As children, my cousin J and I were always the 'naughty ones' and slightly older than our brothers, who we used to torment with practical jokes and what we thought were clever mindgames.
One of the stories that my Auntie and Mother take great glee at recounting during each and every family gathering is how J and I once painted my Uncle's car simply because we 'didn't like the colour.' We got into big trouble and "that time when B and J painted Dad's car" is always sited as the perfect example to illustrate what little shits the two of us were back in the 1970s.
Last New Year's Eve, my little cousin T (now 40) confessed to my old Partner-in-Crime that, in fact, it was he and my own brother who had painted the Ford Consul an unsightly shade of yellow and put the blame on us: we'd had nothing whatsoever to do with it! We must have pleaded our innocence at the time but our previous childhood pranks pointed towards us being the culprits and we have always stood guilty.
Until now! Now, no-one mentions the incident apart from my cousin J, who, I think, wants forgiveness and/or retribution:
"The bastards even had me believing that we'd painted the car for 32 fucking years," he lamented on Boxing Day.
Family memory had convinced us of our culpability!
What is memory? And who puts is there? Is yours compartmentalised or is it random? How is it triggered? Do you have involuntary flashbacks or do you sit and recall events purposefully? Have you remembered something for years that you later found out to be erroneous? How did you discover the truth? How did you feel?
Share with us your memories....
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Blond Bather - Auguste Renoir
She exudes youth and fecundity but also a certain wisdom. Is this her knowledge or does it belong to Renoir? The upturned mouth and the heaviness of her eyes suggest inevitability, an acceptance.
She is in concord with her surroundings; has become one with the sea and the land. There on her rock, the short expanse of blue-black separates her from an accessible civilisation just beyond. But this distance does not exclude her.
To a child, she may be a mermaid. To a woman, hope. To a man, desire.
Have you ever seen a work of art that you must step into? Something so commanding that it consumes you and you lose yourself in its beauty, its devilment, its mysteriousness? You become for a while entwined, inseparable? You live in that space for a few seconds, minutes, hours? Your perception is altered or you glimpse another way of being? Of feeling?
Or maybe not? Because that is just as valid too, isn’t it?
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Cherish me not with regretful thought.
Of what might have been for you and me.
Of what might have been for you and me.
Remember me not with tears and sighs,
Like the poppies, I did not die.
My body bled a blood as red as any poppy that ever grew,
And from this mortal shell a soul was shed,
And on your loving thoughts it fed,
And bloomed again, as poppies will
Upon that field, where so much blood was spilled.
Remember me with love and joy,
For I am but still the boy you knew.
I lie not unknown, where the poppies grew,
I live now, even as you.
Elizabeth Anderson 1927 - 2001
© Elizabeth Anderson 1958
With genuine thanks to Bill and Grahame Anderson, husband and son of Betty, from the website dedicated to her Memory, Betty's Poetry.
On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, the Armistice was signed, signalling an end to the Great War.
In the UK, on the second Sunday of each November at 11 O’clock, a two-minute silence is observed nationwide in remembrance of those who died in both the world wars of the Twentieth Century and many other conflicts besides. In 2009, with British soldiers dying weekly in Afghanistan, in particular, it seems that this tradition is set to continue and re-strengthen.
Elizabeth Anderson wrote underneath the original copy of this powerful poem, “Inspirational during the 2 minutes silence. Written immediately afterwards.”
What do you think about the deployment of troops in the Middle East? Maybe you have friends or family in the Armed Forces? Perhaps you know someone who has fought in overseas wars or is still fighting? Are you in active service yourself? Do you have any stories of your own about being at war/living in a war zone either as a soldier or as his/her loved one?
What does Betty’s poem evoke in you?
Royal British Legion Website