Beasts of the Southern Wild

So I went to the cinema in the village hall.  It was cold, it was wet and I was tired.  It was all too tempting to stay in by the fire but I’ve made a pact with myself to do stuff.

I can’t just sit around waiting for things to happen.  Well, I can (and I do) but, equally, I’ve decided to go out, to do things, to go places.  And if it means I do them alone, then so be it. Because if you hang around waiting for other people, well, nothing much will happen. Will it?

I don’t mind doing stuff on my own and solo film-going is positively wondrous. It was something I did a lot when I lived in London, having developed a penchant for solo matinee trips to the Orson Welles cinema off Harvard Square in Cambridge during my American sojourn. I’d vanish for the afternoon to catch things like the Bergman season. Nice.

Anyhow, I liked the sound of this film.  Beasts of the Southern Wild. It’s about a girl called Hushpuppy who lives with her sick, depressed, alcoholic mess of a father in a place called The Bathtub, in the bayoux of Louisiana.  Life’s pretty well weird and tough enough for Hushpuppy but then Katrina comes and everything turns even weirder and tougher.  Anyhow, see it yourself - see what you feel.  

To be honest, I usually prefer a nice anonymous cinema but the Dulverton Film Club has one distinct advantage: a bar.

‘Hello, Jane. What can I get you?’

That’s the joy/problem with small town life – everyone knows who you are.

‘Bottle of red, please, Keith. Something not too heavy.’

We had a little debate and he passed over a bottle.  ‘How many glasses?’

‘Just the one.’ I grinned.  Ears pricked.  But, frankly, who cares? 

So I sat in the front row (cos a downside of village hall cinema is the lack of tiered seats and I’m not wild about getting a cricked neck from peering around the head in front) and happily glugged my way through the trailers and then a short called Glory at Sea (by the same collective responsible for Beasts) which, let’s be honest, had me in tears. 

 

And then Beasts started and…yeah, I cried a bit in that too. But the beauty of cinema is that it’s dark and nobody sees you cry.  Did I enjoy it?  No.  Enjoy is the wrong word.  It’s a strange film, dark and lorn and sad and fierce.  But I’m glad I saw it.  And I scribbled in my notebook, as I do. Can you scribble in the dark?  Of course. Sometimes I draw too.  *smile*. 

“The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right.  If you can fix the broken piece, everything can go right back to alright. But sometimes you break something so bad, it can’t be put back together.”

Yeah. That's about right.

So then…you need a boat. The right kind of boat.  “This boat will take you exactly where you need to be. It’s that kind of boat.”

So, what next?  I don’t know. Whatever comes up.  Whatever boat catches my eye.  

But more trips for sure and certain. Cos, much as I love travelling to amazing places in my mind, it’s time to get out there and see, smell, hear, taste and touch for real.  So, I’m making things happen.  Not Louisiana.  Not yet.  Next up is Austria.  Mountains.  Then…who knows where? I’m open to offers. Cos the world can’t come to you, but you can go out to the world. Right?  

Praha - liminal city of Alchemists

What else did I see in Prague, Frances asked?  Truly, it was a whistle stop tour. We arrived late, very late, in a snowstorm, to our hotel in the Old Town Square which was gearing up for Easter with streamers in the trees.  A man stood chopping wood for one of the many open fires and that was the first indication that Prague is a city of the elements, an alembic.

It’s interesting, you know (or maybe you don't), that although the name Prague comes from the Slavic for ‘ford’, the city’s native name is Praha and its etymology suggests the word práh  - threshold.  So, a liminal place, then?  My kind of town. 

‘The Astronomical Clock is just around the corner,’ said Adrian.  And, with only a few minutes before the hour, we waited with the throng of tourists to watch the little figures come out and do their thing.

I wanted to go in hunt of alchemists, of golems and astrologers, of spells and sorcery. I yearned to see the Prague of Dee and Kelley, of Kepler and of Maharal Rabbi Loew.  Adrian, meanwhile, mused on defenestration and protectorates, Hussites and, of course, beer. 

But he dutifully took me to see the old Jewish Cemetery (100,000 burials, 12 layers of tombs) and pointed out the wall and window where the golem supposedly waited.  We walked over the Charles Bridge, climbed up to the castle, wandered up and down steps and into backways and byways. 

I’m not good at being a tourist. I don’t really go for ticking off museums and sights. I love just meandering around, stopping every so often to sit at some café or bar and watch a new city at work and play. And Praha is the perfect city for that…

Huge thanks to the Czech Tourist Board for their generous hospitality.  I love your city, I truly do…and I hope to return...I really do.  So much more to see. So much more to love. 

Yes, I take crap photographs.  Apologies. :-) 

Day Tripper in Prague...

So. Went to Prague. Just for a night and a morning.  I loved it.  So much.  Needed longer, much longer. Must go back.
And what caught my eye?  Lots of things but, inevitably, walls and windows.  Blockades and openings. And,  of course, the Lennon wall.

Walked away with a hundred songs in my head...

A partial hand massage and a shared dressing gown

So Adrian won an award from the Czech Tourist Board, in thanks for his tireless and perfectly selfless tasting and promoting of Czech lager (well, that’s the way I see it).  ‘It’s a three night stay for two people,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be good to show you Prague.’

‘Hmm,’ I said. I had a fair idea of what “showing me Prague” would entail  - I could probably recite a list of all the apparently incredible bars along with their signature beers in my sleep.

‘No,’ he said, all hurt. ‘I wouldn’t just drag you round bars. I could show you…’ He paused. ‘Umm…the river!  I could show you the river.  And the castle. And there’s a great bridge.’  Hmm. But I’ve got a river and a bridge here…and a hillfort. But then again, everyone says Prague is lovely so...

Anyhow.  A few weeks later he appeared at my office door with a piece of paper and a puzzled look on his face.

‘What’s that?’  Suspecting a bill or a court summons.

‘Er, it’s confirmation of our trip.’  He did look very odd indeed. Perfectly perplexed.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Er, yes.  It’s just…we’re not staying in Prague.  They’ve booked us into this place in Podebrady.  It’s…a spa hotel.’

Kerching!  I suppressed the little victory dance that was playing out in my head and snatched the letter.  And laughed my tits off.  Not only were they sending us to a spa, they were sending us for a ‘Wine Relaxation Stay’.  Given Adrian writes about beer and generally turns his exceedingly sensitive nose up at wine, there was a blissful irony to it.

I read on. 

Not only do we get a “welcome drink of 2dcl of delicious wine with you first dinner” (sic), we also get “grapes in the room on arrival.”  Followed by “1 x relaxation wine bath with wrap, 1 x classic partial Hand massage with grape oil, 1 x HydroJet (massage water bed)” (sic).  By now I was wheezing with amusement.

‘A partial hand massage?' I said. 'What the hell’s that?  Are they only going to massage part of our hands?’

‘Sounds like…’

‘No. Don’t go there.’

‘Fair enough.  I’m not having a wine bath though.  And I’m not too sure about the massage either.’

‘That's okay. I’ll have yours.  You can go out and find bars.’

His face brightened.

And then it dawned on me. This will be the first time I have ever been to a spa with someone. Ever.  I always go alone.  And then I thought again.  And breathed a deep sigh of relief that there’s no detoxing involved. 

“We wish you a nice stay and a lot of unforgettable memories!” trilled the letter, before adding: “A dressing gown is available during the stay.”

So, there you have it.  Adrian and I flying off to the Czech Republic tomorrow for a regime of wine and bathing.  A partial hand massage. And a shared dressing gown. Bottoms up! 

What I'd do come the Zombie Apocalypse...maybe

So. Where was I?  Ah yes, Caz’s questions.  These were they:

“Who are you?

What are your values?

Where do you want to be in the growth of your being?

Where or who do you want to be in five years time?”

And then she added:  “Short and honest answers only.”

And I sat and stared at the screen for a long, long time.  And then I slowly typed:

“I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.”

Which was certainly short and, to be honest, very honest. But those questions stayed with me, and are still with me.  A few years ago, I would have answered them very differently. I would have said that my values were these: to be honest, to be kind, to be brave.

But, you know, the more I live, the more I feel there is always another side. If you are always honest, you might not be kind, for example. And if you are always kind, is that always the best thing for people? I mean, I have learned the most from the people who have been (ostensibly) very unkind. And brave? Surely that’s always good?  Well, not necessarily. Sometimes one’s bravery could hurt others.  It’s not so simple.

Five years ago I would have said that in five years’ time I would like to be a best-selling fiction author, travelling the world for the price of the odd talk or book signing.  Now? 

Who am I?  What is this thing people call Jane Alexander?  Am I my body?  My mind? My emotions? My elusive ‘soul’?  All? Or none? So I meditated on it (while rowing at the gym as it happens) and went further and further inwards and arrived at…a tiny glowing spark, a shimmer – one tiny oh so tiny part of creation. 

And I felt that was cool. But then, really, if I am at root, just one of gazillions of sparky little sparks, where is the need for this ‘growth of my being’?  I am.  I just am. Not particularly good (I mistyped god there – made me smile), not particularly bad.  But really, once again, I found myself wondering (wandering) ‘What is the point?’

And then I got off the rower and switched to the bike and, because I thought I’d pull myself back to the here and now (cos I really had gone off a long, long, long way while moving backwards and forwards and going nowhere) I opened a book and read the story of a wise Indian king who once dreamed that his people were going to be poisoned by evil rain which would drive them crazy.  He tried to warn the people but they didn’t listen. So, when the rain came, everyone drank and everyone went crazy.

What did the king do?  Well, he drank the water and went crazy too.  

You have to wonder about that story.  He knew what would happen but he still drank. Was he empathetic? Did he dread separation from his people?  Was he cowardly? Did he fear being alone amongst mad people (I've often thought, when people talk about the zombie apocalypse thing that I'd probably just run out and go 'Oh just bite me, for pity's sake, and let's get it over and done with')?  Or did he realize that his "wisdom" was one-sided and that he needed to go back to ordinary, mad, crazy, everyday life (the same life everyone lives) in order to become enlightened there too? 

www.jimbenton.com 

It’s easy to step aside from the world; to watch the ‘crazy’ people on their hamster wheels being busy and striving to achieve, to win, to make money, to gain prestige.  It’s much harder, I figure, to dance through the everyday madness. Or stumble, with bits dropping off here and there, if we follow the zombie line.

It may be tempting to leave your body, to leave your mind, to leave the planet – because although the world is very beautiful, it can equally be very depressing – but maybe that’s a cop-out.  Maybe enlightenment is insanity? 

  

Moscow Drug Club

‘You need to get out more,’ said Caz.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sure. But you’re living in your weird fantasy world. It’s not real. You need to see people, do things. You know…in the real world.’

‘What’s real?’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

‘It’s just distraction.’

‘Then be distracted.’

And I thought, fair enough. Why not? So I went to the pub.  So I went to see Cloud Atlas (at the local cinema where the audience totalled about ten, which is just fine and dandy as far as I’m concerned).  So I went out for lunch. So I stayed in for lunch with an old friend. And I was…yes…distracted. A bit. 

And then I wandered down to the village hall to see Moscow Drug Club, cos Caz had insisted I had to go. And it was…nice.  I bought a bottle of wine cos Caz had said a couple of her friends were going to share a table with us.  But none of them was drinking red so I quietly glugged it myself.  And I ate too - seriously good roast vegetable lasagne and salad followed by lemon tart.

And they played a bit of Tom Waits, a bit of Jacques Brel, a bit of this, a bit of that. They were a good troupe. I pricked up my ears when they announced Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me to the End of Love - a song I love - but they sort of wrecked that, as far as my ears felt. But generally, it was…fine. Nice.

And afterwards I helped Caz hump tables around and she came back for a cup of herbal tea and we sat by the fire and talked a bit. 

And the next day I got an email from her.  And she said: 'It was lovely to see you out enjoying the frivolities of socialising with your community. People were so pleased to see you.'  At which I gave the screen a quizzical look. 

And then she asked me four questions…

Something had to change...

Anyhow. Back in the ‘real’ world I realized something had to change. As in…me.  I had become a bit lardy over the winter, piled on a few pounds…oh, okay, let’s be frank, a stonking ten pounds.  And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way I looked and I didn’t like the way I felt.  But hey, it happens.  We backslide from time to time, right?  And it doesn’t mean you just give up and let it all slide back to where it was – you just…regroup.

And when it comes to bodies, they’re clever buggers.  They will adjust to pretty well any regime.  So you have to be a bit sneaky, change it round a bit, confuse those muscles and all that.

Hence. I have rejigged my exercise programme.  I’m still doing my kettlebells (by the river, in the church) cos I love ‘em and it’s a feelgood class where we have a lot of laughs.  And I’m still doing my two-hour Zumba and Step class, when I can. But I’ve now added in a workout blast pretty much each morning at the gym.

I know, I know – I can hear you saying that you could never do that cos it’s too time-consuming, or you don’t have a gym near you or whatever…but…but.  My workout takes about half an hour and, tbh, you could just as easily do it at home.  I’ve been playing with HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) where you go like crazy (ie you sprint or crank up the bike to the max or go hell for leather on the stepper or rower) for short bursts of time interspersed with recovery periods where you sink back to ‘normal’ levels.  To begin with you only need to do bursts of around eleven seconds – so, honest guv, it’s doable.  If you weren’t using a gym you could get the same effect with running or power walking; or by running up and down the stairs. In fact, if you Google HIIT you will find all kinds of suggestions for circuits and running/stepping schedules - just find one that suits you. 

And then, when it comes to weights, I’ve been trying out Slow lifting – where you do just a very few reps but seriously slowly and incredibly smoothly – so it becomes almost meditation.  In fact, I now do nearly all my workout with my eyes shut – because I find it helps me focus on the part of my body that I’m using – and also, of course, it saves time on meditation (and how I love multi-tasking). 

So. So far, so good. I’m coming to the end of my second week and I’ve shed about five pounds and already my jeans are looser and I can feel my muscles returning to form. 

So how about you?  Did you come through winter with all your intentions intact?  Or do you feel the need for a little regrouping with me?  J