On Sunday morning, fueled with nothing but determination and a cup of tea, I started to write my first blog piece in several weeks.  In half an hour I’d made a start, but start was all  I was to make.  The ordinary demands of six pets, two teenagers and one husband intruded but I was confident I would finish.  Confidence and all other personal feelings left me when I received a phone call from the hospital; my father was demanding release, not from life but from medical incarceration.  

This and other things have been the story of my life for months.  I’m sharing this with you, and forgive me if it’s tedious, so that you may appreciate that you’ve been in my fleeting thoughts.  At the moment, rather than possessing a strong desire to write, I crave the feeling that starts that process.  I long for the mental space to let my thoughts drift, to allow creative impulses to grow, to just sit quietly and be.  

Since September I’ve come through a court case where I represented myself, both of my children being violentally threatened by someone, a psychological malaise that I couldn’t seem to shake and now my father’s cancer and rapidly declining health*.  I’m not asking for sympathy, many have far worse to contend with and I know that.  All of this has something to do with the absence of longer text posts on my blog though.  

Inbetween the activities of my day, thoughts swirl by like zephyrs.  Some of the things I’d like to write about include; where memories are held, organ transplant recipients who find themselves wholly altered by/with their new organs, having developed characteristics and tastes they didn’t hold previously.  Also, there is a peristent thought about what it is to live outside the box, how you are never free from the indefinable ‘norm,’ as people will continually remind you of your distance from it.  I’ve been considering the people that represent our interests too, such as lawyers, doctors, teachers and how they react when we take full responsibility for ourselves or those we advocate for.  These zephyr thoughts are balm to my overstimulated mind and as soon as possible, they will find themselves a place in this blog.

For now, many thanks again for your patience and I hope to be back with you fully soon.

*For those who like to know the outcome of a story, the court case ended satisfactorily.  I learned much about the Canadian legal system and I acquitted myself well.

 My teens have both started relationships and the ‘ex’ of one of their new partners threatened them.  It was taken seriously as this person has a disturbing and violent past that has already resulted in punitive measures being applied by the police.  Both my children are fine and hopefully it was a storm in a teacup.

 My father is getting over a medical procedure gone wrong that resulted in emergency surgery.  He’s recovering at home now, but the trauma of this and the cancer that has laid seige to his body is taking its toll.

 The malaise was eventually beaten into submission, its cause a reaction to many trying events.  Self prescribed strong tea every 4-6 hours, plenty of irreverent wit and the best of the BBC are keeping the demons at bay.  

((For photo source, click here.)      

Yesterday was a day of many demands, almost surreal in terms of the contrast of different emotional worlds.  In brief, these included taking a family member to hospital and with that came worry, the need to reassure, suppression of self to be present for another, and mental focus in order to be a good advocate for one too old to do so.  This was juggled with court, a family matter that had ten years behind it and a sea of feelings.  There was a lot of research, intense mental activity and again, a suppression of emotions in order to remain clear headed and sharp.  Later, I was standing outside the cinema queuing for “Midnight’s Children,” when it came to me what a strange mixture of a day it had been.  I won’t spoil the film for those who haven’t seen it but I admit, I do not love the wry and wordy Mr. Rushdie, nor did I love this film.  It was, we agreed, a film that one would benefit from knowledge of the history of India, Pakistan and Bangladesh.  There were many layers to the story and fragmented drama, not so much taking you on a journey, as walking you through an interesting shop of things, with many rooms and all the products quite different.  It left me feeling unsettled but I really enjoyed the setting and some of the language was brilliant.  Simple phrases remain, such as “handcuffed to history,” I do like that one.  

Today I’m grounding myself with cooking, catching up with correspondence and listening to music.  I’m baking banana bread, making pumpkin and coconut soup and vegetable curry.  Run Rig’s old favourite is playing, “Heartland,” and the air is filled with a sweet banana aroma, underscored by masala, cardamon and cinnamon. 

I’ve had rather an epic week with a court case to prepare for and a hospital visit for my father which resulted in some very bad news.  In the meantime, life continues its hurried pace, unabated.  I had arranged a guest blogger, in view of what promised to be a demanding week but he pulled out at the last minute.  I’m feeling overwhelmed, trying to keep my head and not be dragged under.  Possibly the image is more than the prevalent mood, but the drama of it resonates.  At times like this, I’ve noticed how I savour my cup of hot tea warmth, looking at the raindrop jewels clinging to the bare branches of trees - the small pleasures are not small and life goes on, there’s something of comfort in that.

(Painting “Miranda, The Tempest,” 1916, by John William Waterhouse, click on link here for source.)       

I once organised a demonstration outside the Scottish Parliament.  It was a serious issue that brought me there, one involving the needs of children.  There are many other things that concern me, issues of inequality, injustice of any kind, disenfranchisement of those without a voice, and the list goes on and on.  They are also serious issues.  On this day outside Parliament, I wore Victorian costume to illustrate outdated legislation that desperately needed review.  Some local newspapers and radio stations picked up the story, and that was the end of that.  I had failed to capture widespread interest and support. 

Mark Twain said “clothes make the man,” and “naked people have little or no influence on society,” but according to John Updike, “being naked approaches being revolutionary.”  If I had wanted better coverage of my demonstration, I need only have uncovered myself.  In Scotland, this would constitute a breach of the peace, which is partly defined as “conduct which does, or could, cause the lieges (public) to be placed in a state of fear, alarm or annoyance.”  I would not have to cause those things to actually happen but could be arrested because, theoretically, my nakedness could potentially elicit this response.  Nakedness is newsworthy in our world, criminal, and unless it’s expressed sexually, deeply suspect.

I don’t agree with Mr. Twain and believe what makes a man or woman lies in the heart and mind of what he covers.  Virginia Woolf goes further, “There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them; we may make them, take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.”

One man who has had many years of incarceration to consider the question is Stephen Gough, otherwise known as the “Naked Rambler.”  He has twice walked the length of Britain, divested of clothing.  His most recent conviction, which had him residing at HMP Perth is his 17^th in 10 years, for breach of the peace.  He believes that “we’re all good and his body by extension, is also good and therefore cannot be offensive.”  We do give mixed and disturbing messages to our young, living in a highly sexualised time, where we hardly notice gratuitous sex and violence, but the sight of a naked man is flagrant criminal behaviour.  “One radio commentator remarked that this was a matter of protecting our children, as Mr. Gough could be a paedophile, thus implying that clothing is an indicator of healthy sexuality.”

Where do our strong reactions to nudity come from?  In dream analysis, nakedness has several interpretations.  The most common is to do with sexual attraction, but it can also illustrate vulnerability, honesty, and liberty.  The meaning we derive depends on how we feel about nudity.  I can’t deny that I would feel vulnerable and embarrassed to be fully revealed in a public place; clothes provide a kind of armour.  “It is an interesting question how far men would retain their relative rank if they were divested of their clothes.”  Thoreau makes a valuable point, clothing is more than something we hide behind; it also communicates our position in a myriad of ways.

Some believe that we’re destined to be forever clothed and ‘shamed,’ due to the biblical Adam and original sin.  In the King James version of the Bible, there are 49 references to nudity.  The earliest version was written in Greek and Hebrew but the word for naked is cloaked in ambiguity.  “There are two possible words ‘eromim,’ which means to be naked or without clothes, and ‘arumim,’ which means the uncovering of deceptions.  Interestingly, Genesis and the rest of the Torah were written using only consonants, with no vowels.”  Consequently, both of these words are the same in Hebrew text – ‘rmm.’  Whatever meaning you derive from the Bible, it’s not just nudity that’s threatening, revealing the truth has a similarly powerful impact.

One city that espouses truth and free expression is San Francisco, a place where public nudity has gained acceptance.  Providing the naked person doesn’t display visible arousal, and wears some form of genital covering in public parks – they are free to be unclothed.  This freedom is under threat though.  The City Supervisor, Scott Weiner, hopes to introduce a bill to criminalise nudity in public places.  There’s currently a petition doing the rounds in the city to try to retain its liberal stance. If Mr. Weiner were successful, San Franciscans would have to cover up or risk fines and punitive charges.

We do get our knickers in a twist over this issue.  If the Naked Rambler walked by your door, would you be alarmed, fearful or annoyed?  In his words, “We can either end up living a life that others expect of us or lives based on our own truth.  The difference is the difference between living a conscious life or one that is unconscious.  And that’s the difference between living and not living.”

Additional research: (click on links provided to view full sites/pieces)

The Dream Dictionary – ‘dreams’

Religious Tolerance. Org, the Bible – ‘religion’

Tumblr (Stephen Gough) – ‘scotianostra’

The Guardian – background, Stephen Gough

The Guardian – ‘making us look silly,’ Stephen Gough

International Business, San Francisco – Free Expression

© S. Marian, Oct. 23, 2012   

“The Respondent spoke first, mustering the best of centuries of an empire and the authority of academic heights.  Another unspoken truth was an underground river, it talked of freedom from such dominance and for once I was glad to be here, to be who I am.  He obfuscated and stalled and then went silent.  I felt tightness in my throat as I focused on clarity and truth in my words.  I questioned the misinformation and requested evidential support.  The Judge said something and when I answered, I glimpsed his quick smile.  As fast as it can take a gavel to fall, it disappeared.  It’s fair to say that on that stage, on this day, I rocked.”

© S. Marian, Sept.4, 2012

An excerpt from “Courting Justice,” to be found on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue

(“You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” the Rolling Stones.)

“After years of being on the receiving end of selifsh irresponsibility, my day had finally come.  Sometimes words are pale, and perfect gestures spring from the heart of our pain. As I rounded the corner and within sight of the pair, I swung my full skirt out, a rebellious flick and I was gone.  It was a signal of pure gallus defiance that no words could have expressed.”

© S. Marian, Sept.4, 2012

An excerpt from “Courting Justice,” to be found on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue

A couple of weeks ago found me sitting in a courtroom awaiting an interim hearing.  A financial matter brought me there, a hope that justice would at last prevail.  I had been told that nothing would be discussed or decided on this day, it was simply a ‘cattle call.’  This was as well as I wasn’t alone.  Aside from the Respondent in my case, there were easily 30 people in the room.

It wasn’t a criminal court but the benches we were relegated to were punishing and short nevertheless.  The Sheriff wore his authority in his holster and set to stun. Two female counsel were busy at desks, higher than us lowlies but below the Judge.  The man of the day sat above everyone else, at the top of the room.  Robed and balding he had a formidable poker face.  I wasn’t relishing going before this presence.    

The air was warm and heavy with anxiety and the woman on the bench behind me was breathing in my ear.  She was larger than the wooden seat allowed and had to lean forward.  A whiff of peppermint and sweat drifted toward me.  Her intake of air was so loud I could hardly hear the Judge.  Oddly she suddenly left before being called.  People came and went.  Every time court staff or a lawyer entered the room, they bowed toward the Judge briefly.  A brassy female and her toddler replaced Heavy Breathing.  The child ran back and forth along the bench behind.  The Sheriff showed signs of internal struggle, unsure how to manage this young miscreant.  At last the Mother saw they would have to leave. 

After the Mother and her child vacated the bench, things settled down.  I started to pay more attention to the cases presented.  Various lawyers brought their files and arguments to the lectern in front of the Lady Counsel.  The files were thick with the weight of peoples lives gone badly wrong.  Most of it was procedural; language only the initiated could follow.  The Judge dealt with them swiftly and then things were enlivened by one hapless solicitor.  Despite his pin striped armour, he was ill prepared for examination by the Judge.  He ummed and shuffled files around desperately, had failed to serve papers correctly and finally the Judge dismissed him, with hardly a glance.  The wood paneled room was graveyard quiet while Hapless left, not before executing a low and humble bow. 

Next up was an ex couple, at war over a child of two.  The Vamp had long brown hair and longer legs perched on black stilettos.  The deep slit in her skirt revealed workouts and her ex wasn’t oblivious to this.  Her lawyer presented a few scattered arguments as to why this man, a step father, should be denied access to the child.  If appearances were persuasive then the Vamp was credible.  Her ex was rough, not a diamond just ragged and hard.  His lawyer hardly spoke, letting the filed submissions convey the injustice.  They told of a loving step father, involved and responsible and an extended family of support.  Appearances are so deceiving but the Judge was not taken in.  The Rough gained ground and the Vamp shot him dead with a look.

There was an ex lawyer with substance abuse issues who nearly bowed out of habit.  He was treated kindly and made a promise to attend an appropriate program.  A lanky man on one side of me compulsively picked his cuticles, while the woman in front, wearing an exotic spiky bracelet rocked just a little.  The Cuticle Picker left.  I was now sitting next to, with too small a distance between, the Respondent’s wife.  There is no love lost here.  I can be mature but I did not wish to be so within cosy proximity.  The solution entered like an eccentric blessing. 

He was Jamaican, hyper and displaying a nervous charm.  He wanted me to move over to sit next to me, but that would not do.  I got out and in courtly fashion, gestured grandly that he should take my seat and I offered to sit on the edge.  He said in stage whisper, “Oh, we are playing musical chairs,” and I commented dryly, “Something like that.”  I warmed to this island man and I’m sure the charm had saved him too often in his life.  She of no love lost was not impressed with my manoeuvering. 

We sat fairly close, the Fidget and I.  He wore a potent scent of alcohol, overlaid with mint.  He kept trying to engage me, I could feel him staring at my resolutely, straight ahead face.  I thought he was looking for some support.  Fidget was called before me, we were to be nearly last it seemed.  He shuffled back and forth like a line dancer at the front of the room, swinging from emotional appeals to feigned ignorance.  When things didn’t go his way, he stormed out the heavy doors, muttering loudly.  Now it was our turn.

No Love Lost remained on the penance bench while the Respondent and I came forward.  A country of immigrants with laws for all, it’s true.  We represented ourselves and I’d done my research.  I was shocked when we were questioned but had time to gather myself.  The Respondent spoke first, mustering the best of centuries of an empire and the authority of academic heights. Another unspoken truth was an underground river, it talked of freedom from such dominance and for once I was glad to be here, to be who I am.  He obfuscated and stalled and then went silent.  I felt tightness in my throat as I focused on clarity and truth in my words. I questioned the misinformation and requested evidential support. The Judge said something and when I answered, I glimpsed his quick smile.  As fast as a gavel can fall, it disappeared.  It’s fair to say that on that stage, on this day, I rocked. 

I could feel the panic of one cornered next to me as the Judge upheld my requests.  The date was set to appear again, a warning issued to the Respondent to supply evidence.   We exited the courtroom.  I was a dozen paces ahead while walking down the hall.  I felt No Love Lost and the Respondent whispering behind.  After years of being on the receiving end of selfish irresponsibility, my day had finally come.  Sometimes words are pale, and perfect gestures spring from the heart of our pain.  As I rounded the corner and within sight of the pair, I swung my full skirt out, a rebellious flick and I was gone.  It was a signal of pure gallus defiance that no words could have expressed.

Gallus: gallus
(ga·luss) Dialect, chiefly Scot ~adj.
1. self-confident, daring, cheeky.
2. stylish, impressive (esp. Glasgow “He’s pure gallus, by the way”).
3. Orig. derogatory, meaning wild; a rascal; deserving to be hanged (from the gallows).

© S. Marian, Sept. 4, 2012               

“We exited the courtroom.  I was a dozen paces ahead while walking down the hall.  I felt ‘no love lost’ and the ‘respondent’ whispering behind.  After years of being on the receiving end of selfish irresponsibility, my day had finally come.  Sometimes words are pale, and perfect gestures spring from the heart of our pain.  As I rounded the corner and within sight of the pair, I swung my full skirt out, a rebellious flick and I was gone.  It was a signal of pure gallus defiance that no words could have expressed.”

(gallus: Scottish, cheeky, bold or daring)

© S. Marian, Sept. 3, 2012

An excerpt from something different than planned, titled, “Courting Justice,” to be posted  tomorrow, Tuesday Sept. 4,  on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue

(photo found on: alegra22.wordpress.com)

PUBLIC POLL:  WHO LIKES THIS LOOK AND WHY?

I was looking for photos of court related scenes and I found this, curious, I opened the link.  It was an advice page for people going to court and it was suggested, this may not be appropriate dress for that occasion.  

I know I’m not in the teen-25 year range anymore and I don’t get it.  Please tell me though because I want to understand WHY?  You see I’ve been there too, in that I was once in that age group and we had our eqivalent of making a statement, fashion trends that were incomprehensible to the older generation.  In that category of the time were frayed jeans, frayed sleeves, or cut off altogether, flared jeans the wider and more ridiculous the better, and long feathery earrings.  None of that impeded our walking (well, the jeans did just a bit and if you were running, they wrapped round your ankles and could trip you up).  I can only imagine this jeans at half mast, belt holding them firmly in postion, has got to be constrictingly uncomfortable.  What’s the point?

Your day in court.  That phrase has a certain weight and implies fairness, a chance to be heard and judgement.  More on this later but here are some highlights and impressions:

• the judge idol like on his platform, staff and lawyers bowing upon entering and exiting his greatness (he was pretty great actually)

• lawyers don’t always do their homework and aren’t necessarily good orators, one used the non word ‘um,’ I counted, every third word.  

• for writers looking for inspiration, go to court - it is full of colourful characters

• people do odd things when nervous such as; breathe heavily (one woman so loud I could hear her), pick at any bit of available flesh, fidget incessantly and look very grave and sigh a lot

• sometimes, justice is done