Sorry my post is late this week, so here’s a film:
https://youtu.be/0pgUznL7L1Y (Thanks to Tony Curtis Movies for sharing this). Good to add this to the Curtis oeuvre, and most of this 1953 film is set in Macao, so it’s interesting to see how that location was perceived by Universal International in those days. It’s hard to see how Philadelphia gets involved in the final vital scenes, but it does.
Sometimes when you feel different you want to be the same
Sometimes when you feel the same you want to be different
Sometimes when you think you’re being different you’re actually being the same
Sometimes when you think you’re being the same you’re actually being quite different
It’s no wonder that when people try to see how you are different
When actually you’re the same
Or try to see you as the same
When you’re actually quite different
It’s no wonder that you seem to feel quite different when actually you feel just the same
Or seem to feel the same when you actually feel differently
Differences arise when you see the same thing in me
To you it looks different to the same thing you see in yourself
Just as things that are actually different seem the same
We are different in the same way
In different ways we are the same
In days of old, a tale was told
The tale of the chocolate fairy
A myth designed to soothe the mind
Of a boy in a garret
Or a maid in a dairy.
If you go to bed, so it was said,
With a piece of chocolate slipped under your pillow
After a night dreaming of all that love might bring
The fairy will melt that special person’s heart
And you will wake to find them saying “hello”.
So, full of belief, after brushing my teeth
I offer my final square or slice of confection
To the magical sprite who I hope just might
Take pity and sympathise
With my attempts to find affection.
Yet, when I open my eyes, to my constant surprise
And more than a little personal pain
Of fairy or love divine there is no sign
No hint of my dream coming true
Nothing but a nasty brown stain.
That’s my clothes hanging out on the line
In the good morning air of Hampshire!
In the cold, damp air of a grey So’ton morn.
Too early for me, but good to see my clothes at least
Get the benefit of the cold, crisp, misty Hampshire air
Knowing that soon the sun will warm and dry
The things I shall wear, along with the air,
The good, clean air of Hampshire!
So, the clothes on the line are happy as ever they shall be,
Dancing freely, in the breezy air of Hampshire!
Happy in their perfect moment (as Robert Browning would say).
And then what? Iron out the jolly wrinkles they’ve been given
By the brisk, brisk, moist air of Hampshire?
So I can wear them to rags with the sweat of my labour
While others strut in their latest duds
In love with the good, healthy air of Hampshire!
Now my line is empty and slack, sad and swinging wildly
At the mercy once again, of the gusts in the air of Hampshire!
But it won’t break or go to waste, this old skipping rope; it’s the only line I have
Where precious things might hang on display proudly
To dry and salute, for all to see, or just for me, and the good air of Hampshire!
What sign can I put on show to add weight to my line?
Some old flag? Dead game? This puppy? That child?
Who wants to swing, in the good clean air of Hampshire!
[Should you spot any grammatical errors in the following, please note them in the comments section below; I think there’s only one!]
I shall, I’m sure
I’m sure I shall, are you?
I’m sure you shan’t be unsure I shall, I shan’t,
But should you be unsure I shall, I’d be surprised, as you should be sure, shouldn’t you?
Should you be unsure, I’m sure I shan’t, as should you.
It’s another wasted effort, a failure, an ever diminishing set of possiblities that point to a grim future, which will continue to be dominated by concerns great and small, crowded out by petty distractions. Such are the thoughts that keep me awake when I attempt to ‘go hard core’ and cope with what passes for total silence when media sources other than television are also switched off, on the rare occasions when that actually happens.
Ah well, baby steps.
Perhaps this experience will help me understand the effect years of resorting to the box has had on my mind. It’s style of presentation – items neatly summarised and repeated so that one needn’t concentrate fully, knowing that there will be regular reminders of the main points, to be superficially absorbed and quickly forgotten without ever being explored – apeals to the need to do other things and remain on the lookout for the latest novelty. This leads to an accumulation of half heard, half understood ‘knowledge’, along with all the propaganda, which, try as one might, will have its insidious effect on the way one views the world.
Too late, I have caught myself giving offence to a dear friend by resorting to a cheap jibe based on a staple of US tv comedy so familiar to me that I assumed an ironic distance from its inherent racism would be applied automatically. It wasn’t, and I don’t doubt that that is just an example of the sort of rubbish I’ve allowed to burrow its way into my brain.
Never mind your booze and your fags, it’s time to turn against that constant distraction, that inducement to sloth and passivity, that beguiling siren in the corner of the room, the television!
As part of what is now the traditional month for giving stuff up I would like to suggest that we all do our best to rise up and resist what may be the greatest threat to achieving a healthy lifestyle.
Even as I contemplate spending a month without my electronic babysitter it becomes clear that the screen has become so ubiquitous that it simply cannot be avoided altogether. So for the month of October I propose to undertake the following, which, for me, will be enough of a sacrifice to, I hope, make a point:
No telly before 7:30 pm.
No telly after 7:30 pm unless in the home or homes of friends or loved ones, who cannot be expected to relinquish their grip on the remote. Or if a guest or guests in my home make a convincing request (bear in mind that I may well be the only alternative source of entertainment).
There will be substitutes, of course – the radio, youtube, the many compelling clips friends on Facebook and suchlike will need to share. But I shall try to cast off my couch potato status in favour of healthier, more active persuits. Who knows, I may even recover the strength and energy to read a book.
It won’t be easy; whatever will I have to talk about, if only to myself? But by the end of this month I hope to emerge cleansed and, if not stimulated, then focussed, not just on that life reducing little box but on all the world outside of it.
In the second episode of this wonderfully rich and informative series, it is suggested that Chinese Confusionism (during the Chin Dynasty?) snatched power and influence from women (or tried to; see the story of Empress, then Emperor Wu) by allowing greater weight to Yang than to Yin (or that might be the other way round, I have no notes; ask Billy Connelly!).
Not just there and then, it does seem that many of the world’s most pressing problems are the result of ‘male values’ being allowed to dominate to a ridiculous and destructive extent, so that the balance which might benefit us all is put out.
Dr Foreman and the OU give a great deal of new (to me at least) historical information, with real heroines, writers, artists, scholars and leaders, and portraits of societies where women had more power and influence. So this series is one to treasure and study carefully, as it promises a wealth of ideas, exemplars and mental stimulation. Perhaps it might even help to inspire revisions in our own very troubled society.
A booklet of postcards to accompany the series is available.
The music is jaunty
He walks toward her
She moves further and farther away
Running back through the vast beautiful landscape that brought him to her
Is she teasing?
Is she in some kind of trouble?
Can she be as lost and lonely as him?
The music swells, becomes more meaningless
He stops smiling
Makes a gesture, which only she would know but doesn’t see
Sad music, gloomy skies.
Some action is needed!
He turns for home
Turns back again, remembering.
Makes a gesture, not for her or him but to the world
And, squares his shoulders, like the star he is
Shrugs with a derisory laugh and marches determinedly on.
Maybe speed the movie up from here
Or slow it down, so his clumsy rugged strutting steps
Become graceful, like the music
Now she really must flee!
But he doesn’t see the danger
Not yet. Perhaps he never will, the oaf, the chump.
You’ll know how it will turn out from here
Depending on what the public will bear