Monday, May 31, 2004
Questions, and answerless
Sights - Saturday 29th May
a teeming, boiling mass of tourists elbowing each other despeately in their urgency to crest the the step into...
...Harrods of Knightsbridge, department store and more.
Ground floor. Menswear, and more menswear. A vast hall filled with nothing but chocolate, and yet more chocolate. Coffee, tea and spices. La Perfumery, located rather incongruously by the Food Halls, pungent with the aroma of the open sea - Oysters, anyone? (Strangely, my stomach turns in revulsion. Perhaps old sniffy isn't quite as anaesthetised during summer.)
Take the Egyption Escalator down, beneath the ground to the depths of...
...Lady Diana and Dodi Al Fayed's memorial. Eh. I've never seen this before. Oh. Was it that long ago that I last came here? Here rests the memory of the Princess of Wales, and her man-friend. Tourists stop for a moment to gawp at the oversized photographs, before turning left to...
...what else? Starbucks. We're out of mangoes, so no, you can't have a mango frescato. But. But. Wail. It's only noon. sniff. Fine I'll have a coffee frescato. Mutter. (And you call that an apple turnover?? I call that an apple... bitelet. thingie. I've seen coins larger than that thing. Okay, so they were large, commemorative coins, but that's not the point.
First Floor, Ladies Fashion. Move swiftly on.
Second Floor. Furniture by Ralph Lauren. EH? They do furniture as well? What is the world coming to. Next you'll be telling me that Yamaha makes motorcycles. snort. A Chocolate Bar. Oh, haha, a pune, or a play on words. Hot chocolate, served at a bar. Hot chocolate with vanilla. Hot chocolate with cinnammon. Hot chocolate, with chocolate. White hot chocolate. Decadence redefined. Maybe, may... nah. Gotta watch my cholesterol. heh.
Home furnishing. Garden furnishing - wow. They've got fake grass and green walls in here. Nice. Expensive furnishing, complete with a dinery in the middle of it all, expensive-looking peope eating expensive-looking food under the glare of thirty bulb chandeliers and gold roof hangings. Very OTT. A place to be seen, rather than to eat. Move swiftly on.
Bedroom furnishing. Lighting (and chandeliers of course), Television (wa. those ninety inch televisions are so sharp you could get mortally wounded just watching them) and computing (overpriced. "complete entertainment systems"?? what's this. £3000 quid for a CPU built into your flat screen? Who wants a two inch thick "flat" screen anyhow? Doesn't that defeat the purp... nevermind.
Dum dee dum. CDs, cds, and more CD... hey! A piano section. Eighteen grand for a Yamaha grand. (pun intended) Twenty five for a Petroff. Gee. And they're all baby-grands. I try to imagine who in their right minds would buy a grand-piano in the heart of land-scarce london. It'd take up an entire studio apartment, and we're talking the midget five footers here. Hmm. Answer - rich people.
"Please do not play the Pianos, thank you!" -- uh. One of them is busy playing itself. It makes mistakes occasionally. chuckle. I guess haunting a piano is hard work.
Electronic pianos. Feel free to play these. Hmm. Clavinova. 16 bit polyphony. £1500. I think : Anyone want to contribute to the Buy Re-minisce a Clavinova fund? (Shamelessly stolen from Her, once upon a time) Then I walk over to the next offering. £3000. It's called a C(number) model. No fancy names here. That'd cost extra. £3000. 32 bit polyphony. Wa. Whatever that means. And the top of the range. £6000. 64-bit. Wah.
Trundle along over to the Roland white ditigial baby-grand piano. Love at first sight. I spend a while testing all the surround sound effects (Hall. Cave. Chamber. Room. Valley. Canyon.) much to the annoyance of an aspiring Jazz pianist nearby. So you don't like my first-verse repeats of Fantasie Impromptu huh. I've got my volume turned down to 5. You don't have to crank yours up to +30000. I get the point;
I close my eyes for a moment and imagine playing this techno wonder in the silence of my flat. My neighbours start pounding on the walls, and shortly later, through the letter box someone grates "Hello. Police".
Heh.
Enough of Harrods. Another struggle, this time downstream against the Salmon Run of rabid Shoppers, and I'm back out in the unfresh air of London.
Question - Why "Knightsbridge"? Where is the Knight's Bridge, anyhow?
Trundle. OOoo. The London Oratory (of St Philip Neri). Step...
...into the sombre splendour of the Brompton Oratory
"All That Glisters is Not Gold"
(/ Often have you heard that told. / Many a man his life hath sold / But my outside to behold. / Gilded tombs do worms enfold.)
But here, all that glisters is most assuredly gold, and yet more gold. And the voices of the choir as they sing... flaxen, yet rich. Gilded, dulcet tones of liquid sound.
Well do I remember my years as an Anglican, despising all things extravagent and Over the Top. The truth lies in the simplicity, the significance behind it all. Fool's gold... not for me. Give me the medieval spartanism of St Bartholomew's anyday.
Today, I watch, and wonder. Cavernous, these walls... and yet every hushed whisper reverberates across the room like muted peals of thunder heard through a deaf-man's ears, echoing gently into silence.
Are these distractions - or are they additions?
Question : what does it all mean - these latin inscriptions running the length of the walls? something...habita... something. something.
There are significances here that I would like to understand.
Angellic voices continue to glorify God, effortlessly curling around the hidden intricacies of a long-dead language.
I notice that at the presentation of the gifts, the priest does not face the congregation as per the norm.
Why?
I'm reminded of a friend's comments, once, about the Eastern Orthodox church, and the "roots" of the religion. Perhaps...? Or perhaps not. I can only wonder in silence.
Communion. At this crucial moment, the choir falls into a deathly hush.
"Do this in memory of me."
I remember the days in my run-up to confirmation... the bittersweet moments of being "denied" communion (but I took it as an Anglican!), asking silently instead, hands folded across my breast, for a blessing. I remember the mixed feelings of sadness, and gratitude, mingled with a tiny tinge of resentment. (but... I took this as an Anglican...) Perhaps it was the company I kept then - the thoughtless words emanating from the mindless lips of a certain female, about "real" Catholics. Like a brand name. And how baptism by an archbishop was so much better than baptism by a village priest. The Armani Catholic.
Taking communion today, I still feel sadness, and gratitude - now unfettered by human resentment. And that sadness... is infinitely deeper. So too, the gratitude.
The priest intones - implores, really - "do not consider what we truly deserve, but grant us your forgiveness."
These same words I have heard spoken - in churches such as this, with gold-leaf adorning every wall - and in churches as threadbare and naked as any minimalist's fantasy. In walls of the rich, and poor. These silver-lined pillars - are not a product of the "brand-name", but the location.
Were I to close my eyes and ignore the trappings around me; were the choir's dulcet tones fall to onto mine deaf ears remembering only the silence of yesterday in a smaller church miles away in Essex -- I would recognise these same words, these echoes of the past.
These are the Significances of which I spoke, once.
Older now, I wonder :
Did I ever know the significances, I accused others of being distracted from?
Thousands of Sunday services from my past wash over me. Inspiring words, little jokes about the preacher's life, the preacher's wife... reverential hushes as church members extolled the octaganarian preacher's holy life. Millions of ecstatic "Jesus...!"-s, in song, in word. Tens of thousands of extolments, implorations to God to redeem us, because we remember you, we love you so. Countless implied "Look at us, lord! Look! we can roll over! we can play dead!! Pat us!" sentiments worded as prayers.
Which glass is empty, and which is full?
*****
Adult humour?
Funny, how in one country this is a childrens' storybook, yet in another it's a cult classic for adults.
"There’s hardly a bus in London that doesn’t have the name blazoned along the side..."
(real red london-bus caption : Get them all, before the pictsies do!)
a teeming, boiling mass of tourists elbowing each other despeately in their urgency to crest the the step into...
...Harrods of Knightsbridge, department store and more.
Ground floor. Menswear, and more menswear. A vast hall filled with nothing but chocolate, and yet more chocolate. Coffee, tea and spices. La Perfumery, located rather incongruously by the Food Halls, pungent with the aroma of the open sea - Oysters, anyone? (Strangely, my stomach turns in revulsion. Perhaps old sniffy isn't quite as anaesthetised during summer.)
Take the Egyption Escalator down, beneath the ground to the depths of...
...Lady Diana and Dodi Al Fayed's memorial. Eh. I've never seen this before. Oh. Was it that long ago that I last came here? Here rests the memory of the Princess of Wales, and her man-friend. Tourists stop for a moment to gawp at the oversized photographs, before turning left to...
...what else? Starbucks. We're out of mangoes, so no, you can't have a mango frescato. But. But. Wail. It's only noon. sniff. Fine I'll have a coffee frescato. Mutter. (And you call that an apple turnover?? I call that an apple... bitelet. thingie. I've seen coins larger than that thing. Okay, so they were large, commemorative coins, but that's not the point.
First Floor, Ladies Fashion. Move swiftly on.
Second Floor. Furniture by Ralph Lauren. EH? They do furniture as well? What is the world coming to. Next you'll be telling me that Yamaha makes motorcycles. snort. A Chocolate Bar. Oh, haha, a pune, or a play on words. Hot chocolate, served at a bar. Hot chocolate with vanilla. Hot chocolate with cinnammon. Hot chocolate, with chocolate. White hot chocolate. Decadence redefined. Maybe, may... nah. Gotta watch my cholesterol. heh.
Home furnishing. Garden furnishing - wow. They've got fake grass and green walls in here. Nice. Expensive furnishing, complete with a dinery in the middle of it all, expensive-looking peope eating expensive-looking food under the glare of thirty bulb chandeliers and gold roof hangings. Very OTT. A place to be seen, rather than to eat. Move swiftly on.
Bedroom furnishing. Lighting (and chandeliers of course), Television (wa. those ninety inch televisions are so sharp you could get mortally wounded just watching them) and computing (overpriced. "complete entertainment systems"?? what's this. £3000 quid for a CPU built into your flat screen? Who wants a two inch thick "flat" screen anyhow? Doesn't that defeat the purp... nevermind.
Dum dee dum. CDs, cds, and more CD... hey! A piano section. Eighteen grand for a Yamaha grand. (pun intended) Twenty five for a Petroff. Gee. And they're all baby-grands. I try to imagine who in their right minds would buy a grand-piano in the heart of land-scarce london. It'd take up an entire studio apartment, and we're talking the midget five footers here. Hmm. Answer - rich people.
"Please do not play the Pianos, thank you!" -- uh. One of them is busy playing itself. It makes mistakes occasionally. chuckle. I guess haunting a piano is hard work.
Electronic pianos. Feel free to play these. Hmm. Clavinova. 16 bit polyphony. £1500. I think : Anyone want to contribute to the Buy Re-minisce a Clavinova fund? (Shamelessly stolen from Her, once upon a time) Then I walk over to the next offering. £3000. It's called a C(number) model. No fancy names here. That'd cost extra. £3000. 32 bit polyphony. Wa. Whatever that means. And the top of the range. £6000. 64-bit. Wah.
Trundle along over to the Roland white ditigial baby-grand piano. Love at first sight. I spend a while testing all the surround sound effects (Hall. Cave. Chamber. Room. Valley. Canyon.) much to the annoyance of an aspiring Jazz pianist nearby. So you don't like my first-verse repeats of Fantasie Impromptu huh. I've got my volume turned down to 5. You don't have to crank yours up to +30000. I get the point;
I close my eyes for a moment and imagine playing this techno wonder in the silence of my flat. My neighbours start pounding on the walls, and shortly later, through the letter box someone grates "Hello. Police".
Heh.
Enough of Harrods. Another struggle, this time downstream against the Salmon Run of rabid Shoppers, and I'm back out in the unfresh air of London.
Question - Why "Knightsbridge"? Where is the Knight's Bridge, anyhow?
Trundle. OOoo. The London Oratory (of St Philip Neri). Step...
...into the sombre splendour of the Brompton Oratory
"All That Glisters is Not Gold"
(/ Often have you heard that told. / Many a man his life hath sold / But my outside to behold. / Gilded tombs do worms enfold.)
But here, all that glisters is most assuredly gold, and yet more gold. And the voices of the choir as they sing... flaxen, yet rich. Gilded, dulcet tones of liquid sound.
Well do I remember my years as an Anglican, despising all things extravagent and Over the Top. The truth lies in the simplicity, the significance behind it all. Fool's gold... not for me. Give me the medieval spartanism of St Bartholomew's anyday.
Today, I watch, and wonder. Cavernous, these walls... and yet every hushed whisper reverberates across the room like muted peals of thunder heard through a deaf-man's ears, echoing gently into silence.
Are these distractions - or are they additions?
Question : what does it all mean - these latin inscriptions running the length of the walls? something...habita... something. something.
There are significances here that I would like to understand.
Angellic voices continue to glorify God, effortlessly curling around the hidden intricacies of a long-dead language.
I notice that at the presentation of the gifts, the priest does not face the congregation as per the norm.
Why?
I'm reminded of a friend's comments, once, about the Eastern Orthodox church, and the "roots" of the religion. Perhaps...? Or perhaps not. I can only wonder in silence.
Communion. At this crucial moment, the choir falls into a deathly hush.
"Do this in memory of me."
I remember the days in my run-up to confirmation... the bittersweet moments of being "denied" communion (but I took it as an Anglican!), asking silently instead, hands folded across my breast, for a blessing. I remember the mixed feelings of sadness, and gratitude, mingled with a tiny tinge of resentment. (but... I took this as an Anglican...) Perhaps it was the company I kept then - the thoughtless words emanating from the mindless lips of a certain female, about "real" Catholics. Like a brand name. And how baptism by an archbishop was so much better than baptism by a village priest. The Armani Catholic.
Taking communion today, I still feel sadness, and gratitude - now unfettered by human resentment. And that sadness... is infinitely deeper. So too, the gratitude.
The priest intones - implores, really - "do not consider what we truly deserve, but grant us your forgiveness."
These same words I have heard spoken - in churches such as this, with gold-leaf adorning every wall - and in churches as threadbare and naked as any minimalist's fantasy. In walls of the rich, and poor. These silver-lined pillars - are not a product of the "brand-name", but the location.
Were I to close my eyes and ignore the trappings around me; were the choir's dulcet tones fall to onto mine deaf ears remembering only the silence of yesterday in a smaller church miles away in Essex -- I would recognise these same words, these echoes of the past.
These are the Significances of which I spoke, once.
Older now, I wonder :
Did I ever know the significances, I accused others of being distracted from?
Thousands of Sunday services from my past wash over me. Inspiring words, little jokes about the preacher's life, the preacher's wife... reverential hushes as church members extolled the octaganarian preacher's holy life. Millions of ecstatic "Jesus...!"-s, in song, in word. Tens of thousands of extolments, implorations to God to redeem us, because we remember you, we love you so. Countless implied "Look at us, lord! Look! we can roll over! we can play dead!! Pat us!" sentiments worded as prayers.
Which glass is empty, and which is full?
*****
Adult humour?
Funny, how in one country this is a childrens' storybook, yet in another it's a cult classic for adults.
"There’s hardly a bus in London that doesn’t have the name blazoned along the side..."
(real red london-bus caption : Get them all, before the pictsies do!)
