A la claire fontaine

Monday night I went to the cinema, alone.

'The Monday Night Alternative' is a film season at the Tullie House Museum

which shows independent films that have no chance

of reaching us through the syndicated cinemas by which we are now served.

Two weeks ago I saw 'Miss Pettigrew lives for a Day',

a delightful Henry Higgins of a film. Substantial talent. A period piece.

The screen play was a gentle and respectful representation of the book by Winifred Watson.

I read this last year, it has been republished by the wonderful Persephone -

I love rolling that word around my mouth - Publishing house.

They only publish out of print books,

which they consider to be masterpieces of 20th century fiction.

With a lighthearted punch.

It is funny and classy. The 1930's fashions too, sigh!

The film was a delight. I recommend it.

On Monday I saw, 'I've missed you so long'.

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime (2008)

A wonderful crisp french film. Great effortless acting.

I had wanted to see this for some time, it is already on DVD.

But to see it in the small lecture theatre/cinema at Tullie House,

makes the occasion a little more personal and it feels like a treat.

Something which the commercial bathtubs, full of popcorn and selling BOGOF's

through the teenage market on mobile phones, does not quite capture.

Kristin Scott Thomas headed up the classy cast,

in this drama dealing with the dramatic family secrets, ties and angst.

I tend to watch more French and World cinema films.

As I get older the challenge of understanding the plot,

with their subtle hidden humour and stylish nuances

makes the effort of going so worthwhile.

A tune, ' a la claire fontaine' pulled me further in half way through,

as I seemingly knew the lyrics of the first few verses. By heart?

I couldn't recall exactly why I know it - Moannie may be able to tell me -

It has been playing on repeat in my head all day. I hear it now.

A pocket full of memories. Locked away. Until someone turns the key.

Life is strange isn't it?

'A la claire fontaine' was also played at the end

of another wonderful film ' The Painted Veil'

a film adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham's book.

Higly recommended also.

Sometimes

Sometimes – it’s okay to accept less than your/their best

Sometimes - it's alright for things to be less than alright

Sometimes – its hard to cope or to manage the daily grind and that’s okay

Sometimes - life isn’t great and that’s okay too

Sometimes – it’s difficult to see past the hump in the road, this too shall pass, so wait

Sometimes – life is crap, that’s just the way it is. Accept. Move on.

Sometimes – the housework doesn’t HAVE to be done, the world won’t end if it's not done.

Sometimes - just put your feet up, grab a book, DVD, sleep.

Sometimes - that list doesn't need doing TODAY . Let it go.

Sometimes – It’s okay to feel guilty. It’s okay to feel crap. It really is.

Sometimes – ask for help, we all need help sometimes. No one will think any less of you.

Sometimes - is a way for living. Whatever keeps you afloat. Sane.

Great Quote # 6 - For Braja

The Tree of Forgiveness

by Edward Coley Burne-Jones

Forgiveness is the scent

that the rose leaves

on the heel that crushes it

Samuel Langhorne Clements

(Mark Twain)

Truths

Erin, the wonder- ful Erin, who shines like a light through my window, posted a very evocative and provocative post today. When ever she doesn't wrap me up and envelop me with her thoughts and with the breadth of wonders in her words, I will be concerned. She is a wonder. In this place of wonders. 

A post that began about trust and friendship and secrets. A post that ended with a feeling that she was inside my heart and mind. 

She asked if we ever find ourselves  'landlocked, limited and confined?' 

YES I shouted yes! I am feeling mellow and a bit flat. I accept. I avoid. But it is now out there. A post can do that. Unawares it grasps you by the throat. Unwittingly. Throttled by the force.

I am not unhappy, yet not happy. I am not discontented, yet not content. I am not unfulfilled, yet not filled. 

It is I fear the human condition. A pocket of melancholy. It isn't depression. I know that. It is what it is. A void. A suppressed realisation. That this isn't it all. There is more. Much more. I strive to fill myself up. But I always am left lacking. Something is missing. It is like a missing hearbeat. A short stop. A nothingness.  My Mojo is back. I am busy. I challenge myself.  I write. I paint. I draw. I take photographs. I compose. I smell my own fears.

I suspect it much to do with change. Everything changes. Mostly quietly. Slowly. Like a snail. Little differences. Small movements. Light on dark. But unmistakable. The sound of change registers. So high pitched only my subconscious hears it. Monitors. Deflecting the pitch and it's diffused meaning. It has started. 

I wallow in the branches of confusion. I'm not ready to hear it. Suppress it. The apron is straining. The scissors are hidden.The truth is smothered.

What else is there? I too go to bed.  I too don't want to keep thinking. 

A life in patchwork

Whilst exploring my eligibility for dual nationality/citizenship - sorry if this is boring you  folks,  I know I have posted about this exciting development twice  already, but this is another aspect -  it gradually dawned on me that I am no longer allowed to legally use my maiden name in the UK.

Is this a little known fact ? - or only to me - it came as quite a shock I can tell you. I have oftentimes thrown in my maiden name, with a flourish, usually when completing a form or library card.  For me it adds authenticity.  I can actually feel it.   Mrs Saz Brown doesn't have the same ring to it - no offence Larry- that my previous title of Miss Saz Amy Chevalier had - the names have been changed to protect the innocent or in this  guilty - though more evocative perhaps with an exotic ring. For me. It is more representative of my ethnicity. I have French, Italian and English blood. Our blood line. Our origins. Our originality. Our authenticity. It is a rich tapestry indeed. 

What we seem to be or even what people believe us to be. Is pretty subjective. Contextual. Like a painting, a poem or a book. It isn't just about the paint, the written word. It is about what we bring with us.  Indeed, what I am is rarely what others percieve me to be. That is, I am only what they believe me to me. But for me. For myself. I can only be true to myself. And so I can never fulfill the perceptions of others. 

I do feel I need to put my own personal house in order. So arranging these pieces of the social and domestic patchwork in a non hierarchical but relative and authentically sound manner, just feels right for me at this time. So, the French passports and Identity cards are ordered. Now, I feel I should make my name authentic also. I have been in touch with the UK Deed poll people who very patiently emailed me the detail. Twice. So I could get my head around the why and the when. It is about creating a paper audit trail, I'm told.

In many European countries one retains their maiden name. In the US aand Mexico too. For example Jackie Bouvier Kennedy Onnasis. It tells a story. Mrs. Saz Amy Chevalier Brown. Okay, odd sounding but nevertheless authentic.

In 1982 I proudly showed my bank and the passport people my new bright shiny and symbolically  unsoiled, uncreased, Marriage certificate and they - I thought- added Brown to my name. But no, non, nein, na, ndak. I became Mrs Saz Amy Brown. With pride. Beaming. Happy and complete. Satisfied. So I thought. 27 + years later. Not so. One changes. Like that handmade quilt, we add bits, repair tears and pulls. Patch it up. We learn more stitches. We adorn it or alter the shape. I too have altered. I have grown in some ways. Made huge changes of direction in some ways. Some of my ideas, beliefs and situation, even my bedrock has organically altered. For better and for worse. Essentially I am still the 17 year old, (oh no really!?) but with wiser eyes, ears, mind and heart.

Changing a passport or name isn't life altering.  It is shoring up the edges of the quilt. Tidying up the side seams and even adding trimming. To secure the inner design. To enhance the inner spaces and to add to the foundation of the whole. That's what I am doing. It feels right. It feels authentic. This is me.

p.s. The French Embassy in London have called me twice as The Honory Monsieur le Consul, forgot to photocopy my UK passport. Secondly he omitted to point out that my marriage has never been registered with them. Enfin, my French passport & ID card will not have my married name on them. 

Hang on. Dare to hope.

Please visit Sallymandy at Blue Kimono she has written a corker of a post today about Depression. She has been true to herself and is very brave. In the spirit of her post and in support of it, I also 'come out'. For those that cannot voice or have no voice.

I wrote this comment, 'Well said. Well written. Informed and infected. A curse for sure. A blessing, I fail to see, unless being able to understand the plight of fellow sufferers is itself a relief.

The pull yourself together brigade and the I don't want to take pills for the rest of my life, known to me as 'the curtain brigade' are in denial. Is there a rock bottom, sure. But it isn't a place one aims to be. It is the place we avoid. At all costs.

To recover we need understanding, the realisation that this isn't to spite anyone, inspite of ourselves.

At some point, sometimes the duvet is the only answer.Until the light at the end of the tunnel shows itself. Hang on. Dare to hope.'

Within a cold damp lie I am trapped,

tight and pinching it slowly shrinks dry.

Long forgotten pleasures collide with the remote present,

all future contentment, obscured by fear.

Saturated with mourning lost hopefulness

and embracing a splinter of clarity 

with wanting and needing

 and gasping for life

I hold dusk like onto each breath of fear,

mindful of the new day

Spring 2004

Photostory Friday - a man and his dog

One man and his dog

 

wait for me...

by the River Eden

totally oblivious

I was there too, obviously!

low water under the Eden bridge 

btw this is the dead centre of the city, the Park runs along side the Eden, including Park, football pitches, tennis courts, cows abound or not, Playgrounds, criket and sports open arena.

Visit MamaGeek and Cecily, creators of Photo Story Friday.

( These images should enlarge if you click on them)