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The title of the post is the title of the memoir written by Jeanette Winterson.
I saw the advertising of this memoir at the tube station; a familiar face in a body of a child (around 5 or 6?) holding a beach ball with swimming suit too small. The child in the picture is smiling but her smile seems somewhat forced, as if she is smiling and crying at the same time. I was drawn to the picture, and as I realised that it was Jeanette Winterson, I was intrigued. On top of that, how could anyone resist the title, "Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?"
Winterson is known as a prolific writer, but also as someone who has no inhibition declaring that she is a lesbian. Naturally, I imagined what she meant by "Happy" and "Normal" are associated with her sexuality, but this was not so. This book is about how she became who she is, and what she would have been if she was not raised the way she was raised.
Her debut novel, "Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit" was mostly drawn from her real-life story, but according to her memoir, the reality was harsher than she wrote in her novel. She was raised by a hand-to-mouth working class family outside Manchester by disturbed and neurotic adopted mother and father who was overwhelmed by this overpowering woman. Re-living her account through her memoir is like living through nightmare. An adoptive mother who thinks the world is her enemy saturated with devils, who never sleeps, who is didactic, and whose mood swings from one end to the other with the smallest provocation. The only escape route for Jeanette was the imaginative world of books and library.
Her writings are angry, because she pours and relieves her emotions into them, and she seems to know how to live with her emotion because she has found her outlet. However, she never overcame one thing, that is, to receive love and accept love as it is, just as her lover states in the book; 'Most women can give - we're trained to it - but most women find it hard to receive. You are generous and you are kind - I wouldn't want to be with you otherwise, no matter how brainy and impressive you are - but our conflicts and our difficultes revolve around love. You don't trust me to love you, do you?'
To this, she writes: 'No...I am the wrong crib...this will go wrong like all the rest. In my heart of hearts I believe that. The love-work that I have to do now is to believe that life will be all right for me. I don't have to be alone. I don't have to fight for everything. I don't have to fight everything. I don't have to run away. I can stay because this is love that is offered, a sane steady stable love.'
So this memoir is a journey of her search for love; her adopted mother may or may not have loved her, but it was never verifiable. If there was love, it was an elusive one, the one that tiniest provocation sent her out of the house, no matter how small she may have been. Her adopted father may have loved her, but he was very much in the same boat as his adopted daughter when her adopted mother was around. When Winterson finally found her birth mother who wrote to her, "You were always wanted", I cried my eyes off, because I know that these 4 words meant the world to the writer.
There is no happy ending here. Winterson found that she wasn't unwanted at one point in her life, but the fact that she lived the life she has lived cannot be edited out. The only difference is that she knows that someone wanted her, and that someone wanted her whether it is requited or not.
What I realised reading this book is that I am very similar to her when it comes to being unable to accept love. Unlike Winterson, I was raised by my birth parents, and I know that they wanted me, but that does not mean I have been able to accept what they offered.
This entry is full of quotes, but I need to quote one section that hits me like a bullet:
'But I did not know how to love. If I could have faced that simple fact about myself, and the likelihood that someone with my story (my stories, both real and invented) would have big problems with love, then, then, what?
Listen, we are human beings. Listen, we are inclined to love. Love is there, but we need to be taught how. We want to stand upright, we want to walk, but someone needs to hold our hand and balance us a bit, and guide us a bit, and scoop us up when we fall.
Listen, we fall. Love is there but we have to learn it - and its shapes and its possibilities. I taught myself to stand on my own two feet, but I could not teach myself how to love.
We have a capcity for language. We have a capacity for love. We need other people to release those capacities.'
http://www.jeanettewinterson.com/pages/content/index.asp?PageID=611
Of all the bands that exist, The Smiths remains my favorite of all time, with their ironic lyrics and addictive and obsessive songs. Their songs bring back the memories of anger and depression I felt during my youth, and the excess and emptiness I felt during the 80's, when Regan was the President and Thatcher was the PM, when the cold war was ending, and the world was still slower and disconnected without internet and mobile technology.
I just bought the Complete, the remastered version of The Smiths that includes all albums that have ever been recorded by The Smiths, with the re-mastering supervised by Johnny Marr. All of The Smiths that I own are still in the vinyl formats, so it was delightful to get all 106 songs (some from live recordings) in one go with close to 400 minutes of digital recording of my favorite songs.
I had a long train ride to Paris last week, so I immersed myself in their music, remembering how obsessive I felt about Morrissey and his lyrics. As my friends could attest, I was a sickeningly obsessed follower of Morrissey in my youth, idolising his pessimistic irony and dismissive attitude toward convention and conservatism. However, I started to feel disappointed in his recent remarks of the world that sounded more like a tired, disgruntled man, rather than progressive revel he was in his youth. The lyrics still resonated with me, and I could see why he so appealed to me so much in my youth as they still do, after I spent some time in the UK. However, when I listened to The Smiths this time around, I was absolutely astounded by the music, notably, Johnny Marr's guitar.
Marr's guitar is unique, and by itself a stand out. It supports Morrissey's lyrics, but it also attacks, surrounds, and challenges with constant consistency that could only be described as Marr. When the lyrics attack, the music withdraw, but they never go away, setting constant rhythm and adding complexity to the songs. Marr's sound is obsessive to say the least, and it complements Morrissey's lyrics like no other. That said, Morrissey's voice and Marr's guitar only collides and sets them apart, as if there is a battle between the voice and music that attacks and withdraws, creating a friction that results as intensity. That intensity is the essence of The Smiths, and if Morrissey and Marr collided in real life as in music, I can see why they only lasted for several years as a band.
I confirmed my love for The Smiths, but this time for a different reason from my youth. The underlining anger and obsession still resonate with me, but what I love most about the band is the music, more specifically, Johnny Marr's guitar.
http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/complete-remastered/id465332017
There are times when things seem to stand still, and whether you push or shove, cry or scream, nothing happens, as if you are pushing a 10-ton rock. Unless you are defeated by life, you still need to endure it and push forward no matter what, but your mind still wander to the dark places once in a while; the fear, desperation, and hopelessness.
Even in your darkest hours, you know you need to fight and try to push forward, believing that there comes a time when things will fall into places, and bad time will end somehow. You also tell yourself that nothing will happen unless you try, so you keep on trying, without any results or positive outlook.
It may sound superstitious, even fatalistic, but I do believe in cycle of luck. There are times when things just happen, when things are easy, when periods are shiny and bright, that arrive after those dark times. Whether it is affected by the constellations or birth charts, these cycles are the fact of life, and in the past two years that I count as one of my darkest years, I blindly believed in the time to come, "when all starts align", according to the horoscopes, when I could finally get out of the bad cycle.
The great news is, I am finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I can feel the weights on my shoulders lifted little by little over the past few weeks, and for the first time in few years, I am starting to feel hopeful, to the point that I could look forward to the future, believing that "the best is yet to come".
If I were to name one thing that I am good at, I would say that I have very good memory of experiences and surroundings. I'm not particularly good at remembering numeral data, logical arguments, or names, but I have impeccable memory of senses; things that I've seen, smelled, tasted, touched, or heard. Like Proust, I could recollect the memory of a place or time through one of the senses, such as the time when I stepped into the house of my friend's in Germany for the first time that reconnected me to the memory of my aunt's house in northern Japan that I haven't visited for over 20 years. At that time, it was the smell of the house that brought me back the memory, as both houses smelled (every house has distinct smell) oddly similar. My memory tends to be visual, like flashbacks or short movies, and even if I am unable to recall names or places, I could visualize the faces, colors and surroundings. My memory goes as far back as 1 and 1/2 years old, and I still surprise my parents for odd things that I remember that have long disappeared from their memories.
Recently, I had two occasions to re-consider the meaning of memory; what makes one person to have better memory than the others, and how memory could be elusive, fickle, and even selective.
The first occasion was a visit of my friend from NY and conversations I had with him on things that we remembered from our shared past. We were very close in our twenties, spent almost every weekend hanging out and shared every secret, hope and fear. He is a highly intelligent and incredibly smart person with the IQ far surpassing mine, but he claims that he is forgetful, and does not remember many things as I do. I used to agree, having had many small arguments with him on silly things such as the places that we've been that he insisted that he had never been (and of course we had, sometimes in multiple occasions), and not taking pills on time when he should have when sick. However, when we discussed our shared past experiences, I realized that he actually remembered tidbits of things that I have forgotten, and the types of memory he kept was quite different from mine. If my memory was connected with senses and feelings, his is wired with conversation and names. I was still better at recalling memories, but I did not find the memory capacity vastly different between us.
This made me think that there are no real difference in memory capacity from one person to another, but how we remember things could be dependent on our character. As a logical person with strong aptitude for words, my friend's memory seems to be wired with words and logical arguments constructed through words (and no wonder his is a lawyer), whereas my strength lies in senses and visualization.
The other thing that I realized is that those with good memory tend to have more"trigger points" that search, recall, or reconnect the labyrinth of our memory. Our mind is like internet, vast and expanding, and like "search", our mind could be indexed and recalled. However, unlike search engines that are programmed with logic and algorithm, our minds are not indexed with programs and our trigger points depend on individual strengths. Perhaps those with good memory have an ability to index their memory with better "tagging" or trigger points, like myself who tag them with 5 senses whereas my friend who tag with one.
Another occasion that makes me think of memory came few weeks ago, when I received a message from my old friend through social networking site inquiring the last names of few friends we both knew in college. I realized then that not only had I forgotten their last names, but there is not a single trace of their existence in my mind, or more surprisingly, the period.
There exists a period of two years that I consider "lost years" or to be more accurate "the discarded years", that I only wished to forget that I existed in certain place and surroundings. It seems I have succeeded in erasing my memory from the period and moved on, knowing that the memory would only makes me miserable for being a failure (in my eyes).
I realized then that I have blank indexes that are blackened and erased by myself, and the memory that could not be pulled out unless forced (such as hypnotize). It is strange that I have many bad memories that I rather forget or erase but couldn't, but have succeeded in doing so for this particular period. How did I succeed in erasing the period, and are we capable of selecting memory that we rather forget and discard from our mind? Or was my mind so full that I discarded the memories of the years that I considered unworthy of remembering and put them away, just as Dumbledore has done so in Harry Potter? Only, he had Pensieve to retrieve the memory, while I have nothing but my unreliable mind.
Medieval Fortress
Courtyard
View from the wall
Having read the threads on travel websites on Warwick Castle, I was not sure what to expect from the place. The reputation of the castle was divided; some find the place tacky and tasteless a la Madame Tussauds' Style (the castle is managed by the same operator), while the others find it entertaining and great for a day out. My verdict? I found it a great place for a family to visit during summer, especially if you are with the boys between ages 5 to 12.
I cannot deny that there are tacky and non-authentic feel to the castle, especially with displays and interiors, but where it lacks in authenticity, it tells the stories of those who lived during the medieval period, high and low, and it offers a great introduction for children into social history. I especially liked the exhibit called "The Kingmaker" where one could walk through the preparation of medieval battle with mannequins of children taking part in the preparation.
The most entertaining (and even educational) aspects of the castle are their live demonstrations including weapon/sword fights, jousting, and falconry. These 30-minutes demonstrations really transform what are written on paper into reality, even with cheap polyester costumes and stunts. I never imagined the size and speed of the horses in jousting, nor the size of the beaks of the falcons until I saw the demonstrations.
Most of the demonstrations are related to medieval battles and warfare (after all, castles were built for defense, not for show), and the place seems to bring out the Knighthood in boys. They proudly carry toy swords and shields, encourage English Knights to win over invaders during jousting, and beg parents to spend additional bobs for archery lessons on the ground.
Jousting Demonstration
With so many family enjoying the day out at the castle, one may feel a bit lonely visiting alone, but there are lots to do and to be entertained, and if the weather is nice (as most of the demonstrations are held outdoor), this may be the best family place to go during summer. I will definitely bring my nephews and godchild, if they ever visited me in the future...it will be fun to see them play the knights for a day.
Falstaff & the Bard 
Lady Macbeth & RSC
I recently visited Stratford-upon-Avon to see Harold Pinter's play, "The Homecoming", and to visit the famous Shakespeare's town that I never get around to visit until now. From London, it takes 2 and half hours to get there by train, so I decided to make a weekend break, visiting Warwick Castle on the way back. In this entry, I will cover my trip to Stratford-upon-Avon.
Stratford-upon-Avon is a beautiful small town, with well-preserved historic buildings nestled around the Avon river. Because it is the birthplace of Shakespeare, everything about the town is associated with him, from the Royal Shakespeare Company, to the houses of his birth and death. The custodian of the houses, Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, has done excellent job preserving them, as well as excavating the lost sites and collecting Tudor furniture. There are other Tudor houses in town that are independent of the Trust, such as the site of "Tudor World" where they host a Tudor-themed museum (and Lantern Ghost Tour which I will mention later) and old pubs that have been operating before the time of Shakespeare. The town is steeped with social history of non-ruling class Tudor Britain and as I learned more about them, I felt closer to the smallfolks of the time.
The oldest pub 
Below are some of the highlights of the trip:
Ann Hathaway's Cottage
Of all the houses (except for Mary Arden's Farm that I was unable to visit) managed by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, this was my favorite. The cottage is located about half mile away from the center of town, and can be reached by a passageway built between residential houses. The place is less crowded than other Shakespeare houses, and the Trust provides knowledgeable guides who offer 30 minutes talk on the life of Hathaway family and Tudor farmers. I really enjoyed the guide's talk, as she explained the lives of relatively wealthy farmers such as the Hathaways:
- The house was originally built with just one room, with a hearth in the middle of the room with no chimney, where the kitchen is currently located. Other rooms and fireplaces were built over generations. Over 10 people lived in one room at the beginning.
- 4-poster beds and Roofed bed had clear functions; they were to keep out the mice and critters crawling into beds as they dropped from the thatched roof with no plaster covering.
- Tudors cleaned their chimneys by tying the legs of chickens and dropping them head down. The birds flap their wings (usually to death) and if they were lucky enough to survive, they lived as long as they lay the eggs.
- The 'First Bed' was usually placed in the room where guests were hosted. It was one way to display their wealth. The 'Second Bed' was for the head of the household and his wife (and family) to sleep in. Shakespeare left his Second Bed to his wife, and this was most likely handed down for generation as household treasure by the Hathaways.
- Child mortality rate was low; only 1 in 5 survived.
- All households were mandated to keep the fire on hearth 24/7. Husbands had right to whip their wives if the fire went out, and they were advised to do so during the day so as not to disturb the neighbors!
- Second to the child birth, cooking was the most hazardous task for women.
- It costs 75,000 pounds to re-thatch the roof!
- Tudor houses do not have corridors. One room is connected to another, with or without doors, and every space had purpose. No privacy!
Ann Hathaway's Cottage
Ghost Tour at the Tudor World
The Tudor World, which is located in the middle of Stratford and used to be a barn that are converted to the house over generations, is a museum that showcase the social lives of Tudor smallfolks. It also claims to be the "most haunted house in Britain", and during the night, they organize Ghost Tours in the museum, guided by just one lantern held by a guide. As someone who could be easily spooked, I booked the earliest tour starting at 6:00PM, while there are still daylights outside. The guide was a chirpy young lady, and thanks to her, I was able to complete the tour. Inside the building, it was pitch dark, and a lantern was not bright enough to let me see beyond the length of an arm. As Tudor World displays mannequins, some of them gory, it was eery to go through room to room in the darkness, even without the stories of ghosts and spirits said to inhibit the building. There were some rooms that were markedly chilly, and overall, it was one of the spookiest tours I've participated. The experience was unique and I don't regret taking it, but it is not what I like to go back to in the future. One thing I learned from the guide of this tour: ghosts are those who relive their experiences but not to bother the living, while the spirits are those who retain their wills and could communicate with the living.
The Royal Shakespeare Company
The RSC recently completed the refurbishment of their building, and the result was an astonishing building with two theater spaces with perfect mixture of tradition and modern convenience. The theater space retains Tudor-style seating encircling the stage, with surprisingly comfortable bench-like seats. For the Pinter's play, the production has effectively used the vertical space (meaning, stairs and first and second floors landings behind the stage) to create additional acting space, as well as walkway areas attached to the central stage. The entrance to the building is a marvel, with tall glasses bringing in the lights, but the building retains Victorian construction in the back. For any theater-lovers, this is the 'must-go' place, and the most appropriate homage to the famous Bard.
Unfortunately, the weather at Stratford during my visit was a typical British weather...unsettled with cloud, sun and rain. Perhaps most fitting to the very British playwright.
What is it about the carousel that continues to fascinate me?
It was my favorite thing as a child to see people getting on/off the horses and carts, go round and round, and on/off again. The carousel never goes anywhere, staying where they are, with blurry vision of shining metals, mirrors and colorful paints. The dreamlike vision fascinated me incessantly.
Old, classic carousels made of sturdy woods with tired-looking paints are my favorites, as dramatic transformation of fading beauty to otherworldly vision is much more pronounced once the carousel starts moving. I despise the horses/carts made of plastics, with their forced cheekiness and cold shines.
As much as I wanted to get on the carousel, I always find myself disappointed once I am on it. The blurry jewellery box is no more, and all you see is the reality; of some grandparents waving to their grandchildren, sulking toddlers waiting in line, and blurry vision of other rides and passers-by.
This is how I learned that something in life are better seen from outside than inside, and cruel reality awaits once the anticipation is replaced by 'now' and 'past'.
