Elastic String
What is it with String theory that makes closet physicists and fantasists like myself so gripped by it? When I say closet physicist I’m exaggerating by at least ten dimensions, which is the number of, dimensions string theorists believe all of the strings of multiverse vibrates in. Something like that, as my dyslexia and number blindness makes any thing involving maths or linking mathematical properties to abstract t concepts difficult. Yes, I am mildly dyslexic – a kind of inability to link the way a word sounds to the way it might be spelt – as if there’s a couple of synapses that just won’t fire – something I’ve struggled with all my life and suffered being labelled a late developer as a child. Unfortunately this also translated into a number blindness, which drove my mathematician father crazy and lead to a horrible inability to even grasp factions. However I am very good on visionally imagining abstract concepts – so the visual idea of a infinite number of universes stretching out - a mattress of valleys and troughs - each universe, equipped with its own set of physics and logic tunnelling through into another valley – is easily conceived to someone with my overworked imagination. It’s just when bombarded with equations and sums for eternal inflation that the intellectual gyroscope starts whirling like a demented kaleidoscope.
But like many, in times of political and historical upheaval I find solace in scientific hypothesis – especially when that hypothesis advocates the notion that a. Our universe are not unique, a concept I would have said was obvious, from the time of Copernicus’s execution, but hey, I’m sure there’s a plethora of bible bashers who would disagree and b. Following that there might be alternatives to the current mismanagement of our own planet that might be a little more egalitarian and evolved.
It’s not so much the idea that string theory will end up the theory of everything and solve annoying enigmas such as black holes and badly behaved atoms as much as the notion that the universe is not alone and that perhaps it isn’t as finite as we once presumed. I guess this might directly relate to one’s own sense of mortality. We all have to die but somehow the idea that my atoms might end up floating out into 10 and not four dimensions is a little more comforting.
There’s a couple of inspiring articles I recommend in the latest two issues of New Scientist – 2/05/09 by Anil Ananthaswamy– which was a far more coherent depiction of the dilemmas and solutions to the theory and very lay person friendly – and one in the 30/5/09 by Jessica Griggs. Both of which had me lying in bed reiterating the plot of Donnie Darko and wondering (in that half-terrified way one does at 4am) whether it wasn’t time for a worm hole to appear at the foot of the bed to transport me up to somewhere where steam airships replace the subway and we all have animal spirits instead of neuroses (although in my case I suspect it would be a neurotic ferret) a la Pullman. Which brings me to my next point – why is it in Sci-fi (or scientific based fantasy novels) the laws of physics all resemble the basic laws of physics here on Earth? As far as I (the dyslexic number blind lay person) can ascertain there is no evidence that this would be the case.
And maybe, just maybe string theory – a bit like industrialisation did for the fiction of H.G. Wells etc at the turn of the 20th century – will open a whole new fictional landscape of astral visitors, alternative travel destinations and esoteric philosophy. Many would argue it has already.
Piglet’s expense account
Interesting times and not the best of them – I’ve had a couple of profound shocks to the kind of template to my rather eclectic belief system. The first was the discovery (thanks to my better half who is a big A.A Milne fan) that Winnie the Pooh and his fellow forest dwellers were all stuffed animals – toys that Christopher Robin was projecting his rather lonely scenarios upon. I was labouring under the illusion (for god knows how many decades) that they were actual animals! I’ve never noticed the stitched seams or Eeoh’s pinned on tail. Growing up in England with Australian parents the notion that small bears, small piglets (and Piglet has a kind of marsupial kind of nose) and kangaroos (okay the donkey was a bit left of centre) lived in a large forest seemed perfectly plausible. In fact the idea that they were actual animals was far more attractive to me as a child as I harboured ambitions of being a zoologist, or the very least an entomologist. I was surprised at the extent of my disappointment at this epiphany, perhaps even more disturbing was the psychological adjustment I had to make re: the character of Christopher Robin himself. Suddenly he now appears to me like a deeply isolated lonely only child reduced to acting out little plays with his stuffed toys in a large back garden. That’s a whole ocean away from talking with the animals. Then again Dr, Dolittle was another huge favourite book of mine and the ideas, and the fantasy of travelling across the bottom of the sea in a giant translucent shell of a friendly giant sea snail was up there with sitting for hours in the cupboard surrounded by smelly old raincoats eyes squeezed shut convinced that if I only willed it for another half an hour Narnia would open magically before me. C.S Lewis has a lot to answer for in terms of kids going through traumatic divorces wanting to escape. And I guess I should thank my lucky stars that at least the forests and talking animals of A.A. Milne were still pristine back then, because I can tell you as a wily street-wise 6 year old there was no way I was going to believe in talking stuffed toys. Magical kingdoms beyond the back of the wardrobe yes, talking lions yes – but again, I never realised Aslan was Jesus until I was thirty – which was one of the advantages of having secular left-wing parents. Which brings me to the next great getting-of-wisdom that is currently sweeping through the zeitgeist of the British Isles. And that is the scandal involving politicians of every persuasion claiming illegitimate expenses, the never-ending-story The Daily Telegraph has exploited to jack up their flagging circulation (nice to know there is absolutely no political bias or loyalty in the media).
Don’t get me wrong, I also think it’s inexcusable that a politician can claim for a duck island (a version of Eeoh’s twig house no doubt) or the upkeep of a moat, and even more extraordinary, for mortgages long paid off. But I also think we are living in perilously volatile times, and I fear the only people to benefit out of this expose are the extreme right and extreme left, with, maybe hopefully a few votes going to the Green party. The level of disillusionment in the general public is extreme. Remember the English have not had the hope of Obama, and I fear might even galvanise the normally complacent middle class into political action.. Revolution is not a British tradition – unless you count Cromwell but remember Royalty was finally re-instated. The best outcome would be that the whole parliamentary system is revised and, in my opinion, they bring in compulsory voting. A system that exists and operates very well in Australia. I also think they should introduce this in the US. It means everyone (who registers, which you have to do at eighteen, but I do know a few Australian anarchists who never registered and so deliberately stay off the grid) has to vote – or be fined. It also means everyone to a greater or lesser extent has to engage politically. It’s a way of offsetting the apathy that comes out of complete cynicism and having a party elected from a record low number of people actually voting. Failing that there’s always the option of sitting in the wardrobe wishing for Narnia. See you in there.
Sapien Trek
There was a couple of things this week that caught my imagination – one was the wonderful confirmation that the minute primitive skeleton found in Flores, Indonesia known as Homo Florensienses is an entirely separate species of an man-like creature. Giving raise to the idea that many of the mythological creatures that exist in folklore and fairytale might have their genesis in actual fact and the early co-existence of Homo Sapian and his ‘human’ brothers. After all we know that Neanderthal man lived alongside Homo Sapien and human skeletons in Portugal have been found with Neanderthal traits leading to the probability that they interbred.
Much folklore has its genesis in fact and perhaps the next wondrous discovery will be a Giant skeleton, or perhaps remains of a Big-foot type of man-like creature – even a Cyclops. The Homo Florensienses is only about the size of a three-year old child and possibly related to the leprechaun. There is evidence that the early sightings of unicorns were in fact antelopes or rhinoceros, sea cows – mermaids, and that the notion of the centaur came from horse riding invaders witnessed by peoples who had never seen men riding horses.
It did make me think about seemingly never ending cycle of invasion and colonisation that we, homo sapiens embark upon – a trait of our species which, no doubt, lead to the alienation of our humanoid brothers (that and the accidental bringing of strange viruses). A theme that is carried through many great works of literature and one that is the premise of another great modern on-going epic – Star Trek.
Yes, I confess, I’ve grown up with the series (both of them) and even followed Enterprise – which initially took some adaptation to the nuts and bolt frontier design of the space ship and more hard edged testosterone-pumped Captain Archer. But the latest film is fantastic. Apart from the tight plot and unashamed homage to the original series – there’s a kind of furtive tribal pleasure in sitting in a huge auditorium being swept out to Space with your fellow Homo sapiens on a mission to save other galaxy dwellers from their inherent murderous tendencies and evil neighbours. Why doesn’t this ring true when I think of the poor old Homo Florensienses or the Neanderthal?
Please Note: I shall now be blogging every second week due to my current writing demands.
Reasons to be cheerful
What a week! It feels as if we started with the first glimmers of possible economic recovery to finish with plague looming. Today I coughed in a bookshop (I have hay fever) and watched the shop assistant jump four feet back. Having researched the plague for my novel and attended a lecture at the London School of Economics which was a briefing on bird flu for businesses a couple of years ago I am well aware of all the ramifications of such an outbreak – and they ain’t pretty. In fact the epidemiologist giving the lecture (with a certain amount of relish I might add – I meant, hey these guys sit around all their working lives praying that they might get to witness an actual pandemic – a little like the seismologist in California predicting the big one) used the analogue of the British movie 28 Days Later sans zombies (not the US remake) – which was a brilliant depiction of an city emptied out because of plague with the obligatory satellite fortress communities of survivors. Actually this was the writing premise of The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio - young Italian aristocrats having fled plague-ridden Florence to their country retreat warning off boredom through all sorts of decadence and story telling. Blitz mentality – and I’m sure when the chips are down – and I sincerely pray this won’t be the case – it will all be orgies and religious epiphanies.
For those history buffs it’s worth picking up any biographical literature written during the plague years (I’m talking black plague here) to glean the kind of behaviour humans resort to face with their mortality. I wrote about the plague hitting Cologne – same year it hit UK. Samuel Pepys covers this in his diary - in his case plague broke out in London on the 25th of April 1665 (two cases) and by the 30th of April it was panic time (interesting synchronicity here – re: the current cases of English Swine flu) and the famous plague village of Eyam has a whole museum dedicated to the plague and the voluntary quarantine of the villagers – (no doubt contributing greatly to Brooks’s research of the same scenario in her book The Year of Wonders) - an action that resulted in a third of the village population dying, with one woman – Elizabeth Hancock burying her husband and six children within eight days. More recently I was both fascinated and shocked to read a letter in the museum in Julian, California written during the 1919 flu outbreak from a local woman to her brother describing the deaths of young people she knew and how quiet the streets were of Los Angeles. Much of the 1919 flu pandemic has been overshadowed by the horrors of the First World War, which just preceded it – but that strain was virulent, brutal and swift. Accounts like this are extraordinarily moving and really make real the ramifications of a pandemic: both social and economic. The good news is that we now have WHO and a far greater understanding of the need for global responsibility.
On a more upbeat note I am now in the closing pages of 2666 of Bolano’s extraordinary novel – the final section covering the fictional obscure German novelist Archimboldi’s experiences as a soldier on Russian Front in 2nd WWW and finding his voice as a inspired (but self-educated) writer in post war bombed out Cologne. This is really a book for writers – Bolano’s plot is sprawling, messy as all —-, and, at best, operates as a multi-faceted prism on the same scenario. However, as a reader, you just don’t care. This is because his prose is utterly magical, wise and philosophically uncompromising. He too was faced by his own mortality when writing this epic tome (he was dying) and I can’t help wondering whether this was a contributing factor to the clarity and passion of his voice.
On physical theatre
This week I’m in pre-publicity for the Australian launch of the new novel Sphinx and back in London.
I’ve seen three theatrical productions in seven days – the first ‘Death and the King’s Horseman’ was written by Nigerian playwright Wole Soyinka in the 1950’s.Set in 1943 it is a statement about the impact of British colonialism in Africa. This production at the National theatre has revamped some of the original text and pushed racial and class issues in a dramatic (and incredibly effective manner) by putting the black cast members into ‘white face’ to play the English characters – thus throwing up a multitude of issues – the predominantly white audience’s preconceptions about black actors, the way the local Nigerian characters view their colonial masters and emphasising the theme of ritual which runs right through the play.
It is the story of a local tribal leader who is also the horseman of the king who has died a month before. Tradition dictates that the king’s horseman must commit suicide and join the spirit of the King and his horse and dog, as they make their mythical way up to heaven. If this does not happen the King’s spirit will not be put to rest.
Stylistically the production works in two languages – one is the poetic language (almost Shakespearian) of the local Africans – the market women and their queen, the buffoonery of the colonial police (local ‘christianised’ Africans). Their intense dancing and celebration is a stark contrast to the rigid costume ball that is being put on by the colonial English the very same night. When the head of the colony (along with his wife) decides to wear for the costume ball two costumes that are confiscated religious costumes from a local death cult and signify Death, he is completely indifferent to how disrespectful this might appear to his superstitious black staff and the local populace. This gives the audience an instant understanding of the massive gulf between the two cultures. The arrogance of this colonial overlord is further emphasised when he prevents the Horseman from committing ritual suicide thus condemning the tribal chief to social rejection and a living death. The Englishman has also unwittingly set off an even more tragic set of circumstances.
The second production I saw was Stephen Berkoff’s production of the screenplay; On the Waterfront at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. I have been a fan of Berkoff’s for years, having followed his work since seeing East (great play about English skinheads) at the Half-Moon theatre in the 1970s. He is famous for his holistic approach and physicality of interpretation of text and this production was no exception. Although surprisingly it was quite literal in its story telling and anyone who knows the movie would recognise it immediately. The strengths of the production (as in Death and the King’s horseman) were the inherent theatricality and image making – literally making images out of actors, gestures, even emotions – a pushing of reality. This linked both productions and was a reminder why I go to theatre at all. Berkoff’s emphasis on testosterone and the advert masculinity of both the dockworkers and the thugs, as well as a great Irishness, to the characters worked brilliantly.
The third production I saw was Le Clique (at the Hippodrome – a fantastically atmospheric venue that was dark for a year or so) in Leicester Square. A loose ensemble of cabaret acts bordering on burlesque this show reflects a growing trend in Europe for sexy escapist circus. Sitting there surrounding by the city boys and girls (some still dressed for the office) on a late Friday night show, no doubt shaking off recession blues it was an infinitely more forgiving audience than a straight theatre audience- and reminded me of how the old music halls with their upbeat Larrikin sensibility must have been like. Interestingly there seems to be a growing need for comic circus and physical theatre that pushes both the audience’s imagination and sense of trepidation. The other notable aspect was the age difference between the audiences – with a noticeably younger audience at Le Clique, but I am heartened by a swing towards live performance (this is also reflected in the live music scene) generally. I suspect entertainment is ultimately a collective experience.
Happy Anzac day all Australian readers!
Familiar myths
A number of weeks ago there was a great article in New Scientist (28/3/09 – Helen Phillips) which was basically an analysis of déjà vu from a neurological perspective – the anatomical basis for such phenomenon and how the emotions attached shapes our perception of déjà vu. It talked about how epileptics often experience déjà vu–like auras before a seizure, how there is a permanent déjà vu state that can affect people with dementia and how - through observing the before and after effects of removing parts of the brain - there is strong evidence that the regions of the brain associated with déjà vu were most likely the Amygdala (deals with the emotional responses of such sensations) the Hippocampus (area connected to recollection – particularly autobiographical memory) and the Parahippocampus (possibly feelings of familiarity). The article also talked about how researchers had managed to trigger déjà vu through hypnosis and that they have deduced that the processes of familiarity and recall are not associated and germinate in separate circuits of the brain hence the sensation that something that you haven’t experienced can feel and appear familiar. Another neuroscientist (Stefan Kohler) talked about the importance of the emotion around the experience of déjà vu (this is where the Amygdala comes in) He speculates ‘that without the appropriate emotional arousal, perhaps the brain cannot recognise a person or place we have encountered before s truly familiar’ inversely inappropriate emotional arousal may make us believe something is familiar when actually it is not.
All of this led me to wonder about the incidents of déjà vu in my own life. Certainly I have noticed that extreme exhaustion (particularly jet lag) and sometimes that strange lucidity a hangover (especially the morning after) induces has triggered strong feelings of déjà vu. As has certain conversations – I’ll be in the middle of some intense discussion in a social context to be suddenly overwhelmed (even stopped in mid-sentence) by the sensation I have had the same conversation in the same context in the same settings with minutiae - i.e.: the way the light is hitting the face of the person I’m talking to – taking on an vivid and sudden gravidas and familiarity.
The romantic in me would like to imagine this is evidence of past lives, or a life well dreamt (before), but in truth the rationalist in me wins the debate by arguing it is probably a physiological jumping of the circuits and perhaps, more interestingly an evolutionary need to process and find familiar new situations and, even, new debates.
After all most living creatures seek safety and security ergo surely the desire to apply previous experience to vaguely similar circumstances, as a way of understanding must be innate.
I then began to think about American mythologist Joseph Campbell and his book ‘The Hero with a thousand Faces’ and the theory of reducing all the global myths down to a small number of basic storylines (the vampire, the thwarted couple, the hero with tasks to complete, etc) regardless of cultural differences. Could this be the drive for the familiar in us as a species? Fiction engenders emotional reaction in us because the best of it has echoes of the familiar. We want to recognise and empathise and yet be taken out of the ordinary. In this way there is a déjà vu to the experience of reading.
All those ‘good’ people
I’ve spent this last week in Sydney; for those who don’t know the city, it is one of the most beautiful contemporary cities in the world, blessed with an extraordinary naturally stunning location – the harbour. Dipping in and out of a culture regularly really gives you an objective perspective. Here, it remains, despite the seepage of the global recession spreading across the nation like a slow secret stain, a profoundly optimistic nation. In fact, one of the national newspapers had a survey in which they claimed optimism had never been higher and that the recession and the trauma of the bushfires had actually brought people together and reignited community spirit and values. Australia has always had the tradition of the ‘battler’ – the frontier man – and the psychology of facing adversity is set in the nation’s D.N.A. Having said that it is a lot easier to feel optimistic when the weather is beautiful practically every day and there’s a strange divide between the rural and the urban (with most of the nation’s population crowded into the Eastern coast cities) so in the privileged suburbs of Sydney it is easy to feel removed from the impact of the huge drought that has devastated the nation’s farming and river ways (except for the rising cost of fruit and noticeable deterioration of quality).
Culturally there appears to be less and less coverage in the national papers of local artists, writers and filmmakers with a rising noticeable ‘Americanisation’ of culture amongst the younger people. I guess it’s an evitable by-product of globalisation and the tyranny of distance falling away through immediate Internet access. However in the past one of the great advantages (and there are great disadvantages also) of this tyranny of distance was the eccentric and peculiarly Australian expressions of culture that was born out of originality as opposed to imported cultural values. I’m thinking of Nick Cave and some of the quirky films of the 70’s, 80’s and early 90’s etc.
The notable exception to the rule is the current and on-going blossoming of indigenous cultural expression – particularly on stage and screen. The current film tip that’s sweeping through the Australian gossip circles is that indigenous film maker Warwick Thornton’s movie ‘Samson and Delilah’ is tipped to be the next big Aussie movie – which would be fantastic and a great counterbalance to Luhrmann’s illusionary ‘Australia’.
This week I also saw the film of British playwright C.P. Taylor’s play ‘Good’ starring Viggo Mortensen. An apt depiction of moral complexity and one ‘good’ man’s slide into ethical compromise and finally betrayal it is compelling but somehow not satisfying. I suspect - given the current glut of three-dimensional Nazis movies - it’s because we are all now so immune to images of concentration camps (the final revelation for the protagonist – who, rather unbelievably, seems to have no idea of what the final solution entailed despite being an honorary member of the SS) that the emotional impact might be somewhat muted for a contemporary audience. The original play was first performed in 1981. That said, Mortensen is always worth seeing and his portrayal of an initially shy professor of literature (and Proust lover – who, as we know, was a Jew) and his transformation and convincing seduction into the Nazis Party is completely believable. An important reminder (especially in these current times) how evil is often incremental in execution and how the pressure to conform to social mores and constructs (no matter how extreme) is ultimately greater than enforced legislation. But what was so fantastic about the film was actually how the two central characters were so easily identifiable – I particularly enjoyed Jason Isaacs’s performance as a wry, world-weary secular Jewish psychologist swept up in an hysterical historical glitch he, himself, cannot take seriously until it’s tragically too late. I remember my great aunt telling me how she (as a young Jewish communist) had toured Germany in the 30’s playing table tennis and had stayed with German intellectuals (many of them Christian) who had considered Hitler a buffoon, and not to be taken seriously politically – many of them were either arrested or dead within the decade.
Self-doubt and Image
This week I still in Australia drumming up publicity for the up-coming release of my new novel Sphinx. There’s a curious gap between the projected image of oneself in the media and oneself – that can only become more surreal as one’s public profile grows - particularly if your prose is as eclectic in range as mine – in other words, like many people and writers, my persona tends to adapt to my environment and I have many voices. The one definitive author’s shot (shelf life about 2-3 years as personally I don’t really like been photographed that much) never seems to reflect the complexity of the individual.
I’m convinced (and have gleaned from meeting other authors) that we are not inherently public people. Indeed, it’s hard not to be suspicious of the writer that performs beautifully on the media circuit and you can bet your bottom dollar they have probably had media training. There is also the danger of one’s time being eaten up by the media circuit. I once shared a table with one extremely well-known and prize winning fiction international writer during a festival, who had been on the circuit for over two years (with the one hugely successful book) and was extremely cankerous and cynical as a result and had just been both rude and intellectually dismissive of a rapt Sydney audience– all of which had paid very good money to see him interviewed by a top Australian politician. The Aussies were not impressed. A writer has to write to stay sane and certainly to maintain a kind of emotional compass and none of us like being dragged away but the novelist’s existential exhaustion was no excuse.
In truth, the very act of writing is solitary and there have been times that I’ve noticed my social skills drop away after an intense week of writing - God knows how Proust managed book launches! It’s a catch 22 situation – good writers are good observers and one has to be out on the street and in relationship to absorb and assimilate human nature. Yet there is the seduction of the escape into one’s own fiction that (for me, at least) seems to grow with each new novel. The most exciting part is the polishing of the final edit. I guess it must be the sculptor in me (my original training was in sculpture and I worked in marble which only gets its translucency in the final polishing stages). There is something immensely satisfying in seeing how pared back prose can suddenly shine. But then I’m a writer that initially overwrites so for me it is a process of reduction. Some of my readers might disagree! Also this week I received a very disgruntled e mail via my site from a reader to which I politely replied – even actually apologised that she wasn’t getting into the book - only to receive another even more brutal and critical e mail in reply! Having a kind of Woody Allen psychology in which self-flagellation and self-doubt is the rod with which I beat myself daily - and of which, I suspect, I also use to both motivate myself and hopefully to improve my craft with each book (the book in question was three books back) – her e mails only added to the ‘excruciating self-doubt versus the daily task of writing’ balancing act we all perform. Then again, as my grandmother used to say, ‘Don’t cook if you’re frightened of getting burnt.’
On a more frivolous note I saw a fantastic film called (in English) ‘Let the Right One in’ a very sophisticated Swedish Vampire film in the same genre as Twilight – only infinitely more sophisticated both in story-telling and film-making. To all fans of that genre I thoroughly recommended it. It’s almost feminist in its bloody explicitness, but also extremely beautiful to look at and is a captivating and completely convincing blend of social realism and fantasy.
For all Australian readers:
Tx
Life through the (fictional) Looking glass
This week I have been back in Sydney working on a new play called Infidelity – basically a dark comedy of manners around the theme of what the French politely describe as the clap of lighting – the plot involves two married couples - four characters – a American/Australian painter Marta (49), female late forties who’s married to an Australian Jewish film director Saul (60) his German London based film producer (female, 42) who’s married to an English psychologist Peter (38). It takes place in both London and Melbourne and begins after a producers screening of the director’s movie around a dinner party at Gita’s apartment in Notting hill Gate. The second act takes place a year later in Melbourne at a dinner party and Marta at Saul’s house.
Marta and Peter – individuals who are normally in the orbit of their alpha partners (to their amazement and secret chagrin) fall both in lust and in intellectual solidarity by the end of the first half of the play with both satirical and disastrous consequences.
I began the play before the current global economic crisis and then paused realising that the zeitgeist in the western world was changing so rapidly from week to week that I would have to for the dust to settle to gauge how my characters lives and behaviour would eventually be impacted by such dire economic events.
For Saul whose low budget movie loses the backing of the mainstream studio and is forced to seek post production money elsewhere to finance the edgier (and racier) cut he wants (the original reason why the studios walked) the recession makes it so much harder to realise his vision of his film, for his wife the prospect of walking out to a more precarious financial future without him (divorce has become prohibitively expensive) is daunting…For the younger English based couple life a year later is even harder. The psychologist has lost clients and the film producer a couple of costlier costume dramas and she is now contemplating getting into producing reality TV.
Certainly life is dire currently in the UK, the English seemed to be bombarded with incessant bad news almost as if the press have a certain schadenfreude about their intentions. Now back in Australia it seems that their press is a little more circumspect - also, thus far, the Australian economy doesn’t appear to be impacted as badly as the UK and the US – then again, the tidal wave might only be four months behind in Oz –hard to tell, but walking the streets, everyone appears to be a lot happier and relaxed by comparison and retail isn’t down nearly as badly as in the rest of the world.
Visually in the play I want to introduce some of Saul’s footage that had ended up on the editing floor into the play. The footage is a sex scene between Saul’s protagonists in the movie, a scene that the studio had deemed too politically incorrect and inexplicit to use (a theme close to my heart). I intend to use it to great comedic effect when Saul wanders back into the dinner room, not realising that his wife and his producer’s husband have started to make love under the table, without noticing them he switches on the outtakes and thinks the sounds of lovemaking he’s watching are coming from the screen and not under the table. Again, projection, reality and fiction all fused into one. The best most seamless example of media used in a play, in mu opinion, was Patrick Marber’s Closer (I was lucky enough to see the production he directed himself in London years ago). In that scene we have a male protagonist having intense Internet sexual flirtation with another male character via the Internet using a female persona without the other character realising. It is both hilarious, poignant and a study in loneliness and projection all at once, and is an integral part of the production (projected text on a back screen) without pulling focus from the actor on stage: A fine balancing act in a conventional modernist narrative.
This sensation that the global zeitgeist is shifting under one’s actual feet – it’s transforming so faster - made me think about how artists, writers etc are little more than creative observers who absorb then filter, digest and process the world around them. I do not believe that any real artist works in a vacuum. The challenge is to capture the universal in the specific. Some themes and primary emotional experiences never change merely the furniture and the costume.
Life in the narrative
I’m now back in Australia for a large birthday party (my own.) Mid-life, I guess, and I’m confronted with the odyssey of many incarnations that have brought me to this point in my life. Naturally a fairly frenetic person with a frenetic lifestyle I don’t often have the luxury of introspection - in fact I feel like I’ve been on fast forward since about 16. One of the advantages of writing is that an author can escaped into her/his own narrative during the actual process of writing. This is particularly true of myself partly as the nature of my work takes me into the labyrinths of research, and purely fictional characters and lives. There is a glorious distraction from the real world in this – interestingly enough an editor I recently worked with told me that quite a few writers she works with suffer from agoraphobia and are reluctant to leave their homes. I suspect this is because there is a danger one can start to really live in one’s own stories and give up on the real world. After all you can control a fictional world.
Certainly when I was a child I chose to escape into the fictional world of reading to avoid a rather dramatic home life. I remember sitting for hours in the cupboard seriously expecting the back of the cupboard to dissolve and give way to the magical world of Narnia. As I grew up in London there was always the obligatory heavy coats and Macs musky with perfume and the street making a hanging dark forest that only added to the mystery. Likewise the wasteland between the back fence and the railway line (my closest girlfriend’s house backed onto the Bakerloo line) was also a fantasyland of tangled blackberries and undergrowth ripe for the imagination.
As children of the 60’s and 70’s we made up our own entertainment and stories – and as we had little but abandoned houses, vacant lots and the adults around us to project our imaginations on – we worked hard at it. Watching my stepsons on play stations I’m not entirely convince the new generation of electronic media exercises the imagination quite as much. We made up our own characters, monsters and spacecrafts from scratch, there does seem to be certain passivity in the multitude of options the kids are offered today.
But back to the big birthday – I take solace that on a cellular level we are entirely different creatures from moment to moment. Certainly I have been through many manifestations and do not feel the same person I was, even five years ago. I have been extremely fortunate to have lived in several countries and have close friends scattered across the globe. There are advantages and disadvantages one of these is the challenge of creating a continuum of history – Born in England, bred in London (to two people who themselves were migrants of sorts), 20’s in Australia, ‘30’s in The US - I have found that the time I’ve now spent back in the UK has created a full circle and many of the family myths and projections migrants experience when out of their home land for decades have been dispersed and old hauntings exorcised. Certainly my last few years in London as a teenage after my father died suddenly when I was sixteen were traumatic (on retrospect – then they felt wild and exciting), and really it was only the grace of God that I emerged fairly intact.
Actually for the first time, I placed myself as a minor character in Sphinx, (although I gave myself a couple of more years – 18 instead of 16 so that I was at least legal – in a fictional way and gave myself psychic powers – that is definitely fictional!) which was both fun and confronting.
A Polish friend of mine one said to me - a migrant is one who dreams of the palm when under the pine then when he’s back under the palm he finds himself dreaming of the pine; This is, in some ways, all our dilemmas. In a way, after a certain age, our childhood becomes the land we have migrated from – a tantalising horizon we find ourselves dreaming about yet unable to return. The trick is to never grow up.
Another sad coincidence: the building that recently collapsed in Cologne on the 3rd of March – the Historical Archive of Cologne - was one that both myself and my researcher/translator (and very close friend playwright Henning Bochert) utilised while working on my novel ‘The Witch of Cologne’. It is tragic that both lives were lost as well as invaluable historical records going back to the Roman Times that were irreplaceable, my condolences to the city and people of Cologne.