IV. The Desert

‘In my solitude you haunt me with reveries of days gone by.’

So, here I am, Christian and gay. Signed, sealed, ‘delivered’. Great. Now what? Hm, that was put a little more impudently than I intended. What I mean is; what do I now do about it (without going too Evangelical…)? ‘Temptation’, an unattractively religious and sweeping word, rears its ugly head. OK, so it’s difficult being the ‘only gay in the parish’, or something. This time last year there’d have been nothing holding me back from someone who would definitely go for me. But, don’t remind me about this time last year *shudder*.

‘In my solitude you taunt me with memories that never die.’

Yes, certain feelings for a certain person have been, and continue to be. Perhaps I’m just flattered by his alleged obsession. Perhaps I’m just ensnared by the all-too-real impression he left. And here I am, accepting an invitation to his party. I’m not in control of myself when I’m on facebook…

‘I sit in my chair, I’m filled with despair, there’s no-one could be so sad,’

Listless. I am honestly listless. After months of relative activity (hence the lack of blogging) I find myself with nothing to do but mope. Unemployable! Over-qualified for menial tasks, or so my ego tells me. What’s the cure for listlessness? I should make a list. A list of things I want from life, or something. But I’m not ready to lift the lethargy just yet. I want to curl up in it and lie-in until 4 in the afternoon, by which time I can probably start getting ready for my date with destiny. It’s not like I haven’t indulged in a little emotic (/emo-esque/emoid/emo (adj.)…) self-pity. I mean, who hasn’t lamented their singledom, late at night, dowsed in alcohol? Except, I have the added complication of not really wanting that kind of a relationship. Which I really do. But I don’t. But… Argh.

‘With gloom ev’rywhere, I sit and I stare, I know that I’ll soon go mad.’

So what if I turn this rock into bread and break my man-fast? Monogamy is for straight people (…). So what if I ‘take the plunge’ and throw myself off the cliff? Surely God’s Grace can save me from anything (…). So what if I worship the devil in return for ‘all the kingdoms of the world and their glory’… OK, so my Biblical analogy (cf. Mt 4:1-11) breaks down after the first two points. But you hopefully get the picture.

‘In my solitude I’m praying, dear Lord above, send back my love.’

Uff. Something’s gotta happen now or something’s gonna give. Quote. That’s not an ultimatum, it’s a warning. I need a stronger faith, perhaps coupled with a nice Christian boyfriend, or I’m going to stray off the ‘straight’ and narrow. I think God hears all prayers. Even electronic ones.

Get thee behind me Satan. Physically.

III. Speedway in Holy Week

It was a sombre meet at Belleview Speedway this Monday. Black figures huddled around a bunch of flowers in the middle of the circuit. Slowly, they trudged back across the track; muddying their good shoes. They withdrew to a grassy bank opposite the grandstand, under trees newly in blossom. This was where he liked to stand, and watched the race go round and round.

A word about speedway. Four racers, two from each team, skid round the dirt oval in four laps. This happens a dozen times. Points are divvied up, averages meted out, remainders carried over. You’d think the checkout ladies and painters-and-decorators all had maths degrees. But I’m being unfair. I told myself that, for Tony’s sake, I’d keep an open mind.

It had started to rain, and the fresh leaves weren’t keeping us dry. It’s just not proper mourning if it doesn’t rain. Providence has a sense of theatricality. The party walked slowly back to the shelter of the grandstand. Again, it’s just not proper mourning if you don’t walk slowly. It’s easy to see why he chose to watch from the green verge; the grandstand was plastic, grey, fluorescent, concrete. He’d stand there, in a better place, watching the racers go round; the interminable circuit of humanity, the interminable roar of destiny.

He had died on the track the day before; painting the starting line. Working free of charge, he had died giving your average gear-head a Genesis, and a line to judge himself by. Old Book and New. The minute’s silence was marred by some of the checkout ladies and painters-and-decorators, discussing the team’s chances, and by the loudspeaker, which was picking up Pussycat Dolls on the radio.

Every day, a tragedy. Every day, self-sacrifice. Every day, something greater than ourselves.

Sonnet 2

When the curtain falls and all must flee,

When the velvet drops against my skin,
I think to untie fabric bound to thee;
Unveiling softer cloth that lies within.

Desire cries, the show begins afresh,
But players, costume-less, no longer ‘play’.
A deeper yearning grows and is made flesh;
The drapes of pure pretence have slipped away.

How stark, the naked souls that intertwine;
How stark, now that the footlights cease to blaze;
How stark, as your proud yearning meets with mine,
The diff’rence ‘twixt love on and off the stage.

Now bed-sheets hide the pride of what was done,
The epilogue is over; love has won.

James Ball, February 2009

La Mienne

La mienne, c’est une porte ouverte,
Comme un livre,
Comme une âme.

La mienne, c’est une espérance découverte
Quand on s’enivre,
Quand on proclame ;

L’amour ! C’est évident, mais plus ;
C’est grand, tendre et absolu.

II. Grammar

Me and my friend were having an argument today. It’s an argument we have every day, in fact. It’s a matter of class, it’s a matter of pride, it’s a matter of grammar. I’ve already actually made the mistake that always ignites the ill feeling. ‘Me and my friend’ is a grammatically incorrect phrase, as you all know (I’m basing that on the probable demographic of this blog…), it should be ‘my friend and I’. But, why do people get stressed about grammar? Why do I get stressed with people who get stressed with grammar? Why do I rely on rhetorical questions to form my introductions? That’s a question for another day. For now, let’s discuss grammar and class warfare.

I consider my knowledge of grammar to be pretty comprehensive, especially in this day-and-age of un-censored, un-edited, (un-educated) internet bloggers. However, there are lines to be drawn. I consider that the most important function of language is to make someone else understand what you feel, think etc. and it follows that grammar serves to elucidate the point; the logic-concrete to glue together the noun-bricks, or something… This puts grammar as subservient to meaning in any particular sentence. Most people would understand what ‘me, friend, argument’ implies, so what does it matter if, when we introduce grammar, I use the correct pronoun, and twist the phrase around?

I’ll tell you why it matters. Using pedantically accurate grammar is a hallmark of the upper classes, and therefore a hallmark of the middle classes who are trying to seem like the higher ones. This is why people use over-the-top fancy grammar; it’s an image thing. And I would certainly argue that ‘my friend and I’ is using fancy grammar. Turning the sentence round is a continental thing; eg. ‘est-ce que tu est son ami?’ or ‘bist du nicht seine jünger eine?’, and it’s usually used for a question. We would no longer say ‘are you not one of his disciples?’ and we certainly wouldn’t say ‘is it that you are his friend?’, unless perhaps you speak Estuary English.

The problem is that good grammar then becomes a weapon in class warfare. Elitist upper-class wannabes will, even before you’ve finished saying ‘me and my friends’, someone’s jumped down your throat and corrected smugly; ‘my friend and I’. They then look down on you, perhaps even ‘rise above it’, for ‘they know not what they do’. How ‘drôle’. No. It’s despicable.

I’m not advocating the dissolution of grammar… I don’t think I’m even advocating the destruction of ‘my friends and I’, in certain circumstances like formal essays, official signs etc. But certainly in speech it’s not impairing the meaning. Rant over. Ooh, not quite, I love it when people correct you when actually you got it right, ie. ‘he gave it to me and my friend.’ ‘No, that should be “he gave it to my friend and I”’ ‘No it shouldn’t, you pretentious twat.’ Now I am happy. And so is my friend.

I. Musicals

Well here’s my first post! I’m hoping to cover a wide range of subjects close to my heart; music, predominantly, but I hope that’ll lead on to more diverse musings. As for the subject of my first one… Musicals? I do love a good musical. What makes a good musical? That’s a difficult thing to define.

One important aspect, according to some purveyors of low-end commercial musicals (obviously this isn’t an opinion to which I personally subscribe…), is the catchy-ness of the songs. Whether you’re humming ‘Defying Gravity’ or ‘Any Dream Will Do’, you’re caught in the net; it’ll make you download the Broadway Cast Recording, buy the DVD, or, worse yet, actually purchase extortionate tickets for the London theatre! Even my personal favourite musical, Les Misérables, uses catchy tunes to sell its wares, cf. ‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’ and others.

Many people use musicals as an escape; a place where the normal rules of keeping things to yourself just don’t apply. Every five minutes there’s a self-indulgent soliloquy. You know the score, the strings rush up, you look off into the distance, fling your arms out on the last chorus… But I’m getting carried away with myself. See? It’s addictive! Shallow though, I would argue, there’s not much ‘substance’, whatever that may mean.

Perhaps as a reaction to this, people add a dash of politics to their shows. ‘Rent’ with its liberal agenda, ‘Chicago’ against press influence in the courts (at a push…), and my personal favourite, ‘Cabaret’ with its look in to all sorts of things; Nazism, abortion, homosexuality, I could go on. ‘The Future Belongs to Me’ is a great example of a clever, simple-yet-effective song, and in fact, all the songs have this beguiling mix of simplicity and incisive wit.

Well, having said all that, there is one defining factor, one that trumps all that has come above: it HAS to be LOUD. Seriously. Les Mis (btw I’d like to point out that I refuse to use a ‘z’!) probably wouldn’t be the pillar-of-the-genre that it is if it wasn’t frequently louder than you can probably stand. Obviously it has really quiet bits, which are important too, but ‘One Day More’… Wow, it gets me every time.

It’s about singing as loud as you can; screaming (aesthetically….) about how you feel. It’s cathartic not just for the singer(s), but also for the audience. Perhaps this is the real social importance of musical theatre, a collective release of emotions: it’s good for the soul! You don’t really need poignant social commentary, à la ‘Cabaret’, although that helps, you don’t really need a happy ending, à la every cheesy musical by Rogers and Hammerstein, et al. but you do need an intense outpouring of emotion, à la, perhaps, ‘Epiphany’ in Sweeney Todd. Obviously I’m being a musical-theatre fascist, you’re welcome to your own opinion. There’s a lot to be said for over-the-rainbow escapism, but I’d rather stay in Kansas, thank you very much, screaming at the clouds.