I'm posting this wonderful short film here but I know when I cross the frontier, when I'm back in the dark land of the pure, I won't be able to see it again. I'm not sure, but isn't that the same actor from the Poseidon adventure (one of my favourites..."God doesn't like quitters!")?
At the National, looking at Turner's swirling vortex of clouds and the solid bridge the light from outside suddenly clouds over. So rare for something outside to affect one's inner feelings since the 'holy' places are usually insulated from sound or light reaching us from beyond the main doors. All you bring with you is your own life and your tattered memories. But that sudden shift in the play of light-which is characteristic of the north- allowed you to see lots of small figures in the painting who wouldn't have otherwise been visible. Or at least they wouldn't have caught your attention-which is really another word for visibility.
Life under the bridges. If you had any skill you'd roam around Lahore and try and capture that: the selling of cheap wares, the scramble to keep your head above water, the poor kids playing pool on a wobbly table, the grime and filth of it all, the heaps of blue plastic bags, the world-weary dogs on their last legs...
The old form of life that continues no matter what speed others move at, no matter how rapidly society hurtles into the future. The long view. You go to a local park and see young mothers scolding their kids, whilst others are reduced to baby speak. Some things never change. The great constants of life are like a circle that everyone walks into now and then, whether they know it or not. Gatherings, sociability, the discussions about how the world is going to hell in a hand cart, the cost of eggs. Everyone learns the secret somehow, is initiated into it.
Adam Gopnik's Winter book arrived today. The books I'm looking forward to are by Larissa M (on extreme morality) and Susuan B's biography of Walser. Both due out soon, perhaps. That's it, I'm out of money for any more books. You stock up as if you were preparing for a long and arduous journey, as if there was no way back. Books, mackerel, dark chocolate, Stilton or Gorgonzola, Gingko. But there is. This play of darkness and light knows no end or bounds. Without it there is no song of longing. But with every journey completed you are less of yourself.
At the National, looking at Turner's swirling vortex of clouds and the solid bridge the light from outside suddenly clouds over. So rare for something outside to affect one's inner feelings since the 'holy' places are usually insulated from sound or light reaching us from beyond the main doors. All you bring with you is your own life and your tattered memories. But that sudden shift in the play of light-which is characteristic of the north- allowed you to see lots of small figures in the painting who wouldn't have otherwise been visible. Or at least they wouldn't have caught your attention-which is really another word for visibility.
Life under the bridges. If you had any skill you'd roam around Lahore and try and capture that: the selling of cheap wares, the scramble to keep your head above water, the poor kids playing pool on a wobbly table, the grime and filth of it all, the heaps of blue plastic bags, the world-weary dogs on their last legs...
The old form of life that continues no matter what speed others move at, no matter how rapidly society hurtles into the future. The long view. You go to a local park and see young mothers scolding their kids, whilst others are reduced to baby speak. Some things never change. The great constants of life are like a circle that everyone walks into now and then, whether they know it or not. Gatherings, sociability, the discussions about how the world is going to hell in a hand cart, the cost of eggs. Everyone learns the secret somehow, is initiated into it.
Adam Gopnik's Winter book arrived today. The books I'm looking forward to are by Larissa M (on extreme morality) and Susuan B's biography of Walser. Both due out soon, perhaps. That's it, I'm out of money for any more books. You stock up as if you were preparing for a long and arduous journey, as if there was no way back. Books, mackerel, dark chocolate, Stilton or Gorgonzola, Gingko. But there is. This play of darkness and light knows no end or bounds. Without it there is no song of longing. But with every journey completed you are less of yourself.
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