Out of mind - out of insight

If you are infected with the disease of philosophy and find this stuff interesting, the book that best explores these ideas in depth is The Idea of a Social Science and its Relation to Philosophy - Peter Winch ISBN 0-415-05431-1. Old - but still in print.

Discussions of mind/body issues are frequent in the media. Three recent examples: Melvyn Bragg’s excellent In Our Time on radio, the 2004 Reith Lectures by V S Ramachandran and Robert Winston’s TV series The Human Mind. Most scientists including these, talk as if the whole of 20th century philosophy never took place. This is an effort to redress the balance.

The business of science is description: exploring the limits of physical reality, based rigorously on empirical enquiry.

The business of philosophy is conceptual enquiry, exploring the limits of sense based upon rigorous analysis of language and how it is used by human beings sharing experience and forms of life.

The scientist’s privileged position with regard to scientific language and its use to describe the physical world, derives from high standards of precision based upon rigorous empirical investigation and measurement of this world.  This rigour and therefore epistemological privilege, is maintained by the sustained testing and challenge, exercised by the community of scientists.

The philosopher’s privileged position with regard to the limits of sense, derives from similarly high standards of conceptual, logical proof and meaning, exercised in the analysis of language and it use, within shared forms of life. This privilege is maintained by the community of philosophers in much the same way as with science.

Using these distinctions we can say the following in relation to mind/body issues:

The business of science is the empirical investigation of the human brain, arriving at ever more comprehensive descriptions of its function and its relationship with observable human behaviour. Strictly, science is confined to description of the relationship of the brain to bodily movement and function.  This marks the limit of its privileged position.

Such scientific enquiry may reveal facts with profound implications for intentional human action. As a human being, the scientist will be interested and wish to discuss and explore these implications. However, qua scientist, he is beyond his conceptual remit in the sense that intentionality is outside the context of strictly scientific language and standards. What the scientist has to say about human action has no privileged status at all. His is just one opinion among others.

It is a conceptual confusion to describe any scientific enquiry as investigating the human mind: because it is a matter of logic, that distinctions between the possible senses we can attribute to the activity of the mind, as opposed to the activity of the brain, are conceptual, not empirical, and therefore not susceptible to empirical enquiry and measurement.  Science, qua science, has nothing more to say about the human mind than it does about God, spirituality, or the meaning of life.

If this argument holds for the human mind then, logically the rest follows e.g  human action, as opposed to bodily movement. And from this: intention, will, responsibility, morality. And from these, the whole panoply of society and human relationships: love, hate, voting and democracy, promising and contracts, the law and legitimacy  etc.

The scientist qua scientist, must be a physicalist, even reductionist. This is an observation of grammar not a judgement of value. When scientists who investigate the brain, confuse this with study of the human mind, they ignore the inescapable logical consequences if this were a genuinely correct description of the their object of study.  The brain is an object: the mind isn’t. As Wittgenstein once put it: “it is not a thing, and it is not a nothing either.”

Scientists have two characteristic responses to running against the limits of sense within language: they either deny that such conceptual limits exist, or ignore them. The statement, denying such conceptual limits of sense, is not itself, a scientific statement: it is, because conceptual not empirical, a philosophical statement.  I welcome scientists engaging in philosophical debate, but they must not pretend that it is a scientific debate. Different rules apply.

An example of scientific conceptual confusion:

From The Big Bang a new book by Simon Singh: a very nice bloke and very bright in a mathematiciany sort of way.

“All matter and energy were condensed to a point, then there was an almighty (sic) Big Bang.  The term Big Bang implies some sort of explosion which is not a wholly inappropriate analogy, except that the Big Bang was not an explosion in space but and explosion of space. Similarly, the Big Bang was not an explosion in time but an explosion of time. Both time and space were created at the moment of the Big Bang.”

This is, literally, non-sense. Matter that was nowhere?  Condensing that was not a process, over time, occurring in any place? To a point that was nowhere? This is an attempt to say the unsayable, which puts the scientist conceptually much closer to the philosopher than he would wish. Good philosophers are totally committed to the benefits of empirical enquiry and the illumination that such rigorous enquiry generates. However, few scientists, and those tend to be the best ones, are comfortable with the limitations imposed upon their descriptions of their results imposed by the necessities of logic and everyday language.

Does it matter?  Profoundly, yes. The possible extinction of life on earth and therefore, the survival of the human species, depends upon at least two, totally science focused issues: global environmental problems, especially greenhouse gas emissions; and the ongoing political stand-off regarding nuclear weapons and their escalating proliferation. It is not fanciful to say that scientific knowledge has the direct power to destroy the planet through weaponry or to permit its destruction indirectly through failing to establish the scientific basis to prevent the wholesale environmental destruction arising from amendable human behaviour.

Scientists are the new priesthood: proffering a populist classical science, cause/effect certainty; when conceptually they are driven by a fundamental uncertainty they know how to use, but can’t explain in ordinary language e.g. Quantum Theory. Gullibility is the defining response of the general public to scientific pronouncements. For every Einstein or Feynman there is a Dawrkins or a Pinker. What the intellectual life of the nation needs is a stroppy, iconoclastic philosopher to cut through the bullshit and convince thinking people of the validity of their independence of thought versus the hubris of science.

(Zettel 2005)

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“Fox-trot leader to Tango Charlie……….”

Strictly Come Dancing – the furore

So the Eddie The Eagle of dance has crashed and burned. Samurai Sergeant has chosen dancing death with honour, rather than fall into the hands of his increasing legion of enemies. And there is no more potent enemy than the fickle British public who with the curious self-hatred that often defines them, having loved too much, save their deepest hostility for their own exaggerated heros.   I guess a surreal BBC press conference with Paxo stuffing his old mate with mock accusations of cowardice in the face of the Cha Cha; pusillanimity before the Paso Doble; and surrender to the mortal threat of the Salsa, is more seemly, more English, than a televised disembowelment. Though if we had a chance to vote for a few ritual suicides the phones would run hot enough to melt. It is a priori that top of this self-immolation list of people trying to ride Jonjo’s elegant coat-tails for a bit of self-publicity would be Mambo Mandy the aspirant Lord of the Dance. Macabre.

John Sergeant is clearly the only sane person left on Planet Strictly where the relative merits of a whisky Waltz or a Tantric Tango are weighed with all the solemnity of a UN resolution on world peace. To paraphrase Bill Shankly “some people appear to think Strictly Come Dancing is a matter of life and death – it is in fact far more important than that.”  Ballroom dancing has superceded Sport as the ‘conduct of war by other means’.

Picture the scene: this Saturday night Jonjo and Kristy are waiting to go in for their final low level run before the judges’ aptly named Pom Pom guns. Last words of encouragement are sent to the daring pair from the desperate, unfit, two-left footed British public – “go on you two, you’re our last chance to bust those damned know-alls”

And what better tune for the plucky Jonjo and Kristy to end with than the Dambusters March: after all Jonjo has made the March all his own – whatever the music.

Da da da da dada da da, da da da da dada da da…………………

“Roger, Wilco. Calling Tango Charlie and Fox-Trot leader………..we’re going in! This is Jonjo Jive Five signing off. Over.” …………………………………………………………………………..
………………………………….silence.

You wish.

(Zettel)

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Britishness

The British are not ethnic
we’re the mongrels of the world
an antidote to racism harbingers of hope
we give the living lie
to the hateful myth of blood
What we are is mingled, muddled, mixed
conquered by the Romans
yet inspired by the Greeks
we are passionate moderation
hating all extremes
of race of politics and faith

We long to be well led
but hate all government
We have conquered
and yes exploited worlds
but returned them with a will
We have enslaved peoples
yet somehow set them free
We are weary warriors
grown tired of death and hate
but still subjects no one shall
ever subjugate

We were Saxon Angle Pict and Scot
with the spice of Celtic salt
and a dash of Viking yeast
to ferment our ethnic brew
now African, Asian, Caribbean peoples too
Jew and Christian Muslim and Hindu
Bhuddist Zoroastrian a Jedi knight or two
Our engineers helped build the world
our scientists its thought
our language is a melting pot you see
of Shakespeare Dickens and Eliots George and T

We are complicated simple folk
who like to fight and drink
we even sometimes love to sing
though dancing you will think
is not yet quite our thing.
Through conquest empire
arrogance and shame
through every heresy
of every faith
we’ve learnt they are impostors all
and treat them just the same

So come all and join us
come share what we can see
we’ll make you laugh
we’ll make you cry
at our genteel hypocrisy
we’ll mock your faith
to keep it safe
from deluded certainty
we’re black and white
and every shade between
absurdity our only creed

We see through hats and suits and ties
through crowns and burkhas
epaulettes and gowns
to the naked foolishness
of human frailty
We are fool and king
genius and ass
but in our diversity
we hold one true thing dear
In thought and deed and faith
a passion to stay free

All you need to join us
is a bloody-minded streak
to stand up for the underdog
outgunned but still not weak
Our only hates are show-offs
and demagoguery
we demand the right to argue
to question challenge disagree
but leave your Gods in heaven
where they must ever be
your only sacredness is your humanity.

British Muslim, British Jew
Christian English Welsh and Scot
with a transcendental Irishness
we hate the nation state
privilege and patronage
and self aggrandisement
through a history of suffering and hate
we are many mongrel peoples
united in dissent
holding hands for comfort
as we face a common fate

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THE CHERRY TREE

“Excuse me, but do you know this garden well?”  The old man returned the clear, open, gaze of the brown-eyed girl.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“I was curious about one of the trees.”
“Which one?”
“The cherry tree over there in the corner, by the wall.”
“What interests you about that tree in particular?”
“Why is it up against the wall away from the other cherry trees?”
“It’s just where that tree ended up.”  A moment’s perplexity briefly clouded the girl’s eyes.
“But there’s something else, even more strange.”
“And what is that?”  The man looked closely at the beautiful, animated face.
“Well….I was looking around behind the tree, by the wall.  It’s very overgrown and prickly, but I managed to get to the other side. You can’t see it from here, but once inside, it is possible to see out.”
“And?”  He was looking intently at her now.
“There’s a very odd branch reaching out and pressing against the wall.” The man waited silently for her to go on. “It looks perfectly healthy. Thick and strong.  But although the rest of the tree is a mass of blossom, there is not one single shoot or flower on this one branch.”
“Perhaps that branch just flowered early and the blossom has already fallen.”
“No, that’s not it. There are no leaves coming through after the blossom.”  The old man settled himself so that he was facing the girl.

“Sit down my dear. Let’s talk. Not many people find the branch you speak of. Fewer still find it interesting.”  The girl flopped easily onto a nearby tree stump.
“What do you think of our cherry trees?” the man asked.
“Oh, they’re beautiful. It’s lovely to see such colour so early in April after the drabness of winter.  It seems a shame that the blossom lasts such a little time. I want to stop it. I wish we could hold it back so that we didn’t lose its beauty so quickly.”
“I think you would soon tire of cherry blossom if your wish were granted.”
“What about my special tree?” she chirruped.
“So. It has become your special tree has it?”  He teased.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”  The old man thought for a few moments, then said.
“Why should we worry about some funny old branch without the wit to flower or the sense to die?”
“Don’t be so infuriating. You know the answer – I just feel it!”  A slow, wrinkly smile spread across the old man’s face.
“I know the story of the tree, but you’ll have to judge for yourself whether that provides an answer.” Again he went off at a tangent, “are you on your own?”
“No mummy’s here somewhere, keeping an eye on my brother.”
“How old is your brother?”
“Seven. And he’s a pig!”  That smile lit up the old man’s face again.
“Yes, well, I think 7 year-old brothers are supposed to be aren’t they?  Where is your father?”
“Daddy’s at work today” she said briskly, eager to get the conversation back to her tree.
“What’s he like?”  The girl frowned, a little startled. It seemed such an odd question coming from nowhere. She shrugged her shoulders, her head tilted quizzically to one side.
“I don’t know really. He’s kind. Sometimes gets angry with us, usually when he’s lost something…… Oh yes – and he’s silly.”
“Just a little bit silly, or very silly?” the man asked, oddly.  She giggled.
“Oh, very, very, silly” she said with studied seriousness. What a strange man, she thought.
“It’s a good job he can’t hear you, going round telling complete strangers that he’s silly.”
“Oh that’s all right. He always says that when he’s popped his clogs, it’s OK if we forget what he looks like, or what he has done, as long as we always remember times when he was silly… pretty easy really,” she added, “he’s silly quite a lot.”
This time the old man laughed aloud. “I think I may have met your dad” he said.
“Probably. He’s been here before. Today was his idea. Come on, do tell me about my tree. Has that branch ever flowered?”
“Once.”  The old man’s tone became thoughtful again.  The girl shuffled slightly closer. An eager expression in her eyes. No impatience now. She settled comfortably on her log seat and waited for the old man to go on.  Before he could begin, the girl noticed his gaze suddenly seemed distracted by something behind her.  She turned to see a woman walking among the trees.  The old man’s eyes followed the figure.  Perhaps in her early forties, attractive, short brown hair, probably once worn long, the woman wore a cool, powder blue summer dress which flowed with her graceful movements as she browsed among the trees.  The young girl watched with the old man as the woman reached up very gently to touch the blossom on one of the main group of cherry trees.  At the instant she touched it, the blossom fell and she watched it flutter to the ground.  The woman bent down by the fallen flower, reached out and put it into the palm of her open hand. Still looking intently at the tiny pink blossom, she rose, looked up, and her gaze now took in the whole tree beside her. After a few moments, she raised her hand to her lips and blew the flower from her hand, watching as it rejoined the sprinkling of other fallen petals beneath the tree.  She walked around the cherry tree and paused for a moment, looking towards the corner of the garden.  For what seemed to the young girl, a very long time, the woman stood motionless.  Then with a sudden purposeful movement, she turned and continued her walk.  She moved away from the two watchers, apparently unaware of their presence.

“She seems sad,” the girl whispered to the old man.  He turned to fix her with his long, steady gaze.
“I see only thoughtfulness and contentment in her, why do you think she’s sad?” he asked softly.  The girl blushed as if, thoughtlessly, she had said something foolish. “I don’t really know, I’m probably being silly, but I felt as if she was sad.”
The man smiled encouragingly, “we often feel more than we can see.  Trust your instincts.”  The girl’s face lightened and the man added: “but don’t always rely on them.”  She looked serious again for a moment.  The man chuckled infectiously to himself and the girl smiled and turned her alert face to him again expectantly.
“Come on,” she chided him, “what about my tree?  You said it flowered once.  When?  And why hasn’t it flowered since?”  The man turned so he could see both the tree and the girl.
“That branch last flowered long before you were born.  The tree itself is strong and healthy and flowers normally every year.”
“Yes but what about that branch!” she interrupted impatiently.  The man smiled indulgently.
“Are you always in such a hurry young lady?”
“Yes, oh yes – but go on with the story.”  He sighed with mock seriousness, enjoying the teasing game.
“That particular tree was always set apart. As you discovered, it is far away from all the other cherry trees.  It is really set too close to the wall to grow at its best.  About two of your life-times ago, a young girl, rather older than you, came to live for a while in the area.  A little like you I think, she was very independent and liked nothing better than to go off and explore on her own.  She eventually discovered this garden and loved to walk here because it was far enough away from her house for her parents not to know where she was.  She found all the secret nooks and crannies in the garden.  But her favourite place was exactly the one you discovered, on the other side of the cherry tree by the wall. Like you, she found that once there, she could see, but not be seen.  More than once she used her secret hiding place to avoid her parents and anyone else she didn’t want to find her.  After a while, she decided it would be a good idea to fix a swing onto the tree, on the hidden side, by the wall.”
“And she used that branch didn’t she?” the girl chimed in excitedly.
“Yes.  It was thick and strong enough, and quite straight.  There was just enough room to swing gently to and fro as long as she didn’t try to go too high.  She loved the place and spent hours swinging silently, reading and watching people go by. It was a secret world of her own. Separate from her day-to-day world.  Hers alone.  She had arrived in June when the tree was in leaf and used it constantly through a long Indian summer, on into a mild, glorious autumn.  Even when winter came, she like to go to her tree.  Though no longer hidden, it was still her secret, personal place.  Her parents wondered where she went for hours on end, especially in the cold, but she kept her secret.  Eventually of course, they did find out but there seemed no harm, so they said nothing at first.  Sometimes though, when she wanted to go out in the freezing cold and rain, they told her she was being silly, getting cold and wet just to go and sit on a swing in the rain.  Winter began to fade.  The girl loved the sense of waiting winter gives.  She felt the silent pulse of new life, as yet unseen, within the garden.  Those wild days when winter’s power rules, reluctantly gave ground.  There is a moment each year when one senses winter’s defeat.  It is long before spring arrives, with much of winter’s bluster yet to come.  But there is a day, every year, when you feel the inevitability of spring.  At that moment, all the closed-in waiting of winter opens out in anticipation.  There is something in the light, in the air, which clears the mind.  Do you know what I mean?” he suddenly asked his avid listener.
“Well yes,” she said slowly, “but that’s when mummy insists I have to keep wearing heavy old coats and things, even if the sun is shining.  She says I have to be sensible.”
“Not silly eh?” he laughed.
“Go on with the story,” she said severely.

“Well,” he smiled, “the previous owner of your tree, loved that winter.  She shared it with, as it was then, her tree.  As spring approached, the tree became a profusion of twigs and shoots.  There were so many, she could not even see where her swing was attached to the branch.  Eventually the cherry blossom burst out into a riot of pink and white.  There were banks of blossom falling all around the rope of the swing.  The branch itself was completely hidden.  It looked almost as if the swing was attached to nothing but a pink and white cloud of flowers.  Now truly was this a secret place!  As she swung beneath the tree, the girl was completely invisible.  The only sign of her presence, a gentle swaying of the whole tree as she moved backwards and forwards.  It seemed as if that special part of her special tree simply took her up into itself and engulfed her with fragrant flowers.  By this time, her parents were beginning to become uneasy at the time she spent at the tree.  They tried to distract her with other interests.  There seemed to them, something obsessive about her feeling for the tree. They couldn’t see what was important to her about it. And they were right.  It was odd.  As if for a while this was a separate world for her. An escape.”
“But from what?” the girl interjected.
“Who knows,” the man replied quietly.  “Perhaps she was escaping not from something to something. But we will never know.  Perhaps she didn’t know herself.  For a while though, it fascinated her.  A real world of her imagination. Then the blossom fell.  An almost endless spring gave way to summer. The striking solitary colour of the cherry blossom gave way to the myriad sounds and scents of summer.  The whisper of summer rain in the leaves of her tree was intoxication of another kind. As the shadows lengthened towards autumn, she was encouraged to spend more time away. Her parents were relieved to see her becoming more sensible, rational about the tree. She spent less and less time there.
“And then?” the girl was now leaning forward intently.
“She stopped.”
“Just like that?” she seemed incredulous.
“I only know the facts,” the man said briskly, “I said you would have to decide for yourself whether they provided an answer.”
“What happened to the tree?”
“Nothing.  It just shed its leaves as usual that autumn.”  The girl looked impatiently at him.
“But the branch with the swing!”
“It has never flowered since.”
“But why?  What’s the explanation?  Trees don’t…….grieve.”
The old man looked across to the tree with a distant, distracted look in his eyes.  After a long pause he said, “we can’t feel another’s grief or sense of loss.  We only see its effects.  The facts are plain – that branch never flowered again.  The tree is strong and healthy. It flowers every year.”
Deep in thought, the girl said, “but that’s silly.”
“If you say so,” he replied.
“But she surely didn’t just get fed up and tire of the tree?”
“Why not?”  The girl was frowning now.
“Well that doesn’t sort of fit the way you described her.  I don’t think that’s what you believe.  Come on, tell me what you think.”  The old man looked thoughtfully at her for a few moments.
“I don’t know the truth.  I’ll tell you what I think.  But remember, what you think is a road you must travel yourself.”

“Oh all right. Come on, you sound like my dad!  Do explain.  Your girl seemed to lose something so precious and important to her.  She was either very shallow or just stopping like that must have been very painful.”
“Well, I don’t think she was shallow.  But the tree was fixed in a certain place; the joy she shared with it, set in a given time.  As to pain, you said you didn’t want the cherry blossom to fall.  Its falling is a kind of pain.  But, that it falls, is part of its beauty.  Cherry trees in blossom every month of the year would be very pretty and probably give you pleasure, but I don’t think they would strike at your heart the way this falling blossom does.”
The girl opened her mouth to speak, but the man stopped her; “Yes, I know, what has that to do with the girl?”  She coloured.  He went on,  “perhaps she knew her joy that spring had to pass, just as the cherry blossom has to die.  There is a time to let go of all things.  Pick a wild flower and though you put it in water, it dies before its time.  Love has its time of waiting and its time of leaving.  It is a gift.  You cannot grasp it, trap it.  It requires nothing less of you than that you are prepared to let it go.  Perhaps the girl in our story, cherished her joy that spring and summer enough to let it pass.”
For some moments, the old man had seemed oblivious of the girl’s presence.  He raised his head and looked again at her.  “Does this rambling make any sense to you?” he said lightly.
The girl’s face had a grave expression in which one could see the beautiful woman she would one day, become. “I’m not sure I understand everything you say, but it still seems to me to be rather sad.”  He reached out and took her hand very gently, touching her for the first time. Speaking very quietly and gently he said, “my dear, we human beings are a funny lot, we are touched by sadness and by joy.  But remember this; not all sadness is pain; nor all joy, pleasure.”

“Do you think she ever came back?” the girl whispered.
“I don’t know. She took with her what was most precious to her. Coming back here, she would not find what she sought.”
“Was it just a memory then?”
“Some times we share are never just memories.”  The young girl seemed not to notice this remark, her mind mulling over what she had heard.  Something seemed to be troubling her.  The old man waited for her to speak.
After a few moments he said gently, “what is it?”
She looked up at him, “but the branch of the tree is trapped in time.  It has never flowered since that spring.  It seems such a pity.  Something’s sort of….oh I don’t know how to say it…….out of place.”
The man looked closely at her and said, “but the tree is healthy and strong, even that branch, though it doesn’t flower. The rest of the tree grows bigger, it does everything a tree should do.  Why must something be missing?”  He looked at her questioningly.
She shrugged “I don’t know the words.  There seems no reason for it not to flower.  It seems so pointless.  It seems a sign of…oh dear…a sort of sign of…” her voice tailed off.
“Regret?” his voice was scarcely audible.
“Yes, something like that,” she nodded. “But trees can’t regret things – can they?”
He ignored her question but went on “whatever may be the explanation, that branch is no less part of that particular tree than any of its other branches.  It is special to it, and don’t forget, it is precisely what interested you about the tree in the first place.”  She still looked perplexed, “yes but it’s as if the tree isn’t quite complete without that branch in flower. Yes, that’s it: it’s not complete.  The man sat silently looking at her. Meeting her eyes.  Though silent, the pair were joined in thought.

Suddenly, another girl of about the same age came racing into sight.  Breathlessly she came up to the silent pair and addressing the girl, said, “where on earth have you been?  Your mum’s been looking for you.”
“Hi Jo, the girl replied.  “We’ve been talking.”
Jo looked curiously at the old man, who smiled back at her.  He turned to his companion, “you must go my dear, you mother will be getting anxious.  Off you go and enjoy yourself.  Thank you. I enjoyed our little chat.”
Jo was now impatiently motioning the girl to come away, pulling at her arm.  A little awkwardly, the girl took the old man’s hand in hers and said, “goodbye.  If we come here again, shall we see you?”
He smiled “perhaps my dear, perhaps.”  With one last look at the man, the girl then ran off with her friend.   They were jumping and giggling around one another like two young colts.  Sudden, hurried whispers were followed by explosions of laughter and more bubbling giggles.

As the two girls ran down the slope away from the trees, they passed the woman in the pale blue dress going back in the direction from which they had just come.  After a few more strides, Jo rushed ahead and her companion turned to look back.  The woman had stopped some way from the seated old man.  Behind him, still further on, the girl could see her tree.  Suddenly she noticed that from that distance, she could just see the branch with no flowers.  “Perhaps”, she thought, “it’s because I now know it’s there.”  She looked again at the woman who was now motionless, and seemed to be, like the girl, staring intently towards the seated man.
Jo came running back to collect her friend.  “Oh do come on.  What on earth are you doing?”
The girl replied “I’m looking at that woman.”
Jo’s eyes followed her gaze, “but what on earth for? she gasped impatiently. What’s so interesting about some woman standing in a field?”
Still looking back, her friend said, “I’m trying to make up my mind whether she’s looking at the old man or at that cherry tree in the corner by the wall.”
Jo snorted, “what difference does that make?” she said tugging at her friend’s arm.
Still preoccupied, the girl said, “I matters what she sees.”
Jo shrugged impatiently, “Anna you are positively weird.” Then a moment later, “aren’t you?”.

Her friend finally turned to face her and a wide, generous smile lit up her face, “No…..….just a little silly perhaps.”

The two friends rushed off arm in arm, their shrieks of laughter filling the still evening air.

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Song

Song is the breath
of the spirit
that consecrates
the act of life

Ancient voices
touch our hearts
to beat in time
with eternity

Wise spirits
call our minds
to contemplate
present beauty

Eagles cry
as blossom falls
seeking the earth
and rebirth

Through the singer
the past whispers
to all souls
that love life

Music in the air
seeds the wind
that calls us
to remembrance

The singer hears
the artist sees
timelessness
in present things

All must pass
and we must learn
acceptance
Is our love

Filed under: Nature, Philosophical, Spiritual | No Comments »

Strictly Come Dancing 15/16th November

Noticeably missing from the supportive group of fellow competitors commiserating with Cherie Lunghi on her ejection this week from the increasingly surreal Strictly Come Dancing, were John Sergeant and his partner Kristina.  To paraphrase an old saying – a joke is only a joke, but a good cigar is a smoke. As his Cha Cha (Cha) and Salsa have shown, the closest John is ever going to get to anything Latin American is a good Havana and a brandy. Jonjo’s insouciance about the rules and the democratic public vote, is beginning to wear a bit thin and he risks the perversity of the British public making him genuinely if paradoxically, unpopular. That would be as much of a shame as it was to see him continue in a dancing competition at the expense of Cherie Lunghi’s professional determination allied to a body with the elegance and grace the envy of women of any age.

Having once seen Bruce Forsyth on stage match the late great Sammy Davis Junior step for step, his octogenarian tour-de-force with Anton Du Beke, looking more like Brucie’s son every day,  was more a delight than a surprise that almost made up for the catch-phrases and octogenarian-plus jokes. Almost.  One delicious consequence of this weekly Carry On Sergeant farce is imagining the teeth-grinding fury of BBC Executives as the public give them the finger and threaten the most valuable television-format ‘property’ they’ve had for years. I’d enjoy this much more were it not for the fact that this year’s genuinely likeable and interesting group of celebrities who have demonstrated such commitment and no little talent, have got through to me.

It is for this reason, if no other, that the public should stop playing silly-buggers and let the judges wave John a fond farewell into the dancing sunset. In comparison to the ‘You’re a has-been celebrity – get off my box’ and the unspeakable Big Brother, Strictly has shown us why many of these contestants have been successful in their own fields before accepting the challenge of something new: professionalism, rigorous application - and talent. It has been fascinating to watch gifted people in one field accept the challenge of something new, outside their comfort zone. This applies as much to Jonjo as anyone else – more so perhaps for his recognised talents have no direct application to the dancing challenge he took on. And if there was a degree of ‘not-bad-for-a-celeb-ness’ about Strictly why shouldn’t he stay in? But the sheer professional quality to which the other contestants have raised their dancing game, makes us want to see the last few weeks as a genuine dancing competition where the best dancer, not the most popular ‘celebrity’ wins. I cannot believe that John Sergeant in his heart of hearts would want to think that people rated his abilities as a political commentator purely on the basis that he has a wry wit and nice line in self-mockery.

Assuming John’s given his marching orders next week, the remaining contest is wonderfully balanced.

Jodie – massively improved. Her unremitting competitiveness has fuelled her self-belief helped by Ian’s intelligent choreography and support. Shows the surprising, breath-taking grace one finds in a giraffe at high speed: it shouldn’t be possible - but somehow it is. And all the hold ballroom dances show this off to perfection.

Christine – has discovered that she has a body that can be as expressive as that light-up-the-room smile. The easy intimacy of her relationship with Matthew informs their dancing and adds a sense of joie de vivre that is great to watch. I don’t know much about these things but it seems to me Christine can wear a dress better than anyone in the show – including Jodie.

Austin – Mr Muscles moves with the music. The muscles thing is a bit bread-on-bread for me and he might more play it down than up – but I get where the women are coming from: and maybe with a touch of envy, where they’re dreaming of going to. I’m not sure there is a British guy alive who can genuinely look at home with the hip-wriggling, shoulder-shaking Latin stuff, but he is after-all named after an iconic British sports car and has a certain nonchalant style that works.

Tom – everyone’s favourite brother: ladies please, I was trying to get away from the sexy stuff with the guys, so I could indulge myself with the ladies. Er…sorry…..that didn’t come out quite right – pace Mr Freud. Last week’s Billy Elliot piece was Tom’s masterpiece - recalling a dance genius, in his own genre at least the equal of Fred Astaire - the unmatchable Donald ‘make-em-laugh’ O’Connor. That’s praise indeed. His Salsa shoulder-shimmys this week almost persuaded us that the shaking wasn’t with laughter. Almost. And Camilla’s maybe the sexiest mover in the show.

Lisa – with those Indian-Rope-Trick legs (cf: my review October 25th) moves with enough speed and confidence to convince on the Latin stuff in a way that Jodie perhaps never will. Once in ballroom mode she proves that tall is an advantage for elegance and grace. Brendan is also perhaps the best choreographer among the pros and knows how to stick-and-carrot his celebrity partners way beyond their own expectations.

Rachel – until she moves, Rachel is simply pretty in a less striking way than perhaps Jodie and Lisa, and attractive in a less sparkling and effervescent way than Christine. But – and it is a massive but: as the weeks have gone by and responding like the thorough-going pro she is, to Arlene Phillips’ advice about using her eyes etc, once Rachel moves she blows you away.  She has given three stunning  performances in a row. Being a Northern Climate guy, this week was the first time I realised what the Rumba was all about – we could have turned off the central heating for the duration; last week’s quick-step based American Smooth (God I’m really getting into this stuff) was a sheer celebration of fun and being alive; while a Waltz a few weeks back was extraordinarily, tenderly romantic.

At this stage my money’s on Rachel – assuming the British public don’t go completely do-lally and choose Sergeant Schlepper – she’s the only one who can cover the whole range of genres with equal conviction.

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(Opening scenes of a noir musical. Concept - to create the pitch black intimacy of the cinema into theatrical form. To capture the essence of film noir in a differrent medium. Marlowe is a true modern hero - he knows he can’t beat the system: it’s become too powerful.  But he keeps trying anyway. And sometimes, just sometimes, he wins one).

Farewell - A Noir Musical

(Marlowe’s Opening Narration)

The house lights are brought down. The stage is in complete darkness. Except that up in the top left corner, at the rear of the stage, is an oblong of bright light. We hear a very quiet sound. As it builds, we realise it is the sound of rain.  It builds and builds to the sound of a torrential downpour.  As the sound of rain develops, the oblong of light (it is a window)  shows water running down the pane.  The sound of the rain fades slightly and a musical theme begins, at first very quietly and then to just dominate the sound of the rain which remains audible but secondary to the musical theme.

Musical theme.  A restless, prowling, jazz based, urban sound

We hear the slam of an outside door. Then the sound of footsteps steadily climbing a flight of stairs.  Then the sound of an interior glazed door shutting, with its characteristic sound.  The music has faded and the sound of  the rain returns to the foreground.  The silhouette of a hatted figure appears in the window (ideally a shape distorted by the sheets of water running down the pane through which we see him).  The sound of the rain diminishes almost to a whisper.  The figure is sitting, hat on, in profile and the image sharpens as the rain diminishes on the pane.  For a long moment the figure sits in iconic profile (reflecting the logo of the show). We see a cigarette put in the mouth of the figure.  Pause.  He pushes his hat slightly up, away from his forehead.  A flash of flame indicates the lighting of a match. Lights the cigarette.  Takes a very long deep drag and a stream of smoke emerges slowly from his mouth.  Long pause. Swivels round to face the audience. General lighting fades to leave just Marlowe’s face spotlit. This should be the iconic image of the show. Also we are establishing right up front the convention that Marlow will be ‘confiding’ to the audience direct throughout.
Marlowe TA (To audience):    I love LA in the rain. Even the crooks and the bent politicians get wet.  The rain washes the city clean.  Till it dries out.  And the bugs crawl back.  Business is slower than a bookie paying out.  I need a drink,  I need a lot of life insurance, I need a vacation, I need a home in the country.  What have I got?  A coat, a hat and a gun. And no case to work.  (Another, long, contemplative drag and exhalation. The phone rings stridently).

Marlowe: Marlowe.  (Pause). Yeah, I know Florian’s, but I like my blind dates blonde, with one of those nice high pitched voices. (He holds the phone away from his ear as Moose is obviously responding  angrily). OK. You’re in a hurry. Well it takes 100 bucks to get me hurrying back out in the rain. (Pause) Wait while I check my diary. (Puts the phone down. Leans back in his chair. Takes another deep drag on his cigarette. Another long, relaxed exhalation.  Reaches out to the phone but pauses, his hand hovering above it, leaving it just a bit longer before he picks it up again)

OK. Tonight at 6.  How will I know you?  You’re big.  OK.
(Cut to black).
FAREWELL:    Act 1 Scene 1 – FLORIAN’S BAR

(Moose is waiting on the sidewalk outside Florian’s. Entry to side through swing doors which we will see opens onto a small space with a few stairs leading up. Moose’s clothes make a statement. A very loud statement. Shaggy borsalino hat, rough grey sports coat with white golf balls for buttons. Brown shirt, yellow tie, pleated grey flannel trousers and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. Breast pocket hankie, same bright yellow as tie. Couple of feathers in hat band. Cigar unnoticed, in his hand, trails smoke.

Opening intro has ended. Fast ‘cut’ from blackness to bright lit exterior of Florian’s. Marlowe is standing, unlit, stage right.  We see Moose standing motionless, staring up at the Florian’s sign, one letter of which is flickering uncertainly as if about to fail.

The lights on the main scene dim and Marlowe is picked out in a spot which highlights him to about chest height. Marlowe addresses the audience directly in a conspiratorial tone.  He is letting the audience into his thoughts. (Marlow TA indicates direct address to audience and the same lighting accompanies each switch).

Marlowe (TA):    Florian’s used to be sleazy. Then it went down hill. (turns his head to gesture towards the motionless Moose). Must be Malloy. He’s not so big: no wider than a beer truck.  Looks like an immigrant catching his first sight of the Statue of Liberty. Catch the quiet clothes. About as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food. That 7 o’clock shadow’s early.
(The spot cuts and the scene is lit evenly. Marlowe approaches Moose)

Marlowe:    Malloy? (Moose appears to ignore him. Just keeps looking raptly at the windows of Florian’s)
I don’t want to be pushy on a first date. But what the hell am I doing here?
(Moose eventually faces Marlowe and with a gesture of the head indicating M should follow he heads for the swing doors. Marlowe hangs back).

(Moose smashes through the swing doors which flap and settle for a moment. Marlowe still hangs back, waiting. Suddenly a body comes flying through the doors and lands in a heap on the pavement. Whimpering, a slim, black youth in a lilac-coloured suit, picks himself up, dusts himself off, retrieves his hat which he replaces on his head jauntily with exaggerated care and scurries off cockily down the street).

(Marlowe approaches warily and stands in front of the swinging doors.  A massive hand
reaches through them and grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him through. We hear their voices as they climb stairs noisily).

Moose: You come.

Marlowe: OK. Just lay off carrying me. I’m all grown up. I go to the bathroom alone and everything.

(Moose and Marlowe emerge into the main room of Florians. Long narrow room. Not very clean. Not very bright. Not very cheerful.  There is a bar against the right hand wall. The rest of the room is small round tables.  There are chairs stacked on all the tables indicating that they are not open yet).

Moose: Let’s you and me nibble a couple.

Marlowe: They’re not open. And they won’t serve you. It’s a black joint.

Moose: (taking no notice) My Velma used to work here. Little Velma. Ain’t seen her for 8 years. She ain’t wrote me in 6. But she’ll have a reason. Cute she was.

(Moose grabs Marlowe’s shoulder again. Marlowe shakes himself free impatiently)
Marlowe: Will you quit that!  I’ve just had this suit pressed.

Moose: (not listening) Little Velma used to work here.

(As Moose and Marlowe approach the bar they see a bartender in a white apron who is sweeping the floor.  He stops and stiffens, watching them very warily. Moose heads towards him in a threatening way.  Marlowe sees he must defuse a confrontation, so steps forward to place himself ahead of Moose.  The bartender has quickly laid down his broom and retreated behind the bar. Without taking his eyes off  Moose, we can see his hands are reaching for something below the counter).

Marlowe: What about that drink?
(Moose nods and the two head for the bar swivel bar stools).

Bartender: No white folks brother. Jes’ coloured people. I’se sorry.

Moose: (To the bartender) Where’s Velma at?

Bartender: Velma you says? No Velma heah brother. No hooch, no gals, no nothin…. (adding menacingly)…for white folks.

Moose: (dreamily) Velma used to work here.

Bartender: Shuah. Velma used to work here. But she done retired. Haw Haw.

Marlowe TA: (Swivels his chair to face the audience) This guy’s about to make a mistake.
(The bartender pulls a sawn-off shotgun from under the counter and points it at Moose’s chest Marlowe looks towards the audience and shrugs as if  to say – told you . Moose doesn’t move an inch or even flinch. He looks down at the shotgun with a bored expression. Staring intently at the bartender he reaches out quite deliberately and snatches the gun like a twig  from his hand. He slides the gun away down the bar and hauls the bartender half across the bar, his steady gaze never having left the bartender’s face).

Moose: (deliberately) Some guys got wrong ideas when to get tough. (He lifts the bartender high in the air his knees almost visible. He then drops him and he disappears in a heap behind the bar. Moose turns to Marlowe). Come on lets nibble one.

Moose: Whisky sour. (to Marlowe) Call yours.

Marlowe: Jack - no ice.
(Moose looks at the bartender who has re-emerged and is standing back from the bar looking both defiant and very wary).

Moose: (To the bartender - pointedly) D’ya know where my Velma’s at?

Bartender:    I ain’t seen her round here lately. Not right lately. No man.

Moose: (To the bartender) How long’s this coop been blacks only?

Marlowe: (Interjects) At least 5 years. This guy won’t know anything about a white girl called Velma. No one here would.

Moose: Who the hell asked you to stick your face in?

Marlowe: I’m the date you brought remember?
(Moose grins. Sits contemplating his drink. Miles away. Very quietly and gently he eases into his talking blues song. Ideally this would be a subtle transition from talking to himself about Velma into a talking blues).

Moose’s Song

They hung the frame on me
Hung the frame on me
Ain’t no catching butterflies,
Ain’t no party game,
They hung the frame

Eight years in the caboose.
Know why they call me Moose?
On account I’m a big guy,
Like a moose, see, that’s why
They call me Moose Malloy

My Velma, tell me where, where
Velma, Velma. Her red hair.
Cute as lace pants, a guy could have fun,
We was together, going some,
Should have been married,
Should have been wed
Right then, right here!

But I done this job, Moose on his own,
Ain’t that something and they sent me down,
Hung the frame on me for forty grand,
Hung the frame on me, y’understand,
Cute as lace pants, a guy could have fun,
Now Moose is back,
Now Velma…gone!

Better tell me, Shine Box, where she’s at,
Used to work here, had a warbling act.
She warbled good, warbled for Moose,
A stage and a band and a cute little room,
But this ain’t the same joint
Where a guy could have fun

They hung the frame on me
And my time is done
What’s forty grand
When your girl has gone?
When your girl has gone
It’s life hangs the frame
Now ain’t that something,
Ain’t that grand,
I’m the solo job
Moose all alone, Moose on his own,
Gotta find Velma
Y’understand…

Cute as lace pants and a cute little room
Where a guy could have fun,
A guy could have fun!
(Moose ends his song with a sigh and takes a final slug of his drink)
Bartender: Cool it. We ain’t got no licence for singin’

Marlowe: S’okey. No one sung.

Moose: There ain’t nothin’ left of the joint. They was a little stage and band and rooms where a guy could have fun. Velma did some warbling. Redhead. Cute as lace pants. We was goin’ to get married until they hung the frame on me.

Marlowe: What frame?

Moose: Where you figure I been them 8 years I said about?

Marlowe: Catching butterflies?   (The bartender has been gradually getting more and more agitated. Eventually the pressure gets too great and he breaks into a frantic, nervous, angry rap. Essentially the message of the rap is, I’ve had a enough of this, what the hell are you white guys doing here anyway. Get the hell out back to your own part of town.  The barman finishes his rap staring angrily right into Moose’s face Moose grins wolfishly, holds up his glass and says).
Moose: Whisky sour. Make it a tall one. (Looks over to a door on the other side of the bar).
Where’s that go?

Bartender: That’s Mistah Montogmery’s office. He’s the boss.  (Moose crosses the room slowly, lightfooted, casual).

Marlowe TA: (Swivels chair to face audience) This job gets to you in the end. (Moose is heading for the door). This is a train wreck about to happen.  (Sighs, pushes his hat up on his forehead)….. Sometimes I hate this sonavabitch job.

(Moose goes through the door. The bartender has sidled towards the gun . Marlowe grabs his arm and traps the shotgun on the bar.  Marlowe makes no effort to take the gun, just traps the bartender’s arm and looks intently into his eyes).
Marlowe: (To bartender) Let it play.

(The muffled sound of a gunshot offstage. After a few moments Moose reappears. Casual, unhurried. Faintly smiling. Colt 45 in his hand. Looks across at Marlowe and the bartender).
Moose: Don’t nobody try no fancy pants. Freeze the mitts on the bar

(Approaches the bar. Gestures with the end of the gun to the barman)
Up! (Bartender puts his hands up in the air)
Mr Montgomery didn’t know where Velma was neither. Tried to tell me… with this (pats the gun.  Moose heads for the door out)

Marlowe: (To Moose) You didn’t pay for the drinks.  (Moose stops and looks thoughtfully at Marlowe for a moment)

Moose: Maybe you got something there. But I wouldn’t squeeze it too hard.
So long pal. Be seein ya. (Throws some notes on the bar and leaves)
(Bartender reprises a few defiant lines of his rap angrily at Moose’s back). Marlowe disappears for a moment into the back room. He re-appears.  The general lights again dim and he is spotlit as before.

Marlowe TA: I guess Montgomery thought going for the gun was the right play.  About as wrong as he could get.  With this guy Malloy, you only get one pitch……. Montgomery struck out. (Marlowe goes over and picks up a phone behind the bar)

Marlowe: 77th Street Division?  You’d better get someone down to Florian’s bar fast.  The owner’s just quit the nightclub business.  Permanently. Yeah. I’ll stay put till you arrive. (The lights have gradually faded. Marlowe surveys the scene wearily. Takes an upturned chair from a table, places it on the floor and slumps into it.  Puts his feet up on the table. Background lighting goes down again. Marlowe spotlit.  Looks towards the audience).

Marlowe TA: Sometimes I really hate this job.

(Fade to black. Noir theme).

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And so……..to bed

Isn’t intimacy a funny thing? Funny peculiar I mean – not funny ha ha. Though intimacy that’s funny ha ha can be great too.  Having sex is easy.  Making love’s different though we often talk as if it were the same. But having fun making love, through having sex – that takes real intimacy.  Bodies have sex.  People make love. But only people in love have fun with loving sex. I don’t mean just having a laugh - close but no cigar.

There only 30 seconds in and I’ve done it - equated intimacy with sex.  Why do we do that?  Maybe it’s a man thing.  Silly really: most of us I guess have had sex with depressingly little intimacy. And deep, satisfying intimacy, often doesn’t have anything to do with sex; or at least with having sex….. How did I get on to sex when this is supposed to be about beds? Well I guess, as I thought about it, it struck me that just as we tend to associate intimacy with sex; so we tend to associate sex with beds.  Oh I know that’s a sweet old-fashioned idea, displaying a pathetically impoverished fantasy life.  And no sense of adventure at all.  But just because kitchen tables, lifts, grassy knolls, Cantabrian punts or even a death-defying, flying leap from the top of the wardrobe with a cry of ‘Geronimo’ can be pressed into service, so to speak, it’s never really been my thing.  Nor have I ever been much attracted to the concept of sex as a branch of Olympic Gymnastics – after all, 1 for technical merit and zero for aesthetic interpretation would be a bit embarrassing.  Mind you, it does put an interesting spin on the notion of being a prominent member of the Olympic Movement.

Enough.  Back to beds.  Aren’t beds funny things?  Funny peculiar I mean - not funny ha ha. Think about it: our relationship with beds is probably the most intimate relationship we have with any single thing in life.  And it is a relationship; and it is intimate. Our beds are perhaps the only things in our lives with whom we are always actually or virtually, literally or metaphorically, naked.  We share many of our deepest experiences in life with our bed.  We can be born, give birth, make love, lose love, be punished by being sent to, luxuriate in, be ill in, recover in…….. consummate a marriage in….. cuddle our kids in….. say a last goodbye to a much loved parent in…. have an surprise breakfast or a decadent lunch in, fantasise and dream in, be depressed in, have fun in…a bed: and finally, the lucky ones amongst us…perhaps…get to die in…our beds.  In our whole lives, we probably spend more time with our beds than any other human artifact, and if truth be told, more time than with any other human being.  Quality time.  Intimate time.

Biologically, we are at our most vulnerable in bed: eyes shut, unconscious, unprotected.  That’s  where the intimacy comes in.  Apart from being the site of many of our deepest, most sensual experiences, this inanimate best friend, itself offers sensual satisfaction: cool, clean, fresh white sheets rumpled in love; a cotton palimpsest of a loved one’s body still bearing the intimate scent of her physical presence.  Waking early on a cold winter morning, with time to spare, wind-whipped rain lashing noisily against the window pane.  Pulling the duvet close around one’s neck. Snuggling foetally into a body-warmed nest of safety.  Drifting lazily in and out of unhurried, unworried sleep.  F**k the sh*tiness in the world; here, now, at this delicious, snatched, moment of time….I am warm, content, and for the moment …safe.  Timeless.

Intimacy.  They’re sleeping together.  Did he sleep with her?  Did she go to bed with him? Come to bed with me.  He bedded her (can a ‘she’ bed a ‘him’?).  Pillow fights.  Opening Christmas presents.  Snuggling up. A baby’s sweet and fragile scent…. a toddler’s thrashing arms in restless sleep.  This place where dreams are born and lived through; where human life is created….….and ends.  She took to her bed….he was confined to bed.  Bed-ridden….bed-wetting…..the marital bed…… the sick bed…….. the death bed.

Some artifact……Some friend.    Precious artifact……intimate friend.

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