Discovering Dunster is like stumbling on an amazing secret that to know fills you with the warm feeling of being privileged and proud. Just a small village on the north Somerset coast it has the power to make you feel patriotic and dominant, whilst retaining the capacity to make you feel small and swept to a land faraway in time or geography.
For over a millennium, the hill at Dunster has been fortified and the castle still rises out of the tree-line subtly but unashamedly; a defensive building bristling with latent power.
Standing on the castle’s main terrace it is curiously easy to feel like a king. With the solidity of Exmoor’s hills on one side, field upon field disappearing into the distance in front and land sloping gently into the Bristol Channel on the left, the visual impression and internal impact is one of positional advantage.
At the foot of the castle the perspective changes, but is no less effecting. In the immediate shadow of the castle are lush, tranquil grounds. Idyllic might fall from ones open lips in initial awe, but the implication of carefree simplicity misrepresents what the place is about. Heaven on Earth comes closer. A Garden of England is more befitting.
In pleasing relief to the formality of the castle building, its gardens appear wild, without defined beds or borders. Nettles are left to grow next to delicate flowers, whilst vague paths and naturally occurring peep-holes are an indifferent guide through the sprawling shrubs and plants. It is testimony to the art of the castle’s army of gardeners that their hands are invisible, though clearly kept busy.
Contrary to naïve expectation, the estate is not dominated with rose and oak. Redwood’s shape the skyline; lilies sprout amongst the ferns beneath; whilst outsized rhubarb leaves easily fill large expanses along the meandering river. These stems are not for filling a crumble to compliment a Sunday Roast, though. The giant foliage belongs to Gunnera originating from South America. For this is what a Garden of England must of course contain – evidence of travel, of empire; of expedition and acquisition, cultivation and integration.
Step beyond the castle grounds and the village that ripples out from the fortifications is full of charm and humility.
A mill once powered by the free-running river that circumnavigates the castle mound now provides fuel in the form of scones and tea served from within for walkers. A petition against the opening of a restaurant by the National Trust hints at an enduring battle between tenant and master. That the village’s uneven cottages, once the homes of smiths and farmhands, are now occupied by the wealthy and well-mortgaged is evidence of where the upper hand still lies.
On the village outskirts is a road half-submerged by the passing River Avill. A stone-built bridge a few strides upstream betrays the capacity for the water to be permanently breached, but the impressively crafted arches are for now only used by visitors looking to play Pooh Sticks.
The ford being left untouched sums up Dunster’s enduring respect for nature and history – a deferential bow to the permanence of the countryside despite the onslaught of progress.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Dancing on Egg Shells
Is it me, or has the actual point in the Strictly Come Dancing race row been totally missed?
I'm not a million miles away from agreeing with Brucie's initial assessment that there is a tendency to blow big over small issues in current society. The trouble is that the knee-jerk response is one based on fear, not motivated by education. The very potential of an accusation of racism is such that there is seemingly an instinctive and instantaneous outrage at any comment on skin colour or mention of ethnicity at all. This failure to openly debate WHY there is problem in the phrases used or implicit messages conveyed in throw away remarks prevents us as a collective becoming more articulate and understanding about ethnicity. Instead we remain strait-jacketed by competing arguments about the rightness or ridculousness of 'political correctness'.
There is a massive issue in referring to someone as a Paki in the way that Anton du Beke referred to the newly spray-tanned Laila Rouass. Having only picked up on the incident in the media coverage, what struck me was a limited (non-existent?) consideration of WHY this is unacceptable. The only reference I picked up about the consequences of the comment was that Laila Rouass was upset by reference, but was moving on from it.
What began troubling me about the response to this incident, though, was when I found out that Ms Rouass is of Moroccan descent. Her outrage, therefore, cannot be strictly personal. She can of course be upset by the wider ignorance displayed and the wider hurt caused to individual Pakistanis or other minority ethnic groups who suffer at the mouths of similarly crass labels applied on the basis of darker skin tone or countries of birth. She is not, though, the victim in this.
The problem with Du Beke using a term like Paki in the way he did is the association of something he perceived as negative with a pejorative term that depersonalises an entire ethnic group. I doubt that Du Beke intended to offend a cultural group. I don't know him, but don't assume that he is a xenophobe (he is afterall an Englishman called Tony Beke who actively chooses to call himself by an overtly non-English moniker). However the ease with which he responded to darker skin with the term he did reveals a lack of appreciation of the insult and how its use may have a negative effect not only on Pakistani people listening to it, but to our society as a whole where similarly unthinking others need no encouragement to ignore the views, experiences and beliefs of other cultures.
This is not a chance for a witch-hunt to expose prime-time racists, though, it should be an opportunity to inform. Du Beke should be made an example, but not by firing him (which would only serve to make him a martyr for the thoughtless 'political correctness gone mad' brigade). He should be publicly educated on the issues of ethnicity. Publicly as his example could be one for many more who are not on TV, but who have never stopped to think about WHY saying Paki is wrong.
I'm not a million miles away from agreeing with Brucie's initial assessment that there is a tendency to blow big over small issues in current society. The trouble is that the knee-jerk response is one based on fear, not motivated by education. The very potential of an accusation of racism is such that there is seemingly an instinctive and instantaneous outrage at any comment on skin colour or mention of ethnicity at all. This failure to openly debate WHY there is problem in the phrases used or implicit messages conveyed in throw away remarks prevents us as a collective becoming more articulate and understanding about ethnicity. Instead we remain strait-jacketed by competing arguments about the rightness or ridculousness of 'political correctness'.
There is a massive issue in referring to someone as a Paki in the way that Anton du Beke referred to the newly spray-tanned Laila Rouass. Having only picked up on the incident in the media coverage, what struck me was a limited (non-existent?) consideration of WHY this is unacceptable. The only reference I picked up about the consequences of the comment was that Laila Rouass was upset by reference, but was moving on from it.
What began troubling me about the response to this incident, though, was when I found out that Ms Rouass is of Moroccan descent. Her outrage, therefore, cannot be strictly personal. She can of course be upset by the wider ignorance displayed and the wider hurt caused to individual Pakistanis or other minority ethnic groups who suffer at the mouths of similarly crass labels applied on the basis of darker skin tone or countries of birth. She is not, though, the victim in this.
The problem with Du Beke using a term like Paki in the way he did is the association of something he perceived as negative with a pejorative term that depersonalises an entire ethnic group. I doubt that Du Beke intended to offend a cultural group. I don't know him, but don't assume that he is a xenophobe (he is afterall an Englishman called Tony Beke who actively chooses to call himself by an overtly non-English moniker). However the ease with which he responded to darker skin with the term he did reveals a lack of appreciation of the insult and how its use may have a negative effect not only on Pakistani people listening to it, but to our society as a whole where similarly unthinking others need no encouragement to ignore the views, experiences and beliefs of other cultures.
This is not a chance for a witch-hunt to expose prime-time racists, though, it should be an opportunity to inform. Du Beke should be made an example, but not by firing him (which would only serve to make him a martyr for the thoughtless 'political correctness gone mad' brigade). He should be publicly educated on the issues of ethnicity. Publicly as his example could be one for many more who are not on TV, but who have never stopped to think about WHY saying Paki is wrong.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Feedback on the bike ride? I’ve a number of thoughts…
So the bike ride to
119 (not 100)
Just under 12
4.30
Over 500
1
3
6.
Clear? Partially maybe. The sorts of questions that get asked after a challenge like riding between
You can probably imagine what it is like to ride that far, for that long. Imagine, that is, what it would be like for you to do that. But this was my challenge, my experience and I’d suggest that the numbers mean nothing in answering how it was for me.
I’ve become strangely animated over this point as I’ve handled the response to my ride. It was a tough day, threw up a range of physical and psychological challenges, gave me an insight into myself, my companion on the day, the sport of cycling, a narrow line of sight through several southern counties,. I’ve lots of thoughts on whether I’d do it again; tips I’d give anyone thinking of doing it; comparisons with other challenges I’ve done. Yet the questions I get asked are – how far, how long, how many… Numbers. People feel a need it seems to quantify the experience in order to assess it.
The reason I’ve become exercised by this is recognising how this obsession with quantitative analysis pervades so many other elements of life, and in my particular sphere, the evaluation of services. Working for a charity which receives income from both grant funding and earned income, the measurement of our work is forever couched in numbers. How many children will benefit? How many families will tick the box on the questionnaire that says the project made a difference? How many professionals will attend the course? What percentage will say that it increased their knowledge?
Recording qualitative experience so often seems to be regarded as the softer measure, the method of illustrating what the numbers say. I’ve never been satisfied with that and am feeling ever more convinced that attempts to quantify human experiences are flawed.
Whilst I freely admit to being more of a words person, I am by no means anti-numeric. Indeed I’ve a fascination with mathematics that comes from appreciating how powerful pure maths can be whilst accepting that I don’t speak the necessary language to harness that power. My passion for poker is stoked by trying to unpick the statistics and probability that, if mastered, counteract the element of luck on which the game hinges.
Therefore, numbers can tell you so much, but that requires a strong grasp of mathematical theory. I’d wager a fair amount that the vast majority of people who ask for impact reports, funding proposals, or even who design and circulate questionnaires have no such mathematical understanding. Consequently, it follows that judgements and big decisions based on quantitative measures are actually being made on evidence that is essentially meaningless. 500 disabled children benefitting sounds like a great return, but when the method of setting that target, or evidencing attainment is carried out without a genuine and transparent understanding of the statistics, the numbers just become a manipulated and artificial record of what is hoped for and delivered.
Qualitative measures carry similar dangers, of course. One brilliant case study does not factually prove anything other than what happened in that case. But it does illuminate what can happen more than the numbers. It can tell you the difference that one disabled boy and his parents got as articulated by them, by involved professionals, by factual measures. As long as the pressure to claim perfect success for every person is avoided, giving a smaller number of meaningful descriptions and analyses of impact is surely more satisfactory a measure for everyone than a series of spuriously arrived at percentages and figures to 2 decimal places.
But we live in a world keen on the expediency of headline numbers. So, the rest of the bike ride.
1 puncture
3 deer carcasses seen on the verges of the A4
6 single gloves spotted on the roadside along the route.
Gloves? Just discarded by the roadside? What sorts of gloves? Were they all in the same place? How do so many people lose one glove? Why were you counting gloves?? Ahh, well I think those are more interesting questions, but I have no numerical answer…
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Stuck in traffic? It’s a tragedy.
I try to avoid having to drive south from work on Fridays. The Friday before a Bank Holiday weekend, well, that's a definite no go. I work in Bristol and live in a coastal town that has a junction with the M5. It's a pretty reliable motorway, but look on a map and you can see that it points at the south west - at Devon and Cornwall. It's pretty hard to get away to those holiday spots without using the M5 south of Bristol. Setting out on the commute amongst the holiday traffic is a fatal error.
Four days ago, the Friday before the August Bank Holiday, the reports came in throughout the afternoon of traffic building up, junctions closed, police on the scene 20 mile tail backs. I was listening on the radio whilst working from home thinking 'thank heavens that's not me'.
There were two things that tolled loudly in the reports, though - firstly it was the northbound carriageway that was broken; secondly the cause given was an 'on-going police incident'. Not an accident, an incident. In our 21st century psyche that subtle change pricks the conscience a little more - terrorism is not an accident.
The congestion on the M5 was not an act of fanaticism, though.
A man had been found on the Avonmouth bridge around lunchtime and there were concerns for his safety. Police closed the roads whilst they dealt with it. Seven hours later the man died after falling from the bridge.
The reports of the incident are sketchy. I know there were people trapped for hours in their cars. I know there was concern about people, especially the elderly and pregnant, not having access to loos or water. I know there were fears for pets stuck in cars and horse boxes. I heard the usual indignation about the lack of investment in our roads and disgruntled souls who felt that at least one lane should have been opened to prevent gridlock.
I didn't hear anything about the man who died beyond: man in his fifties from the Bristol area.
Of course I don't want to rubberneck at the human tragedy, but surely there is something awry here. Yes, for the thousands in their cars the impact was one concerning traffic; but for the one person at the centre, this was life and death.
Such events - or the reaction to them - are prone to bring out the worst in me, I know. When I worked in the corporate world in London the regular delays on the Northern Line caused by the clinically ambiguous "person on the tracks" always unsettled me. Tuts, groans, angrily rustled newspapers all seemed to whisper an unspoken: so inconsiderate to choose a rush hour train for suicide.
In my darkest moments I see in these responses the victory of individualism over community; the extent to which capitalism can brain-wash humans to ignore their fellow man. This preference for sweeping out of sight the distress and needs of 'weaker' beings is, I believe, all too familiar to those who work with the marginalised in society.
Rather than see any collective responsibility for the safety, behaviour or needs of others, it is distasteful in the extreme to me that all too often people are equated with burden and inconvenience. Either that, or people are thinking 'thank heavens that's not me'.
Four days ago, the Friday before the August Bank Holiday, the reports came in throughout the afternoon of traffic building up, junctions closed, police on the scene 20 mile tail backs. I was listening on the radio whilst working from home thinking 'thank heavens that's not me'.
There were two things that tolled loudly in the reports, though - firstly it was the northbound carriageway that was broken; secondly the cause given was an 'on-going police incident'. Not an accident, an incident. In our 21st century psyche that subtle change pricks the conscience a little more - terrorism is not an accident.
The congestion on the M5 was not an act of fanaticism, though.
A man had been found on the Avonmouth bridge around lunchtime and there were concerns for his safety. Police closed the roads whilst they dealt with it. Seven hours later the man died after falling from the bridge.
The reports of the incident are sketchy. I know there were people trapped for hours in their cars. I know there was concern about people, especially the elderly and pregnant, not having access to loos or water. I know there were fears for pets stuck in cars and horse boxes. I heard the usual indignation about the lack of investment in our roads and disgruntled souls who felt that at least one lane should have been opened to prevent gridlock.
I didn't hear anything about the man who died beyond: man in his fifties from the Bristol area.
Of course I don't want to rubberneck at the human tragedy, but surely there is something awry here. Yes, for the thousands in their cars the impact was one concerning traffic; but for the one person at the centre, this was life and death.
Such events - or the reaction to them - are prone to bring out the worst in me, I know. When I worked in the corporate world in London the regular delays on the Northern Line caused by the clinically ambiguous "person on the tracks" always unsettled me. Tuts, groans, angrily rustled newspapers all seemed to whisper an unspoken: so inconsiderate to choose a rush hour train for suicide.
In my darkest moments I see in these responses the victory of individualism over community; the extent to which capitalism can brain-wash humans to ignore their fellow man. This preference for sweeping out of sight the distress and needs of 'weaker' beings is, I believe, all too familiar to those who work with the marginalised in society.
Rather than see any collective responsibility for the safety, behaviour or needs of others, it is distasteful in the extreme to me that all too often people are equated with burden and inconvenience. Either that, or people are thinking 'thank heavens that's not me'.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Positive Motivation's what you need
So I've elected to do a 100-mile charity bike ride. It seemed like a good idea at first. Then it became a reality. Part of the deal is having to raise money for Action Medical Research. £25 minimum required and they do everything to help including setting you up with a personalised on-line donation site (http://www.action.org.uk/sponsor/robfountain).
So I circulate the details and some kindly souls begin to donate and I sweep beyond the twenty-five mark and have to reset a target somewhere over a hundred quid. The covering note is tweaked to reflect that the kindness of friends and acquaintances is proving a real motivation. And it is - I don't want to let down those that have given generously. I better bloody do it now, or I'll have failed everyone who has given money.
Then it hits me. I've resorted to finding negative motivation for this.
Then it hits me harder. That may well be a trait I carry into my professional life.
Taking stock I recognise in some previous jobs and situations a tendency to focus on delivering what is expected so as not to let other people (a boss, team mates) down. Nothing wrong with that... or is there?
The thing is that on reflection I cannot get beyond words like: safe, reliable, risk-averse, limited, unimaginative, conservative... They aren't terrible words, but they are not - well - about sucking the marrow out life! They just don't have the appeal, the potential, of words like: challenge, experiment, opportunity, pushing boundaries, invention, or simply 'trying'.
So my new hypothesis is this: Negative motivation can lead to a steady life and career, but not a brilliant one; whilst postive motivation (striving to achieve, to do new and different, to push yourself and the limits around you) might from time to time lead to 'failures', but the journey there will at least be stimulating. In short, I need to stick to seeing the positive motivations for things I do and not let those negative motivations put me in a box.
All this from a 100-mile bike ride? Well, yeah, actually. Because the first thought was that it seemed like a good idea. It instantly sounded like something that would hurt, but that would feel worth it afterwards. It clearly presents a new experience and is highly likely to have some element of incident along the route that will give me memories and dinner table conversation in years to come. It sounded like something I would be proud of achieving and that was more prominent a thought than any potential that I might not make it.
That first thought drifted for a bit there - it became easier strangely to say I was doing it because I didn't want to let my sponsors down. Well, time to come clean: I'd have paid the £25 myself if no-one had sponsored me. That people see fit to donate to the ride, well that speaks well of them, but I cannot honestly say - or allow myself to dwell upon thoughts that - it is motivating to know they have done so. This is about personal challenge, pushing boundaries, seizing an opportunity, trying....
So I circulate the details and some kindly souls begin to donate and I sweep beyond the twenty-five mark and have to reset a target somewhere over a hundred quid. The covering note is tweaked to reflect that the kindness of friends and acquaintances is proving a real motivation. And it is - I don't want to let down those that have given generously. I better bloody do it now, or I'll have failed everyone who has given money.
Then it hits me. I've resorted to finding negative motivation for this.
Then it hits me harder. That may well be a trait I carry into my professional life.
Taking stock I recognise in some previous jobs and situations a tendency to focus on delivering what is expected so as not to let other people (a boss, team mates) down. Nothing wrong with that... or is there?
The thing is that on reflection I cannot get beyond words like: safe, reliable, risk-averse, limited, unimaginative, conservative... They aren't terrible words, but they are not - well - about sucking the marrow out life! They just don't have the appeal, the potential, of words like: challenge, experiment, opportunity, pushing boundaries, invention, or simply 'trying'.
So my new hypothesis is this: Negative motivation can lead to a steady life and career, but not a brilliant one; whilst postive motivation (striving to achieve, to do new and different, to push yourself and the limits around you) might from time to time lead to 'failures', but the journey there will at least be stimulating. In short, I need to stick to seeing the positive motivations for things I do and not let those negative motivations put me in a box.
All this from a 100-mile bike ride? Well, yeah, actually. Because the first thought was that it seemed like a good idea. It instantly sounded like something that would hurt, but that would feel worth it afterwards. It clearly presents a new experience and is highly likely to have some element of incident along the route that will give me memories and dinner table conversation in years to come. It sounded like something I would be proud of achieving and that was more prominent a thought than any potential that I might not make it.
That first thought drifted for a bit there - it became easier strangely to say I was doing it because I didn't want to let my sponsors down. Well, time to come clean: I'd have paid the £25 myself if no-one had sponsored me. That people see fit to donate to the ride, well that speaks well of them, but I cannot honestly say - or allow myself to dwell upon thoughts that - it is motivating to know they have done so. This is about personal challenge, pushing boundaries, seizing an opportunity, trying....
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Disagreeing about what we agree on
My dad and I enjoy a good debate. We used to do it whilst washing the dishes. There's less opportunity to do it now, so when the occasion arises we tend to have quite explosive exchanges. We had one today. It was about the current political situation.
My dad got animated about the fact that people are wrong to seek to undermine Gordon Brown's leadership on the grounds that he has never been elected by the country. The public never elects a Prime Minister, he asserts, the party choose the leader. I said the masses cast their vote in most any election as a comment on the named leader of a party; that policies and manifesto commitments are secondary to personality to most.
My dad said that dark forces were behind the moves to destabilise government, that vested interest of the minority was being given credence and momentum by a soulless and careless media. I said it was right that the moral corruption of the few was being exposed for what it is.
My dad called me naive for not thinking there was a conspiracy in how the expenses scandal was being used to bring the Labour government down. I called my dad naive for not thinking it was always the way that situations such as this were manipulated by outside forces.
It was uncomfortable at times. My dad got really worked up; passionate as ever, but angry too. He is a staunch defender of the political values he supports and saw my arguments as opposed to his.
They aren't.
Looking back over where we argued, the key issues are not opposite. What is different is how we see the appropriate response to the political world we see.
My dad has genuine socialist convictions. He is intensely loyal to the values of the true left and the party that represents the interests of the majority against the privilege of the few. I have acquired a similar sense of social justice and am truly grateful for that. Where we differ is that I am currently ruled more by pragmatism, my dad more by anger at the injustice he has seen in his lifetime.
When my dad talks about the technicalities of becoming a Prime Minister he is (I believe) voicing his frustration at the reduction of politics to the cult of personality. His strength of feeling I think comes out of unresolved bitterness that Neil Kinnock was not voted into office largely due to being ginger-haired and Welsh. I agree with him, but with the knowledge that The Sun is the most read paper never far from my thoughts, I believe we need to think of ways of reaching and engaging the lowest common denominator, not lambasting them for being inaccurate.
When my dad moves in his chair with barely contained hostility when talking about the shadowy influence of the Barclay Brothers, or the opinionated nature of modern journalism, I share his dissatisfaction. But I also think that is a secondary issue in this case to the need to expose greed and venality in a minority of elected representatives, including and especially those on the so-called side of the common family.
I don't think my dad is naive. He has considerable knowledge of occasions through history where significant political decisions have been influenced by vested interest. He probably does think I'm naive. He heard my acceptance of the manipulation of events as being antipathy. What we didn't get to discuss was an alternative view (a third way?!), which seeks to get to the heart of the manipulation and the way around it.
Here's what I didn't get to discuss with my dad: That people seek to exert control over political power is not a surprise. That it is easier for socialist parties to be the victim of this is equally not unexpected given that those who control newspapers and big business interests generally are those with most to lose from left-wing governments. Being successful as a Labour goverment, therefore, requires that you play the game better than anyone else. New Labour under Blair is the epitome of this - appeasing the privileged minority in order to secure the means to reform for the majority. When New Labour came to power the success was getting the privileged to agree to things they previously disagreed about.
The current incarnation of Labour government is continuing a policy agenda that is rooted in social interest - I work in the arena of disabled children's services and saw Ed Balls talk impressively last week about the unprecendented investment in services shaped by the needs of parents and children. However, unlike under Tony Blair, the current government I believe lacks the guile to operate in a way that is tolerable to the influential minority.
I respect my dad enormously for putting values first and not wanting to dilute that by worrying on the delivery of politics. However, it is impossible to reform from opposition and therefore seeking to understand and respond to the maneuvres of the 'other side' is a necessary evil.
My discussion with my dad was coolled by a request that we 'agree to disagree'. Debating with my dad helps me understand these points, so I think it is more constructive and apt to conclude that we may always 'disagree to agree'.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Could be tomorrow. Might be ten years from now. What you going to do about it?
I've a morbid fascination about the human condition. We all know that we're going to die, right, and yet we manage to put that out of our minds and toodle on everyday regardless. We even know by probability how long we're likely to have and again that seems easy to dismiss. There's a blitz spirit amongst the whole human race - if only we could bottle that solidarity...
Death is always lurking not far from the surface and every now and then our mortality is ripped into full light with a ferocity that terrifies. Sometimes you just cannot ignore the end game.
I heard some horrible news this week. I used to play football on a friday night with a group of guys I didn't know. I knew someone whose partner used to play and I got an invite. It was an example of what I like about maleness - brought together by a common desire to play a game, minimal (but proportionate) rules agreed to retain order and no greater expectation than you play fair and to your individual ability. So it was that every Friday a painter & decorator, a banker, a barber, a window cleaner, a marine (when not on tour), a horseracing stud accountant, an office cleaner, and others whose jobs I never found out came together to play a game they loved, to get a bit of exercise and time away from family and maybe a beer or two afterwards. It was a highlight of my week for a long time.
A core of the guys had been playing at the same time slot together for over 10 years. One of those was Neale - the banker. He had been amongst the first to organise things. Working out the names of who was around to play the next week and finding replacements to make sure there was always an even number of players to make it an enjoyable game.
Neale died a couple of weeks ago.
He died playing football in that same Friday evening slot, amongst that curious combination of close friends and people who just wanted a game of footie and knew someone, who knew someone that played. I don't know the details yet, but I can guess the cause and try not to imagine the reality of it for Neale or those wrenched from saving goals to trying to save a life. Horrible.
It has got right to the heart of my mulling over our inevitable mortality. Neale was mid forties, had a young family. It makes you realise how fragile our existence is... how there are no guarantees... tells you to grab the moment and not wait for tomorrow... Yes. Those and other cliches have entered my head. But they are not where I'm dwelling.
My thought process - Neale's legacy to me - is not to make me think I have to do everything tomorrow because of what might happen. That's just not feasible. You can't sell your house, give up your job, travel the world bungee-jumping and parachuting whilst you;ve got the chance. Because it might not be tomorrow. Or next week. It might be ten years from now. Twenty would still rank as premature for anyone under 50. So Neale's message to me is not to be reckless. Our submission to the capitalist machine means we have tied ourselves in most cases to houses, expectations and patterns of consumption which make it totally unfeasible to stray too far from the rat race unless the Grim Reaper is actually visible.
No, what I take from Neale's passing is a more sober, yet no less important encouragement. Neale was a banker. He also set up the first kids football team in the village he lived in. He also had two really well-adjusted kids and a wife he got on with. His family were always active in sports, community and school events. At his funeral, the local paper bothered to report, it was standing room only. Not because he was a banker. Because he was more than just a job. Because he got involved. Because he made life count whilst he had it. Because he was a good man.
Death is always lurking not far from the surface and every now and then our mortality is ripped into full light with a ferocity that terrifies. Sometimes you just cannot ignore the end game.
I heard some horrible news this week. I used to play football on a friday night with a group of guys I didn't know. I knew someone whose partner used to play and I got an invite. It was an example of what I like about maleness - brought together by a common desire to play a game, minimal (but proportionate) rules agreed to retain order and no greater expectation than you play fair and to your individual ability. So it was that every Friday a painter & decorator, a banker, a barber, a window cleaner, a marine (when not on tour), a horseracing stud accountant, an office cleaner, and others whose jobs I never found out came together to play a game they loved, to get a bit of exercise and time away from family and maybe a beer or two afterwards. It was a highlight of my week for a long time.
A core of the guys had been playing at the same time slot together for over 10 years. One of those was Neale - the banker. He had been amongst the first to organise things. Working out the names of who was around to play the next week and finding replacements to make sure there was always an even number of players to make it an enjoyable game.
Neale died a couple of weeks ago.
He died playing football in that same Friday evening slot, amongst that curious combination of close friends and people who just wanted a game of footie and knew someone, who knew someone that played. I don't know the details yet, but I can guess the cause and try not to imagine the reality of it for Neale or those wrenched from saving goals to trying to save a life. Horrible.
It has got right to the heart of my mulling over our inevitable mortality. Neale was mid forties, had a young family. It makes you realise how fragile our existence is... how there are no guarantees... tells you to grab the moment and not wait for tomorrow... Yes. Those and other cliches have entered my head. But they are not where I'm dwelling.
My thought process - Neale's legacy to me - is not to make me think I have to do everything tomorrow because of what might happen. That's just not feasible. You can't sell your house, give up your job, travel the world bungee-jumping and parachuting whilst you;ve got the chance. Because it might not be tomorrow. Or next week. It might be ten years from now. Twenty would still rank as premature for anyone under 50. So Neale's message to me is not to be reckless. Our submission to the capitalist machine means we have tied ourselves in most cases to houses, expectations and patterns of consumption which make it totally unfeasible to stray too far from the rat race unless the Grim Reaper is actually visible.
No, what I take from Neale's passing is a more sober, yet no less important encouragement. Neale was a banker. He also set up the first kids football team in the village he lived in. He also had two really well-adjusted kids and a wife he got on with. His family were always active in sports, community and school events. At his funeral, the local paper bothered to report, it was standing room only. Not because he was a banker. Because he was more than just a job. Because he got involved. Because he made life count whilst he had it. Because he was a good man.
Perhaps it wouldn't be so horrible to go in the middle of doing something you love doing. Even if it is earlier than you expect. Not if you have lived the years that you do get and haven't wasted them in sole pursuit of a comfortable income when you reach that great uncertainty: retirement age.
Just enjoy each day as more than a means to an end for that end may come sooner than you want. Thanks for the game, Neale.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Where are all the heroes?
I’ve just watched The Enemy perform on TV. They create a helluva noise. Angry lyrics spat over power chords. Wall of sound stuff. Trouble is they look young. I’m prepared to accept that most of the top sportsmen and musicians I watch perform nowadays are actually younger than me, but most of them at least appear older. And The Enemy are, frankly, not the most attractive of bands. I don’t mean that on a completely shallow level of physical appearance. More broadly, though admittedly not really any deeper, they don’t look like I aspire to look. Not anymore anyway. They look a bit like they’re trying too hard to be rockstars. If I tried to copy them, therefore, I’d end up being someone trying to look like someone trying to look like a rockstar. I don’t want that (No-one wants that!). I want rockstars to look like, to act like, to be rockstars. And I still want to aspire to be a rockstar, not one step removed.
So what does that mean away from music? One thing I think that is apparent is that heroes change as you grow up. They have to. Doubtless The Enemy are the idols for some, and why not. They’re doing well, they’re playing loud music for a living and are doubtless doing better than others of a similar age and appearance that don’t know how to thrash out a 4 minute anthem. That they are no longer hero material to me is no reflection on their credentials. It is simply that what I can relate to has shifted and what I look up to, what I might aspire to be has changed as my life experience has moved beyond the bedroom of my parental home.
In recent years I’ve seen the closest people to me having to cope with the most horrible things. Almost cruel demands are placed on them when they’re already on the floor. And they’ve handled it. With courage and dignity. These are now the standards that I judge idols against. Not if they can bed groupies and afford a nice car before the age of 21.
I’m not sure it is expected that we have ‘heroes’ as we grow older, but I believe it is really important to hold on to the notion of seeing strengths, qualities and behaviours in others as part of our development. I’m a big advocate of what we can gain by reflecting on our own selves, but there is a world of learning to be had by reflecting on the existence of others. Those we hold up as heroes don’t have to be pinnacles of virtue and achievement. The fact that we’re interested in them will mean that they have something we like – some will be characteristics we want to achieve, some might be behaviours that are less socially desirable, but that we secretly envy. There’s lots to be gained by thinking about what it is that attracts you to your heroes. You might just find out that there’s more of you in them than you realise.
So what does that mean away from music? One thing I think that is apparent is that heroes change as you grow up. They have to. Doubtless The Enemy are the idols for some, and why not. They’re doing well, they’re playing loud music for a living and are doubtless doing better than others of a similar age and appearance that don’t know how to thrash out a 4 minute anthem. That they are no longer hero material to me is no reflection on their credentials. It is simply that what I can relate to has shifted and what I look up to, what I might aspire to be has changed as my life experience has moved beyond the bedroom of my parental home.
In recent years I’ve seen the closest people to me having to cope with the most horrible things. Almost cruel demands are placed on them when they’re already on the floor. And they’ve handled it. With courage and dignity. These are now the standards that I judge idols against. Not if they can bed groupies and afford a nice car before the age of 21.
I’m not sure it is expected that we have ‘heroes’ as we grow older, but I believe it is really important to hold on to the notion of seeing strengths, qualities and behaviours in others as part of our development. I’m a big advocate of what we can gain by reflecting on our own selves, but there is a world of learning to be had by reflecting on the existence of others. Those we hold up as heroes don’t have to be pinnacles of virtue and achievement. The fact that we’re interested in them will mean that they have something we like – some will be characteristics we want to achieve, some might be behaviours that are less socially desirable, but that we secretly envy. There’s lots to be gained by thinking about what it is that attracts you to your heroes. You might just find out that there’s more of you in them than you realise.
Friday, 17 April 2009
Are 'Politics' only for the voters now?
I had a ring at the door earlier this week. It was the rosette I noticed first. A goldy, yellow rosette on the lapel of a 60-something's sports coat. My brother and I won identical symbols for placing in a donkey derby at Pontins several decades ago. The conversation that ensued went something like this:
Rosette-Wearer (smiling): Mr Bennett?
Me: No.
RW: You're not Mr Bennett?
Me: No.
RW (looking at paper in his hand and genuinely scratching his head): But there were four of you. Them, I mean. You're sure?
Me: Yes.
RW: This is number 24?
Me: Yes. We only moved in a few months back and we've not had anything through about the electoral roll. The Bennett's moved out some time ago I believe.
RW: Oh, I see. Well, I'm not surprised, this ward is notoriously bad at all that administrative stuff. Anyway, sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye.
Now I'm not normally adverse to being left alone in my own home, but the more I've thought about this the more I'm troubled by it. There is I concede an element of assumption here, but it seems reasonable to see this as a regular canvassing call in advance of a local election and having found a household unable to cast a vote, the representative decided to move on swiftly to the next house which did have some ballot cards perched on the mantle-piece.
This reduces politics to a mere process - where securing votes and getting more of them than the other candidates is the end objective. Apathy about politics is, I believe, increased when society sees politicians overtly playing this game above considering real issues.
I may not be voting (this time round), but I still live in the community where the election is being held. The local issues affecting my neighbour who does have a polling card, are no less relevant to me and my family. And yet that is how my gentleman caller made me feel.
What I tasted in this experience is what it might be like to be disenfranchised. Very quickly I felt like I didn't matter, that my viewpoint was irrelevant, that the elected officials didn't really care about those who did not have a say. My hunch is that RW would have given a similarly disinterested display to a 16 year old at home alone. And I doubt that the supported living scheme round the corner has ever featured on the calling list.
Is it not those without a voice, or whose voices are not heard that are most in need of the opportunity to speak to a representative of a body wishing to hold a position of power?
I'm probably reading too much into what was a minor event. I also acknowledge the dangers of using one experience to make or prove a point. There are energetic, enlightened and representative people in politics at a local level. To those seeking to join those ranks I simply urge them to remember that they're not entering a donkey derby; winning a race and being awarded a rosette is not the goal. It is people, not votes, that should matter. It is too easy to forget that whilst all voters are people, not all people are voters.
Rosette-Wearer (smiling): Mr Bennett?
Me: No.
RW: You're not Mr Bennett?
Me: No.
RW (looking at paper in his hand and genuinely scratching his head): But there were four of you. Them, I mean. You're sure?
Me: Yes.
RW: This is number 24?
Me: Yes. We only moved in a few months back and we've not had anything through about the electoral roll. The Bennett's moved out some time ago I believe.
RW: Oh, I see. Well, I'm not surprised, this ward is notoriously bad at all that administrative stuff. Anyway, sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye.
Now I'm not normally adverse to being left alone in my own home, but the more I've thought about this the more I'm troubled by it. There is I concede an element of assumption here, but it seems reasonable to see this as a regular canvassing call in advance of a local election and having found a household unable to cast a vote, the representative decided to move on swiftly to the next house which did have some ballot cards perched on the mantle-piece.
This reduces politics to a mere process - where securing votes and getting more of them than the other candidates is the end objective. Apathy about politics is, I believe, increased when society sees politicians overtly playing this game above considering real issues.
I may not be voting (this time round), but I still live in the community where the election is being held. The local issues affecting my neighbour who does have a polling card, are no less relevant to me and my family. And yet that is how my gentleman caller made me feel.
What I tasted in this experience is what it might be like to be disenfranchised. Very quickly I felt like I didn't matter, that my viewpoint was irrelevant, that the elected officials didn't really care about those who did not have a say. My hunch is that RW would have given a similarly disinterested display to a 16 year old at home alone. And I doubt that the supported living scheme round the corner has ever featured on the calling list.
Is it not those without a voice, or whose voices are not heard that are most in need of the opportunity to speak to a representative of a body wishing to hold a position of power?
I'm probably reading too much into what was a minor event. I also acknowledge the dangers of using one experience to make or prove a point. There are energetic, enlightened and representative people in politics at a local level. To those seeking to join those ranks I simply urge them to remember that they're not entering a donkey derby; winning a race and being awarded a rosette is not the goal. It is people, not votes, that should matter. It is too easy to forget that whilst all voters are people, not all people are voters.
Friday, 3 April 2009
The path of Least Resistance is (ironically) paved with treacle
Lots of people know that already, I realise. For me it's been quite a recent revelation. Knowing it, and then doing something with that information, well... that way gold lies.
I've always known that I am by nature a pleaser. I'm not fond of confrontation or conflict and I strive to keep people and situations amicable wherever possible. Professionally, this has got me so far - polite and positive are (thankfully) still valued characteristics. Sure there have been the odd teams where my approach has been mocked for being 'cheesy', but it was friendly banter and often an ability that was specifically harnessed. They're a bit difficult Rob, you talk to them, give them some cheese... I like to think there is more substance behind my approach than just playing the sycophantic schtick - respect for others, a sense of perspective about what is really important, seeking mutual gain rather then personal victory - but I recognise a conscious element of performance at times. I hear myself saying the 'right' things, know I am hiding some personal opinions.
Personally, avoiding conflict has lead to solid, calm relationships. In the main. Of course, a passive person who seeks to avoid an argument, makes for an infuriating partner when there is an issue in a relationship. If I feel aggrieved I turn inward, become quiet, work out my frustrations in my head. If I have caused grief, then I'll resist attempts to confront the issue when it is framed in anger or annoyance. Now, I can be seriously annoying and for some around me there is an understandable desire - a need - for an expression of this. My preference to avoid that is rarely perceived as a constructive response in those situations!
And there's the point. Whatever part of life you look at, wanting to keep the peace, to avoid rocking the boat, to keep things polite might feel like it is an (ahem) unarguably valid way to conduct yourself, but it isn't. Glossing over tensions is literally akin to sweeping them under a carpet. You might not have to look at them or deal with them, but they're still there.
I often find myself under the carpet at night. Not infrequently I have dreams in which I uncharacteristically bawl people out. The scenarios are the stuff of the sub-conscious, but the reaction I see myself having is phenomenal. Shouting is the thing - not shouting from a safe distance, where the volume might be deemed necessary in part to ensure the other person can hear my opinions. No, in these night-time scenes I get right in people's face and let forth a stream of considered, rational but cutting bile. Invariably, I wake from these dreams feeling more refreshed than any other night's sleep. I'm left feeling bouyant, energised, cleansed.
So, I know I tend to want to avoid conflict (interestingly, I don't know why this is the case, but unlike if I had an overly aggressive disposition there is seemingly no pressure on me to need to find out). I also recognise now that my preference for the path of least resistance is not leading me to ultimately positive outcomes.
Jakubowski - writing about self-assertion techniques for women - proposes the tenets for an assertive philosophy. As a taster one reads "Not letting others know what we think and feel is just as inconsiderate as not listening to other people’s thoughts and feelings." I always agreed with the spirit encompassed by Jakubowski, but didn't see the need to apply them to me. Perhaps it's because I'm a man. More likely it's because I have only just started to recognise the negative impact of treading a path that focusses on immediate comfort at the expense of long term contentment.
It is time, therefore, for me adjust, to counter my natural countenance and embrace Resistance a little more. Don't get me wrong, I'm not envisaging spitting my view of the world in nose-to-nose rants. I am trying, though, be more honest with my opinions and more prepared to challenge views or decisions I disagree with. My motivation is that the Path of Least Resitance has become too meandering, too laborious, and I'm feeling that time is too short to waste on platitudes. I'm sure I'll be nice in how I assert myself, mind. Wouldn't want to break the mould completely...
I've always known that I am by nature a pleaser. I'm not fond of confrontation or conflict and I strive to keep people and situations amicable wherever possible. Professionally, this has got me so far - polite and positive are (thankfully) still valued characteristics. Sure there have been the odd teams where my approach has been mocked for being 'cheesy', but it was friendly banter and often an ability that was specifically harnessed. They're a bit difficult Rob, you talk to them, give them some cheese... I like to think there is more substance behind my approach than just playing the sycophantic schtick - respect for others, a sense of perspective about what is really important, seeking mutual gain rather then personal victory - but I recognise a conscious element of performance at times. I hear myself saying the 'right' things, know I am hiding some personal opinions.
Personally, avoiding conflict has lead to solid, calm relationships. In the main. Of course, a passive person who seeks to avoid an argument, makes for an infuriating partner when there is an issue in a relationship. If I feel aggrieved I turn inward, become quiet, work out my frustrations in my head. If I have caused grief, then I'll resist attempts to confront the issue when it is framed in anger or annoyance. Now, I can be seriously annoying and for some around me there is an understandable desire - a need - for an expression of this. My preference to avoid that is rarely perceived as a constructive response in those situations!
And there's the point. Whatever part of life you look at, wanting to keep the peace, to avoid rocking the boat, to keep things polite might feel like it is an (ahem) unarguably valid way to conduct yourself, but it isn't. Glossing over tensions is literally akin to sweeping them under a carpet. You might not have to look at them or deal with them, but they're still there.
I often find myself under the carpet at night. Not infrequently I have dreams in which I uncharacteristically bawl people out. The scenarios are the stuff of the sub-conscious, but the reaction I see myself having is phenomenal. Shouting is the thing - not shouting from a safe distance, where the volume might be deemed necessary in part to ensure the other person can hear my opinions. No, in these night-time scenes I get right in people's face and let forth a stream of considered, rational but cutting bile. Invariably, I wake from these dreams feeling more refreshed than any other night's sleep. I'm left feeling bouyant, energised, cleansed.
So, I know I tend to want to avoid conflict (interestingly, I don't know why this is the case, but unlike if I had an overly aggressive disposition there is seemingly no pressure on me to need to find out). I also recognise now that my preference for the path of least resistance is not leading me to ultimately positive outcomes.
Jakubowski - writing about self-assertion techniques for women - proposes the tenets for an assertive philosophy. As a taster one reads "Not letting others know what we think and feel is just as inconsiderate as not listening to other people’s thoughts and feelings." I always agreed with the spirit encompassed by Jakubowski, but didn't see the need to apply them to me. Perhaps it's because I'm a man. More likely it's because I have only just started to recognise the negative impact of treading a path that focusses on immediate comfort at the expense of long term contentment.
It is time, therefore, for me adjust, to counter my natural countenance and embrace Resistance a little more. Don't get me wrong, I'm not envisaging spitting my view of the world in nose-to-nose rants. I am trying, though, be more honest with my opinions and more prepared to challenge views or decisions I disagree with. My motivation is that the Path of Least Resitance has become too meandering, too laborious, and I'm feeling that time is too short to waste on platitudes. I'm sure I'll be nice in how I assert myself, mind. Wouldn't want to break the mould completely...
Monday, 16 March 2009
The lessons of symmetry
Sometimes threads of experience come together with such perfect timing that you cannot help but be struck by the patterns that exist all around us.
My untested hunch is that some people dismiss these events as mere co-incidence, worthy only to be served undigested over dinner. At the other extreme, others are so struck by the significance of the 'signs' they read into the overlapping events, they assign a meaning that effectively paints themselves as impotent figures in their own lives, being played with by some greater being. For me, the act of noticing a pattern is an indicator of self-awareness; actively interpreting it and learning from it a means to grow as a person.
Lost? Let me give my recent example.
I've been slowly getting grumpier and grumpier at the world of late. In particular, I've been formulating a view that the biggest failing in our modern, English society is a lack of collective identity or responsibility. Everywhere is a search for blame of individuals - as if they exist in a vaccuum. Repeatedly we are encouraged to look inwards, to look out for ourselves and dismiss our interactions with others.
The Baby P case was when I started to vent my anger about all this. Social workers, individually and as a profession, were scrutinised by all. Led in no small measure by the predictable (but for that no less appalling) baiting and finger pointing of the Red Tops, the search for culpability was vicious. Vicious, but misplaced in my opinion.
Nowhere in the legitimate attempts to seek explanation and learning did the search fall on society - yet the abuse occurred in the midst of a bustling community, so should we not reflect on the place of contemporary society in cultivating people who are capable of such cruelty against a baby? And what of the people who lived in the immediate vicinity? They must have seen the family members on far more occasions than the professionals whose visits were counted and quoted as evidence for blame.
Of course, professionals are expected to implement child protection processes and that these failed needs to be reviewed. Again, though, the social workers involved were following legislation, policy and principles agreed on behalf of society.
My frustration is that society (if you forgive my generalisation) is largely ignorant of the legislation governing child protection. When things have gone wrong it is only half the story to look at the actions taken by professionals. The necessary (but missing) next step is to explore why those actions may have been taken by people acting on our behalf. Is what social workers, police and doctors are being asked to do realistic or even desirable? The debate to my mind should not be "who didn't do what", it needs to be whether we are comfortable with professionals being asked to both protect children and to respect individual rights, to be decisive and to be ultra-sure of the facts, to be supportive of families and to apply to court to remove children from their parents?
If you're still with me after the last three paragraphs, it's unlikely to surprise you to know that I'm prone to getting on my soap box from time to time. Over dinner last weekend, I was giving a live version of this argument, given extra brio courtesy of good wine and the humour of my long-standing and immensely patient friends and family. I was in full flow on the whole range of areas where 'society' is turning a blind eye to its own failings and errors. Talking too loud and enjoying the sport of argument, I was also getting some useful feedback on my interpretation of the world. I had no solutions to offer, as my table-mates were quick to highlight. Importantly, it emerged from the challenges they raised that I was guilty of overlooking key parts in my analysis.
One of the realisations I was helped to reach that night was that political processes are where many of the debates I was clamouring for do - or at least should - happen. There is an issue, of course, about the lack of engagement of the masses in politics and some scepticism remains about the influence of party politics on the direction of discussion or the representativeness of those debating issues in either chamber. In principle, however, it is clear that our society's chosen form of government should allow for these debates about our ways of living and interacting to be formally chewed over.
I'd been mulling this over for a few days when I logged on to the blog of my friend Craig (http://nakedentrepreneur.blogspot.com). In it, the ever impressive and successful social entrepreneur revealed that his next venture is in to politics and he is to stand later this year in a local election in Suffolk. It is time he feels to use politics, (instead of setting up successful organisations) to try and bring about change. He understands the world better now. His skills have broadened, confidence grown, knows better what he believes in.
Coincidence? Evidence of a playful god? Not a bit of it. That I see this as a pattern is my choice. It reflects to my mind that there are some truths which I have failed to appreciate until I was ready to recognise them. Being open to feedback and self-awareness I have come to recognise that it is easier to rant about the failures of unspecified others than it is to take the time to fully understand the immediate world you live in; that my friends & wife who have been on the receiving end of my rants about social justice over the years have equally fair minded and often far clearer views on the state of society if only I give them a chance to speak; and finally that I am a good few years behind Craig in my thinking about bringing about change, let alone taking the determined steps he is taking.
To remind you where I started on this: You may think I've simply taken too long to describe some minor co-incidences. Perhaps you think there is evidence in this of a greater design over my life than I believe in. Personally, I'm happiest thinking that it shows that I'm still growing.
My untested hunch is that some people dismiss these events as mere co-incidence, worthy only to be served undigested over dinner. At the other extreme, others are so struck by the significance of the 'signs' they read into the overlapping events, they assign a meaning that effectively paints themselves as impotent figures in their own lives, being played with by some greater being. For me, the act of noticing a pattern is an indicator of self-awareness; actively interpreting it and learning from it a means to grow as a person.
Lost? Let me give my recent example.
I've been slowly getting grumpier and grumpier at the world of late. In particular, I've been formulating a view that the biggest failing in our modern, English society is a lack of collective identity or responsibility. Everywhere is a search for blame of individuals - as if they exist in a vaccuum. Repeatedly we are encouraged to look inwards, to look out for ourselves and dismiss our interactions with others.
The Baby P case was when I started to vent my anger about all this. Social workers, individually and as a profession, were scrutinised by all. Led in no small measure by the predictable (but for that no less appalling) baiting and finger pointing of the Red Tops, the search for culpability was vicious. Vicious, but misplaced in my opinion.
Nowhere in the legitimate attempts to seek explanation and learning did the search fall on society - yet the abuse occurred in the midst of a bustling community, so should we not reflect on the place of contemporary society in cultivating people who are capable of such cruelty against a baby? And what of the people who lived in the immediate vicinity? They must have seen the family members on far more occasions than the professionals whose visits were counted and quoted as evidence for blame.
Of course, professionals are expected to implement child protection processes and that these failed needs to be reviewed. Again, though, the social workers involved were following legislation, policy and principles agreed on behalf of society.
My frustration is that society (if you forgive my generalisation) is largely ignorant of the legislation governing child protection. When things have gone wrong it is only half the story to look at the actions taken by professionals. The necessary (but missing) next step is to explore why those actions may have been taken by people acting on our behalf. Is what social workers, police and doctors are being asked to do realistic or even desirable? The debate to my mind should not be "who didn't do what", it needs to be whether we are comfortable with professionals being asked to both protect children and to respect individual rights, to be decisive and to be ultra-sure of the facts, to be supportive of families and to apply to court to remove children from their parents?
If you're still with me after the last three paragraphs, it's unlikely to surprise you to know that I'm prone to getting on my soap box from time to time. Over dinner last weekend, I was giving a live version of this argument, given extra brio courtesy of good wine and the humour of my long-standing and immensely patient friends and family. I was in full flow on the whole range of areas where 'society' is turning a blind eye to its own failings and errors. Talking too loud and enjoying the sport of argument, I was also getting some useful feedback on my interpretation of the world. I had no solutions to offer, as my table-mates were quick to highlight. Importantly, it emerged from the challenges they raised that I was guilty of overlooking key parts in my analysis.
One of the realisations I was helped to reach that night was that political processes are where many of the debates I was clamouring for do - or at least should - happen. There is an issue, of course, about the lack of engagement of the masses in politics and some scepticism remains about the influence of party politics on the direction of discussion or the representativeness of those debating issues in either chamber. In principle, however, it is clear that our society's chosen form of government should allow for these debates about our ways of living and interacting to be formally chewed over.
I'd been mulling this over for a few days when I logged on to the blog of my friend Craig (http://nakedentrepreneur.blogspot.com). In it, the ever impressive and successful social entrepreneur revealed that his next venture is in to politics and he is to stand later this year in a local election in Suffolk. It is time he feels to use politics, (instead of setting up successful organisations) to try and bring about change. He understands the world better now. His skills have broadened, confidence grown, knows better what he believes in.
Coincidence? Evidence of a playful god? Not a bit of it. That I see this as a pattern is my choice. It reflects to my mind that there are some truths which I have failed to appreciate until I was ready to recognise them. Being open to feedback and self-awareness I have come to recognise that it is easier to rant about the failures of unspecified others than it is to take the time to fully understand the immediate world you live in; that my friends & wife who have been on the receiving end of my rants about social justice over the years have equally fair minded and often far clearer views on the state of society if only I give them a chance to speak; and finally that I am a good few years behind Craig in my thinking about bringing about change, let alone taking the determined steps he is taking.
To remind you where I started on this: You may think I've simply taken too long to describe some minor co-incidences. Perhaps you think there is evidence in this of a greater design over my life than I believe in. Personally, I'm happiest thinking that it shows that I'm still growing.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
One Pound of Flesh
Writing is something I love. I have done since I was in my teens. For a while now, though, it has been feeling like an unrequited love. The act of writing has become associated with those same feelings of frustration, missed opportunity and uselessness that were the only outcome from my teenage lustings after girls in my school.
Writing is what I want to do, an activity with tremendous capacity to fulfil. The opportunity to write, however, seems too easily to allude me. To be honest, it annoys me that writing doesn't seek me out, doesn't demand that I spend time on it... it's as if writing doesn't appreciate the abilities I think I might have.
And here's the epiphany: I can read in these first few paragraphs precisely how appalling a suitor I have been. Pre-occupied by what writing could do for me, I've not spared a thought for what I can offer in return. Pis encore, I've taken my passion for granted, such that of late my energy has been spent being in love with the idea of writing, rather than actually doing any.
Time for the admission that paves the way to recovery: My name is Rob Fountain. I want to be a good writer, but I don't write regularly.
It's 9 years since I made a dedicated attempt to convert my aspirations into reality. Back in 2000, I had the luxury of having a few months where I didn't need to take paid employment and I spent that time trying to be a writer - I devoured novels and newspapers daily, passed afternoons in London parks watching people and, crucially, I wrote. Every day. Output was more intense than prolific, but a handful of short stories did emerge. The most effort went into a story called One Pound of Flesh. It follows a man called Barry Stickleback so desperate to translate his technical writing abilities into becoming a published writer that the predictable failure to achieve his goal leads him down a path of such severe self-loathing that only extreme measures can cure him. Ironically (I always felt), an on-line publisher accepted the story and you can still access it at http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/OnePoun.shtml should the whim ever take you.
Despite - or, I now realise, because of - the accomplishment of producing writing that had been independently 'accepted', I dried up. Not a creative block 'for want of trying', more a blockage in production for 'lack of trying'. I just stopped writing. This is actually quite characteristic of how I approach many pursuits - I set about trying to do something, full of enthusiasm and long-term vision. Then, having acheived an acceptable standard, I lose interest and move on. As far as writing goes, it seems I never learnt anything from Barry Stickleback. The destination had become more important to me than the journey.
This blog, then, is my new pound of flesh - a structured programme of effort to exercise my writing muscle. It will undoubtedly cause me some pain, will require some sacrifice, will lead to no little self-revelation along the way. It is, however, exactly what I need if I am to develop, to understand my abilities and limitations; to reignite the love I've lost. Writing on to the internet, with the accompanying anonymity of being a needle in a haystack, suits me down to the ground - for I have no expectation that my labours will generate an audience. After all, that is no longer the primary purpose. For now, I'm satisfied (relieved actually) just to be back on a journey.
Having said that, a journey without at least a direction in which to head is a short-cut to dizziness. A subject to focus my writing on is what I need...
Writing is what I want to do, an activity with tremendous capacity to fulfil. The opportunity to write, however, seems too easily to allude me. To be honest, it annoys me that writing doesn't seek me out, doesn't demand that I spend time on it... it's as if writing doesn't appreciate the abilities I think I might have.
And here's the epiphany: I can read in these first few paragraphs precisely how appalling a suitor I have been. Pre-occupied by what writing could do for me, I've not spared a thought for what I can offer in return. Pis encore, I've taken my passion for granted, such that of late my energy has been spent being in love with the idea of writing, rather than actually doing any.
Time for the admission that paves the way to recovery: My name is Rob Fountain. I want to be a good writer, but I don't write regularly.
It's 9 years since I made a dedicated attempt to convert my aspirations into reality. Back in 2000, I had the luxury of having a few months where I didn't need to take paid employment and I spent that time trying to be a writer - I devoured novels and newspapers daily, passed afternoons in London parks watching people and, crucially, I wrote. Every day. Output was more intense than prolific, but a handful of short stories did emerge. The most effort went into a story called One Pound of Flesh. It follows a man called Barry Stickleback so desperate to translate his technical writing abilities into becoming a published writer that the predictable failure to achieve his goal leads him down a path of such severe self-loathing that only extreme measures can cure him. Ironically (I always felt), an on-line publisher accepted the story and you can still access it at http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/OnePoun.shtml should the whim ever take you.
Despite - or, I now realise, because of - the accomplishment of producing writing that had been independently 'accepted', I dried up. Not a creative block 'for want of trying', more a blockage in production for 'lack of trying'. I just stopped writing. This is actually quite characteristic of how I approach many pursuits - I set about trying to do something, full of enthusiasm and long-term vision. Then, having acheived an acceptable standard, I lose interest and move on. As far as writing goes, it seems I never learnt anything from Barry Stickleback. The destination had become more important to me than the journey.
This blog, then, is my new pound of flesh - a structured programme of effort to exercise my writing muscle. It will undoubtedly cause me some pain, will require some sacrifice, will lead to no little self-revelation along the way. It is, however, exactly what I need if I am to develop, to understand my abilities and limitations; to reignite the love I've lost. Writing on to the internet, with the accompanying anonymity of being a needle in a haystack, suits me down to the ground - for I have no expectation that my labours will generate an audience. After all, that is no longer the primary purpose. For now, I'm satisfied (relieved actually) just to be back on a journey.
Having said that, a journey without at least a direction in which to head is a short-cut to dizziness. A subject to focus my writing on is what I need...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)