The Short Short Series. S01 #1- Game Over

Game Over

‘We both know I’m not going to make it out of here,’ Jenkins gathered fistfuls of Mackey’s jacket.
Truth was Mackey knew he was right. He was in a bad shape himself but he didn’t let on to Jenkins. He’d managed to catch a bullet in the leg as he was thrown from the jeep and it was already showing through his fatigues. Jenkins had got the worst of it though. He’d been driving when it flipped; his lower half pinned underneath.

‘Don’t talk like that soldier. We’re getting out of this place.’ It was a lie.
Jenkins let go of his jacket.

‘I’ve heard it gets dark real quick in this place Sarge.’

Jenkins didn’t know the half of it. None of the new recruits knew what they were signing up for. ‘Jenkins I’m going to go for help.’ It was another lie. The game was already lost. The darkness rules all and it was coming.

Mackey heard voices like thunderclaps in a dry sky. He stopped suddenly. ‘It’s time. Here it comes.’ Mackey said.

Jenkins looked into the sky but saw nothing. That’s how it happens. Suddenly he was aware the jeep had gone and he was flying but there hadn’t been any explosion. Mackey and Jenkins held onto each other. At least they’d go together. It was terribly lonely in the dark.

Tommy was as mad as thunder as he scooped up his toys and tossed them into the shoe box. It was time for school.
Game Over.

The Short Short Series

I’ve always admired the brevity with which some writers can tell an effectively moving and provocative story. In many ways it presents quite a challenge for any writer and the short story as a form can sometimes be the cuddly snarl-toothed wolf beneath the cloak on its way to grandma’s house. For those who aren’t disciplined enough then it might not be worth the scrap just to see whats inside the picnic basket.

But that’s not to say you shouldn’t go there. The short story I mean not the picnic basket or grandma’s house. On the contrary, the old love would appreciate a visit now and again. Just leave your teeth at the door.

While the twitter camp overflows with perfunctory twits about all and nothing, the sacred and the mediocre, it is sometimes to be marveled at these seasoned “thumbers” and their succinct flow of the sharpened language to get across the drivel in 140 characters or less.

It’s all training isn’t it? To say what you want in the shortest and most precise way possible is, dare I say it, an Editors wet dream and certainly a life skill that can cross over all forms of communication. Imagine being able to pick apart any part of your day and turn it into a story at the speed of thought, setting down a beginning, middle and an end.

But how short is too short? There are no rules if you work the story.

Here’s Ernest Hemingway’s short story, title unknown, but it does contain six words. Yes I did type that right. SIX words and, it has a powerful beginning, middle and end.

For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

Powerful indeed.

In order to sharpen my own skill I’ve decided to start a short series of writings that will I hope sweep up the swirling dust-bowl of ideas that if not corralled into no more than five hundred words will eventually thin out and be lost forever in my nomadic mind.

So dear reader if you have come thus far then please do all you can to like and love this blog and make sure you get notified of the latest stories coming out of the Short, Short Series.

 

Paul.

A Philosophy of a Beautiful Springtime. Discovering a Wing Chun Attitude – Part II

 

“When you don’t cover up the world with words and labels, a sense of the miraculous returns to your life that was lost a long time ago when humanity, instead of using thought, became possessed by thought.”

Eckart Tolle, Spiritual Teacher.

A Little Idea Worth Your Time

In the quietness of the mind, small ideas will break through from fertile imaginings, straightening and reaching, that they be seen and recognised and taken up and nurtured and played with until they will look upon us and see the greatness that they have inspired.

This is my current understanding of Wing Chun. It might not match yours but be assured I refer to the Wing Chun of Ng Mui before it even became known as Wing Chun, prior to it being gifted to its young namesake. Naturally the unique fighting style has been passed down from teacher to pupil, colouring for us a history that stretches some four hundred years. So, although the Beautiful Spring Time may have undergone some noticeable changes, changes that are bound to divide the Wing Chun community, I refer to what I consider a ‘sensible’ approach to one of the most natural and beautifully simplistic martial art forms. It’s this approach that I believe will allow you to tap into as close to the original Wing Chun, indeed the spirit of the style as it was first conceived.

I admit my claim to speak about a style of Wing Chun that existed at a time before its corruption began, and subsequently morphed into the modern-day styles we see today, does seem an incredible one.   How can anyone alive today pronounce with any degree of certainty the nature and essence contained within a style so old and one that was born out of necessity? In other words, how can we reach back in time and practice the original, unchanged Wing Chun while there are today, so many differing ideas about what makes one Wing Chun more effective than another. The answer for that is contained within the first form of Wing Chun, Sil Lim Tao.

The name itself reveals to us the greatest secret (that only can be called a secret because of our dismissive nature and reluctance to spend any quality time with this most important foundational form) and key to unlocking the power of gentleness that exists in all of us. The lesson that you will learn from Sil Lim Tao if heeded will be carried by you, not only through to the conclusion of the system but also through life. Sil Lim Tao will provide you with the tools your body needs to be effective. But if we continue in our dismissive nature, treating our first form with contempt, rest assured that this indifference to laying the Wing Chun cornerstone will be ultimately reflected in the way you conduct your style. So telling is this that you can, if you have spent enough time engaging with Sil Lim Tau, just by touching another Wing Chun practitioners arm discern immediately the state of their relationship with their own first form.

So, what is this great secret that enables us to assume such parity with the great Abbotess Ng Mui? The mind, the thoughtful mind is the force that energises the form and together with our intentions will forge powerful inroads to any opponent provided you have listened and directed well.

Wing Chun when practised is expressive and can, depending on your relationship with your first form, accurately reflect the practitioner’s attitude and personality. If you are a true and faithful companion, then you will be most effective in your art.

In this short article I don’t use the language of other disciplines such as the energy centres commonly known as Dantians or special breathing techniques to induce such build up of energies. Breathing in and out is all I ask of myself and for this “Little Idea” I call life, I find that is sufficient for what I want to achieve. However, I do think it important to guide your breath and direct it for full effect in order to nourish the cells of your body. In this, the required stillness will emerge within you and produce the perfect meeting place for you and your first Wing Chun form.

What’s in a Name?

There will be others well versed in many techniques from countless disciplines, all experts in extracting the essential goodness from these things, experts who will be keen to put this name with that and that name with this. That does not interest me. I am more interested in getting to the source of the understanding pertaining to my own experience, so when I say I had a funny experience in my tummy; I don’t readily reference my Dantian.

Labels only serve to give meaning and significance to empty, abandoned objects, (abandoned and empty by our own passively trained minds) and thus in turn rob us of what we truly hope to consider meaningful, the ‘stuff’ that can hold any significance for us. When we seek to understand a thing, we can so readily be cast off with a label.

Man walking in a lane on a foogy, spring morning.

Let’s say for example you are walking through a forest; it is a well trodden path and you are surrounded on both sides by thickly set trees, as you would expect. This is a good place to walk; you take in deep cleansing breaths without even thinking about your dantian as you stroll along. You may even take an interest in the types of trees you encounter along the way, giving names to them, cataloging them in your mind, ticking them off as you continue your journey, so that they slot comfortably into the experience you have labelled “Walk in the Forest”. Your expectations are met and without any further thought, your journey is done. Such is life.

What is lost?

What have these seemingly innocent, educational labels robbed us of and what is more, is it important?

I want the answers to these questions as much as you and I will attempt to reconcile this with my current thinking. Does it warrant any of our valuable time to ponder this? Well let me ask you this. Would you like to merely stroll through your Sil Lim Tao, observing the shapes and angles and sounds of snapping as you deliver a punch or Wu Sau or do you want to enter your form at such a deep level as to witness the blossoming of the little ideas, the creative thoughts that gently explode into every position and movement.

The life that exists beyond the bark of a tree on your forest walk is indescribable and yet is waiting for us to experience. But it does not ask you to use your five senses. To truly know something is to experience it. This is life of immeasurable significance and in the following paragraphs we are going to explore and observe and generate some rather explosive ‘Little Ideas’.

This commentary will spend the majority of its time considering this and how such attention applied to your Wing Chun or any Martial Art you choose to practice will super charge it to the point where onlookers and those that get near to you or even interact with your structure will demand to know your secret. Of course, there are no words you could use to accurately account for your evolved being but I’m positive you will find just enough.

One more thing about labelling.

We can talk about the quality of a Wing Chun horse stance and we can attribute meaning to it and have it bolstered by taking it to other Wing Chun practitioners, however if you were to take it to another martial art class it will most probably be dismissed simply because it has an unpalatable label. This is the inherent danger of attributing labels. Shouldn’t we then seek the universal understanding of what lies beneath the shapes of the arms and legs. What we constantly strife for is ultimate meaning and understanding and the proof if proof were needed that we fall short of this goal is our invention and conjuring of labels. For what we truly seek merely exists just beyond the idea and cannot be described or communicated accurately, only experienced.

As Lau Tzu expressed in his, ‘Tao Te Ching’, “The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao, the name that can be named is not the eternal name.”  But for the sake of your dollar and perhaps lack of sleep I shall continue with my efforts to bring light to my own perilously darkened pathway. After all, if all we can do is pronounce to each other our failings through our preoccupation of labelling and bolstering then at least let’s recognise that this simple act is the starting point, the great revealing of the sign post to move toward the magnificently attainable.

I only speak in terms of my direct exposure and understanding of the emotions I felt as I practiced my Wing Chun. Please feel free then to nod your head as you recognise these things of which I write or shake your head vigorously at your screen, making a mental note to seek me out and press a new understanding upon me with your superior version of ‘A Beautiful Springtime.’

If my meaning is lost along the way, then all is not lost. It probably bumped up against your own version of events and got absorbed or booted out of touch. Either way it should (this is its intention) serve to strengthen your understanding of ‘A Beautiful Springtime’ and hopefully aid in nudging the practitioner/thinker that little bit forward. I can only hope that’s the case. I hope too, that my own understanding will continue to evolve in that same way so long as I keep myself as the reference. If I can achieve this then I know I won’t go far wrong.

Here’s what this commentary is not. There are no techniques practiced, no tips for finding the most effective angle of the Bong. The only advice I can give is what I would give myself. However you practice Wing Chun’s first form, Sil Lim Tao, make it as comfortable as your home, make it your comfy chair, make it a place where you are at the height of relaxation for in this near nirvana state is the key that will unlock FULL understanding of this most beautiful and simplistic form. As simple as I may have made it seem with a few words tossed around here, it is an understanding so fluid and changeable that your conversation with your own Sil Lim Tao will last many life times. In the secret cubby holes of your mind you will continue to ask questions of your Sil Lim Tao and you will be silently answered since none other can furnish you with the truth of your being as you remain open and relaxed. Sil Lim Tao is like an assembled alphabet, formed to create effective conversation, to put across a gentle viewpoint or come crashing through with a persuasive argument. When someone speaks to us we can only respond according to our knowledge and application of an assembled alphabet.

Oh, and just so you know: There is no such thing as ‘my Wing Chun is better than your Wing Chun’. That sort of thing exists in the external thinking world and is just as illusory and dammed up by a bloated ego that is set to crumble in its desire to dominate.

Your Wing Chun will always be a true reflection of your beliefs and the things you imagine, the invisible things sensed by you and the nature of your being. It cannot be any other way. To say your Wing Chun is better than mine and mine better than yours is to devalue our Beautiful Springtime.

Don’t be quick to arrogance as to criticise another Wing Chun, for that is what we do when we hold our Wing Chun aloft for all to see. To laude our particular style in this way is a clear indication of our relationship with our first form and to those of a discerning nature they will be the ones to point out just how far we have missed the mark.

Discovering the Wing Chun Attitude.

 

Here is a bold statement that I shall attempt to expound upon before it is thrown out by least of all ME. Wing Chun belongs to the individual. If we deny this simple idea, then we must accept the corruption of every near perfect carbon copy. From an external point of view then this seems obvious. Just like a glass of water observed on a table by more than one person. The version translated through my own senses belongs to me and is only a corruption when I attempt to relay my experience of it in order that someone else should experience it too. If someone is convinced that my experience of the glass of water should be theirs also, then they will practice a corrupted version and miss out on the purity of their own experience.

Wing Chun is individual and infinite in nature since it is generated internally through the fostering of the first form and the mind engine from where all things come, for what are we without the mind.

What should be the attitude of the new or seasoned student?  You are Wing Chun. All the styles and structure out there that are pressed upon you by your fully paid up masters; learn to disregard them and start over. Start over with you. You are the mind, you are producing the mind force. If you are placed in a position of teacher, then teach them about the mind approach. Don’t throw over them a net and observe how they get out of it. Teach them that it is only a net and the twists and tangles are of their own making.

From the quietness and stillness of the mind and the engaging of the emotions with proper intent then the true Wing Chun experience can be discovered and utilised effectively.

This is the only worthwhile skill you will ever develop in your Wing Chun, the one that holds all the meaning and purpose, the treasure within Sil Lim Tao, the first of the Wing Chun forms, uncovered by the gentle mind approach.

When I fight you, I will not have a front row seat to your Wing Chun, but I will see at first glance (touch) your Wing Chun attitude. I will feel your belief when you touch my arms. And that is the Wing Chun attitude that you seek to discover. It is not your own attitude but the persons you encounter who presents themselves to you. Approaching Wing Chun in this way allows you to extend your training beyond combat and effortlessly into every aspect of your life and relationships with others.

Now that is a life skill beyond limits.

It is a lifelong friend.

Paul.

 

A Philosophy of a Beautiful Springtime. Discovering a Wing Chun Attitude – Part I

A Wing Chun History of Storytelling

For a story to have any worth it has to be worth telling. And one can hope that it will be read by at least one person other than the author. Through the passage of time the storytellers will themselves nurture the story so that it may not be forgotten. Eventually through those same ravages of time the story, to endure, must suffer the occasional nip and tuck in order to advance its message and lasso each withering generation.

But when does the historical account, the truth of events become a story?

We all know the account of the great carpenter’s son who kicked up quite a dust storm with his ragged sandals. His story was well known in those desert lands thousands of years ago. Reports of this man’s unusual beginnings wafted across the dry desserts and with that breezy tale came hope for those particular huddled masses. They said that he was born of a virgin and was visited by wise astrologers following a new star that had no business being in the sky. Even as a babe in arms he was hunted by kings and nobleman, eager to rid the impressionable African lands of his existence. Why? Because the people were ravenous and full of expectation for a saviour. This baby would grow to be a man and the collective heartbeat of the people sounding his name would be like an irritation in the ears of kings and rulers.

Whispers were heard that as a young boy of twelve he taught the knowledgeable old men in the synagogue, wrestling ideas and subduing tradition. At first they were amazed but in years to come they would be plotting this simple boy’s downfall.

It seemed like everyone’s compass was set towards the appearance of the man who they now believed was in his thirties and so they gathered in their hundreds to get a glimpse of the weary traveller. It was a big day for the gathered masses for those who were in attendance would witness the mighty heavens open and the man officially confirmed by the highest authority known at that time as, the Son of God (capitals mine for dramatic purposes only).

If you had been late to the proceedings you may have had to settle for second, third even fourth accounts of what happened and how shortly after the great unveiling of this messianic figure, he did flee into the dessert to be alone with his new command. There amidst the jagged landscape he would be entertained and enticed by demons; that he should denounce his charge. His prize? All the kingdoms of the world.

But fresh from the team talk with his spiritual father he went onto blaze a trail across the needful lands towards a destiny soaked in his own blood. It was a cruel and brutal end for the young man with broad shoulders but a necessary one that has shaped and divided mankind ever since.

This account albeit dramatically annotated by myself has been passed down through peoples and organisations, families have gathered and warmed themselves against every word. Lands have been stolen and peoples tortured to death for the sharing of the messages within the accounts that were dared even to be pressed onto paper.

We all know this story don’t we?

We all think we know this story.

You could probably name the main protagonist in this life shaping account since I was so careful throughout its telling not to mention by name the rather singular individual. You would be forgiven if you thought I was writing about the man called Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ. In fact I have been relating a story of the combined accounts of at least seven individuals who predate the Christ character and for whom the details above have all been attributed in varying degrees. The accounts of Buddha, Krishna, Odysseus, Romulus, Dionysus, Heracles and Zoraster are featured and their stories have suffered at the hands of us, the well meaning masses.

Such is the power of storytelling and, for the rest of this article I would like to expound on this power in relation to our Beautiful Springtime. It will become apparent that the parallels to be drawn with the telling of an effective story for the divisive shifting of world religions can and have been used to promote a most effective (in more ways than one) and progressive martial art.

The Wing Chun Story

By now, if you have endured the brief biblical diversion, you may have realised that the popular stories and ideas of Wing Chun that we have clung to are subject to the same creative machinations, albeit in some cases innocent story telling.

For those that think the telling of the story and the pursuit of accuracies concerning its evolution is significant then you have all your work ahead of you. The reality is that there does not exist at the time of writing, any written historical record prior to it being told to Ip Man who then sought to record it. I imagine this was done for the benefit of his students and a real love for the art form as it was then. However the reinforcing of the mind by an effective story can be useful if the student approaches it as a story and does not preoccupy or create for himself a rigid frame of reference borne from a belief about the finer points of what could possibly be a fairytale.

Ip Man, who is considered to this day to be the father of modern Wing Chun became so because he taught the style openly in his lifetime, (it is said he was the first) creating a boost in the telling of not only the story of Abbotess Ng Mui and her struggle, but also a physical telling of the art form thus on a grand scale ushering in an evolving Wing Chun into the many subtle styles we have today. Like the water constantly changing its shape to satisfy a thirst, the story becomes our ally in the forming of our effective Wing Chun System. Nothing is saved from a moment of change. If the idea of it is useful then its shape must be made to conform to our needs. This is what the story has done for our Wing Chun. If the story is pondered long enough then its effect will be seen in the way we practice our art. It is up to you to decide if this is a good thing or not.

Since I have already referenced Ng Mui earlier, I will relate to you the popular tale, instantly recognisable to most Wing Chun practitioners and one embraced by Ip Man and his Kung Fu descendants.

It was the desolation of the Siu Lam monastery by a fearful Manchurian government who, after learning about the effective kung fu coming out of there set to bring about an end to the activities therein. In an attempt to overthrow the oppressors, a group of conspirators burned down the monastery causing a handful of the monks and disciples to flee. Amongst the souls that fled that day was the Abbotess Ng Mui. Finding refuge in the White Crane Temple situated on Mount Tai Leung she decided to settle down and soon she would introduce herself to a young fifteen year old girl called Yim Wing Chun.

Upon their first few meetings, Wing Chun was to Ng Mui, a simple market trader, serving the Abbotess with bean curd, nothing out of the ordinary except of course that Wing Chun was strikingly beautiful and of an age that she was available to marry. This last point didn’t go unnoticed by the eager young men in the local area. One such enthusiast was a well known bully in the province and his unwelcome advances toward the young girl led to his insistence that Wing Chun be his in matrimony. Under threats of violence Wing Chun continued to resist the best she could. Ng Mui, a witness to the all too common scene took pity on Wing Chun and decided to take her under her wing and teach her the fighting techniques she had learned in the Siu Lam Monastery.

As well as the disparity amongst the accounts that you will encounter should you decide to gather a more comprehensive version of events, it is even harder to discern the details. As yet no one knows how long Wing Chun studied under Ng Mui but as the tale unfolds we learn that she did indeed eventually face her bully and dispatched him, so it could be said that she had studied enough. In fact it may be assumed that she completed the system as it existed then (I say this because as we know from the popular narrative that the Six-and-a-half-point Long Pole has yet to enter the story and become permanently rooted in the Wing Chun System of fighting) and was given the charge by Ng Mui herself to continue the practice of her style and to teach it to others so that they may make a stand against the Manchurian aggressor.

Wing Chun must have wondered about the curious figure Ng Mui as she related her own account of how she devised the moves and shapes we use today. It was while the Abbotess observed the intricacies emerging from a fight between a crane and a serpent and the way each in close proximity reacted to the other; the crane calmly responding with its body to each subtle movement of the snake and the powerful and direct attacks from the snake as it searches for inroads to the crane’s centreline. Ng Mui must have been keen to show her young prodigy how to maximise the intricate and precise movements, in a spirit of ‘nothing is wasted’, to take advantage of the larger opponent.

Thus we arrive at a point where the fighting style is shaped and tested, a version of which now belongs to young Yim Wing Chun. A complete system is packaged with the spirit and good intention of Ng Mui and awarded the young girls name. Thus ‘A Beautiful Springtime’ is born and can now be passed on from Master to pupil.

Starting with Wing Chun’s husband Leung Bok Chau, the system starts to trickle through the generations, stopping briefly to pick up the Six-and-a-half-point Long Pole from Abbot Chi Shin. Chi Shin, it turns out was one of the original survivors of the destroyed Siu Lam monastery so it seemed fortuitous as well as convenient that the pole be inserted, as it were, as a permanent set piece and extension of the properly trained Wing Chun body.

Thus through subsequent masters, the mantle is finally assumed by the popular figure Ip Man. It is from his written story that we have the above account and rather surprisingly this document was written sometime in the sixties and is the earliest record known to exist.

While there are many reasons to write down this account, namely posterity and pride, it also can be said that it serves the same purpose as our biblical treatment that I used to open this article. Both accounts qualify as apocryphal and have been used to promote a system of thinking and practice. Times are changing and in order to satiate the many as well as make a living and endure, then allowances have to be made.

Let’s face it, everyone loves a good story. Much has been made of our service men and women based on the flowery treatment of War by the Hollywood machine during the last century but how different would it be if we could shine a light in the darkness of those minds and souls that were shredded by bullets and bled out into the bloody pools of battle.

Despite the scarcity of documentation that bolster the popular tale of Ng Mui, the fighting animals and the conquering Yim Wing Chun, you can if you search hard and long enough find her written about in the late eighteen hundreds in the Guandong province. Not much is known of her predecessors simply because our first encounter with the great Ng Mui and her first appearance in literature is wholly fictitious, as she appears as a character in a martial arts novel titled Shengchao ding shen wannian qing. The novel itself proved to be enormously influential, spawning countless pieces of plagiaristic writings and film and radio pieces. Thus a popular classic is bastardised and each offshoot has its own role to play in influencing and shaping a legend.

Could it be then that Ng Mui emerged from the imaginings of a simple storyteller? It’s possible. But I imagine that many will be keen to throw out this suggestion especially when they learn that the character in the novel she appears in is that of a villain and a traitor. Not the figurehead of a noble and reverential martial art.

In all likelihood the story evolves and the legend is moulded and claimed in order to fit the times and needs of the people. Quite often the morality message from a hero’s tale, evoking traditional standards and respect for the community make for good publicity over the door of a kwoon.

 

History, or not History, that is a foolish question.

Stories are retold in our minds. We hear them, yes, but to be moved or inspired by them we must retell them within. When we react to the ideas we are presented with we have a choice. The connection with the idea and the emotions is the individual embracing those ideas and thus we can laugh or cry, love and appreciate or be angered and lost, at which point be prepared to throw out that idea and concoct your own desirable story. The historical ‘dotting of the i’s’ and ‘crossing of the t’s’ must feed our minds in the above way if it is to serve us, especially if we are determined to wander down this path.

When all is said, it is the meaning that these things have for you in that moment. In that first moment when you sink into the horse stance of your first form Sil Lim Tau be inspired by the things you know, by the ideas and thought forms borne in that moment for in that moment you prepare your mind for the little ideas to come.

Paul Frith

Unseeing the Spot, A Very Unpopular World View.

There’s always a small part of me that feels out of place in an art gallery. There’s something deep down, bubbling forth inside me as I try to take in the velvet ropes, the hanging, standing, gently moving pieces on display, as well as the frowns of precarious understanding emerging from a crippling silence.

I look and watch and listen, some might say in all the wrong places. I find myself watching others and seeing how they behave. I might even concoct a back story for some. I wonder too how many displays I simply strolled by because the living art of everyday art gallery folk suddenly becomes more interesting. Of course, I realise what I am doing. I’m trying to wrestle with the bubbling doubt that I don’t belong here and am using others to justify my presence. Reading that back I feel like it is a terrible admission, one that I might address in a future post. But for now, let us continue as though we had some foreknowledge of a shiny gift shop full of animated mobs of well pressed school children waiting for us at the end of this enlightenment, after all, isn’t it the thought of the gift shop that has kept us going thus far?

But before we get carried away I should point out that my gallery is a metaphor (and by the end of this article some might even refer to it as laboured. I wouldn’t blame you.) for the different ways we can and are told to view the world.

Where was I? Oh yes, the metaphor.

 

I imagine myself standing in front of a painting, and me, swaying with a fading delirium brought about by the welcoming smell of polished oak and freshly vacuumed carpets. It’s a smell matched only by the embrace of a book shop odour after a wearisome march through the vape fog of a rotting high street.

And there I stand, having patiently waited for the trickle of art enthusiasts to drift on a sombre cultural wave so that I might be alone with my painting. I start to call it my painting now since I have it to myself. I feel free suddenly to form different body shapes and curious face expressions as I attempt to make sense of this spectacle.

One could also imagine the artist bending to the brush strokes, strolling past it to experience it from every conceivable angle, making notes where the eye is drawn, trying to anticipate the behaviour of all who lay their eyes upon it.

It occurs to me that my proximity as well as my mood will determine and formulate my view of the piece, it might even cause me to create my own piece of theatre about the artist. But this is as honest an experience as I could ever have with the painting. It is a viewpoint that is untainted by reading the little descriptive card set neatly beside the great artwork.

So here endeth the metaphor, but don’t get too comfy; just like busses, there’s bound to be another one along shortly. I have found that in attempting to handle complex notions about the state of the world, quite often, a metaphor is just what this blogger would want for you; to set out a clear and palatable opinion for you to entertain and ultimately expectorate.

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

In all my years of hearing about the state of the world, be it the news dazzling my eyes from the glassy teat in the corner or YouTube, now considered the second most used search engine on the internet, or a lively conversations down the pub, or even my favourite, the end of world proclamations from roaming prophets on your doorstep, my response has evolved over time and settled to a simmering, “Well doesn’t it all depend on how you look at it?”

I’m not a fanatic about such discussions but I do take a sprinkle of umbrage when the world is presented to me in a grease proof package and told that the only way to fix it is to throw it out and get a new one or a least give it a good clean up and elevate it to the dizzying heights of an unrecognizable utopia.

Sticking with the fearmongering of the end of worlders (made up word. Sometimes you just have to show autocorrect whose boss). It should be noted that the model used in EOW’s is the same structure used by mainstream media, big businesses and governmental concerns, simply because the common denominator is a proliferation of fear. It is easy to understand why so much effort is put into presenting a world drenched in doom. That’s why I think I favour the EOW religious types whose very vindication of their deity depends on the worlds end or at least the ushering in of a new world order, a cleansing for want of a better word. I really did search for a better word because the word I settled on does carry certain third regime connotation. Although our doorstep evangelists that I am not so subtly alluding to, the Jehovah’s Witnesses did once include in their hymnal a musical offering to the tune of the German national anthem.

To be able to stand back from the popular world view, to stand back from the window we have been trained to look through is not easy. Inculcated from birth as part of the nurturing process, we are told that fear will keep us safe. But this is an old idea, possibly first conceived when large knuckled men and women strained to see an angry sky tumultuous with churning clouds and distant rumbles. A grotesque leveller was then imagined, and the people would form patterns of behaviour in a belief that they could influence the noisy skies for the better. Since then religion as flipped and flopped, changing shape and taking on fatty deposits as the historical record was formed and preserved.

I reject the notion outright that this is a terrible world and refuse to take to bed the grotesque generalisation and am angered by the trite platitude offered by those when they thoughtlessly proffer, “All you have to do is turn on the television to see how bad things are.”

I feel another metaphor rising from beneath my neckline.

The White Wall and the Spot

Imagine walking into a room and at the end of this room is an expansive wall painted brilliant white. Your first view of this impressive wall is like your birth into this world and your first experience is one of wonder as you take in the beauty of this simple image, the world as a brilliant white scene. Suddenly you feel the gentlest of taps on the shoulder. It’s a tap that you will think back to from the advanced years of your life and, because of the measure of your life you will convince yourself that the tap you felt was more like a hammer blow. This is what you will have been taught and your teachers will point to the measure of your life’s adventure as proof of this, but this is false.

As you receive the tap on the shoulder this is your first lesson and your first teacher will point to something on the wall and you will be directed to look at it, pushed ever closer to a spot on the white surface. You will be told that this blemish is all there is. The purity of the white wall is not real. That your value comes from the way you react to the spot on the wall. Books will be written about it and the world will be defined by it because many people will read those books.

People will gather in great numbers and point to the spot on the wall for vindication that they and their god were right. Religions, governments and men of power will assign value to the spot on the wall. Mass media will fight for ownership and revel as its perceived value spews forth financial gain.

Soon you will not even notice the wall anymore as your eye is drawn directly to the spot. Learned guilt will eventually rob you of the majesty of a wall you vaguely remember from childhood.

As you may have noticed, the metaphor I have chosen is slightly fractured as I allowed examples of the real world to claw through in not such subtle ways. Just like the painting in the art gallery the truth of the experience lies solely with the individual and the unfettered choices you make. If you have the courage, in the face of criticism and calls of, ‘burying one’s head in the sand’, to stand back and view the bigger picture, you just might see a world that isn’t doomed and bares very little resemblance to the limping horse that has been portrayed by those with an all too obvious vested interest.

The motivation you feel to play your part in influencing the picture you see is the best we can ever hope to do as inhabitants in this celestial art gallery. We are being’s incapable of denying experience. We cannot exist in these bodies or minds without the experience of our determined translations through common senses not to mention the senses we don’t fully understand yet.

The truth of the matter is that you will never fully un see the spot on the white wall and neither should you, just as you will never un see the wall in its entirety. It could be said then that your power comes from an understanding of the full picture as you see it, even an unlearning of the sometimes-well-intentioned guidance underpinned by fear.

What it all comes down to is a choice and an awareness of your own limitations brought about by the thing you give your attention to the most. You will be guided to see through the eyes of others, the temptation will be too great to resist but as you listen and look together, draw back for a moment and offer another experience to those around you, being cautious not to become the tour guide but instead become the best teacher you could be, the one who simply says, “What do you think?” And then I can guarantee, as you head off towards the gift shop, your journey will be reflected back at you with all the shimmering luminosity of a sun blest lake.

Paul.

Has Anyone Seen My Spoon?

My biggest fear is that the bald kid from the Matrix was right all along; that there is no spoon, in fact there never was a spoon. Of course, this begs the obvious question: Why is my cupboard full of tins of soup (tomato just in case you were wondering. Just like the questionable existence of the spoon, there is no other flavour of soup).

So, given that my kitchen cupboards are straining with tins of soup does that mean that mine is a life wasted if tinned soup is all consuming and a central part of my existence. No, because I see spoons. I also see straws, the latter being no substitute for the thick end of some Sheffield steel between my fingers. Anyway, you’ll be reading soon enough in the mainstream media about the demonization of all straws which may yank your sensibilities right back to questioning that spoon and consequently all of reality.

But this is not about the fate of my soup or the absence of the proper means by which to shovel it into human beings. Okay bear with me a little as I attempt to shake off this rather innocuous metaphor I seem to have conjoined myself.

For those of you, and I believe there are many and in ever increasing numbers who haven’t followed the adventures of Neo and his cutlery conundrum in the Matrix film trilogy we are presented with a truth by our smooth headed golden child, of a possibility that reality isn’t fixed and is interchangeable and indeed created by the individual, bestowing upon us all an instant god identity (wow that was deep and quite a stretch from my pregnant kitchen cupboards).

But I understand it. In fact, it is the only part of the Matrix films I do understand. I’m comforted by the fact that nobody understands The Matrix. To understand The Matrix is to be the Alpha & Omega of the gardening world who casually tosses a seed into the promised land, not caring a jot that it would eventually bare the tree of the knowledge of good and bad.

This idea of a created reality seems to be popular these days, popping up in Sci-Fi flicks and anything where Will Smith or Jim Carey appear. I must admit I’m very comfortable with the notion of created reality, having wrestled free of organised religion and the equally dogmatic Atheism soaked ‘Sciencey’ proselytizing fellows, locked in their reality cages being forced to observe for all of time. Phew! That felt good.

I recently had the pleasure of talking to some religious folks on my doorstep (yes, those religious folks, of whom, incidentally I used to be one). The pleasure I speak of was seeing first-hand the conviction of belief washing through them as we discussed the state of a world consumed, it seemed by a rampaging devil. Now I might not agree with the content of their jib as it were but the joy with which they earnestly spoke was mesmerising and infectious. And that’s how it should be.

A belief is a thought that we keep thinking and a created reality is a product of those thoughts. Some of the greatest figures in history, namely, Jesus Christ, Mahatma Gandhi, Elmer Fudd and Michael Jackson (some of whom may never have existed) all encapsulated the spirit of creation. It’s a phrase that is so overused these days that it is in danger of becoming a cliché.

“Be the change you want to see in the world…waskerwy wabbit.” (paraphrase)

I seem content these days to exist within the sweet spot of not being told what to believe and going out of my way to make someone else wrong with empirical and /or anecdotical evidence just, so they can think like me. Now that’s a horrible thought.

Get your own spoon but do tell me about yours and demonstrate in any way you can why it is important to you.

I’ll probably fall in love with you and name you as one of those decent human beings, unless of course you plan to take over the world and, in the process, steal my spoon.

That dear reader is not acceptable.

 

Paul.

Please head over to my Facebook page Bluestone Scribbler and give it a LIKE. It really would give me the butterflies if you did.

Observing the Observance.

Sunday just gone was remembrance Sunday, a chance for us to gather and remember the fallen of the two great wars and all the ones still falling today in the not so popular wars somewhere around the globe and those yet to fall in the wars still to come, although presently we won’t be remembering those latter ones but, for want of a better expression, we will be looking forward to those moments when we can gather together and remember. But we can be assured that day will come. This coming together, civilian shoulder to civilian shoulder, has become the sticky glue that binds us and, if you will allow a well worn cliché, the thing that makes Britain Great, or so they say. I’m not so sure.

On this day of which I pontificate in my usual manner, a program of events was thrust into my hand as I stamped the hard rubber floor of the playground for circulation and watched the uniformed children playing on the swings, climbing up and down the frames, uninterested by the bitter cold and the events soon to interrupt their play. The cries and whistles from the cub master summoned the little soldiers into fidgety lines. Their disappointment of being nudged from play into the contemplative rows would soon be replaced by their own feelings of camaraderie. Ok we don’t want to be here but at least we are together in our not wanting to be herer. Now the only enemy was the watchful burning eyes of their parents as well as god’s representative in this particular playground.

As I flicked through my leaflet I noticed that god featured heavily in this, my Sunday afternoon. Should have guessed that when I first clocked the chap in the flowing linens. And so it was that in between the brass band emptying their instruments of sputum onto the ground where the children once played and will very soon play again, we were assured that our men would not be forgotten in this god occupied world.

The denomination of the VIP’s gathered required that the small congregation of people respond in unison to their petitions to god, so thank goodness we had our scripts. The result however for me was a particular unease in listening to the rhythmic chanting like tones. Suddenly I was struck with a devilish thought that inspired in me a cheeky little grin akin to the children pressed into place in front of the cenotaph. The musical undertones in the solemn contrived phrases were reminiscent of something satanic. I suppose I’ve been spoiled by films like Rosemary’s Baby and other such books. By the way I make no apologies for mentioning Satan in this particular blog. I think it only fair that god’s arch nemesis get a mention. Seems fair don’t you think?

 

…and through  it all the children poked and prodded, smiled and giggled in all the wrong places, not I suspect from thoughts of the fallen but of getting back to the the playground and the addition of a promised supply of ‘well done’ biscuits and juice.

Well done children. See you next year…

 

Playground Dust

Church bell rings that children should fall

From playgrounds dust they’ll rise anew.

Coaxed and prodded to heed the call,

Pressed erect by mother’s dew.

 

Moments silence, a flag protests,

Held stiffly by a pristine child.

Forgotten playgrounds lay bereft

While they remember unknown. Killed

 

But they will stir the dust again

Of playgrounds far from fields, frozen.

When trumpets sound they’ll flee from men,

To swing and slide they’ve chosen.

 

Let us play. Our lives are blessed.

Not pressed into fields, hopelessly churned.

Let playgrounds ring with a childhood caress,

A song that begs for our return.

 

Then, a man I stand on frozen waste

That playgrounds dust not fall.

That you should not see my face

And know your destiny at all.

 

Instead, let battle cries be lost,

Smothered by playground songs

And church bells ache from winter’s frost.

No longer heard by playful throngs.

 

…Thanks for reading, dearest one.

It’s Turned Out Nice for The Ukulele.

Here’s the Article reproduced in full from the S40 Local magazine which serves the Chesterfield area hence some local references. Hope you like it and goes some way to inspire you to pick up the little instrument or at least follow my band on Facebook by hitting the link (I’m a bit cheeky…Yes I’ll give you that). https://www.facebook.com/BarrelhouseUke

 

When I was but a lad (readers beware stories starting with those words) I don’t remember seeing many ukuleles about. Only occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of George Formby (on the telly, I’m not that old) bedecked in his shimmering Jockey’s outfit, shimmering as much as something could shimmer in black and white, and a strange looking instrument cradled in his hands. But despite the lack of colour there was no mistaking George’s cheeky little smile as he played his ukulele for the adoring film extras, who themselves were wearing tight little smiles as they listened again to take 34 of ‘Mister Wu’. It was years later that I was told by those in the know that George mostly played a banjolele. I expect this to be in the days before he dedicated his time to fat free grilling machines (darn my research, the wrong George).

This revelation about Mr Formby caused me to review my childhood somewhat and I now conclude that my earliest sighting of the ukulele in all its glory must have been from Elvis Presley in the film Blue Hawaii, as well as a first glimpse of a swathe of swaying hula girls wrapped neatly around the King. Yes…where was I?

Despite the lack of Hula girl hangers on I persevered with the ukulele and still today find myself gathering smiles from folk as I walk through the town carrying the little instrument. On such occasions as these I may be met with a shout out from some joker full of bubbles, ‘Hey hey, turned out nice again’. Sorry George but from now on you will be referred to as the unmentionable ‘F’ word. Hey, hey!

One of the appeals for me with this little instrument was the element of surprise that this combination of wood and nylon could deliver, especially since I had been conditioned to expect maybe a risqué tune or two, a Hawaiian shirt and at the very least a cheeky little Formbyesque smile.

The versatility of the ukulele gives it a surprising and most welcome edge. If you don’t believe me then do one of those search thingies on one of those internet thingies and discover a wealth of ukulele covers from Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody to Nellie the Elephant. Better still have a wander around town, visit your local musical gear shop and marvel at the plethora of sizes, colours and shapes available, and on your own doorstep to boot.

Continue your journey through town and into Queens Park and see the teenagers cradling the latest affordable ukuleles. Take notice now. Something is happening here when the younger folks are embracing the ukulele. I think I know what it is. It is a breakthrough of ideas, one in particular, the idea that you can play what you want and not what is expected. Ask the kids toting ukuleles nowadays and they’ll tell you that leaning on a lamppost on the corner of the street has never been so much fun.

Notice too an increase in social events and clubs willing to meet and play together just for the fun of it. Hey and if you’re having trouble finding these fun loving ukers then take your new ukulele and stand in the middle of town and start thrashing. I can guarantee that like minded fun loving closet ukers will find you and then? Good times.

 

Paul Frith Lives in Chesterfield and performs regularly with his ukulele band, Barrelhouse. You can visit and like the Barrelhouse page here: https://www.facebook.com/BarrelhouseUke

 

Cheers Paul.

I Can Only Hope That Good Things Still Come in Little Packages.

Here’s a picture of my little notebook. It’s a thing I carry about my person and on any given day I move it about my body, from top to bottom, side to side and on very special occasions from bottom to top, just to confuse any would-be scallywag set upon liberating the somewhat tarnished treasures within. Don’t be fooled by its appearance either, it’s actually bigger than it appears. To give you some idea of its size I have set it next to a fifty pence piece. Can you see the fifty? Well there you go then. Come and have a go scallywag.

As a writer, I am sometimes caught mid dalliance with the odd idea or two, licking the underside of my brain in the hope that it will stick and depending on how often I scrape around the grey stuff will depend if the sticky notion will find its way into the book.

We are always told to carry some sort of recording device of some description such that in my case, at the drop of an item of clothing I can set about gently coaxing the fresh idea between the soiled sheets of paper before strapping it into place, oblivious to its screaming objections and cries of bad taste. There it will stay, maybe forgotten about until such times as I get bored with looking for that fifty pence piece or the next electricity bill drops onto the mat. And then it’s all hands to the book and the inevitable unease felt as I am reunited with more tarnish than glitter and even after a fair bit of panning for that one nugget that might just put some salt with my pepper, more often than not an old familiar thought echo’s in the darkness of an empty head: what was I thinking?

However there are sometimes gold in them there pages and for those moments of discovery where other ideas are inspired by the old then it’s worth the process of keeping a little piece of paper to hand and if you can bind it in a particularly appealing way you may grow to love it a little bit.

Here’s one thing for sure: If you love your little notebook it will give unto you unexpected treasures of hope, hope that you have something to say that is at least relevant to you, after all, isn’t that why we set about writing in the first place?

 

Paul.

A Blog, What is it Good For, Absolutely Everything. Should I Say it Again?

Everything you want to say can and should be said. The confines of a diary or a journal or a blog is a means to allow you to express yourself however you choose. Only Fear of it being read can stopper your ink pot or deaden your mouse clicks and give you a sense of inadequacy and self doubt.

Most people these days turn to blogs to get their messages across when at other times they didn’t have the words to say what they meant or express how they felt. Finally a side of an argument that can be relayed without interruption. Now Imagine that. A place where you can express your beliefs? This just keeps getting better and better doesn’t it?

Okay I’ll kick of the proceedings by imparting one of my current beliefs. You know that saying, ‘No Man is an Island’? Well I don’t believe that for a minute. Okay so it is my belief that that idea is totally flawed on a very human level. The idea that we should lay down and be defined by a collective thought or idea frankly sends a chill up and down my rented spine.

Can you imagine such a world whereby our thoughts and responses or reactions are defined by others? Well we probably don’t have to imagine such. It could be argued, quite convincingly that we are already immersed in such a world. For sure we interact with people that we love and are dizzily swayed this way and that by the choices that one’s close to us make but our actions and responses will always be in response to our own self and the way we want to feel. They are our first choices that we make internally. You can change a belief just like that (readers note that I just clicked my fingers…oh yeah I do that). All you are doing is checking how you feel. Want to feel different? Change your next thought, after all a belief is simply a thought that you keep thinking.

Just one thought at a time.

My own personal window into depression has brought me to the conclusion that trying to change too many thoughts in order to feel better than I did was for me the first troubled step deeper into the darkness.

Remembering the lessons then of my experiences hopefully will equip me with the tools for dealing with those particular shadows and make my transition back into the light as easily as conjuring the thought itself.

Now I know that it is enough to just tweak my thoughts and notice the subtle differences in how I feel and the effect that I can a have on the external world because of simple changes in my thinking. Whether you’re a fan of the man Jesus or more drawn to the Ghandi man (both equally cool in sandals) then you’ll know they were onto something when they both uttered the similar teachings: ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’ and, ‘The kingdom of God is within.’ and ‘Seek first the kingdom and everything will be added to you.’ Like the smallest nudge on an ocean liner’s rudder can take you around the world if you let it, changing just one thought can bring about a brand new world worthy of your beliefs.

So I’ve established that I am an island and if you are with me thus far I may even have convinced you of a similar notion about yourself. By the way it hasn’t gone unnoticed by the author, of the precarious paradox I seem to be negotiating with that last statement, namely that I am attempting to make you aware of your own individuality, and bless you, your role is to be convinced by my own belief and apply it to yourself…Does anyone else’s head hurt?

Okay so I’m an Island and your an Island and the Blog (Hey remember the Blog…it’s why we’re here in the first place) is the pier reaching out across an endless ocean of indifference. And there you stand upon your soapbox, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the pier, spouting to the fishes.

So Start Spouting. Have You Got Something To Say?

Remember this is your side of the argument, uninterrupted by the tepid viewpoints proffered by many, all clamouring to plant their proverbial flag in your head. (Never thrown those particular combinations of words together…think I’ll have a biscuit.) And here’s another idea that may prove uncomfortable and stick in your craw: We really care that these things, our little messages to the world are actually read. The Blog that you have imparted, that little vulnerable piece of you that is your gift to the world is your very own cathartic balm and the only closure you will ever experience from it is the idea that at least one of those little fishes has read it. Dare you to dream then you may dream that one of those little fishes may talk to another and another and another? Hey I’ve seen Finding Nemo…don’t tell me fishes can’t talk.

So let me just bring the mood down from the dizzy Disney heights we were enjoying with the Nemo reference and say that the Blog is like a suicide note for the living, we want it to be read we just don’t want to be around when it happens.

Hey this is my Blog and I’ll cry if I want to.

Whatever reason you decide to put finger to button and unleash the dormant creatures within, namely ideas and opinions, grievances, call to arms etc…It doesn’t really matter. Whatever it is you have to say is important because it is coming out of you. There’s nothing more thrilling than surprising yourself at the things you have inside you and in some cases the courage that you never knew you had to let it flow out into the world.

I know no one will read this and that is okay, but if by chance one of those little fishes finds this little morsel and decides to swim with it then this is for you.

Love and Peace little fish.

Paulx