Tea in the Poolside Café

There's a café called The Poolside Café in UCD. It's beside the fifty-metre indoor swimming pool that dominates the cavernous Student Centre. I like to drink tea and coffee there, read a book, and enjoy the atmosphere of the swimming pool-- the sounds, the beautiful colour of the water, the shimmering light, etc. (The pool itself isn't pay-as-you-go and the annual fee is more than I would want to pay.)

I bought a cup of tea there at the weekend. The tea in the poolside café costs 1.50, which is cheaper than you'll get anywhere-- except, perhaps, a church fete or a school jumble-sale or something like that. All the same, they only ever fill two-thirds of an already small paper cup. I like my beverages filed to the brim. (And in a big mug, for preference.)

The lady serving me asked if I wanted her to leave room for milk. I said: "Yes". When she handed it to me, it was half-way filled. I said with a smile: "That's a LOT of room!" If she heard me, she didn't react.

The thing is...why did I say "Yes" when she asked me if I wanted to leave room for the milk? I foresaw clearly what would happen.

I suppose I said it because I can't imagine replying: "No, you already leave more than enough room for the milk, thank you very much."

Or because I can't imagine just saying: "No", and then putting milk into it in front of her.

What abominable cowardice!

A Personal Contradiction

I've noticed this contradiction about myself:

1) I'm becoming more and more libertarian all the time, more of a believer in the principles of the American Revolution. Ten or fifteen years ago, I would have said I was a traditionalist conservative rather than a libertarian because freedom-- while it's obviously an important value-- isn't the most important value, or the overriding value.

But in recent years my position has changed to this one: freedom isn't the most important value in itself, but it's the most important political value. Not only because authoritarian government always has the potential to become a flat-out totalitarian regime like the USSR or the Nazi Germany (and surely preventing that is the most important thing), but also because of the more insidious soft tyranny we've seen creep over all publicly-funded or government-controlled institutions over the last few decades. The arm of government only stops short of your own home and your own mind. Political correctness is omnipresent. Civil society is replaced by NGOs. "Human rights" have become an excuse to hammer society into the shape desired by our elites-- which inclines me to think that positive human rights were a mistake from the first, and we should instead favour the "negative" human rights enshrined in the U.S. Constitution.

Yes, corporations can be just as enthusiastic at spreading political correctness (or any other ideology) as government. But government always has the whip-hand. Recent events in America have shown this to be the case. (The fact that this whip-hand might sometimes be used for good doesn't make me any more keen on it.)

2) And yet...the sort of community I would like to live in is a paternalistic and closely-knit and somewhat rigid community. I like reading about boarding schools and monasteries and old-fashioned colleges with dormitories and honour codes and all that sort of thing. I love the word "canteen", both because of how it sounds and because I like the idea of a communal eating space where everybody eats the same thing, or chooses from a limited menu. (The word "canteen" is intrinsically poetic, in my view.) I want some rules that are a little bit arbitrary and nonsensical and unreasonable. I want village elders, town worthies, and city fathers...even if they have feet of clay, even if I thumb my nose at them. My own taste would not run to the maximum amount of freedom-- except in the all-important areas, such as freedom of speech and freedom of religion.

Triple-Take

 I've frequently noted this "triple-take" in my own mind, including this morning:

1) Reading about some other time or place, before I was born, and finding myself yearning for the idyll I have constructed around it. In this case (although I've never really been a proud Dubliner) it was an ill-defined idyll of old Dublin life, the sort I would glimpse when I heard people talking about "the rare auld times": images of barefoot children playing hopscotch and chanting rhymes, streets without billboards or engine fumes, thick Dublin accents, "porter running from the taps with a head of yellowed cream", broad Dublin salt-of-the-earth accents, a general atmosphere of piety, shabby gentility, patriotism, etc.

(It could, of course, just as well be some other idyll attached to some other time and place.)

2) The painful realization that it wasn't like that...that people back then also made stupid, smutty jokes (as I frequently have), that there was just as much small talk, that people craved excitement and novelty and convenience and garishness, that the washerwoman would have preferred a washing machine (who can blame her?) and the kids playing hop-scotch would have dropped it for video games at the speed of light.

3) The sudden, momentarily overwhelming urge to at least-- as far as I can-- live my life as purged of banality as much as possible, even to the point of caricature and becoming an object of ridicule. Much as I love jokes and comedy, I have very frequently felt the sudden urge to become completely humourless, as a a sort of counter-weight to all the tedious and depressing buffoonery around us.

Of course, this "overwhelming urge" has quickly passed on every occasion...

The Ilac Shopping Centre and the Daffodills

A fountain bubbled dreamily.

Above it, a hot air balloon
Rose and descended endlessly
Then higher still, a tiled cartoon
Of Moore Street shawlies. Just across
Tinkled a mezzanine café
And, further up again, there was
A mirrored ceiling. All the way
Above that ceiling, Space Age-style
Glass lifts took shoppers up to see
The streets below. My juvenile
Soul swooned in quiet ecstasy.

One year they put some banners up
With lines from Wordsworth's "Daffodils"
I guessed this was the FA Cup
Of poetry; the Orson Welles,
The Sergeant Pepper, Everest,
The Parthenon, all that could boast
Of being best, the very best,
The poem the whole world loved the most.

I was a Stars Wars baby with
Strange knowledge of things long ago
Things all but lost, like sunken myth,
From long before the Late Late Show.
Optimus Prime and Patrick Pearse
Looked over me from infancy
Queen and Iron Maiden filled my ears
Arcadia my memory.

My innocence was ten miles deep
To think the world loved poetry
Enough to care that much. The creep
Of time-thieving technology
Had choked us less, and Ireland still
Trailed clouds of glory from its birth
(Since grand ideals take time to kill
And dreamers to be thrown to earth)
But even thirty years ago
The gig was up, and Pegasus
Was saddled tight and kept to show
The kids around the syllabus.

Must shopping centres kill the soul?
Can daffodils sustain the heart
At second-hand? Does time unroll
Away from nature and from art
Unstoppably? Or did I snatch
A glimpse of something possible?
Some promise that the soul can catch
(Even in suburbs, even still)
The light that never was on sea
Or land, or blue remembered hills?
Is there a place for poetry
So far from daffodils?

Keith Waterhouse Again. Words Again.

I've written previously about Keith Waterhouse, the English newspaper columnist, screenwriter, novelist, and general man of letters, whose writing career stretched more than fifty years until his death in 2009. He's not exactly forgotten today. But he's not exactly remembered, either. I've actually toyed with the idea of creating a Keith Waterhouse website as none seems to exist at the moment.

(In terms of politics and cultural politics, Keith Waterhouse very much fulfils the recent stereotype of a "centrist Dad. He was a Labour supporter, but something of a cultural conservative and nostalgist, while also being dismissive of Euroscepticism and concerns about immigration.)

In the last couple of days, I've been reading a collection of his newspaper columns that I'd never encountered before, Rhubarb Rhubarb. They're hit-and-miss in quality, but one thing that makes the book interesting are the period and ephemeral allusions-- the view from 1979, as it were. Newspaper columns are similar to sitcoms in that they give a particularly vivid window onto the time they were created (much more so, I think, than films or novels or almost anything else).

In one column, "Words for the Weary", Waterhouse writes about words: specifically, "hundreds of new words that we have had to familiarise ourselves with as our lives have been mucked about with over the last few years. Or, if not exactly new words, words that have taken on a different or sharper meaning."

The rest of the column is mostly a list of these words. Many of them greatly surprised me, and made me think: can that really have been a new word (or even a new usage) in 1979? I won't reproduce the whole list, but here are some of them-- not just the ones that surprised me, but a fairly representative sprinkling.

Aggro

Additive

Audio

Backlash

Bionic

Computer

Gay

Graffiti

Hostage

Immigrant

Inflation

Junkie

Mugger

Motorway

Multi-storey

No-go

Security

Topless

Unisex

Vandal

Whizz-kid

Zone

Can all these words really have been unfamiliar in 1979? In many cases, it's hard for me to believe. But Keith Waterhouse's whole career was focused on words and the use of words, so presumably he's a trustworthy commentator.

Things that are newer than one might think are fascinating. At least, they fascinate me. There's a whole TV Tropes page called Newer Than They Think which lists all sorts of surprising examples across different categories. I've spent hours reading and re-reading it and I wish it was ten times longer than it is.

One example that particularly intrigues me is abortion and the religious right in America. I'd picked up the notion that Christianity has been on a path of continual liberalization from about the late nineteenth century. So it seemed only natural to assume that, the further back in time you go, the more solidly pro-life you'll find Christians to be.

So I was very surprised to learn that this isn't the case, at least not in America. Conservative evangelical Christians were not nearly as anti-abortion in the seventies as they are now. (The rise of IVF has complicated the whole issue, though.)

A more trivial example is the white smoke in Papal elections. It seems like the kind of thing that might go back a thousand years, or even further. But, even though the cardinals burned their ballots for many centuries, the smoke only became a signal to the public in the eighteenth century-- and that was accidental, when a chimney was installed in St. Peter's to protect the frescoes from it. And white smoke was first used in 1914!

Bruce Charlton on Children's Chants

A few days ago I read Professor Bruce Charlton's autobiographical fragment Lucky Philosopher, which I found very interesting.

I was especially interested in this passage:

At playtimes in primary school, we would gather in large mixed groups to perform ritualistic singing and chanting games such as Oranges and Lemons, or the Farmer's in his Den.

I used to get a strange and excited feeling from engaging in these, because they seemed incomprehensible yet significant. Why was the farmer in a den? Why did the Farmer song end with patting a bone? Why did Oranges and Lemons end with someone having their head chopped off?

One factors was the frisson of playing with "the girls" en masse - of having an excuse to play with girls. There was a strange thrill from dancing hand in hand, or being the farmer then choosing a 'wife' in the Farmer's in his Den.

The whole thing was bizarre - almost as if we kids had-to perform these things for a forgotten reason: it was our special job in a way that did not apply to the normal free-for-all games or the chasing-and-catching games (like Up-and-Down or British Bulldogs). Certainly, they left behind a special satisfaction when completed.

Some scholars have suggested that these games are garbled pagan or magical religious residues - this may not be true, but certainly it felt like that.

This truly speaks to my depths!

I've had very similar reactions to childhood games, chants, and rituals. "A strange and excited feeling" is exactly what they provoked in me.

When I was a kid, there was a sort of game whereby someone would say: "Silence in the courtyard, silence in the street. The biggest fool in all the world is just about to speak. Speak, fool, speak!"

The joke, of course, was that the next person to speak was the biggest fool in all the world.

But what excited me were the opening words: "Silence in the courtyard, silence in the street". "Courtyard" was an archaic word which made me imagine a royal court, so that pleased me in itself. I further imagined silence falling suddenly on all the people in the royal court, and in the street outside, as though some enchantment had come upon them.

The fact that the biggest fool in all the world was just about to speak make the event seem grandiose, epic, even awe-inspiring.

And this little idyll was invoked by the words of a child-- that was the best part of it, although I was only dimly aware of it.

There was another game called King Silence which involved children having to walk across a room without making a sound. I learned about this one from a book, although I think I persuaded some of my friends to play it once. It was the name that enchanted me-- the idea of an actual King Silence.

The magic of children's games and chants is very closely related, in my own experience, to the magic of tradition and ritual in general.

I don't know why, but the sight of a Halloween bonfire or a Christmas tree has always excited me in a way that's very hard to describe. It's like it awakens something deep in my soul.

But not just a Christmas tree or a Halloween bonfire. I have the same reaction from things like:

The green cross on a pharmacy or the red and white pole outside a barber's shop. (The serpent wrapped around a staff, even more so.)

The suits and characters of playing cards.

Astrological symbols.

All the traditional iconography of the cinema-- deep red curtains, the stylized image of celluloid film, cinema marquees, projector beams, etc.

Proverbs.

Highly decorated pub mirrors.

Old-fashioned jokes with a fairly elaborate set-up and a punchline.

Children's games like Blind Man's Bluff (or Buff?).

Coats-of-arms.

The image and idea of Big Ben or the white cliffs of Dover.

But traditions, especially-- rituals, observances, customs.

When a ritual is performed, even if it's something totally banal-- like hanging Christmas tinsel in an office, or reading fortune cookies, or answering the door to trick-or-treaters-- it feels like something deeply important has happened, something that somehow creates or opens another world, or another dimension to this world.

I have such a craving for tradition that once I even persuaded some friends to participate in a totally made-up, arbitrary one. I called it Sliggens's Day. I decided we would all get together in a pub, drink red lemonade (distinctive to Ireland) and read out a one-act play by Lord Dunsany called Mr. Sliggen's Hour. I chose the play at random and, in fact, none of us really understood the point of it-- which rather added to the occasion.

There was never a second Sliggens's Day. It was more than ten years ago. I keep thinking I should try to hold a second one.

In fact, I constantly feel a sense of shame that I haven't created more traditions. This really bothers me. I feel especially that it's lamentable to have worked in a university for twenty-five years (on October the 15th of this year) and not have created at least one tradition. Universities are incubators of traditions. You might think I'm joking here but I'm serious. I really do feel very bad about this.

For the past three years I have attended the annual Ivy Day commemoration in Glasnevin cemetery, when a wreath is laid on the grave of Charles Stewart Parnell, the Irish nationalist leader who died in 1891. The tradition has been held every single year. Only a few people turn up, even though it's generally a prominent figure who lays the wreath and gives the speech. (Last year it was the Taoiseach.)

I'm not really a fan of Parnell, not particularly-- in terms of Irish leaders, I think, he very much falls into the category of a modernizer. I'm more a De Valera kind of guy. But I go for the sake of the ritual. I hope never to miss it again.

I especially love hearing about hyper-specific traditions such as standing for the Hallelujah Chorus at performances of Handel's Messiah.

I haven't even mentioned religious traditions. They go without saying, I think.

This is such a huge subject for me that I could write this blog post for the rest of my life-- so I might as well stop now, with a threat to continue at some point.

Time and Space

One of the themes of my life has been a fascination with special times and places, or rather, the specialness of times and places. And one of the anxieties of my life is a fear that this specialness is declining.

I have occasionally suspected that this is a projection or morbid fear, but I have heard other people express the same fear, unprompted by me. (People seem much more concerned about a loss of specialness in place rather than time.)

I do believe that this loss of specialness is happening. But at the same time, there seems to be a certain irreducible diversity in time and place.

I've noticed how often it arises when somebody is talking about something else. For instance, the inspiration of a work of art. Somebody will say quite spontaneously: "Well, you have to take into account the sort of city I was living in..."

Or take, for instance, the episodes of the Journey Home I've been watching, the show in which Catholic converts describe their paths to the Church. Geographical location seems to play a massive role in many of the stories. A convert might say something like: "In the area where I'm from, I'd never met a Catholic in my whole life..."

When I look for this specialness it's hard to find-- when I'm not looking for it, it seems to be everywhere.

Here's another example. A while ago I visited Newry, a town just across the Irish border. I wandered around it for an hour or two and was disappointed that there was nothing to see. But, in retrospect, I have found myself mentioning several things I saw, almost without noticing. (Its hilliness, a historic enclosed market that was just closing as I got there, the number of statues and particular statues, a cheap restaurant that served very abundant cheap meals and whose waitresses were extremely friendly....)

Here's another example. I recently found myself in Granby Lane, the little side-street where the famous Dublin ascetic and holy man Matt Talbot collapsed and died. It isn't much to look at, aside from a plaque commemorating Talbot. But in the time I lingered there, to say a rosary, a couple of people passing by stopped to touch the plaque. I was there such a short time, it must be a very regular observance.