember those grossly inflated ego boosters: "you are not in the top 20% of students applying to Nottingham, nor are you in the top 10%. You're not even in the top 5%. In reality, you are the top 3%..."

And so it went on.

I remember the wild promises that chased me for three years straight, pumped into my blood by well-meaning tutors with little realistic grasp of the world outside academia: "You shouldn't expect to start on less than 25k in your first job out of university. Not if you're a Nottingham graduate..."

The truth is, I believed it. I believed it with total conviction. I didn't even think that competition for jobs would be an issue. I was the top 3% afterall...

Initially I was convinced that law was the way ahead, but the prospect of coming out of uni £12k in debt only to be forced to find another 10k for a law conversion and 7k for my qualifying year was hardly alluring. The back-up plan was publishing.

I thought about the private sector, but I didn't very much like the idea of scrabbling my way into a publishing house through the sales department with the feint hope (along with 100 others) that I might get my big break. Graduate schemes too smacked of choice opportunities for companies to exploit cheap labour, cashing in on some young, eager-to-please newbie who winds up doing little more than making coffee and booking hotels on the internet.

No, the charity sector looked much more fun, but I was fast becoming aware that I didn't have a hope in hell of breaking the back of that mountain without some years under my belt. I needed hands on editorial experience.

To cut a long story short, it took me five years of meagre pay cheques, long hours and hard graft to get to this point. And really, I've only just begun. So am I where I want to be? Yes, I got there eventually. I didn't land the perfect job straight away, but I realise now that that was never realistically going to happen. At first I considered myself to have well and truly failed. But 5 years on I no longer blame myself or my capabilities. Instead, the blame has shifted. Now I genuinely believe my university was at fault for giving me such unrealistic expectations for my immediate future, which ultimately led to enormous self-doubt on my part when they could not be fulfilled.

Five years out, and I'm pretty pleased with where I'm at, but I realise I want to go a whole lot further. Weird to think how naïve we are when entering the working world. I just hope that Cambridge student gets more honesty than I did.

Stories from Colombia

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 13:43:00 +0000

Another old post I didn't want to lose:

May 2007

I recently came back from Colombia and I decided to post up a few photos of my work and travels for everyone to see. I went with the charity I work for to help run workshops for human rights defenders. It was a very special experience, with lots of laughter and at times some tears too. I thought I'd share some of the highlights so happy reading!

Firstly we went to Pereira, which is a major coffee-growing region and is absolutely beautiful. The small plants in the distance are all coffee, growing on the hillside.

Here are a couple of the people from the first workshop. The man nearest the camera is from an indigenous indian tribe. His community suffers intense persecution.

This is a photo of me and Marleny. Marleny is devoted to human rights work and has suffered some desperate consequences. A guerrilla group wanted to kill her because of her work, so they kidnapped her colleague and tortured him for eight days to find out where she was. He wouldn't give up the information, but she knew she wasn't safe and had to leave the region. Soon after, the guerillas murdered her father in revenge for her effortsto promote human rights. Then her mother died after having an operation. She used the money left to her to study psychology at university and now she is an advocacy coordinator working on behalf of people suffering human rights abuses in Colombia. She was absolutely lovely, and despite the fact that we couldn't communicate other than through a translator, we really connected.

This is Yuri. She is 22 and from an indigenous community in the south. In Colombia, beauty is determined by how light your skin is and effectively how 'European' looking you are. People like Yuri who have indigenous indian features are considered to be the least attractive of all Colombians. I thought she was beautiful.

Yuri told us how she had witnessed a massacre in which men, women and children had been butchered with chainsaws. It broke my heart to think that someone so young had seen such horrific and barbaric things.

After the first workshop, we went for a walk into the tropical rainforest...

Pereira is surrounded by beautiful mountains. The terrain is incredibly hilly which makes travelling by car very dangerous. I took this photo on the way to the airport. We had to take a lot of internal flights because of the terrain, but also because the mountainous and rural areas are conflict zones with a high paramilitary and guerilla presence.

Next we went to Medellin where I had the opportunity to snap a few birds and flowers. I also so hummingbirds and an electric blue dragonfly, but they were too quick for me. Plus every time I saw them I had the wrong lens on my camera, and by the time I'd changed it to the right one they had gone :(

During the second workshop in Medellin, I came across many more tragic stories. The one that touched me the most was that of Orfa. Orfa, her husband and her two children were living in a region which had a high paramilitary and guerrilla presence. Her husband was one of the community leaders, who was working hard on local initatives to improve housing, water sanitation and other basic amenities. A paramilitary group was interested in his influence, and wanted to recruit him but he refused. Three months later, they turned up at his house in the middle of the night and told him to walk with them somewhere. Orfa was terrified, and fled to a neighbour's house for help. She heard gunshots and a few hours later the neighbours went out and found his body. As a result of her husband's murder, Orfa and her two children are displaced, and now live in a children's home where she works with other displaced children. Orfa knows who killed her husband and despite the pain she endures, she says she wants to see them and tell them she has forgiven them. She was a true inspiration. While her testimony was being given she cried, and we were all heartbroken for her loss.

The evening after the first workshop I went out for dinner with some of the Colombians. The man on the far right is called Lacidez. he has initiated a prison fellowship programme, which aims to bring victims and perpertrators together to teach forgiveness and reconciliation. His work is amazing, and he has seen many imprisoned paramilitaries and guerillas asking forgiveness for their crimes, as well as the families of victims granting that forgiveness.

On the fifth day we went to Tierralta, where we visited some displaced communities. To get to them, we had to travel over the river on a weird raft. It has no propulsion, and instead relies on the river current to push it across, while huge ropes stop it from drifting downstream.

On our way to the first displaced community we saw this guy...

There a three of these communities here, called Treasure, New Hope and New Dawn. The project which is responsible for these communities, CORSOC, has taken on families and communities who have been displaced by violence, purchased land for them to live on and helped them to build houses. They also work on projects to provide them with sustainable living, so enabling them to grow their own crops to sell, helping provide clean drinking water, roads, a school etc. Considering most displaced people are forced into extreme poverty, CORSOC is doing an amazing job in turning lives around for these people.

This man is called Chadith. He is 28-years-old and was displaced in 1998. He now lives in the youngest of the communities, Treasure, and his house is being built as I speak. They are 2-room breeze block constructions with a thatched roof, and he was so excited and proud of his new house. It was a joy to see.

Here is another family whose house is currently being built. This project is giving them opportunities they never normally would have. The women has begun planting yucca trees so she can sell them and earn money to survive.

The three photos below are of children from Treasure. I gave them all Starburst and they went crazy! Some of them even tried to eat them with the wrappers on because they'd never had them before!

The houses in Treasure are all spread out. Each family is given six hectares of land to cultivate their own crops.

In the second community, New Dawn, I saw my first monkey! He chirupped like a bird which was a bit strange. We gave him a Starburst which he was very happy about.

Here's a pretty butterfly I saw in the second community...

Here's one of the older community members of New Dawn

Moving between the communities, we had to get over a creek. They had strapped three logs together to make a bridge, which was pretty precarious. I was not impressed because I was carrying over £2000 worth of camera equipment and the bridge was very narrow. Luckily I didn't fall in though! Here's my colleague being helped across.

Here are some pictures of kids in the third community, New Hope. This is the oldest of the three, and has been around for about four years. They are nearly entirely self sufficient, with all their buildings completed. Each of the families has a different role to play. Some keep chickens, some work in the shop or bakery, and their lifestyle is completely communal. Seeing how happy these people were and how far they had come gave me real hope for the other two communities, which have only really just started out and face many difficulties and struggles.

I also saw these birds in New Hope which were pretty cool!

After visiting the communities we travelled to Sincelejo, where we had our third and last workshop. Here's me explaining to the group about my work, and giving them encouragement in their struggles. I look pretty horrendous as I got heatstroke the day before and was really sick, so I felt horrible during this workshop!

Lastly we went to Cartegena for a meeting, and we got to do some sightseeing which was brilliant. Cartegena is an old colonial city on the north coast, right by the Caribbean sea. It was a major port for slave trafficking from Africa. The city was stunning, and reminded me of Venice (although Matt doesn't agree!) The colours of the houses were gorgeous and the weather was pretty lovely too.

Beneath the little arches on the right here are shops, but they used to be barracks for soldiers and then prison cells.

Along here they make traditional Colombian sweets. Also, to the left is a large square where they used to trade the slaves. I didn't manage to get a photo of it though as we were whizzing through :(

Just Finished- Less than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 11:22:00 +0000

A very quick read, and completely manageable in one sitting. This novel has a certain dark quality to it, as it picks out the disturbing lifestyle of a group of young, wealthy kids in LA. The protagonist, Clay, is seemingly trying to make sense of his world, but any meaning is grossly distorted or corrupted by drugs, alcohol, porn and sexual promiscuity with both men and women.

The writing style lends itself to strengthening the book's theme in my opinion. The matter-of-fact, almost stream on consciousness style, which lacks any real descriptive language but simply outlines the events of Clay's day in a monotonous sequence, is qute compelling. The writing, in its almost dreary, factual style, strengthens the book's 'shock factor. The gang rape of a 12-year-old girl for example, told in unremarkable, stagnant sentences, is worryingly riveting, and obviously echoes the same style Bret Easton Ellis would later use in American Psycho.

In all, I enjoyed this book for what it was. There was no real character development, only traces of morality in some of its characters, and the portrayal of the grim underbelly of wealthy Beverley Hills is grossly unrealistic, and yet as a cult classic, I can see the attraction.

Just Finished - Great Meadow by Dirk Bogarde

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 13:27:00 +0000

A beautiful evocation of country life during the outbreak of WW2, told through the eyes of a young Dirk Bogarde. I found this book to be exceptionally quaint, drawing on beautiful imagery of rolling fields, roaring fires and exciting wildlife, which conjured up nostalgic memories of my own childhood.

That said, the book attempted to touch on themes which could have been developed more. The paradox of a young boy's primary concern for sweets, toys and family life, set against a backdrop of persecution, fear and death as Hitler rose to power in Germany was only touched upon, and could have made for a more powerful theme in my opinion.

Overall, an endearing book, brimming with delectably old fashioned language. However, I would always refer back to Laurie Lee's Cider with Rosie as a more expressive and appealing read in terms of writing quality and imagery.

These are the days of our lives

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 08:33:00 +0000

A question from my husband regarding a video by Queen got me thinking fairly nostalgically today. We watched the video to 'These are the days of our lives" on You Tube, something which I haven't heard in years. The beautiful lyrics, coupled with Freddie's illness which at this point was pretty advanced (this was the last video he would shoot before dying of bronchial pneumonia brought on by AIDS), made me think about how the past affects our present. I'd like to think that my past has shaped my present in a positive way. I'm not generally one to regret things, and try at least to draw a positive lesson from the failures and mistakes I may have made over the years. I am fairly convinced that we all try to hold on to the past in one way or another, whether it is through photographs, relationships or possessions. For me, I am my most nostalgic with books and clothes. Each musty-smelling collection of pages I own immediately conjures up memories of certain points in my life when I may have read them. Some explicitly, say a holiday or train journey, and other simply remind me of a melancholic feeling or whimsical joy. Likewise, certain clothing items, accessories or items of jewellery I own hold special memories in my mind of being with family and friends. It's true also that some items may draw out painful memories. My charm bracelet for example, was a christening gift from my uncle, who bought me a new charm for it every birthday until he died from cancer. Sometimes painful memories, when tangled with the good, can exist in a tangible, beautiful object. To me, those are the possessions that mean the most.

Mental Fight

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 13:00:00 +0000

I've been thinking a lot about my favourite book today (although technically it's a poem). It's called 'Mental Fight' by Ben Okri, a Nigerian writer. Not only does it encapsulate most of my deep-set principles, his poem is so moving and inspiring that even at my lowest it is enough to restore my faith in the world. Try it out for yourself. Here's an extract...

Will you be at the harvest,
Among the gatherers of new fruits?
Then you must begin today to remake
Your mental and spiritual world,
And join the warriors and celebrants
Of freedom, realisers of great dreams.

You can't remake the world
Without remaking yourself
Each new era begins within.
It is an inward event,
With unsuspected possibilities
For inner liberation.
We could use it to turn on
Our inward lights.
We could use it to use even the dark
And negative things positively.
We could use the new era
To clean our eyes,
To see the world differently,
To see ourselves more clearly.
Only free people can make a free world.
Infect the world with your light.
Help fulfill the golden prophecies
Press forward the human genius.
Our future is greater than our past.

We are better than that.
We are greater than our despair.
The negative aspects of humanity
Are not the most real and authentic;
The most authentic thing about us
Is our capacity to create, to overcome,
To endure, to transform, to love,
And to be greater than our suffering.
We are best defined by the mystery
That we are still here, and can still rise
Upwards, still create better civilisations,
That we can face our raw realities,
And that we will survive
The greater despair
That the greater future might bring.

The powers and promises of perception

noreply@blogger.com (Sally) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 12:24:00 +0000

Impressions are a powerful and potentially dangerous thing. Recalling my recent adventures, I find myself forced to think about how my demeanour reflects me as a person, and how faithful and accurate others' impressions will be. Meandering through the continents, I've been the recipient of my fair share of preconceived misconceptions: the African convinced by my forthcoming opinions that I must be American; the Nigerian children who struggled to hide their fear of my whiteness, and what that whiteness might represent; and the displaced Colombians with their ardent belief that my presence could drive away their suffering once and for all. For this reason, I find myself all the more conscious of my responsibility to be a faithful representative of my own personality and above all, to avoid making promises I cannot keep.

Particularly in my line of work, visiting poor, needy and suffering individuals, I find that their expectations are already blown out of proportion, and it's imperative that I remind them (and myself) that I'm only human. I will do all I can, but their lives will largely be no better for it. Keeping yourself grounded and accepting your limitations and mortality is a difficult and painful process, particularly when emotion sweeps you up and dumps you right in the midst of other people's pain. Often it takes every fibre of my being to avoid promising them the world; not out of malice or ignorance, but out of genuine determination and an ardent hope that I really could make a difference. Call it 'optimistic disillusionment' if you will.

Reigning in those false promises is no easy task when they literally try to leap off the tip of your tongue. Promises of life, prosperity freedom and peace: all the things I wish I could offer but don't have the power (or right) to control At times like that, I force myself to revert back to promises I can deliver: a promise to try; a promise of solidarity. Yet in comparison to 'real' solutions these idle gifts just seem redundant and cold. And yet, despite my frustrations, I know in my heart I'm giving all I can: the gift of hope. And perhaps, in the depths of the darkness, this is more valuable than riches and wealth. Still, as their eyes widen in expectation and wonderment, and their ears search for answers and results, only one emotion is coursing through my veins - the feeling of utter impotence.

But this is not to say I have no faith in my efforts and abilities. I know the imperative role I play in fixing some of the world's problems. It is simply a matter of thinking realistically: one phone call from me will not sweep democracy into Burma, and one letter I write will not end civil war in Colombia. I accept that, and I've moved on.

But still, in these contexts, presentation, both verbal and physical, is a key ingredient of honest discourse and perception. Something to keep in mind wherever the wind takes us.