Layer 544 . . . The Buzz, The Waltz and the Human Condition

Lying in the blazing September sun this afternoon in my fabulously comfortable rocking sunlounger I felt more relaxed than I've done in years, or perhaps decades. Is it any wonder when the past six summers, at least, have been so bad, or simply non-existent? We now know that this change for the worse in our climate is down to a shift in the position of the Jet Stream, which may or may not have something to do with global warming. Either way, it's been fucking frustrating.

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In the Guardian magazine today there's an article written by Decca Aitkenhead under the title, The Buzz.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/sep/07/how-the-vibrator-caused-buzz

It seems there's a film that's about to go on general release called Hysteria, which "tells the true story of the vibrator".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hysteria_%282011_film%29

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFy6cfPmjd4

The vibrator was invented by respectable Victorian doctors, who grew tired of bringing female patients to orgasm using their fingers alone, and so dreamt up a device to do the job for them. Their invention was regarded as a reputable medical instrument – no more improper than a stethoscope – but became wildly popular among Victorian and Edwardian gentlewomen, who soon began buying vibrators for themselves. For its early customers, a vibrator was nothing to be embarrassed about . . .

100 years ago women didn't have the vote, yet they were going to a doctor's office to get masturbated.

In 19th-century Britain, the condition known as hysteria – which the vibrator was invented to treat – was not a source of embarrassment at all. Hysteria's symptoms included chronic anxiety, irritability and abdominal heaviness, and early medical explanations were inclined to blame some or other fault in the uterus. But in fact these women were suffering from straightforward sexual frustration – and by the mid-19th century the problem had reached epidemic proportions, said to afflict up to 75% of the female population. Yet because the very idea of female sexual arousal was proscribed in Victorian times, the condition was classed as non-sexual. It followed, therefore, that its cure would likewise be regarded as medical rather than sexual.

The only consistently effective remedy was a treatment that had been practised by physicians for centuries, consisting of a "pelvic massage" – performed manually, until the patient reached a "hysterical paroxysm", after which she appeared miraculously restored. The pelvic massage was a highly lucrative staple of many medical practices in 19th-century London, with repeat business all but guaranteed. There is no evidence of any doctor taking pleasure from its provision; on the contrary, according to medical journals, most complained that it was tedious, time-consuming and physically tiring.

Hmmmm.

If the story of the vibrator tells us anything it is that men have been determined for millennia to deny the most obvious truth about women's sexual requirements. Explanations for this collective denial have ranged from profound fear of female sexuality to sheer laziness. Either way, Maines says, "The constant from Hippocrates to Freud – despite breathtaking changes in nearly every other area of medical thought – is that women who do not reach orgasm by penetration alone are sick or defective." Western society has steadfastly preferred to pathologise around 75% of the female population as frigid, hysterical or, as the Victorians liked to say, "out of sorts", than acknowledge the inconvenient truth that coitus might not be entirely satisfying to women.

 http://www.sonyclassics.com/hysteria/

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZAxFLaXT_M

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Take This Waltz

Take This Waltz is the title of one of the tracks on Leonard Cohen's superb 1988 album "I'm Your Man". It's also the title of a film written, produced and directed by the multi-talented Canadian Sarah Polley, which has recently been on general release in this country. The film had an absurdly bad review by one of the Guardian's film critics, who gave it one star out of five. This man, who shall remain nameless, appears to be a complete cretin.

 

Cohen has written many songs that deal with frustration and longing, including "I'm Your Man" in which he recognises that people regularly cope with a host of unsatisfied desires and fantasies. With brilliant tongue in cheek humour Leonard declares that whatever it is someone might want, he's the man to provide it. It's only a chat-up line, of course: Len's too much of a realist to imagine that any complex human being can truly be satisfied for very long. The point is, so what? Only romantics go around imagining that things can be otherwise, even if some people pretend that all's well in their life by keeping schtum about their frustrations and their usually unspoken willingness to compromise and settle for safety and security when life with a particular partner turns out to be less than ideal. Buddhists recognise that the greatest causes of misery in life are unsatisfied desires and attachment.

In Sarah Polley's film a character called Margot is the one who's frustrated. In a neat role-reversal she's married to a steady, down to earth, practical, decent, domesticated guy called Lou, who's trying to write a book that consists entirely of recipes for cooking chicken. He spends his days cooking chicken in various ways, and writing up his food experiments. Whenever Margot gets bored with the travel guides she's trying to write and approaches Lou for some diversionary cuddles or sex he's invariably "busy" and not interested - even in bed.

Margot and Lou have an apparently wonderful "best friends" kind of marriage in which they regularly play affectionate little games and say "I love you". Lou's not exactly a physical kind of guy, and so he's perfectly happy with the marriage. Margot thinks the world of Lou and yet . . . she's bored. And frustrated. She knows she needs more. She wants sex and she wants passion, excitement, novelty. And true intimacy. Somehow "love" is not quite enough.

She also wants someone whom she can talk to, share thoughts with and explore ideas with. When she and Lou go to a restaurant to celebrate their 5th anniversary she suggests they might have a conversation. Lou's response is, what for? Isn't the point of going to a restaurant to simply enjoy good food and wine? Surely they can have conversations any old time? If only.

The film reaches its true climax with a long, circular tracking shot that cleverly reveals a series of episodes in Margot's future life with a new lover, whilst "Take This Waltz" plays as its soundtrack.

At the conclusion of the film it's not clear whether anything is resolved, other than Margot realising that there's more to life than coupledom, and maybe it's the journey that's important rather than finding a destination, or a refuge, or security, or any kind of permanence. It seems that Lou has also realised that he's better off alone than married to a woman he knows he cannot satisfy, no matter how kindly and decently he treats her. He is what he is. And she is whatever she is. Lou somehow seems to have discovered his niche - he's published his book and is contracted to write a sequel - with another 50 chicken recipes. Whilst Margot might just be back where she started - on the road to finding herself - but at least with an awareness that this is what she's doing, and what she needs to do. Which seems like a very Zen thing to have learned.

All in all this is clearly an "art" film, as we used to say, which is the antithesis of the standard Hollywood model with its fast-cutting, all-action, easy to follow story line about nothing very much, and unlikely to provoke any thought or reflection. Sarah Polley is a true artist who paints with long, slow takes of the camera and leaves plenty of time and room for contemplation, connection and consideration. She highlights several key aspects of the human condition, but doesn't tell us what to think about them and doesn't point to any simple conclusions. Her characters and relationships are complex, multi-layered and ambivalent. This is not a romantic movie. And there are no solutions to the human condition.

 http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2012/aug/19/take-this-waltz-review

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0yPzc_REvhU

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Leonard Cohen and his wonderful band are playing at Wembley Arena tonight and tomorrow night.
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Layer 474 . . . Games, Pastimes, Winners and Losers, Berne, Reich and Maslow

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My father taught me how to play chess. He taught me the basic moves, but nothing about strategies, openings and endgames - of which I still know very little. I've never been a great one for playing games, or for pastimes. What the hell is a pastime?

My father taught me some basic things about life. He lived a very simple life - practically hermit-like and very monagamous, as far as I could see. If it turned out he'd had a secret lover I'd be completely shocked and amazed.

And yet dad was a great player of games. He had drawers and cupboards full of games. His own children were a huge disappointment to him in terms of their enthusiasm for games. It was his grandchildren who joined in with his games-playing to while away hours of companionship, having innocent fun on many a rainy weekend and school holidays. Dad would much rather play a game than have a conversation. What was the point of talking? Listening in to most people's conversations you might have to admit that he kind of had a point, even if he never expressed it as such. Inarticularcy was pretty much dad's speciality.

In terms of winners and losers - it's hard to say whether dad was one or other of these things. Having a leg blown off and almost losing your life in a war against fascists isn't exactly conducive to being a winner in the game of life. Yet having been brought back from the battlefield in Normandy and having survived horrendous injuries - you possibly learn certain things during a year or so of hospital convalescence about the preciousness of life itself, and an appreciation of its absolute value. You maybe learn that life is simply about being, and learn not to worry too much about doing or having.

Dad was a winner in that he had a beautiful and thoughtful wife who was his lifelong companion. She was feisty as hell and gave him endless brainache, but she was loyal and strong, and she took good care of him. She was full of enthusiasm, and she was brave and energetic. She gave him pride and dignity, and two children to enliven their lives and their modest household.

Dad was a winner in that he was able to retire to a beautiful part of the country and live in a part of the world he truly loved. He had enough money to live on, a decent car to get around in, and a decent home he could call his own. His lifelong work in a factory gave him dignity as well as a regular income. He also had a decent retirement pension that allowed him and mum to live out their lives well above the poverty line. He owned the home he lived in, and paid no rent to any landlord or local authority. This home that must now be sold - the last remaining contact with two good people and their decent and honourable lives.

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It's never been clear to me what's supposed to happen to people's possessions when they die. Obviously some of them are inherited and are gratefully owned by descendants - for their utility as well as their sentimental value. Some things are essentially useless but are wonderful reminders of their previous owners.

I was shocked by my sister's lack of interest in mum and dad's possessions. Her only interest was in their monetary value - and very few of their possessions had any monetary value. Therefore her attitude was - throw it all away, or sell bits if you're able. She was quite happy to give away all of mum's clothes to charity shops, keeping nothing at all for herself - not even a scarf or a cardigan. Thankfully my children, my nephews and their partners at least wanted to inherit some things as souvenirs. The bungalow had been a second home for my nephews as they were growing up, and living in various places around the county - as much as it had been for me. It was a place of stability, identity and continuity.

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During certain periods of her depression mum didn't really want me to go to stay with her at the bungalow. She'd come to rely on her meals on wheels, and she hated not being able to buy food for me or cook for me. It negated all she stood for as a mother and a provider. In the end she didn't even have the strength to clean properly or to change bed linen. Such is the indignity and loss of pride when you're old and feeble and reaching the end of your life.

I wonder now if she had any regrets - any unfulfilled ambitions, any thoughts about things she'd not done that she could have done, and maybe should have done, when she still had energy, drive and feistiness.

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Dad must have learned to play games to while away the hours as he was lying in a hospital bed, while the war in France and Germany continued, whilst hundreds and thousands more teenagers were losing their lives and their limbs in a war against fascists and their evil leadership.

Dad taught us how to play ludo and drafts and card games. He introduced us to the joys of Monopoly and Totopoly. (I get it now - it was about the Tote. Ha!) He was a great fan of dominoes and games involving picking up sticks and flicking counters into plastic cups. He was a good winner and a good loser. My sister was a habitual loser. Myself - I couldn't see the point of winning, or the taking part, and definitely not the losing. There were much better things to do - many of them involving friends and the vast amount of complete freedom available outside the house, away from parental control and the strict rules of the game; away from winning and losing.

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Aunt O was born during the First World War. The solicitor who came to the house yesterday was shocked when she told him she was born in 1915. 96 years of age and still sharp as a tack. "Oh well," she said, on learning how much it was going to cost to change her will and to set up powers of attourney. "I'll just have to get a job."

She would too, if only it were possible. Never afraid of hard work, my aunt - infirmity now afflicts her body, but not her mind. She can even cope with loss of hearing, as well as loss of mobility. She can still prop herself up on a walking frame and on her worktops well enough to cook a roast dinner for two. "Yes I know you can buy roast chicken in the supermarket - but I've already taken the lamb steaks out of the freezer!" Now be quiet.

She hadn't been allowed to get a paid job till she was 18 or 19. My Victorian grandfather had insisted that as the oldest girl in the family she had to stay at home and look after the rest of the children. No wonder she ran away from home to be with my uncle.

She manages quite well in her own home, and still does her own cleaning and washing. She has a stair lift and someone to take care of her gardens and her shopping. As she says herself, she wants for nothing.

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Eric Berne was a psychologist and the author of a seminal book called Games People Play. In it he describes the game-playing that goes on between both consenting and non-consenting adults. He also talks about people who take part in interpersonal 'pastimes'. Berne was the grandfather of what's now known as Transactional Analysis. It's worth reading about - especially if you've ever been involved in inappropriate game-playing or on the receiving end of an adult behaving like they're either a child or your parent.

To find out about what adults are supposed to be like when they become fully evolved human beings try taking a look at Layer 20 and the conclusions of another great psychologist - Abraham Maslow.

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Yet another great but little-known psychologist mentioned in the media recently - Wilhelm Reich. Channel 4's curious documentary series on human sexuality did a superficial review of his work on human sexuality with particular mention of the function of the orgasm. It's maybe time to write some more about Reich, and time to write something more about Zen, sexuality, enlightenment and well-being.

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Layer 371 . . . November, Rally To Restore Sanity, A Bit More Fry, James and the Man Lab, and a Man Called Grian

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November - a strange month. The final month of autumn. If the sun shines it can be 18C or so, and the trees and woods are glorious. Like today, for instance.

On the other hand, since the clocks went back on the last day of October, it's almost dark already by 4.30, and it feels like it's suddenly winter. So we now have four months of long, dark evenings and nights, and sun starvation. A grim prospect.

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I need to mention the report on the Rally To Restore Sanity - as previously blogged, organised by Jon Stewart.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/oct/30/jon-stewart-rally-restore-sanity

Jon Stewart rally - as it happened

Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert held a Rally To Restore Sanity in Washington DC and tens of thousands joined them. Here's how the day unfolded

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2010/oct/31/rally-restore-sanity-jon-stewart-washington

Jon Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity draws marchers from across America

The television satirist insists it was not a political event: his targets were overheated debate and laziness in the media

   
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And here's the original report on Stephen Fry's bonkersness:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2010/oct/31/stephen-fry-sex-women-relationships-attitude

Stephen Fry shocks feminists by claiming women don't really like sex

Women are just as capable as men of enjoying sex and remarks are 'kind of rubbish', says feminist writer Rosie Boycott

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James and the Man Lab

I had reasonably high hopes for James May's latest series on BBC, but in the event it's pretty poor stuff. Based on the premise that a necessary step in the process of turning boys into  men is learning how to be practical and creative (which women more or less need to be as well - but often in different ways?) the programme seems to be taking the easy option and simply playing for laddish laughs and 'entertainment'. How else to explain the items on how to defuse a bomb and how to make a concrete worktop for the kitchen? As for linking all the rooms in a building with a model electric train . . .

Sorry, James: I expected better. Maybe you should stick to the word processor after all. Your writing in the Observer about the idea behind the series was a lot better than its first programme.

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Grian?

I'm still pondering the row about Harriet Harman likening Danny Alexander to a ginger rodent. In Scotland!

I'm surprised at Harriet. Fancy thinking this was somehow amusing - even if her audience did chuckle. No - she should have stuck to the facts of this matter.

Daniel Grian Alexander is a 38 year old jumped up ex-public relations scumbag and tosspot, and an economically illiterate Friedmanite fuckwit, who just happens to be playing a major role as a member of a government that is managing the nation's finances and economy in a way that's totally propping up the status quo in favour of the fat cats and the asset strippers and entirely against the interests of the majority of the population. Fact.

PS   "Grian was the Celtic Sun Goddess, who in later times became known as a fairy queen". Not a lot of people know that.
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Layer 287 . . . Free Spirits, Physical Intelligence, Nukes, Burlesque and Women's Liberation.

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An aspect of human wellbeing that Oxzen has occasionally referred to, but not examined in depth and detail, is physical intelligence.

The human body is an incredible achievement of nature. Thanks to scientists like Darwin, Crick and Watson we've begun to understand how we evolved from the Big Bang to where we are today, via DNA and natural selection. The human body should be respected, celebrated, protected and looked after.

Oxzen, of course, is not one of those who believe that God created the universe and everything in it, including the first human being, who, for some reason, he called Adam. Allegedly.

Oxzen is not one of those who believe that God created the first woman from one of Adam's ribs.  Oxzen has yet to discover why God decided to somehow create the first woman from one of Adam's ribs, instead of using the same stuff he used to create Adam.

According to my DK Bible, "Adam and Eve walked naked and happy in the garden, and had no need of clothes." More of nudity later.

No matter. We've arrived in the 21st Century, at a point in history where we can witness fierce debates about the need to spend untold billions of pounds of our taxes on nuclear weapons to commit mass destruction on other human beings . . .  whilst at the same time millions of our fellow human beings, in cities and towns everywhere, are living in poverty - for want of the means to earn a decent living, and for want of decent levels of social security and old age pensions. The people who shout the loudest for more WMDs are not those who're living in poverty.

We're living in a time of bread and circuses, a time in which most people prefer to spend countless hours watching talent shows, soap operas, game shows, Top Gear, Dave, poker, snooker, sport, Big Brother and property development tips programmes . . . rather than spend a single minute taking care of their bodies and souls, or reading a book to a child, or trying to figure out why we should maintain a nuclear arsenal AT ALL, when Germany, Spain and Italy aren't bothered about whether or not they can nuke China - but especially before we've enabled every citizen to live in a decent home with enough money to feed and clothe their children properly.

We're living in a time when a young man, who's apparently a serious candidate to be the political leader of our country, can blithely talk about needing bigger and better nuclear weapons with which we can attack China, or 'defend ourselves' against China, which is a country that hasn't even threatened to attack any other country, let alone ours.

And on this point - a brief digression. In a nuclear conflict, which country is likely to emerge in a worse state - China or Britain? Answer - neither. We can't even imagine what we'd do to the planet if we filled the atmosphere with billions of tons of impenetrable toxic nuclear dust, a billion times more than the dust from an exploding volcano. Cormac McCarthy imagined it and wrote a book called The Road. Those of us who were unfortunate enough to survive the blast and the radiation would have a lot more to worry about than not being able to fly in airplanes.

Where was I? Oh yes. We re living in an age in which a team of 30 or so doctors and nurses spends 24 hours transplanting the face of a dead human being on to the head of a living person, and in which millions of children have no-one to read with them or talk to them; millions have to make do with bad housing and bad food.

In the week of the face transplant our capital city is holding a Burlesque Week, which looks like becoming an annual event. The daughter of a friend is taking part. It seems London is full of women of all ages and all shapes and sizes who are learning to be burlesque performers, and to do other things which appear to be celebrations of the human body and human sexuality, such as pole dancing. I'm not aware, as yet, of any amateurs who are learning to do lap dancing and table dancing just for fun , but you never know.

The popular burlesque show of the 1870s through the 1920s referred to a raucous, somewhat bawdy style of variety theater. In 20th century America the word burlesque became associated with a variety show in which striptease is the chief attraction. Although the striptease originated at the Moulin Rouge in 1890s Paris and subsequently became a part of some burlesque across Europe, only in American culture is the term burlesque closely associated with the striptease. These shows were not considered 'theatre' and were regarded as 'low' by the vaudevillians, actors and showgirls of neighbouring theatreland.

In the 1930s, a social crackdown on burlesque shows led to their gradual downfall. The shows had slowly changed from ensemble ribald variety performances, to simple performances focusing mostly on the striptease. - Wikipedia

http://www.schoolofburlesque.com/

We assume that in the first era of burlesque most of the performers allowed themselves to be exploited by accepting relatively paltry sums of money in exchange for performing dances involving the shedding most of their clothing in front of a largely male audience.

What seems to be clear in this second era of burlesque is that there are 3 categories of performers. Firstly there are those like Dita Von Teese [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dita_Von_Teese ] who are paid huge sums of money for their appearances and performances, and become very wealthy. It's hard to imagine how these women are exploited, unless you want to say they're exploiting and degrading their own bodies. Others would say they re simply making very good use of their own bodies to make money as an artist and a skilled performer, which many of them undoubtedly are - even if it's not exactly 'high' art.

The second category consists of women who are paid small sums of money for entertaining punters with performances which they may or may not enjoy doing. Those who don't actually enjoy burlesque dancing, if there are any, presumably make their living in this way because it's their least bad option.

In the third category are women who are pure amateurs - whose amour is for the pure joy of performing.

So what is burlesque? It's a form of dancing in which the outer layers of clothing are quickly removed, and for most of the dance the woman performs in her underwear - knickers, bra, corset, stockings and stiletto shoes - sometimes with the aid of props, such as large fans. Usually the stockings are peeled off, but never the knickers, which are often big and frilly. There's never even a suggestion that they might be removed. Some women choose to wear thong knickers that reveal their butt cheeks.

The bra, on the other hand, always comes off - usually right at the end, with a dramatic flourish, and it's twirled above the head of its wearer.

Underneath the bra the performers wear colourful nipple caps, sometimes with tassels. No nipples are allowed to be shown or seen.

Some performers have developed the knack of counter-rotating their nipple tassels by swinging and wiggling their breasts, and this becomes the grand finale of their act. Most dancers end by simply exposing their breasts to the audience, and enjoy the applause briefly before striding offstage.

It seems most of the women who go to burlesque classes are young and well-paid  professionals who have no intention of taking up dancing as a career. They do it for fun, for a thrill, for the sheer excitement of taking off their clothes and exposing their breasts and their bums in front of an appreciative audience.

These days lots of men (and women) are keen to pay 20 quid or so to watch women remove their clothes and expose their bodies. Whooping and cheering audiences provide the dancers with recognition and appreciation, which may contrast strongly with what happens in the rest of their lives - professionally dull and domestically boring - lacking in appreciation, affection, excitement, joy, stimulation, etc. Maybe this public display of their bodies and their sexuality  is a compensation for the lack of vibrancy and sexuality in the rest of their lives. On the other hand, it might be an extension and a continuation of how they live. It could be interesting to do a survey.

Physical intelligence is important. Sexuality is important. Everyone should take care of their body and  feel proud of their body. I doubt if it's possible to buy a completely new face, and you definitely can't buy a new body - only alterations to the one you already have. It's important to use it, and not abuse it.

We need to make the most of our bodies and their precious physical senses, and use our eyes, ears, etc to the absolute maximum, to keep us properly in touch with our world, to inform our perceptions and our awareness. Humans need to touch and be touched. The more physical intelligence - and social & emotional intelligence - there is in the world, the less likely it will be we'll end up fighting and killing one another. Though there will always be mad politicians, calling themselves realists, who'll cheerfully consider dropping the big one, come what may.
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Layer 65 Long Strange Trips and Seeking Enlightenment.

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It’s animal madness here today. I’ve just had a squirrel leaping around all over my conservatory roof making an amazing racket, before shooting off along the fence top and into the trees.

Meanwhile White Cat has been on holiday for the past fortnight, camping in the garden in the little Ikea tent I originally put up for my granddaughter. She seems to like it a lot. I’m now thinking it needs to be her permanent quarters. It has a built in ground sheet and seems to be rainproof. It even resembles one of the tents you see refugees living in on news programmes. Being the senile idiot cat she now is, however, she’s just come in for food, and whilst I wasn’t looking did a dump in the corner of the conservatory. She spends more than 23 hours of every day outside, but of course has to shit inside. Up with this I can no longer put.

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Watching the repeat of Long Way Round last night was interesting - 3 guys on motorbikes plus two support 4x4 trucks (one of which crashed) making their way slowly across some incredibly difficult terrain through the wilds of Kazakhstan, Mongolia and Russia, reminded me of the insane times we had journeying back to England across practically the whole of Africa in 1973 in a two wheel drive VW, on a shoestring budget and with no support team whatsoever.

We were most definitely on our own, with just a couple of large-scale Michelin maps to guide us. It’s made me feel determined to do something with the reels of Super 8 movie film I have, and all the slides and photos I took. I really must get them all transferred to digital format and create a proper DVD with a music soundtrack, plus voice-over.

Looking back, the whole thing was pretty epic. Watching the guys on TV cracking up with the sheer effort and frustration of dealing with virtually impassable roads day after day brought back a lot of memories of exhaustion, but also exhilaration and wonderment at some of the landscape, and the kindness of people along the way.

Having done all that I should be ready to do something similar with photos and videos of a career in working in London schools. Lots of highlights and lowlights there too, and another epic trip to put on DVD.

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I suppose Oxzen should have something to say about the Jim Rose article in Education Guardian this week, and about his Primary Curriculum Review.

Peter Wilby, in his article on Jim Rose, concludes that people like Sir Jim “keep the system working”. Was this meant to be ironic? Or is it a supposed to be a genuine compliment that ‘conscientious, hard-working, undogmatic,’ etc, men and women like Jim Rose help to legitimise and prop up a system that’s driven by others who are indeed full of ‘airs and graces, flashiness and egotism’ (which Sir Jim seemingly isn‘t.)

The kind of people, in fact, who enjoy bullying others and creating an education system that’s based on ludicrous notions of academic attainment being pretty much the be all and end all, on league tables, on a culture of targets and testing, and ruthless dismissal of the efforts of conscientious teachers and heads of schools to provide a broad and balanced education that genuinely meets all the needs of children and helps develop the crucial skills and attitudes required for emotional, social and spiritual intelligence.

No doubt Sir Jim can cope as well with this faint praise as he can with the comments of those who maintain he’s basically a fence-sitting career bureaucrat who hides behind bland statements like “I don’t make policy” in order to divert attention from the fact that he’s been so willing to do the bidding of his political masters and not make any waves or offer any opinions that might contradict or challenge the prevailing New Labour orthodoxies. You see, Sir Jim, it’s like this. Very few of us actually make policy, but we can, even if we’re working within the education system, offer opinions to the policy makers that might actually give them pause for thought and cause them to make better policies.

I despise what he had to say about the teaching of reading. He’s clearly no expert on the subject, so what was he doing writing a report that supported an approach to the teaching of reading that skewed the emphasis so heavily towards ‘synthetic phonics’, whether or not learners have such a need?

All he needed to say was that it’s essential for learners to develop grapho-phonic skills, as well as onset and rime skills, and skills in identifying syllables, graphemes and phonemes, but that it’s equally essential for learners to have in their repertoire skills in using picture cues, syntactic cues and semantic cues, and to use such predictive cuing systems from the outset.

Plodding and pounding your way through text using ‘synthetic phonics’ on its own is not the best, the most efficient, the most effective or the most intelligent way of tackling text. It’s just part of everyone’s tool kit for word identification when other strategies aren’t helpful. Otherwise it just slows down and interferes with the whole process, which is a complex and sophisticated one from the very beginning, especially with English, where there are so many high frequency words that are phonically irregular.

I think that just about sums the matter up, except to say, “Once xxxx x txxx there was x . . . .” Get it, Sir Jim? This isn’t about real books versus no books. This is about approaching the teaching of reading as though we, and children, are intelligent, thoughtful, insightful, sophisticated and analytical beings, which happily most of us are. End of.

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Having said all that, it must be said that Sir Jim’s final report on the primary curriculum could well be something we’ve needed for a long time if indeed it delivers what it’s supposed to -

* greater emphasis on personal, social, emotional, physical and spiritual development
* greater emphasis on play-based and active experiential learning throughout at least the foundation stage
* greater emphasis on developing creativity and imagination
* a requirement for Primary schools to introduce foreign languages in ways that make learning them meaningful and enjoyable

But talk about the Long Way Round! This is all stuff that was meant to be happening in our schools from 1966 onwards, and frequently was, prior to the introduction of the National Curriculum, the Primary Strategies, SATs testing and league tables!

We used to be the world leaders in a form of Primary education that genuinely put children and their various developmental needs at the heart of the learning process, before we turned the clocks back, became curriculum obsessed and driven by tests and targets. We used to believe that children should first and foremost learn to love learning for its own sake and should look forward to coming to school in order to enjoy a rich variety of creative learning experiences each and every day. Ha!

http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2008/aug/05/ofsted.primaryschools

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I’ve invented a new word for teachers who are responsible for their school’s personal, social, emotional and spiritual development. Zenco.
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And speaking of Zen, there was an excellent article in G2 this week by Miranda Hodgson, “I Became A Zen Buddhist Nun”.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/aug/04/healthandwellbeing.familyandrelationships
In it she explains how she used to have “an aggressively atheistic” view of life, but “gradually became aware that there were other, non-theistic approaches to experiencing the spiritual side of life”. She started doing yoga, and was then introduced to Zen meditation by a friend.

She then goes on to say,

“Having previously lived such a goal- and achievement-oriented life, sitting in meditation and simply observing my state of being was a new experience. As I examined my ideals, particularly the validation I sought through unrelenting hard work, I found that they were empty. One by one, they dropped away. I realised there were more important things than climbing the career ladder at any cost. Although it was a liberating experience, it was incredibly frightening at times. I had to reassess my approach to life.”

“I met a Zen master (a practitioner who has received permission to teach), and under him, I made a formal commitment to follow the Zen path. Unlike in Japan, where Zen monks and nuns are supported by the state, Europeans who make this commitment continue to live and work in society as they did before. For me, the decision to ask for nun ordination came easily. It simply felt like the right thing to do; it made sense. Life was beginning to unfold naturally.”

“Because I am now a teacher, I don't shave my head and, as I wear the kolomo and kesa only for meditation, I look no different from anyone else you would see in the street.”

“When most people hear the word nun, they think of Catholic nuns. Often, their first question is why would I want to give up having sex for ever. Stated in this way, it puts sex on a par with things such as smoking or drinking: self-gratifying acts of pleasurable consumption. If one understands sex according to such a selfish, loveless definition, then I suppose that yes, I have "given it up". One of the vows I made when I was ordained pertains to sex, and it states that you should not use your sexuality in a way that harms. It is not what you do, therefore, but how you do it: using someone as a commodity for one's own satisfaction is definitely harmful if considered in that light. Shortly after my ordination, I met a man with whom I now share a relationship based on mutual trust and respect.”

“Some of my students assume I live like a puritan, and are surprised when I tell them that I do drink alcohol and I will eat meat.”

“While my status as a nun usually fosters a dialogue between me and my students, I sometimes feel it separates us. Nowadays, students think that, to be successful in life, they must strive for high scores, regardless of whether academic learning is right for them. I feel sad at how stressed my students get and, during exams, I remember words from a Zen teacher that to "be adequate" is enough in life.”

It seems to me that articles and case studies like this one ought to be central to the curriculum of all our pupils in Secondary schools - not in order to persuade them to become Zen nuns, but in order to point out some issues around atheism, belief in a God as a supreme being, the development of spiritual intelligence, the use of meditation, the purpose of life, the pursuit of academic qualifications and material success, the importance of diet, the use of alcohol, and the importance of a serious and respectful approach to sexuality that is enjoyable and affirmative at the same time as being non-exploitative and another route to satori and spiritual joy.
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Layer 61 A Blogella

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To read the final chapter of ‘On Chesil Beach’ took an early-morning hour of slow, concentrated effort. Having reached what is effectively (figuratively and literally) the climax of this novella in the previous chapter, what remains is simply the denouement - how will the characters play out the consequences of what has gone before?

The reader approaches McEwan’s ending with a sense of dread and foreboding, but still retaining, perhaps, a slight hope that events will play out for the ‘best’, that happiness and fulfilment is, after all, possible.

And yet we know (because we know that the writer will not cop out - he will not pretend that life is other than it is) he will confirm that the human condition is essentially tragic, and that life cannot be, and is perhaps not meant to be, a simple place where young lovers live happily ever after.

Sex, of course, is the problem. Without sex, life could be easy. Without libido, attraction, yearning for physical fulfilment and release; without arousal, desire for ecstatic pleasure, and the joining of spirits through physical bliss; without a need for transcendence through orgasmic satori experience, life could be so simple. Or so it might seem - to an ascetic, a logician, a virgin or a celibate.

The female character in Chesil Beach, on her wedding night, is, and wishes to be, all of these things. Not that she’s without passion and desire. But her passion is her profession, her vocation and her music; and her desire is to achieve perfection through the creation and the performance of the one thing she loves unconditionally.

Like so many homo sapiens she’s assertive, strong, fearless and decisive - when she’s at work on her beloved profession. She needs no advice and she doesn’t hesitate - she instinctively knows what’s right and what’s wrong. But like so many English women and men, when she needs to manage relationships and her own emotions she hesitates, she flounders, she frankly hasn’t a clue. She no more knows and understands her inner self or other people than she knows and understands the physical structure of atoms or the universe.

Why should this be so? How can university educated, bright young people with talents and aspirations be so socially, emotionally and spiritually dumb? Because that’s the way we do things here - it’s what you might call the English condition, rather than the human condition. It doesn’t have to be this way. Elsewhere, people do it differently. Not a lot, but some.

But what we have here are two clever young people who have been brought up to be emotionally illiterate, to have no understanding of their own feelings, emotions and sexuality. They have no words and no concepts with which to communicate, or to even think about these matters.

They have no idea that to become a mature, three dimensional human being they need to effectively have degrees in three different sorts of intelligence, and that IQ is not only NOT the be all and end all - that the pursuit of ‘academic’ excellence and intellectual refinement precludes, in most instances, the development of the other key intelligences. Locked for hours and days in the individual, egotistical pursuit of certificates and diplomas and degrees is no way to find enlightenment.

It's also precluded by the pursuit of money, fame, professional success, and any kind of material goal, when these things consume so much precious time that could be better spent on more worthwhile achievements. Like knowing oneself, understanding others, and developing the precious qualities of intuition, empathy, generosity, kindness, imagination and creativity, awe and wonder. Out of which love - unselfish, unconditional, unstinting love - might eventually emerge. But that’s not how we do things.

It’s a dog eat dog world, and the masters of the universe, our universe, have decreed these things should be otherwise. The hard-faced decision makers with iron and lead in their toxic and radioactive souls decided long ago that academic attainment, from which they themselves profited, obviously, should be the only goal of what they call education.

Oh yes, they pay lip service to what they see as the fluffy fringes of schooling - the stuff that can’t be tested, graded and sorted - like becoming a decent human being. But they don’t, after all, want others to have what they don’t have, which is rich human relationships, laughter, time to enjoy their loved ones, time to enrich the lives of others, time to relax and meditate, time to create and imagine, and time for fulfilling and mutually enriching sex.

It’s clear from McEwan’s book that none of the older characters has any kind of a sex life. They don’t even have any genuine enjoyment of one another on any level. Each pursues his or her lonely goals within the conventional social frameworks which they, and society, have created.

Not that sex could or would be a cure-all for the things that separate and divide the principal characters on Chesil Beach. Life is more complicated than that. Her background is well-to-do business-owning people with cars and servants. His is relative poverty, make-do and mend, and cramped, chaotic accommodation. She loves classical music and can’t see any merit whatsoever in any other sort. He loves blues, jazz and rock, and can’t see any merit in anything classical. And so on.

We know that love can transcend differences of class and background, and even cultural tastes. But when love hits the rocks, what resources have we to use that will help us to re-float our boat? What means of communication do we have that will allow us to work together, agree what repairs are needed, assign tasks, agree on how to be collaborative and supportive? And in times of crisis can we even be calm enough and patient enough to arrange a meeting where things might be discussed objectively, considerately, disinterestedly? Or do we resort to primitive instincts and let reactions and emotions overwhelm us - fight, flight or freeze? Of course we do.

McEwan’s genius, like any fine artist, is to wrap up the story without condemning either character - both of them have their strengths and weaknesses, their fine points and their faults, their guilt and their innocence. What they’re both guilty of is their age, their inexperience, their ignorance, their egotism, their incomprehension, their lack of communication, their absence of real inter-personal and intrapersonal intelligence, their lack of real empathy, intuition and emotional intelligence. None of which is their fault. In essence they are both victims, living in a world that’s run so badly, so incompetently, so utterly without the benefit of real spiritual intelligence. So are we all.

Chesil Beach is a hard place, though not without its own beauty. Nothing lives there, and nothing grows on that rocky, pebbly, bouldery spit of land between cold, grey waters. Even to walk there is difficult. You wouldn’t choose it for a beach holiday. It’s not really a beach at all. It’s nothing more than a barrier; and it’s desolate, it’s featureless, it’s barren, it’s without colour and it’s where nothing really happens, except the continuous pounding of the elements, of tides and wind and rain. It’s a bit like life as it’s lived by many unfortunate souls.

It doesn’t have to be this way.
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And if you ever have any doubts that August is the silly season then check out today’s news as brought to you by the good people at Yahoo! Hold that front page!

* Rooney quizzed over spitting.
* ‘Big Brother’ Rex blows the food budget.
* Police hunt for British girl’s body parts in Brazil.
* Dad reveals Destiny’s Child may reform.

All of which rival the classic Sky Sports’ “Leeds in talks with unnamed player.”

Stop Press!
* Whale rescue in Hampshire!
* Thatch Croaks!
* Cameron shags pig!
(Which of these is NOT true?)
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Layer 60 Klimt

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It doesn’t seem possible that the Tate Liverpool's exhibition of Klimt is the first ever exhibition of his work in this country. Are we not a nation of art lovers?

How can this be? Perhaps this lack of interest in showing Klimt’s work has been somewhat connected with the fact that Klimt and the Secessionists believed that sexuality is the key to human liberation and fulfillment, and that a good deal of Klimt’s work is highly erotic and a celebration of the beauty of the female form. The current concerns manifested in the British media with sex education and teenage pregnancy are showing us, as ever, how much we still fear and tend to avoid explicit conversation and discourse about sex.

Like his contemporary, Sigmund Freud, and Wilhelm Reich, another resident of turn-of-the-century Vienna, Gustav Klimt focused a lot of his creative energy on the subject of sex and sexuality, and believed that sexual & emotional health and sexual fulfillment play a vital role in human wellbeing - more vital than wealth or status, more important than bourgeois ‘respectability’ and material comfort and security.

Our society’s historical aversion to full-on engagement with human sexuality in any mature way is reflected in the actual location of the Tate show’s semi-darkened room containing drawings of women nudes masturbating - with genitals, fingers and splayed thighs depicted in loving detail.

This small room, which is more like a room within a room, is situated right at the end of the exhibition, and visitors have the option of walking straight past it, and avoiding it, in order to go out of the exhibition, and into the bookshop and merchandise area, where there's a variety of Klimt shopping bags, posters, key rings, fridge magnets, vibrators, etc, on sale.

(I made that last one up. Though they say the Anne Summers shop in the main shopping precinct is selling an exciting range of Klimpt Klit Stimulators, specially commissioned to coincide with and cash in on this exhibition, which is pulling in visitors from far and wide - people who would normally no more visit Liverpool than they would New Brighton or Birkenhead.)

But truthfully, when was the last time anyone went to an exhibition and saw erotic drawings like these by a major artist, depicting this important but virtually taboo aspect of female sexuality? Surely nice girls don't do that kind of thing? Actually they do, but you'd never know it from the output of the world's best-known artists. Klimt is unique, in very many ways.

(To be fair, nobody does paintings of men masturbating either, but that’s another story. At least everybody seems to know that men actually do it, whilst women’s self-pleasuring remains a subject surrounded in mystery, even to many women, unless you happen to be into pornography, which his critics actually accused Klimt of being. ‘Accused’, you see. Like it’s a crime he committed by creating powerful images of beautiful and erotic women, no matter how willingly the models posed, and how much they presumably enjoyed posing, since Klimt was said to have made love to most of them.)

I remember how startling it felt in the Musee D'Orsay a few years ago to come across Courbet's incredibly naturalistic and highly erotic painting of a model’s genitals with her mass of dark pubic hair. Was it OK to stand there and stare at it, like you would any other exhibit? Interestingly no-one else did. Yet it's a wonderful picture, aptly titled "The Origin of the World". (L’Origine Du Monde)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%27Origine_du_monde

And it was interesting to observe visitors, including pairs of young women, in the masturbation room in the Tate, where there were also some drawings by Klimt of couples in various stages of love-making. Interesting to observe their somewhat embarrassed and giggly interactions. Clearly, walking round in silence was not an option for cool connoisseurs, but neither was any thoughtful or normal conversation. The attitude seemed to be that one should either be embarrassed, indifferent to, or amused by the drawings. Like it was impossible to be turned on by them, see oneself in them, or just simply enjoy them for their artistic genius.

It was also interesting to consider whether Klimt ever developed any of these drawings into oil paintings - which seems highly likely - and if so what happened to them, and where they are now. And if he didn‘t, why not?

Could it be that to acknowledge that women masturbate would be to acknowledge that women enjoy sensuality, sexuality and orgasm? Enjoy them, need them, and desire them. And how difficult and dangerous would that be for so many men, the majority of whom in Klimt‘s time and Freud‘s time, and it seems often in our own time, are pretty clueless about female physiology and sexuality? Why else do so many women desire, enjoy, and often prefer, vibrators?

Whilst he also painted superb landscapes, and clearly enjoyed painting well-to-do women in fabulous dresses, Klimt didn’t shirk the need for the artist to engage with the sexual and the erotic in the quest to illustrate and depict the human condition, which after all is surely the foremost duty of any artist. Human love, tenderness, desire and intimacy are at the very heart of our lives, or at least ought to be.

Human sexuality is mysterious and yet enormously important for most of us, and the role of the artist is surely to shed light on the emotional and spiritual aspects of our instinctual drives. But how many of us have been enriched and enlightened in this way? How many artists down the centuries have been capable of engaging with such challenging subject matter? It’s impossible to see Klimt’s work and not reflect on ourselves, our sexuality, our desires, our ideas of beauty, our need for kissing, for intimacy, for holding someone close, for physical union.

One of my favourite Klimt paintings, Nuda Veritas, The Naked Truth, is very explicit. A curvaceous nude with lovely auburn hair cascading over her shoulders stands facing the viewer, with lips and legs slightly apart, holding up a round mirror, in which we see our own reflection.

She’s a tall, proud, unabashed figure, asserting her nakedness and beauty, her naturalness, her attractiveness. Her only adornments are a few white daisies, which she’s fastened in her hair. But she’s confronting us with the mirror - daring us to look in it and thereby become aware of our own reactions to her. So what are they? Admiration? Appreciation? Attraction? Desire? Fear? Embarrassment? Envy? Resentment?

She’s not being deliberately provocative - she just IS. As pure and innocent and unadorned as any living creature. Klimt is giving us the naked truth - about another human soul, and about ourselves - if we only care to look. Yes folks - underneath those gorgeous dresses and gowns, this is what women actually look like. Is this a problem? Is this pornography? Or is it a source of awe and wonder, joy and fulfillment?

The printed guide to the exhibition describes the city of Vienna at the turn of the century, and says it was a place where “Sigmund Freud’s theories positing sexuality as a liberating force were highly influential, contributing to an overarching atmosphere of eroticism.” It goes on to say that “Against this backdrop Klimt put the female form centre-stage, oscillating between the extremes of woman as immaculate virgin and sinful seductress.”

The oscillation is the interesting part. Klimt is too much of a realist to have a simplistic view of women as either virtuous virgins, wives and mothers on the one hand, or whores on the other. As an artist he recognizes that every woman contains within her all the stereotypes, and travels through life, whether or not she admits it to herself or others, somehow oscillating between all of them. A woman’s capacity to experience arousal and desire may be stunted or wrapped in chains and vows, but the point is that she has the potential to experience and express herself and her needs sexually. And this was not a commonly accepted view prior to Freud and Klimt and the Secessionists.

The Tate’s booklet tells us that Klimt’s drawings “record the artist’s private investigation and explicit celebration of female sexuality”. And this is where he was such an iconoclast and pioneer - not only celebrating female sexuality, but doing it so explicitly. And for this alone, if for nothing else, he deserves recognition and praise.

Some of the other great pictures in the exhibition include portraits of Hermine Gallia, Eugenia Primavesi, Joseph Pembauer and Helene Klimt. There’s also the stunning Adam and Eve, Judith II, and The Three Ages of Women.

Finally, there’s a reproduction of the Beethoven Frieze, at eye level around three walls of a room. And it’s a truly symphonic piece of work, with so many elements that are in turn elegiac, erotic, spiritual, carnal, joyful, melancholic, lyrical and simply beautiful. One of the newspaper reviews dismisses it as merely a reproduction and not worth including in the exhibition, but for those of us who’ve had to make do with looking at disconnected details in books, and who aren’t likely to be visiting the original in Vienna any time soon, many thanks.

http://www.tate.org.uk/liverpool/exhibitions/gustavklimt/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustav_Klimt
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vienna_Secession
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilhelm_Reich
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/visual_arts/article4014012.ece http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/06/03/baklimt203.xml
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