The Sky in the Puddles...

Having witnessed truly shabby behavioir in public recently, I came to the conclusion that we appear to have largely lost our social skills and hitherto ability to get on with the others in a civil manner, whoever 'they' were. These days, an imperceptible static charge seems to be present in the air, making each individual edgy and trigger-happy, prompt to interpret any error or act of clumsiness or ignorance as a willful, heinous affront to which the 'victim' must respond with outrage and indignation proportional to the wrong visited upon them. Simultaneously, many of the social norms and niceties that kept the social machine ticking along are being stripped away, sloughed off as pointless and inappropriate. Observing social interactions where the basics such as a simple hello or goodbye have become redundant both shocks and saddens me, not to mention the loss of the staple British 'sorry' that was used in so many circumstances yet not necessarily as admittance of fault!

I always considered the dusty old expression 'minding your Ps and Qs (was that for one's 'pleases' and 'thank yous'? to be stuffy and meaningless, but I instinctively understand its significance today. Far worse still, is that nobody seems to remark on this lamentable state of affairs, so engrossed are they in being offended or hurt and signalling this to some kangaroo court. Is life lived through a screen to blame for this erosion, along with the myriad of social networks that are as divisive as they are unifying? I don't know since everything has become so contradictory and complex - I cannot differentiate reality from illusion, right from wrong, or tell to which degree the one is the reflection of the other. That is why I prefer finding a certain solace in Nature... The blue sky mirrored in the water below; no questions, just pleasure. Tangles and snags in the natural world are simply intriguing, not cause for some histrionic, overly-emotive reaction. Yet in society today, any complexity or grey area is no longer deemed acceptable in a world where you need to choose your camp and duly show your colours.

In this polarised environment, silence is violence and words are taken to be weapons in a war where it is not enough to agree to disagree but rather to defeat the other party whilst portraying yourself as both victor and victim. Everything today seems to focus on self, which in turn is largely dependant on how others perceive us, with the selfie now being so central to image and perception that we find it normal to pout and preen to some screen or other, finding some aspect of live to use as content. Personas are now 'curated' yet never have people so lacked originality and depth as they frequently do today - even language is peppered with the same old clichéd words and expressions which endeavour to give meaning and relevance to what is devoid of both.

Winter Bleakness...

Arriving in Birmingham this time, I was struck by the desolate state of the streets and the inhabitants, just off the shiny, brash and busy central shopping area. As always, the Brummie warmth shone through the cold, bland backcloth, where the dilapidated or derilect 19th century architecture still testifies to an era when the city was truly 'the workshop of the world' with 1000 trades. Today, the service sector has largely taken over where manufacturing became redundant, shopping and consumerism of all kinds now form the beating heart to a city where the machinery grinded to a halt, falling silent and inert. In this strange metamorphosis - this march towards an uncertain future - countless individuals have been sloughed off, discarded in the process, left by the wayside, unable to follow the social sea change wrought by mass de-industrialisation.

Entering the old Bull Ring indoor market through a side entrance, I was overwhelmed by the acrid smell of urine and the sight of people down-and-out, huddled together in the shelter afforded by the outdated building which is itself set for demolition in 2027. As I left the shell of this relic from my childhood, bracing myself against the chill, I was just able to make out the haunting notes of some beautiful music coming from street performers by St Martin's church. The incredible difference between the loveliness of this timeless hymn and the harshness of modern reality paid out before me made me catch my breath whilst the beauty of the music actually made me cry. However, when I thought of the words of this poem written by Christina Rossetti in 1872, it all seemed somewhat appropriate...

In the bleak mid-winter, Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago.

To bolster myself up against ugly modernity, I decided to look at the church of St Martin, and gaze at its magnificent door with its intricate pomegranate brass fittings. To my dismay, I noticed that the central door knob had been stolen!

The Last Chrysanthemum

I always think that the French custom to mark Toussaint (All Saints’ Day) with chrysanthemums is rather bittersweet, as the flower seems intrinsically linked to a sense of loss, and the sadness which accompanies that. The beautiful autumnal colours of its blooms are likewise tinted, or tainted perhaps, with this same wistful essence, so much so that for many, the flowers have become somewhat mournful or morbid even, by association.

Certainly the chrysanthemum in its varied shapes and forms is sold widely across the country in the weeks leading up the end of October, to the point that the sight of all the flowers en masse leads to a fatigue which means that we fail to see the beauty inherent in each. And yet these beautiful, majestic flowers are works of art in themselves, and even more striking since they are one of the rare plants that bloom as autumn gradually prepares for winter.

The almost regal elegance and the purity of its understated beauty are surely the reasons why the chrysanthemum became an integral part of the cultural heritage of many Asian countries. Initially cultivated in China more than 3,000 years ago, it there took its place as one of the four symbolic plants; the Four Noble Ones (along with plum blossom, the orchid and bamboo). It is the national flower of China and is celebrated on the ninth day of the ninth lunar month – the Double Ninth Festival. Representing longevity and the ‘virtue to withstand all adversities’, and presumably offering this to those who partake of its health-giving properties through chrysanthemum wine and edible petals, the autumnal ‘flower of the ninth moon’ is valued for its medicinal benefits.

Despite that, the white or yellow flowers are frequently taken as a symbol of death and mourning in China and other Asian countries, much as the chrysanthemum in general is linked to such imagery in France. During the Heian period (794–1185), the ornamental chrysanthemum spread from China to Japan via Korea and the end of the 17th century saw Dutch merchants introducing the flower to Europe, and the rest is history, as they say!

In Japan, the chrysanthemum has been the emblem of the imperial family since the 12th century with the emperor’s crest symbolized by the 16-petalled flower whilst the flower motive adorns Japanese passports today. In Western culture, the flower marks the autumn equinox, a time of harvest and the fading of light and life itself. As one of the ‘short day’ plants, the chrysanthemum blooms when the number of hours of daylight are reduced, following the laws of photoperiodism as opposed to a direct sensitivity to temperature and sunlight. Not only does this apparently enable the plant to benefit from the unmitigated attentions of pollinators that are no longer distracted by ‘competition’ – the other nectar-providing flowers - but also allows it to use stored energy to maximise flower and seed production rather than a continued leaf growth.

Surely it was the mystery of such laws that led Thomas Hardy to write his poem The Last Chrysanthemum in awe and wonder at the functions of Nature that roll on, regardless of our human presence or intervention, controlled by a divine force – be that God (‘the Great Face behind’), natural forces or fate?

- The Last Chrysanthemum - Why should this flower delay so long.... To show its tremulous plumes? Now is the time of plaintive robin-song.... When flowers are in their tombs. Through the slow summer, when the sun.... Called to each frond and whorl.... That all he could for flowers was being done, Why did it not uncurl? It must have felt that fervid call.... Although it took no heed.... Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall.... And saps all retrocede. Too late its beauty, lonely thing.... The season's shine is spent.... Nothing remains for it but shivering.... In tempests turbulent. Had it a reason for delay.... Dreaming in witlessness.... That for a bloom so delicately gay.... Winter would stay its stress? - I talk as if the thing were born.... With sense to work its mind; Yet it is but one mask of many worn By the Great Face behind.