You know what- I really love England. I love the rain, I love the inordinate amount of snow; I love conkers and daffodils, robins and badgers. Rabid foxes are just part o' the life on our little green isle, and Arsenal FC, well, they're not really English are they? I can't say I really accept anything to do with Gordon Brown, or our oh-so-very capable government- but then 'What are men compared to rocks and mountains?' or in the case of the UK, really big hills.
Of course- I'm sure part of this is homesickness, having already been away from my mother land for two whole days. Hong Kong's pretty nice, warm,lovely- even if we are living a cupboard, but I can't help but pine for good old Britain. It's not got anything to do with a melodramatic attempt to escape from my revision. That would be ridiculous.
In my last two weeks in England I had a heck of a lot of fun. Not sure when exactly I managed to rest, but that's the 'hill for you- the city that never sleeps. Or rather, hamlet. Still, rock climbing, shakespeare, sponsored silence (I did it for the whole 8 hours- didn't think I would? O ye of little faith) doing an aerobatic display for a roundabout, performing Faure's requiem in a massed choir in London for the Jesuits (and getting a standing ovation!) etc, well it's just one of the things I love about our little country- even the boff can do anything with the right determination, address and bus driver.
During my flight, I got to thinking about how all planes are essentially the same.Of course, there's a big difference between a Grob tutor, a Hawk and a 747. I've never flown in a Hawk, but I've imagined it often enough ( the red arrows have got nothing on me- In my head) It's something I've noticed though-not their differences, got those pretty quickly. But their similarities- the same freedom, new limits, new frontier. The way you feel as you go into the air, everything you can see... It's incredible, thrilling, out of this world. So peaceful, and at the same time, very nearly out of control.
It's not so different from our life- my family's anyway. For example, three weeks ago, after a rehearsal, violin lesson and charity committee meeting I got a call from my parents, who handed me over to my headmaster so I could give him a message for his wife, and then explained to me they'd just moved into a new house which I'd never seen before and would get my new bed tomorrow.
I relayed this to a fellow actor whilst we were rehearsing, who asked me if the word 'stability' meant anything to my family.
The answer is no, no it doesn't.
My proof? I recounted the story to my Mum this afternoon, who exclaimed, 'Yes we do! We always have the pets at home!' Yup. Except cornflake. The fish. He died.
Anyway the point is, traveling is...well, incredible, thrilling and out of this world. it can be so peaceful, and liberating- and at the same time half the time you're spinning out of control in a whirl of unfamiliar faces and sights,and the other half you're trying figure out what time zone you're in and how that relates to the rest of the world. I wouldn't swap my life for the whole, beautiful planet- but that doesn't mean it doesn't have a price, nor does it mean that every time I step out the door I don't take a deep breath, and just let a slight, cold flicker of doubt flash through my mind. A wish for safety. But it's not bravery if you don't feel fear, and I wouldn't be me if I didn't just throw it all aside and have a go anyway. So far, I haven't looked back.
And that's one of the things I love most about England. The unicorn and the lion. The British have never been afraid to confront the unknown- looking for it in everything we see, and no matter what the stereotype or unfortunate political situation- we're brave. Because you just have to think about it- maybe China's the new world power, and the USA leaves us all in the dust, whatever. England's still at the top, and has been for hundreds of years. We 'carry on', but we do it magnificently. Even in Sheffield.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Elephant Trees
Elephant Trees are the most fantastic sort of thing. They're a bit like a baobab tree, huge, with full, bulging trunks and branches that curl around their crown in thick, fantastical wooden tendrils. Their leaves are thick and lush, a sort of wide oval, and dark green on one side, lime on the back. The seeds are pods, as large as the leaves, and the same sort of shape- although these bulge out, and if you tap them they sound hollow. They're hard and light brown. These seeds, on a healthy elephant tree, grow in abundance, rows of them dotting the uppermost branches, some 35 metres up. On a day in summer, perhaps set, perhaps not, all of these seed pods open, like a flower blooming, and from them tumble thousands of light balls of white fluff- like the heads of dandelion clocks the size of your fist, and they're caught in the wind and tumble away in a delicate, fantastical cloud.
Elephant trees are amazing things, they really are.
The only problem with them is that they don't actually exsist- I think.
Which is why me having a memory of watching one's seedpods open and tumble down a street in India whilst my Dad was getting cash from a bank is somewhat..disturbing. It's always been a particularly precious memory of mine- the glaring sun, shining like liquid silver on the backs of the half-broken cars limping down the street, the awe inspiring breadth and height of the tree, learning it's name from an indian man with clever eyes and a nice smile, and watching with baited breath as the seedpods cracked open simultaneously, and those dandelion clocks tumbled in a light wave through the wind, transforming that grotty, back end part of the city into something remarkable. It was such a special memory that around last Christmas, when my family and I were talking about various countries we've visited (both varied and numerous) that I felt the need to recount it in detail- finally unburdening myself of this beautiful memory that had been nagging at the back of my mind. As I finished I looked at their faces, smiling at the past, waiting for them to add their own view on the experience. Their perplexed expressions were not exactly what I was expecting.
I mean sure, if I'd told them pigs could fly, or the sky was green, or I really WAS sane, then maybe...well, probably, but a harmless, pretty little memory? I mean yeesh, I thought, I CAN remember some things guys... So when they explained that it had never happened- at least not when they were there, I suppose my own portrayal of perplexity mirrored theirs.
I suppose that's the thing about memories- they're slippery, glimmering, ephemeral things- like those gauze ribbons you get wrapped around fancy presents (yes, I'm thinking of a certain wonderful Australian aunt)- I mean really, think about your memories, really THINK about them- it's a collection of echoes into the now and the future, shadows, half-remembered songs, words, faces...You sort of know times, but even they are uncertain. The biggest resource for humanity to know where they've come from and what they've been- a collection of multicoloured scraps swimming in the etha of your thoughts, 'electrical impulses and chemicals', and apparently nothing more than something which can be easily explained. Yeah, right.
And of course they shouldn't be- because, in so many ways, memories are the building blocks of the soul, scaffolding, mortar, cement- of emotion and experience and lessons learnt, that make us react logically or irrationally, favour and ignore, develop and grow. They're as much a part of our 'heart' as everything in the now.
And of course- the most precious thing of all is the memories we're given: stories and scraps and words and sounds that grow in precious corners of our mind, for us to pass on to those we love and for them to do so too in turn- it's all very well being politically correct, and 'behaving in public', trying not to exclude other 'ethnic groups' (we're not allowed to call them races are we now?) But the treasures of our culture, the ballads and rhymes and poems and songs, surely they at least are worth preserving? It's one of the many things that make us human- the way we are nourished by a collective set of stories, wild and bright, as old as anyone can remember.
So maybe my Elephant Tree was a memory of a dream, or a daydream, or just a figment of my imagination grown in my subconscious to epic proportions, but that's not going to stop me from passing it on- from reminding everyone around me, those I love and those crazy enough to listen to me, that the world, our lives, each one of us is not only unique- we are a work of art 200 000 years in the making and still growing, still living, making magic and lives and memories, memories, memories- together a tapestry of life and triumph and loss and love, beautiful and surreal and as alive as we are.
At whatever stage of our lives- birth, childhood, adulthood, death and whatever comes after, we're part of something more already- we just need to remember from time to time.
Elephant trees are amazing things, they really are.
The only problem with them is that they don't actually exsist- I think.
Which is why me having a memory of watching one's seedpods open and tumble down a street in India whilst my Dad was getting cash from a bank is somewhat..disturbing. It's always been a particularly precious memory of mine- the glaring sun, shining like liquid silver on the backs of the half-broken cars limping down the street, the awe inspiring breadth and height of the tree, learning it's name from an indian man with clever eyes and a nice smile, and watching with baited breath as the seedpods cracked open simultaneously, and those dandelion clocks tumbled in a light wave through the wind, transforming that grotty, back end part of the city into something remarkable. It was such a special memory that around last Christmas, when my family and I were talking about various countries we've visited (both varied and numerous) that I felt the need to recount it in detail- finally unburdening myself of this beautiful memory that had been nagging at the back of my mind. As I finished I looked at their faces, smiling at the past, waiting for them to add their own view on the experience. Their perplexed expressions were not exactly what I was expecting.
I mean sure, if I'd told them pigs could fly, or the sky was green, or I really WAS sane, then maybe...well, probably, but a harmless, pretty little memory? I mean yeesh, I thought, I CAN remember some things guys... So when they explained that it had never happened- at least not when they were there, I suppose my own portrayal of perplexity mirrored theirs.
I suppose that's the thing about memories- they're slippery, glimmering, ephemeral things- like those gauze ribbons you get wrapped around fancy presents (yes, I'm thinking of a certain wonderful Australian aunt)- I mean really, think about your memories, really THINK about them- it's a collection of echoes into the now and the future, shadows, half-remembered songs, words, faces...You sort of know times, but even they are uncertain. The biggest resource for humanity to know where they've come from and what they've been- a collection of multicoloured scraps swimming in the etha of your thoughts, 'electrical impulses and chemicals', and apparently nothing more than something which can be easily explained. Yeah, right.
And of course they shouldn't be- because, in so many ways, memories are the building blocks of the soul, scaffolding, mortar, cement- of emotion and experience and lessons learnt, that make us react logically or irrationally, favour and ignore, develop and grow. They're as much a part of our 'heart' as everything in the now.
And of course- the most precious thing of all is the memories we're given: stories and scraps and words and sounds that grow in precious corners of our mind, for us to pass on to those we love and for them to do so too in turn- it's all very well being politically correct, and 'behaving in public', trying not to exclude other 'ethnic groups' (we're not allowed to call them races are we now?) But the treasures of our culture, the ballads and rhymes and poems and songs, surely they at least are worth preserving? It's one of the many things that make us human- the way we are nourished by a collective set of stories, wild and bright, as old as anyone can remember.
So maybe my Elephant Tree was a memory of a dream, or a daydream, or just a figment of my imagination grown in my subconscious to epic proportions, but that's not going to stop me from passing it on- from reminding everyone around me, those I love and those crazy enough to listen to me, that the world, our lives, each one of us is not only unique- we are a work of art 200 000 years in the making and still growing, still living, making magic and lives and memories, memories, memories- together a tapestry of life and triumph and loss and love, beautiful and surreal and as alive as we are.
At whatever stage of our lives- birth, childhood, adulthood, death and whatever comes after, we're part of something more already- we just need to remember from time to time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)