La Belle Dame Sans Merci

I like all kinds of art. I tend not to really engage in debates about what is/isn't 'art', feeling that much of this centres around personal perception. If it moves me, challenges me, interests me or speaks to me in any way then that is good.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Sir Frank Dicksee, 1902) has always been a favourite of mine. There is a sense of connection and emotion in the image which I struggle to put into words. It captures and conveys a mood of incredible romance.

This may in part be brought about by my own personal interpretation of the poem that inspired Dicksee - of all the paintings based on Keat's verse this most closely mirrors my reading of it. Generally I've found that analysis of the poem focuses on the narrative and the literary nuances; then there is the classic 'femme fatale' interpretation; more interesting some have argued that the poem represents a man's rejection of reality in favour of the 'ideal'.

For me it is more simple. La Belle Dame Sans Merci is love. She is both enchanting, magical and beautifully sweet, yet entirely without mercy. The eviscerating emotions of lost love do leave us stranded and bereft upon the cold hillside.

Is it worth it? Yes. Entirely.

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La Belle Dame Sans Merci

(John Keats, 1819)


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Being

I've read a series of interesting posts on other blogs: one about the rareness of living with integrity; another about Martin Luther King Jr.; and one about different versions of 'eternity' or 'afterlife'.

For different reasons all provoked a similar response in me. How do I want to live my life? Who do I want to be in this life? What do I need to do in order to achieve that?

Then, on a more philosophical level the following invades my stream of consciousness...

1. I tend to believe in 'heaven in hell' insofar as its existence in this realm. The world we experience on a spiritual level equates to what we deserve. If I'm unsatisfied with that experience it is because I have failed to take on the responsibility to make it satisfactory. Mass movements have no power in themselves - power lies solely within the individual. To deny your own power to be who, how and what you want is to absolve yourself of responsibility. I have little, if any, sympathy for myself or others who fail to act in accordance with their conscience.

2. If, hypothetically, the fundamentalists have it right then their god will never be mine. I'd choose to join the free thinkers and souls of loose morality in the fires of hell any day. To condemn myself to an eternity of structured dogma and intolerance in the 'heaven' of the zealot would truly be eternal torture.

3. On a metaphysical level I am sure of my existence. The form it takes has little relevance. Let us for a moment subscribe to Descartes' "malicious demon" or similar... I shall suppose momentarily that I am simply a 'brain in a vat', that the 'world' is simply the result of fallacious stimuli. I am not now typing, I just believe I am. Nonetheless I still exist. There is a brain, there is a consciousness ("I think therefore I am"). Even within this Matrix-like version of reality I have some power over what I experience. I am not an NPC or automaton... though it's possible that everyone and everything else is. At its very least my life is an elaborate 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book.

Thus, I arrive here:

• The existence or otherwise of an afterlife is irrelevant. Both here and there I will experience what I deserve.
• Metaphysical considerations are largely irrelevant. The world may be 'real' or it may be 'virtual'. Either way I interact with it and have power over how I experience it.
• Ultimately the only imperative is that I be and act in a way that recognises both my personal power and my insignificance. I know nothing more than who and how I want to be.
• Consistency of thought and action is divine.

Westminster Bridge

The view from Westminster bridge is perhaps one of the most architecturally striking sights in London. Sadly it is one that is never fully enjoyed. To cross the bridge involves a complex weaving effort, dodging a menagerie of tourists and their ridiculously ostentatious cameras. It was one of those places I tried to avoid in London, in that it brought out the worst in me - that irritated, impatient and slightly righteous character that infects both native and adopted Londoners alike.

Nonetheless, one of my favourite memories of my 14 month stint in the capital pivots around that bridge.

I'd been for a sleep study at St Thomas' hospital. They wake you up and kick you out at dawn (which, as an aside, seems a slightly cruel thing to do to someone with a sleep disorder). By 6.15am I'd gulped down a quick cup of muddy instant coffee, gathered my things and was heading back home. I emerged to a different Westminster Bridge than the one I'd left the previous evening.

Being August the sun had risen, offering up a clear blue sky and the promise of a warm day. Yet, the light was still soft and cool. The early morning mist still adorned the river, its tentacles slinking up and around the parliament buildings as if clinging on in an attempt to avoid the inevitable coming of daylight proper.

Apart from a few early morning commuters I had the bridge to myself. I paused for a while, at its centre, smoked a cigarette and soaked up the sense of 'stillness', the purity of morning. A peculiar sensation washed over me; somewhere between elation and awe, laced with exquisite insignificance. The morning was doing its own thing, oblivious to the sleeping beast that would soon trample the last of its spirit. To be there, at the moment which marked the cusp of day, felt both rare and precious.

Half an hour later I was home and the world had stirred. I made a superficial comment about how beautiful the bridge was, which amounted to no more that mere small talk. Indeed, until now I have never desired to share those stolen few minutes... the morning's unconscious gift to my jaded soul.

Some hours later I remembered the opening scene of 28 Days Later (as pictured above)... and smiled to myself.

Ani DiFranco

I like music. A lot. I like to think that if I ever find myself able to cultivate an iota of musical talent, able to craft beautiful lyrics and match them with powerful melodies... I like to think that at such a time I would write a record that was a little bit like this...

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32 FLAVORS

squint your eyes and look closer
i'm not between you and your ambition
i am a poster girl with no poster
i am thirty-two flavors and then some
and i'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might wanna turn your head
'cuz some day you are going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said

both my parents taught me about good will
and i have done well by their names
just the kindness i've lavished on strangers
is more than i can explain
still there's many
who've turned out their porch lights
just so i would think they were not home
and hid in the dark of their windows
'til i passed and left them alone

god help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
'cuz everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
and god help you if you are a phoenix
and you dare to rise up from the ash
a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy
while you are just flying past

i never tried to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and i would like to state for the record
i did everything that i could do
i not saying that i'm a saint
i just don't wanna live that way
i will never be a saint
but i will always say

squint your eyes and look closer
i'm not between you and your ambition
i am a poster girl with no poster
i am thirty-two flavors and then some
and i'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might wanna turn your head
'cuz some day you might find you are starving
and eating all of the words that you said

© 1995 ani difranco / righteous babe music

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Here is a incredibly beautiful live version:

Yann Tiersen & Neil Hannon - Life on Mars

I am a hardcore Bowie purist, but this is a truly amazing cover. They've not only taken a masterpiece of a record and done something new and interesting with it - they've also made it better than the original. Improving on the work of the man who should be god deserves major kudos.

Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip - Letter from God

DON'T PANIC (in large friendly letters)

It turns out that the answer to The Great Question of Life, the Universe and Everything may very well be 42.

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I've been thinking a lot on this over the last few weeks. What is it all about? What is the purpose of this thing we call life? What is the point?

It has always been my own personal dogma (oh yes, I very much accept it is dogma, my evidence being flimsy and circumstantial at best) that has provided me with the answer:
1. Human beings are fundamentally and innately 'good' (for want of a better word... empathic perhaps?)
2. The world can be a better place.

I find myself saying over and over... "I have to believe in this because otherwise what would be the point?"

Yet, perhaps the truth is that THERE IS NO POINT. Life, society, intellect, culture, sentience, etc... etc... is perhaps just a happy/unhappy accident. THERE IS NO POINT.

Strangely, rather than wanting to throw myself of the nearest tall building this viewpoint makes me feel... free, empowered, liberated... a kind of optimism in pessimism.

It is perhaps only a subtle shift. I imagine that I will continue to look for the 'good' in the world and I imagine that I will continue to attempt to make my little piece of the universe 'better'... because I choose to and because it makes me happy.

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Douglas Adam's on how he arrived at The Ultimate Answer of 42:

"The answer to this is very simple. It was a joke. It had to be a number, an ordinary, smallish number, and I chose that one. Binary representations, base thirteen, Tibetan monks are all complete nonsense. I sat at my desk, stared into the garden and thought '42 will do.' I typed it out. End of story."

The year that was...

2007 was year that...

I enjoyed living in London and then got royally pissed of with living in London. I think that the feeling of “God help me, I need to get out of this city” perhaps coincides with finding yourself becoming increasingly impatient with how slowly people move in tube stations. As I became ‘one of them’ I desired to be anything but. Would it have been better if I had more money to enjoy the city? Would it have been better if I made more of the free stuff – the parks, the museums and galleries? Would it have been better if I wasn’t in poor health? Would it have been better if I wasn’t working 9-10 hour days and sleeping all weekend? In the final analysis I think not. Perhaps the city is as much a state of mind as a location, and it is a state of mind that is not me-shaped.

I welcomed two new arrivals into my family. My nieces are a joy. The innocence and uncomplicatedness of children inspires me immensely. And the unique character of the type of unconditional love I feel for them fascinates me.

I enjoyed moving back to Bristol and re-acquainting myself with a somewhat marvellous city which only 18 months ago had seemed so very small and uninspiring. Now I value it immensely, or at least what it represents: a good quality of living; friends; family; leisure; left-wingism; a round of drinks for under a tenner.

Poppy & Hugo moved from North London to South London to Bristol with their little white socks and strange fascination with water. I have never before met cats who get so much pleasure from standing underneath a running tap. I am certainly, as Jim points out, “a mad cat woman”, but then I don’t think you can underestimate the companionship of cats, the feeling of being blessed that accompanies their sporadic but enthusiastic displays of affection. Humans don’t own cats; they own us and force our submission continuously. Anyone who claims otherwise is either: (a) in denial or; (b) a dog person with a cat.

I got medicated! 400mg a day of an amphetamine-like stimulant which enables me to: stay awake in moving vehicles; not spend all weekend sleeping; not need a nap after work; have the energy to exercise; function like a ‘normal’ human being. Life changing and revolutionary in a way I not only never dared dream of, but had not been able to dream of (because I didn’t know that it was possible to feel like this). I’d like to thank the British tax payer, who will keep me medicated to the tune of £200 a month for the rest of my life and I’d like to thank the post-war generation for the marvel that is the NHS. Whatever its failings, whatever its limitations, the protection of the NHS and the universal free health care it represents is essential.

I rethought, redefined, recreated, recycled and rejuvenated. Kate-life is a constant process of growth and change – for that alone I love being me. If I ever stop evolving please shoot me.

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2008 is the year that I would like to...

... be surprised.

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Photo: Me as a Viking on New Year's Eve.