RosieBell

Pain and Gain

People at my work go to gyms to get their bodies shapely and fit after the long hours they spend in front of their computers.  How did the upper bourgeoisie, usually so good at looking after their own interests, find themselves in a position where they work nineteenth century factory hours, though for twenty first century money?

Anyway, I find these hours expended on crunches and exercise machines absurdly wasteful of energy and thought of a new kind of health club.  It would be out in the country; the electricity would be generated from human-operated treadmills and stationary bicycles, while the food would be supplied by gardens which the residents dug themselves, planted, harvested, cleaned, chopped and stirred (nothing like that for the forearms).  The gardens would be walled with dry stone dykes built of course by the residents and there would always be outbuildings that needed bricks heaved to them and laid.  Our satisfied guests would pump water from wells, carry it on their heads to swimming pools (excellent for the posture) and then chop the wood that would heat the contents of the pools as well as  the closed stoves that warm the house.   Those on a lighter regime would be sweeping, dusting and scrubbing.

The charge would be £250 per day for the facilities, or £1200 per week discount.  You would only need supervisory staff, so receptionists who doubled as dominatrixes with whips would keep the men in order with a slight edge of erotic excitement while a few bouncers dressed in appropriate gear – Southern plantation squires? warriors? firemen? Mr Darcies – would supervise the women.

Welcome to Pain & Gain Health Farm for Hard Handed Men and Madonna Armed Women.

In a Fallen World

John Updike dead. I couldn’t get into his novels with their intensely detailed descriptions of minutiae – he wrote with a microscope - but I did love his essays in eg Hugging the Shore and Odd Jobs. Urbane, civilised, open to a great variety of books, entertaining especially when dealing dryly with angsty novels.

“He seems at best bored and at worst horrified by these intimates in the course of the two days that pass during A Moment of True Feeling; but perhaps he is not himself . . “Who has ever dreamed that he has become a murderer,” the first sentence asks us, “and from then on has only been carrying on with his usual life for the sake of appearances?” While we puzzle over the answer, . . . Handke fervently pursues the volatile moods and hallucinatory sensations of this hero cut off from the reality of his own life. Kreuchsnig and his wife, presumably, have been estranged for some time: “Her name was Stefanie, and only yesterday she had aroused feelings in him . . . Only if she were dead, he thought, would I be able to feel something for her again.” His mistress and he, one suspects, have until now been happier: “He didn’t let her undress him. If she were to touch him, he would crush her with his fist.” . . . The violence latent in such an erratically connected citizen of the quotidian yawns behind every quirky event and distended perception Keuschnig suffers; we are more relieved than surprised when, while entertaining an unnamed Austrian writer and his mistress, Kreuschnig takes off his clothes, smears his face with stew, has a fistfight with his guest, and insults his wife by blurting out one of his day’s two infidelities.”

Updike was a prolific reviewer and wrote on golf, art and religion as well as literature. I’ll miss his genial voice, his wide reading and his sense of ease with the fact that we are all fallen creatures.

Revamp

Site needs a bit of work on it.  I'll be creating gaps and then filling them in.

The Activist and the Passivist

I had a colleague once who was a member of a far left party.  In those days his section of the far left was embracing the IRA, or the INLA in their attempts to set up a united communist Ireland, and so this bloke was full of merriment whenever the IRA or the INLA or whoever murdered a few folk, seeing that as the beginning of the revolution.

I noticed the difference between him, the activist, whose life was political engagement and  those like me, the liberal passivists, who grudgingly write a letter to an MP or donate to Amnesty International.

The activist and the passivist, the politico and the observer, the one who notices and says “how unjust, a symptom of our whole rotten system,” the other who notices and says, "how interesting, how strange,”  the one who wants power and the one who fears the power hungry, whether ruling or attempting to rule.

The power hungry are always with us, and they are not necessarily hungry for themselves – though that’s common enough – but for their class, their nation, their religion. 

But here’s W H Auden on the part fear and part admiration of the artist and/or observer when confronting the activist while the activist regards the passivist with extreme disdain.

From Vespers – the whole poem is over here:-

And it is now that our two paths cross.
Both simultaneously recognise his Anti-type: that I am an Arcadian, that he is a Utopian.
He notes, with contempt, my Aquarian belly: I note, with alarm, his Scorpion's mouth.
He would like to see me cleaning latrines: I would like to see him removed to some other planet.
Neither speaks. What experience could we possibly share?
Glancing at a lampshade in a store window, I observe it is too hideous for anyone in their senses to buy: He observes it is too expensive for a peasant to buy.
Passing a slum child with rickets, I look the other way: He looks the other way if he passes a chubby one. 
I hope our senators will behave like saints, provided they don't reform me: He hopes they will behave like baritone cattivi, and, when lights bum late in the Citadel, I (who have never seen the inside of a police station) am shocked and think: 'Were the city as free as they say, after sundown all her bureaus would be huge black stones':
He (who has been beaten up several times) is not shocked at all but thinks: 'One fine night our boys will be working up there.'
You can see, then, why, between my Eden and his New Jerusalem, no treaty is negotiable.
In my Eden a person who dislikes Bellini has the good manners not to get born: In his New Jerusalem a person who dislikes work will be very sorry he was born.
In my Eden we have a few beam-engines, saddle-tank locomotives, overshot waterwheels and other beautiful pieces of obsolete machinery to play with: In his New Jerusalem even chefs will be cucumber-cool machine minders.
In my Eden our only source of political news is gossip: In his New Jerusalem there will be a special daily in simplified spelling for non-verbal types.
In my Eden each observes his compulsive rituals and superstitious tabus but we have no morals: In his New Jerusalem the temples will be empty but all will practise the rational virtues.
One reason for his contempt is that I have only to close my eyes, cross the iron footbridge to the tow-path, take the barge through the short brick tunnel and there I stand in Eden again, welcomed back by the krumhorns, doppions, sordumes of jolly miners and a bob major from the Cathedral (romanesque) of St Sophie (Die Kalte):
One reason for my alarm is that, when he closes his eyes, he arrives, not in New Jerusalem, but on some august day of outrage when hellikins cavort through ruined drawing-rooms and fish-wives intervene in the Chamber or
some autumn night of deletions and noyades when the unrepentant thieves (including me) are sequestered and those he hates shall hate themselves instead.
So with a passing glance we take the other's posture; already, our steps recede, heading, incorrigible each, towards his kind of meal and evening.
Was it (as it must look to any god of cross-roads) simply a fortuitous intersection of life-paths, loyal to different fibs
or also a rendezvous between accomplices who, in spite of themselves, cannot resist meeting
to remind the other (do both, at bottom, desire truth?) of that half of their secret which he would most like to forget
forcing us both, for a fraction of a second, to remember our victim (but for him I could forget the blood, but for me he could forget the innocence)
on whose immolation (call him Abel, Remus, whom you will, it is one Sin Offering) arcadias, utopias, our dear old bag of a democracy, are alike founded:
For without a cement of blood (it must be human, it must be innocent) no secular wall will safely stand.

Do both at bottom, desire truth?  No politicos desire power, not truth.  And passivists don’t much care for truth either – it reminds them of their inactivity.

Auden was a notable and vocal anti-fascist of his time, the thirties, when the political situation in Europe was desperate.  But on January 19 1939 he left Britain for the USA with his friend Christopher Isherwood, the novelist.  Isherwood noted in his diary:-

One morning on deck, it seems to me, I turned to Auden and said:  “You know, I just don’t believe in any of it any more – the united front, the party line, the anti-fascist struggle.  I suppose they’re okay, but something’s wrong with me.  I simply can’t swallow another mouthful.” And Auden answered: “No, neither can I.”  In a few sentences, with exquisite relief, we confessed our mutual disgust at the parts we had been playing and resolved to abandon them, then and there.  We had forgotten our real vocation.  We would be artists again, with our own values, our own integrity and not amateur socialist agitators, parlour reds.

Later Auden got a lot of stick for having talked the talk against fascism, then leaving the country which was then, finally, walking the walk against fascism as embodied in the Axis powers.  Those that took up arms included artists like Anthony Powell and Evelyn Waugh, who put their work on hold.  They, conservative chaps, kicked against Auden for the rest of their lives.

Partisans

Very good piece by Peter Ryley aka Fat Man on a Keyboard re the Israel/Palestine issue.  As usual he is clear headed and humane, and gives a succinct account of the crassness, bad faith and downright blood lust that has taken over the debate.  Here he is on the partisanship that is so glaring and which makes going round the blogosphere at present like walking across a tennis court during a hard hitting rally:-

Choosing sides

It was very easy for most, they had already chosen. The ‘we are all Hezbollah now’ crowd had embraced Hamas long before the fighting in Gaza. Theocratic totalitarianism is, after all, the latest fashion accessory for the ‘left’. Their language was redolent with scarcely concealed anti-Semitism and demonstrations against the war were filled with an iconography of hate and menace. Those who favoured the Israeli action in Gaza were only too ready to minimise and justify civilian casualties, attempt to discredit inconvenient witnesses for their supposed bias, and, at the margins, flirt with anti-Arab racism.

So whose side do we choose? How about ours? This is a left blog, written from different perspectives though sharing some common values; social justice, anti-racism, equality, respect for human life, a hatred of oppression. That’s the side to be on. Hold hard to our principles and use them as a guide, rather than rely on a blind partisanship. Some of the best commentary chose this path and called for long-term action for a settlement. Too often it was drowned out by the clamour of the committed.

The only cavil I would have is that yes, that’s fine for a blogger, but for activists they have two courses of action – to go on a demonstration where people may be carrying Holocaust placards, or to refrain from doing so.  I of course refrain, because I’m a passivist rather than an activist – which leads me to my next post.

Male Conundrum

Shuggy suggests a method of finding a solution to the old male problem of whether a woman desires a man for his bank balance or for his own loveable self:-

I would be willing to offer myself in a research capacity with a representative sample of women and do a before and after thing; we go once as I am now - i.e. fucking skint - and again after I've been given a huge amount of dosh and see if there's any difference. If the experiment fails, I think I could live with the disappointment.

Inspires me to verse:-

Male Conundrum

When I was skint
This lovely bint
Would bounce me off the ceiling.
Now I’m rich
A gorgeous bitch. . .
What’s she really feeling?

As an ex once said to me, Never ask a question to which you might not like a truthful answer.

The light returns

Yesterday, the usual cycle up to Threipmuir Reservoir.  I tried it last Sunday, got soaked through and turned back.  Other days I’ve done it there has been thick, crunchy ice on the paths and roads.  Yesterday it was mainly thawed with the paths muddy, though there were still frozen patches in the sheltered spots.

A lot of people were out enjoying the sunshine – ramblers, dred-locked hippies on cycles with baby seats, dog walkers.  I came up behind an elderly couple.  Evidently the woman had been complaining of the mud.  “I’ll push you along in a wheelbarrow,” said the man.  “I would not deign to be pushed in  a wheelbarrow,” said the woman, in pure Edinburgh Jean Brodie tones – humorously severe.  “You mean you would disdain it,” said the man, amused.

Climbing the hill from Balerno, I found the road was slippery with black ice here and there.  I went cautiously.  Someone else who cycles to work had told me a few days before that he had come across four people who had come off their bikes on the cycle path.  I’ve been covering for people off sick and my bosses have been quite solicitous about my cycling.

But far more light now, and the hills looked washed and clean. The reservoir had been frozen last time I saw it, now it was blue and the swans were swimming freely.

I can't ignore this birthday

Okay, it’s the man’s 250th birthday and it has to be marked:-

The Tree of Liberty (complete poem here)

Heard ye o' the tree o' France,
I watna what's the name o't;
Around the tree the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.

 . . . .

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

And of course this has to be played as well:-

 

There’s a load of nationalist and twee crap around Robert Burns – the corporate hospitality of Burns suppers with their facetious Address to a Haggis, Toast to the Lassies, Reply to the Toast to the Lassies etc.  But the basics – the delicious, perfectly balanced food, the fine drink, the grand poetry – are something to admire.

Here’s the last verse of that mighty poem about equality and fraternity:-

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that. 

More Obama

US President Barack Obama has ordered the Guantanamo Bay prison camp to be closed within one year.

Signing the order, Mr Obama said the US would continue to fight terror, but maintain "our values and our ideals".

The military trial of an inmate held at Guantanamo Bay has been suspended after a request by US President Barack Obama.

In one of his first acts as president, Mr Obama asked for a temporary halt to all tribunals to review the process.

From the speech:-

to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness. .  .

As for our common defence, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our founding fathers, faced with perils that we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations.

OK, I don’t care much for florid rhetoric but I can appreciate that.  I appreciate that Obama does have a sense of the history of his country and of the best of its ideals.  I can appreciate that as a constitutional lawyer he must have viewed illegal detention and torture with not just humane disgust but with the sense that that is not what America is all about.  I would even guess that as someone whose antecedents are from all over the place that he may have a greater sense of the ideal of America than Bush, the son of America’s habitual ruling class with their sense of entitlement to power. 

It astonished me he could have that instant ability to order a judicial process to cease, but I suppose the Guantanamo Bay trials are extra judiciary (which is one reason to be disgusted with them) and under direct control of the military, over which he is commander in chief.

It does remind me of an old Robin Hood series when a strange knight would turn up, thwart Bad King John and then lift his visor and reveal himself to be Good King Richard the Lionheart (the crusading bastard), and then all would be allotted punishment or reward according to their deserts.  As someone said on a blog about the inaugural day, like The Return of the King.  Yes, exactly what you don’t want.

I am wary of the one man, great power. I am wary of such people who are always sighing for leadership.   I am wary of those in this country who seek for a more Presidential system.  There was a terrorist alert once when Tony Blair was on holiday and everyone was demanding he come back.  Why?  Either the security services had it in hand, or they did not, and getting him off the beach would scarcely sharpen their abilities at that late stage.

Time of Hope

It does make sense having the inaugural day a month or so after the shortest day.  The light is returning.  The days are as short as they were at the end of November, but you are coming out of the tunnel instead of going into it.  It’s a time of very early hope, and it’s a long while before the year starts going down into darkness again.