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smokingbootA friend of mine writes "Don't come quietly into my world, Come with passion and purpose. You and I, we have plans. Let's set our existence on fire."
Another friend completes more than 1000 miles of pilgrimage, through woods and fields and over mountains. I admire this so much because it is something held in his heart, more than his heart. He's been praying for people along all those muddly lonely paths, from fields of dead sunflowers to storms in the Pyrenees. I don't know what he has found for himself, but my sense is that he is happy.
I stare at these two and wonder about the nature of passion. Nothing wrong with a touch of phoenix syndrome, but the grand warnings still make sense:
Don't set fire to it unless you are ready to lose it.
Never assume there will be something to replace what you burn.
Also
Have you considered you may just be a bit bored?
I'm not saying these apply to my passionate friends, just that they are warnings to keep in my line of sight.
I am bleary and sleepy, my creative powers seem entirely drained. On Sunday we went to North Berwick, a place of passion in its time; if there was such a thing as a visual psychic imprint the town might be a howling ruin given its ugly history of witch trials and tortures. I should hate the place, sickened by the things that went on but it's impossible. The houses are delightful, there's a fine beach sprinkled with shells and lobster pots churned up by Babet, probably at least as dramatic as the storm that terrified James VI into lighting fires under innocent lives. Back in the 21st century spray danced, dogs played, and the RNLI practised drills amidst hundreds of gulls nonchalantly sitting on the waves. We wandered through the light and air, rich in fancy ice-creams, a beautiful day in a beautiful place with no sense of unquiet slumbers. If one was to direct a film about the North Berwick Witch Trials, one would have a hard job setting it in North Berwick.
When moving to Scotland, we considered buying in one of the new estates appearing on the edge of the town. Perhaps we should have done as they seem to have doubled in value, but the town's connections are only OK; last train back from Edinburgh was 10.30. Besides, I am not sure about a small modern house in an inevitably congested area. I would want some old thing facing the water, and that might not have been so very good for me. As a resident told us by way of passing: 'I had a flat on the sea front, might as well throw fifty pound notes at the front door. Now I have a new place and I've never been so warm!'
Not long before I am in a situation where I need to pay attention and be sharp. Passionate conflagrations may well be on the horizon, so I need a warm hearth right now and a cool head soon. Don't get twitchy, oh genie of passion, you'll have your day.
Another friend completes more than 1000 miles of pilgrimage, through woods and fields and over mountains. I admire this so much because it is something held in his heart, more than his heart. He's been praying for people along all those muddly lonely paths, from fields of dead sunflowers to storms in the Pyrenees. I don't know what he has found for himself, but my sense is that he is happy.
I stare at these two and wonder about the nature of passion. Nothing wrong with a touch of phoenix syndrome, but the grand warnings still make sense:
Don't set fire to it unless you are ready to lose it.
Never assume there will be something to replace what you burn.
Also
Have you considered you may just be a bit bored?
I'm not saying these apply to my passionate friends, just that they are warnings to keep in my line of sight.
I am bleary and sleepy, my creative powers seem entirely drained. On Sunday we went to North Berwick, a place of passion in its time; if there was such a thing as a visual psychic imprint the town might be a howling ruin given its ugly history of witch trials and tortures. I should hate the place, sickened by the things that went on but it's impossible. The houses are delightful, there's a fine beach sprinkled with shells and lobster pots churned up by Babet, probably at least as dramatic as the storm that terrified James VI into lighting fires under innocent lives. Back in the 21st century spray danced, dogs played, and the RNLI practised drills amidst hundreds of gulls nonchalantly sitting on the waves. We wandered through the light and air, rich in fancy ice-creams, a beautiful day in a beautiful place with no sense of unquiet slumbers. If one was to direct a film about the North Berwick Witch Trials, one would have a hard job setting it in North Berwick.
When moving to Scotland, we considered buying in one of the new estates appearing on the edge of the town. Perhaps we should have done as they seem to have doubled in value, but the town's connections are only OK; last train back from Edinburgh was 10.30. Besides, I am not sure about a small modern house in an inevitably congested area. I would want some old thing facing the water, and that might not have been so very good for me. As a resident told us by way of passing: 'I had a flat on the sea front, might as well throw fifty pound notes at the front door. Now I have a new place and I've never been so warm!'
Not long before I am in a situation where I need to pay attention and be sharp. Passionate conflagrations may well be on the horizon, so I need a warm hearth right now and a cool head soon. Don't get twitchy, oh genie of passion, you'll have your day.
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Date: 2023-10-24 12:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-10-30 12:58 pm (UTC)The estate is cited as a 'concrete jungle' by detractors!