I have started watching a program called Rome that came out a while ago. I saw the ads for it and thought ugh! It will be all blood and guts and poking out of eyes and other delights that the Romans liked to do for a relaxing evening out. I was right! It is a totally disgusting program full of really good British actors doing, in their guise as Romans, truly horrible things to each other.
I have avoided anything to do with the Romans all my life. I was born in a land conquered by them and walked along Hadrian's Wall for picnics when I was a kid. My Dad drove along Roman roads. The one we used a lot is called the A 12 now but still arrow straight to the destination. We all knew Newcastle's name was Corstopitum which made us laugh. I can't think why. So growing up I felt that I had had a basin full of the Romans and to top it all off there was a lot of merry making when relatives got together on how we were descended from these nasty people. When they weren't guffawing about marauding Danes. Take your pick!
We were studying our invaders at school and as the list of their wicked ways grew I became more and more convinced that I was merely an ancient Briton. There I was cooking my woad and tending the kiddiwinks and had not a drop of Roman DNA in me never mind that shower across the North Sea.
I am not sure when the Romans became the flavour of the age but "I Claudius" drew an admiring crowd and now we have "Rome" in all its vulgarity and brutality. It makes "The Sopranos" look like little lambs frolicking, tra la. Pax Romana indeed! Can't wait for next week. Must be the fascination of horror.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Mushrooms
I am inspired by a kindly comment left on my last blog regarding my comparison between hatching thoughts and mushrooms. Being left alone in the dark etc. and then along comes something delicious with a little butter, salt and pepper, of course. I never thought of writing that way. That it might be a tasty bite for someone besides me. The only reason I bother with this activity is that the thoughts awhirl and atwirl in my poor head are out and I can pretend I am normal for awhile until something else starts to bedevil me. Then I am sat back in front of this thing or else looking in despair at a blank page wondering should I write about this or that or should I just poke the pencil through my eye and have done with it !
This is not a new phenomenon but rather an unfortunate state of affairs that has plagued me most of my life. It seems when I was two I drew a recognisible picture of a sailboat. I have seen said picture. It was put in a scrapbook and looked to my critical eye like a scribble. But no the cat was out of the bag and if I wasn't drawing I was writing. An epic poem I wrote about a skunk ended up on the notice board in the school hallway. I was seven and that was it. Fame and fortune would surely find their shining way to my door. Sadly no. To have recieved an education and to chuck it away for a dicey life in the creative arts was in my neck of the woods akin to slapping on the warpaint, hauling up your skirts and hitting the streetcorner! Apart from what will the neighbours think there was a genuine concern for a precarious future with hit and miss income. These people had been through a depression and a war and you would not believe the bags of sugar that could be found at any one time in our kitchen cupboards. Unfortunately I let their fear become mine and it led me on a long detour. Never mind, all roads lead to Rome and here I am plodding along the Via Appia. Someone is reading this, so fame is sort of mine. It just took a little longer.
This is not a new phenomenon but rather an unfortunate state of affairs that has plagued me most of my life. It seems when I was two I drew a recognisible picture of a sailboat. I have seen said picture. It was put in a scrapbook and looked to my critical eye like a scribble. But no the cat was out of the bag and if I wasn't drawing I was writing. An epic poem I wrote about a skunk ended up on the notice board in the school hallway. I was seven and that was it. Fame and fortune would surely find their shining way to my door. Sadly no. To have recieved an education and to chuck it away for a dicey life in the creative arts was in my neck of the woods akin to slapping on the warpaint, hauling up your skirts and hitting the streetcorner! Apart from what will the neighbours think there was a genuine concern for a precarious future with hit and miss income. These people had been through a depression and a war and you would not believe the bags of sugar that could be found at any one time in our kitchen cupboards. Unfortunately I let their fear become mine and it led me on a long detour. Never mind, all roads lead to Rome and here I am plodding along the Via Appia. Someone is reading this, so fame is sort of mine. It just took a little longer.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Speaking in Tongues
It's been a while I know but what can one do when the Muse does not speak? I am writing this with the morning sun in my eyes which is a bit trying but anything is better than winter darkness.
Now on to the matter at hand. I was puzzling over speech forms one morning and started to think on various phrases that mean so much to me and so little to anyone else or perhaps a very few. I was remembering my Mother when she was a much younger woman and how she used to bend English to suit herself. Suiting herself was a large part of her personality come to think of it. One of the classics came forth as my sister and I were pulling each other's hair.
"Stop that you two, hawling like a pair of brooligans!" It did. We weren't at all sure what she had said but the meaning was very clear. Her other beaut was the infamous "truggling rag" with which she struggled one day to lay flat in the back seat of the car. Then her piece de resistance[ imagine the` accent]" piddle pashers" which she felt were not at all flattering to my teenage figure. She was right . I had unfortunately inherited her Queen Anne legs, a topic never to be mentioned as when I did she informed me that I had lovely legs. No wonder I have such a light grip on the way the world works. There might be more of these things lurking in the recesses but it's awfully early and that is all that come to mind. They are like mushrooms these things. You have to leave them alone in the dark and let them grow.
Now on to the matter at hand. I was puzzling over speech forms one morning and started to think on various phrases that mean so much to me and so little to anyone else or perhaps a very few. I was remembering my Mother when she was a much younger woman and how she used to bend English to suit herself. Suiting herself was a large part of her personality come to think of it. One of the classics came forth as my sister and I were pulling each other's hair.
"Stop that you two, hawling like a pair of brooligans!" It did. We weren't at all sure what she had said but the meaning was very clear. Her other beaut was the infamous "truggling rag" with which she struggled one day to lay flat in the back seat of the car. Then her piece de resistance[ imagine the` accent]" piddle pashers" which she felt were not at all flattering to my teenage figure. She was right . I had unfortunately inherited her Queen Anne legs, a topic never to be mentioned as when I did she informed me that I had lovely legs. No wonder I have such a light grip on the way the world works. There might be more of these things lurking in the recesses but it's awfully early and that is all that come to mind. They are like mushrooms these things. You have to leave them alone in the dark and let them grow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)