Scruton and the meaning of life

I was interested to see the BBC getting out its sophisticated costume the other night to offer a temporary escape from the relentless drivel on TV in the shape of a slightly pompous Roger Scruton waxing philosophical on the nature of beauty.

With some invoking of philosophy – Kant, Plato – the odd sprinkiling of the ghouls of yesteryear propped up with an attempt not to sneer excessively, he managed to come across as not unreasonable.  Beauty to him was defined as something that wasn’t defined by use, but that aesthetics spawned use rather than the other way round.  His main focus was art and architecture, with a brief sidestep to music at the end.  It was a bit too brief to really get into the detail, but I thought it raised a decent question about attempts to define value.

While value in terms of how ‘good’ art or architecture is will always be subjective, I think there is a hint that aspirations are changing.  Not easy to define, but I do find myself put out by the fixation on cheap celebrity, often at the expense of anything challenging and interesting, anything that broadens the mind.  Money is king these days – and however loudly you can spend it.

Maybe I’m on my way to becoming snivelling and bitter, but I do wonder how the next generations will be inspired or engaged.  Things seem to be heading for the dystopia of Fahrenheit 451 – gormless wall to wall TV, books banned as they are considered dangerous as they might actually inspire ideas.

 

Return to action

Right.  Well then.  My last post was actually the harbinger for a fortnight’s silence rather than a steady stream of invective.  Part of it’s the loss of habit, partly the increase in stress at work, but the blog was just flickering in the embers of my scorched cranium.

This is no great reignition, and I expect things to be largely staccato for the rest of the year.

But as I’m here, for now at least, I’ll push this button and leave open this link – http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/belief/2009/oct/30/religion-atheism , which, as you may forecast has induced plenty of fire and brimstone on the message boards.

Defining anything in political terms – as some kind of movement or campaign, tends to transform a trait into a label – and the same appears to be true of atheism.  That man Dawkins sprung a bit of sind up those who had no religious beliefs, and when things start to move there will always be dissenters wanting things to be slightly different.

I think there is a distinction to be had between atheism or religion, which is a personal choice; and secularism verus religion in terms of power and influence.  In shadowy back alleys of old churches men in odd garb may be having anxious conversations.  At least, I like to imagine they would be,  hoping that the early sniping from the atheist undergrowth asserts itself in a more formal coming together.

But the campaign I could support would be one about reducing the political role of religion – there should be a clean split.  I seem to recall that was the case in the founding documents of the US, though the religious divide seems to be particularly ingrained that side of the ditch.

More on this in due course, I guess, once I get a bit more momentum rolling again.

End of pause

Just a blip on the radar after a period of silence.  Unannounced as not deliberate – computer had spluttering a bit, but it blinked and decided that was that.  Now back to function after surgery, more will be forthcoming in due course.

Right now I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten to say.

Testing the anger button

It has been a relatively placid time when my inner attention wheel points vaguely at the rest of the world, what with the departure from the scene of the apoplexy – inducer in chief,  GW Bush and his marauding sidekick Rumsfeld, who probably invades his own house each evening.

Settling under the broad Obama beam, there has been relatively little to instantly flick the weather vane to extremes.  Though that said, the same’s not true of domestic politics stateside, where everyone seems to be losing their collective handle and bawling at all and sundry.  There’s an interesting article on Clive Crook’s blog (http://blogs.ft.com/crookblog/2009/10/an-american-polity-blinded-by-rage/) in which he draws some fairly stark conclusions from the ongoing imbroglio over healthcare.

Nonetheless, the recent shenanigans at the climate change conference have also begun to fray at the mind of the muzzled inner mongrel, and it’s pretty disappointing to hear that the US is wanting to create whole new frameworks before it’ll engage with the emissions reductions process from Kyoto.  I will try harder to find the article with the appropriate references, think it was in the Guardian.  Anyway, it was a shadow of the way the US has often sought to engage with the world – on its’ terms or not at all.

Mind you, China are being equally unequivocal from the other side of the coin, and it’ll be interesting to see how their foreign policy develops as their influence broadens, given their internal mechanisms are still pretty heavy handed in their method of control.

There’s a bigger deal here in relation to how the UN institutions work, and how undemocratic some of the structures – in particular the security council – are.  It’s pretty difficult to see a way of real progress with exclusive clubs of rich countries defining the terms for the rest, and this latest antagonism over emissions is in a similar vein.  Interesting articles were raising how the Kyoto was flawed but nonetheless represented a framework for action which should be strengthened rather than scrapped altogether.

This is to be continued, but I thought the correlation was fairly apt, given the history of US engagement with the UN, even though in general it appears to be improving.

Hopefully this is a blip rather than a sign of things to come.

Rekindling the Olympic spirit

Generally pleased by this afternoon’s announcement that Rio de Janeiro will host the Olympics in 2016.  It was good to see it going to a new country – a new continent even – and hopefully it’ll positively affect the lives of those in the favelas as well.  There should be sufficient means, with the football World Cup being in the same country two years beforehand.  It was quite something watching the celebrations accelerate, that one will run for sure.

I remember London’s victory a few years ago, leaping about the place like a lunatic and being distinctly irritated by people muttering about transport and costs.  It’s great that this time it’s in a city with apparently the highest proportion of enthusiastic citizens.  I hope Londoners’ tendency to act the cumudgeon doesn’t scupper things in 3 years time, but not too optimistic.

Scratching a quiet tune

Brainstink hangs damp as the days turn dark, winter beckoning crassly through the oncoming gloom.  Matchstick men scurry through the fidgety wind and imminent rain.

Humdinger time, mellow bubbles of warmth snag frazzled, grim faced commuters, mind staved in but hearts yearning for warmth and ease.  Those that anticipate hurry to, those that do not merely hurry from.

Flapping across town at dusk, hat brim down and collar up, it’s an odd time of reflection, power and emptiness.  Digressing from the pulp and work and the functions of home a sense of drifting rolls through the unkempt depths, hoary and rugged the internal tide swings and surges, an echo sounding that lets the body rock.  Sucking air through my teeth, flickers of long vision briefly freeze frame, staccato emotions drawing stark lines on a flickering face.  Etch a sketch for the impatient.

Wheeling away on an early winter’s night cackling softly to myself, miming aeroplanes in the solitary zones on the fringes of the rush hour, hard shoulder antics keeping the soul in pungent spirit.

I’m not quite sure what this is all about, a bit of a tangent, side street with triangular houses, diversion from the incoming storms.  Night draws on, in, furtive humanity commences under the unyielding face of winter.

Encouraging signs

Fluttering briefly here this evening, but a couple of promising bits of news leaked through the media rumble lately that’ve given cause for a discernable change in tightened faces.  Well, just a little less sour, at least, baying in the glory of the mind’s eye.

First, I see that further to the extended mutterings about rugby that Argentina will join what was the tri-nations.  Good start, even though it’s conditional and not until 2012, but at least it’s a step in the right direction.  More pacific islands next, if there was any justice in it.

Second, I see that Obama’s speech appears to have largely hit the mark – the sceptical bloke in the FT seemed reasonably convinced, at least.  It’s still a little startling how some of those republicans think, can’t quite get my head around it.  Seems that all tax is demonised, regardless of what it might do or who it might save sometimes.

Finally, and somewhat bizarrely, I hear that Eddie Izzard is running 43 marathons in 52 days.  Just thought I’d share this striking fact with you.  I believe he is a Palace fan too.  Chapeau to that man.

Occasional sharking for oddities brings up some pleasant surprises.

The awkward patient

Sometimes through the smeared panes of passing vehicles, I catch a glimpse of other people’s lives, hearing the sawdust voice of REM’s Everybody Hurts s eking scratchily on the internal radio.   Flimsy character assassinations flit silently behind hooded eyes, swooping across the maelstrom to delve in other people’s imaginary worlds.  Everything seems much more straightforward from the outside.

Even on the occasions you get a little closer, the sureness of diagnosis can seem so easy, being on the outside looking on and not gripped by the other’s fears and weakness.

The line between the two diminishes, in the dark shadows and lean lines of the bathroom mirror, you spot yourself glowering.  Putting on your police shot face, the hankering to crawl out of your own skull and give yourself a beating gnaws insidiously at your innards, until clutching your head in frenzied hands you lean against the cold tiles, breathing eerily.  Just like in the films, you smirk sardonically to yourself.

This should be when the padded doors swing open to a beam of sunshine, and improbable looking nurses armed with clipboards and slapped on clown’s grins  march you for your daily medication.

Instead, blinking wanly in the half light,  you run your finger round the grimy basin, slide melodramatically to the floor and gaze half heartedly through the frosted window pane, fringed with mould, almost wishing it were so.  That someone else would define the way, the plan, sort out the details.

Disordered and frothy at the mouth, we stumble on instead, hoping for a schism in the haze, something to signal the right direction.

Searching for narrative

And so, clad in a shirt bought in a South African stall, I zeroed in on the Notting Hill carnival, slightly self conscious and tentative.  Setting everything up for a notorious exposure of craziness and rapture, you might think.  Well, there was a bit of both, but the overall sense was of something fairly controlled.  There was dancing, there was noise, just in retrospect a certain lack of full – bloodedness.

Stood near the end overlooking the canal, on which a boat with a blues band stoked the air with movement.  Husky rain dimpled the water, lit up by Dickensian streetlights.  Leaning against the railing, for a time the steady breeze softened the shrill squawk of trouble, and peering out of dewy eyes the world seemed mollified, open, pliable.

Shades of Venice a few years ago – night time along a stretch of urban water is a lure for me, compelling.  I recall the sense from the Waterbabies book, the vivid feeling of being able to swim away from everything angular and rusty that looms on the earth above.  But instead to dive and whirl, unencumbered by gravity, let loose from constraints, relishing the possibilities of the world.

Sanguine in the passing of the reverie, the fleeting sense of possibility echoed and faded.  Allowed the dark to encroach again, eyes pooled in heavy absence, anticipating the fallout.  The inner gears, though, added a litlte extra grip, a slight tone of lever.  Their time will come.

I did, of course, start this on the proviso of cricket.  And there I shall end it – seized a moment and a chance, collectively accosting two men with flags – got one right and one wrong.  But one may be a relative of Alvin Kallicharan, of West Indies fame.  Played in New Zealand with Otago too, no less.  I have his email, shall ask the question.

Bulletin

Dragged loosely out of the scheme of things over the last week or so, I return feeling bleached and scattergun, a bit like those cartoon characters with rubber faces, pulling every expression known to man inside a ten second frame.

Loping sidelong into your picture, I have of course forgotten what I was going to say.  Much has happened, I suppose.  England went and won the ashes in a manner that seemed almost straightforward, despite the growing apoplexy of watching England fans who would proclaim the end was nigh at every turn.  In part, yes my mind was similarly steered, but just when England could have collapsed, someone pulled through, and vice versa with the Aussies.  It’s those points when matches are won and lost, and usually England lose.  All the more head scratching then, but hopefully with less fragile performances due on the back of this.

In a similar vein, I see that cricketing titan Dan Vettori has ground his way into the exclusive all rounders club – 300 wickets and 3000 runs – especially pleasing since he often seems to be playing the opposition by himself.  The return of Bond should help with that mind you.  I remember following a match in which he has been hit for a boundary, but came up with a terrific 95 mph jaffa next, the commentator screaming ‘But this is Bond’.  NZ could do with that kind of oomph again, even if he is a bit injury prone and 33.

Over the weekend I went to the Notting Hill Carnival, and more on that and cricket for next time…