Casual study in off-whites
Swagger portrait – 17th March 2016
Casual study in off-whites
“When the creator had made all these ordinances he remained in his own accustomed nature, and his children heard and were obedient to their father’s word, and receiving from him the immortal principle of a mortal creature, in imitation of their own creator they borrowed portions of fire, and earth, and water, and air from the world, which were hereafter to be restored-these they took and welded them together, not with the indissoluble chains by which they were themselves bound, but with little pegs too small to be visible, making up out of all the four elements each separate body, and fastening the courses of the immortal soul in a body which was in a state of perpetual influx and efflux. Now these courses, detained as in a vast river, neither overcame nor were overcome; but were hurrying and hurried to and fro, so that the whole animal was moved and progressed, irregularly however and irrationally and anyhow, in all the six directions of motion, wandering backwards and forwards, and right and left, and up and down, and in all the six directions. For great as was the advancing and retiring flood which provided nourishment, the affections produced by external contact caused still greater tumult-when the body of any one met and came into collision with some external fire, or with the solid earth or the gliding waters, or was caught in the tempest borne on the air, and the motions produced by any of these impulses were carried through the body to the soul. All such motions have consequently received the general name of “sensations,” which they still retain.”
From: ‘Timaeus’ By Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
“I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.”
Shakespeare, ‘Julis Caesar’ Act IV, Scene III
Why do we say that we see things out of the corners of our eyes, when we all know our eyes are spherical? Yet I cannot think of a better way of describing the things we see… well… out of the corners of our eyes.
Comings, goings and impediments.
Every so often you’ll come across a stone on the beach that someone has written on. Sometimes the text will be simply rude or banal: ‘Tracy is a slag’ or ‘Susan luvs Damien’ or ‘George is a wanker’ but occasionally you’ll find one with something a little more complex inscribed on it. These are invariably anonymous, like the one I found today (pictured here). It doesn’t matter if these thoughts are original or not. Clichés are clichés because they link us together as beings who share the same hopes and uncertainties.
Why do we leave these particular kinds of messages on stones? You won’t find the same thoughts carved into a tree, or on a toilet wall (well, you’ll find the ones about Tracy, Damien and George, but these are endemic) and why leave them on the beach? Is it because here the messages are more likely to be lost, like the thoughts themselves; words lost like droplets in the sea. They are, because of their nature, addressed to complete strangers, or to those who are unlikely to ever find them, and even if they did, would not know where they came from.
A while ago I was discussing these messages with a friend at work. He confessed having once written ‘I love you’ on a beach pebble only to find, a few months later, the same stone on the desk of one of the administrators. Of course he never told her that it was he who’d written the message, and yet it seemed to both of us strange that the intimacy with which she valued these words was entirely different and private to his original intentions.
One of the delights about running a blog for an extended period of time, is that you can then look at what happened this time last year and note any seasonal variations. For instance: despite the weather being nowhere near as good as it was in March 2015, the seafront carousel is being assembled several days earlier. This is probably because we are having an early Easter this year, and the carousel boys will need to make sure everything works before the approaching holiday weekend.
To be honest though, observations like these are rather obvious. Much more interesting are the dates of this year’s mattress dumping season. For months it has been quiet on the abandoned bedding front but, as noted before (Weds 28th Jan 2015) as soon as the sun comes out properly, so do all the mattresses! Today’s example has not been the first I’ve seen on the streets; they’ve been appearing for a few weeks now (something I perhaps should have recorded, but I’d rather felt I’d ‘done’ that last year). However, while this means this seasonal event is running about a month late in purely calendar terms, it confirms that the phenomenon is directly linked to the amount of direct sunlight present on a number of given days, i.e. as soon as it gets sunnier, the rate of this activity rises. This is not dissimilar to the breeding habits of pigeons who, while remaining sexually active throughout the year, show a marked increase in ‘interest’ as the days get longer. Therefore I am confident that the human nesting season has begun; a sure sign that the new spring is on its way!
“Putting the question in this way, there is no satisfactory solution to decoding. One would be drawn into an endless process since every level of decoding would reveal another one waiting to be decoded. Every symbol is just the tip of an iceberg in the ocean of cultural consensus, and even if one got right to the bottom of decoding a single message, the whole of culture past and present would be revealed. Carried out in this ‘radical’ fashion, criticism of a single message would turn out to be criticism of culture in general.”
Vilém Flusseur, ‘Towards a Philosophy of Photography’
“We read of Labhraidh Loingseach that his ears were like those of a horse; and hence, he used to kill on the spot everyone who cut his hair, lest he or anyone else might be aware of this blemish. Now he was wont to have his hair cropped every year, that is, to have cut off the part of his hair that grew below his ears. It was necessary to cast lots to determine who should crop the king each year, since it was his wont to put to death everyone who cropped him. Now it happened that the lot fell on the only son of a widow who approached the close of her life, and who lived near the king’s stronghold. And when she heard that the lot had fallen on her son, she came and besought the king not to put her only son to death, seeing he was her sole offspring. The king promised her that he would not put her son to death, provided he kept secret what he should see, and made it known to no one till death. And when the youth had cropped the king, the burden of that secret so oppressed his body that he was obliged to lie in the bed of sickness, and that no medicine availed him. When he had lain long in a wasting condition, a skilful druid came to visit him, and told his mother that the cause of his sickness was the burden of a secret, and that he would not be well till he revealed his secret to some thing; and he directed him, since he was bound not to tell his secret to a person, to go to a place where four roads met, and to turn to his right and to address the first tree he met, and to tell his secret to it. The first tree he met was a large willow, and he disclosed his secret to it. Thereupon the burden of pain that was on his body vanished; and he was healed instantly as he returned to his mother’s house. Soon after this, however, it happened that Craiftine’s harp got broken, and he went to seek the material for a harp, and came upon the very willow to which the widow’s son had revealed the secret, and from it he took the material for his harp and when the harp was made and set to tune, as Craiftine played upon it all who listened imagined that it sang, ‘Da o phill ar Labhraidh Lorc,’ that is, Labraidh Loingseach, meaning, ‘Two horse’s ears on Labhraidh Lorc’; and as often as he played on that harp, it was understood to sing the same thing. And when the king heard this story, he repented of having put so many people to death to conceal that deformity of his, and openly exhibited his ears to the household, and never afterwards concealed them.”
Geoffrey Keating, ‘The History of Ireland’ (Section 30)
You can never be sure how these conversations start, but suddenly the three of us realised we’d all been dumped for money, in Mark’s case millionaires, twice.
“He did continuity on film sets. That Harry Potter movie. He was earning three grand a day, a day!”
“I mean we might not look much but our lives have substance”
“Three grand a day!”
“I don’t know, you offer them philosophical meaning and existential depth and they just go for the cash”
“Harry fucking Potter”
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen her more often, Brighton’s a small place”
“Three fucking grand for making sure someone’s tie is the same colour in different shots”
“I’m quite pleased I haven’t run into my ex wife once in the past five years”
“Harry fucking Potter!”