I spent the whole of Sunday sitting in a field. The rain charged down and the
wind blew frantically, whilst I and a few hundred other folk sat there, in our little fold-up chairs, from
mid-morning until darkness, long after the sun had set.
A rather mad and somewhat bizarre way to
spend a day, some might say, but the reality was an extraordinary encounter
with my old pal, Mr Shakespeare, and some incredibly exciting plays on the
battlefields of Tewkesbury; the town where I grew up. Shakespeare’s Henry VI trilogy has been revived this
summer by the Globe Theatre, and I have now been fortunate enough to secure a
ticket twice to see the three-in-a
day production; once at the Globe in London a few weeks ago, and again on
Sunday, at the historic site of the battlefield of the War of the Roses (the
period which Shakespeare covers in his historic plays) in Tewkesbury.
As well as the pure pleasure of relishing seeing and hearing old Will’s words being performed by an impressive cast of just fourteen, I also had the satisfaction of watching a friend of mine, Joe Jameson (a former student and an extraordinarily talented actor), in his Globe debut; excelling in his multiple roles. I particularly liked one scene that afforded him and his co-actress a great view of the battlefields from their high-tower vantage points, whilst a moody sky marauded behind them to blot out the day.
Theatre is one of the things I really missed whilst out of the UK; and in particular, Shakespearean productions. I always fall in love when I go to the theatre – the sheer escapism draws me in; the richness of stories and travel and the power and majesty of the actors. But Shakespeare has always spoken to me beyond just being excellent theatre and beautiful poetry. I think the reason my little love affair started with him so many moons ago is because of his universal voice and his ability to speak to so many people in so many ways. Yes, obviously the rather archaic English language and poetic riddlery of the text flummoxes many a reader on first glance, but his messages ring through to any soul willing to listen (as seen by the successful Globe to Globe translation of all 37 of his plays into 37 different languages last year, and the ambitious project in 2014 to take Hamlet on tour to every nation on earth.)
His plays cover continents, cross boundaries, disseminate race, religion, monarchy, poverty, hierarchy, family, love,
warfare, nature, existence. He dissects
humanity through its biggest flaws and its highest fineries and speaks poignant
words of wisdom in every scene. I spent much time relating his genius to local
friends in Tanzania
Why, you might ask, am I rambling on so
verbosely about the merits of the work of a man born four hundred and forty
nine years ago? Well, it is his power to disseminate thoughts and ideas, and to
really reach people that I admire and that I draw on in my current stage of thinking;
his ability to burst the bubble of an individual and draw them into his world
to share his thinking and his views on life. Let me (try to) explain how that (kind
of) relates to what I’m trying to do.
Back here once again in the land of plenty,
my life is moving apace. A few weeks spent flitting here and there between friends,
family and mental floating; I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with some
wonderful people: old friends and new finds, whilst also having the freedom to
watch the world around me ticking past. (Some would call it Being Unemployed. I
choose to call it Thinking Time…) One of my striking observations during these
weeks is that we, for the most part, exist in bubbles. Whenever I stop to look
at people around me; to think about what we’re all doing with our lives, I
puzzle over our eclectic and variable choices. All of us are bustling about
with our daily existence, going places, doing things, getting somewhere; all of
us creating our own existence within our own bubbles. No-one tells us what to
do with our life; what to do each day when we wake up; there’s no grand rule
book for existence. Each of us just kind of makes our own journey, carves our
own path and plots our own destiny. And
many of us exist in our own bubbles, floating from one day to the next, moving
fast, moving slow, just making our lives make sense.
Living in the echoes of someone else’s life
(as I am doing in my current house-sitting existence) I have the adventure of
living in many different worlds at present, trying out different ideas of what
I may wish to do , where I want to be, who I want to be around. And yet I still
find it hard, at times, to get some people to want to talk to me about different
ideas I’m thinking; things possibly outside their comfort zone of normal
contemplation. Culture shock remains within me as I struggle to blend thoughts
of other worlds with life here. I find it hard at times to challenge people
with ideas that they’ve not maybe considered before, and to get them to think
about things not happening in their bubble. As individuals, we naturally focus
our attentions on our own worlds and lives, and those people we hold close
around us, but sometimes we also feel we just haven’t got the mental space to
let other worlds and ideas in. Understandably,
if we did, our minds would potentially explode with all we’d have to carry with
us (a feeling I think I nearly experienced a few weeks back when I returned to London Sichuan , China ;
a Spanish train tragedy; a snake strangulation in Canada Sichuan Spain
What puzzles me, though, is how to go about bursting some of these bubbles every now and then (or perhaps a better analogy, blowing them up a little more); how to get people to allow themselves to think in different ways, see things in other lights, care more for things that do not exist within their immediate vicinity. I have, bizarrely, been criticised many times in my life for living too much for other people and “being too nice”. I never understood how this could be used as a criticism as how on earth could this ever be seen as a bad thing? Why should it be unusual that I choose to get on with everyone; that I don’t hate anyone, that I like people, enjoy smiling and feel happy? How on earth can it be a wrong thing in people’s eyes to be too happy and too nice? (yuk, awful word, but you get the point). However, over the years I have grown to understand that many people do not want to get on with everyone else that they meet, mainly because not everyone fits inside their bubble. There is safety in the orb when the people in it share your views, join your way of thinking and are floating in the same direction. To allow dissenters, critics, anarchists, liberals, conservatives, eclecticism etc. (you get the point) in would open up whole worlds of debate and confusion and for many there is just not time or room inside the bubble to have so much going on. And yes, sometimes I wonder whether people just think I’m doing it wrong; whether having a very broad range of friends from all walks of life, with a hilariously different range of views and attitudes is just causing more confusion than direction. Maybe so, but at the same time, I rather love the pinball-esque journey that my bubble and what’s inside it takes me on.
Having a discussion with someone the other
day about the flaws of the UK’s current education system and the problems of
our rapid, blinding progress, I was shut down almost immediately (with my calls
for a halt on progress and a redress of action) with the resolute statement that,
“You cannot stop progress, because then we would be going backwards”. Is there
really such an inherent belief in us all that we are all floating towards some
sort of greatness; that we all need to be heading in the same direction in the
world we are building to gain some sort of enlightenment? What if we took a
wrong turn some centuries past and are going the wrong way? What if the end
we’re heading towards is rather rubbish in reality? Here’s the thing though.
There is no wrong way, because there is no such thing as right. We are, after
all, making this game of life all up on a daily basis and so who’s to say
what’s right and what’s wrong? It’s not like when your innings are up, someone
scores your life on a big mark sheet – tick and a pat on the back for doing it
properly and a big frown and a Try Harder Next Time for doing it wrong. We
exist in a man-made world, thus who’s to say what’s right and wrong, and which
way is progress? What harm would it be to turn around and try another route, to
go another way? I guess the worries for many come as this change of thinking
would perhaps knock people off course and create a concussion of existence,
causing a need to re-think and dissect their lives from the outside. And
sometimes, that’s just too darn hard to do.
Why do I worry my little brain about all of
this? Well, for starters, I am planning to spend time this year writing a book,
culminating many thoughts I’ve had on a lot of things into one (hopefully not
too rambling) narrative of sorts. A Bill-Bryson-esque traveller’s critique of
the world: of education, development, technology, progress, environment,
culture, compassion. One lovely friend brought my enthusiasm crashing
momentarily back down to earth when she said to me (after I had excitably delivered my précis): “Who's going to want to read that?” A blunt response,
admittedly, but actually quite a fair point. For who would want to read a text discussing ideas that, quite possibly, the
way we’re living our lives may not be the best way for the future survival of
our planet, the happiness of our children and the wealth (emotional as well as
material) of humanity? I know loyal friends, family and the open-minded curious
may well be brave enough to delve into the musings of Musson, but will others
want to have their bubbles burst in such a way? Do most people really want to
think about things that are too big for them to do something about as an
individual; thoughts that may call for a change of heart and that don’t
necessarily matter to them on a daily basis? Sad as it is to admit, I just
don’t know. However, I take inspiration from Mr Shakespeare and his ability to
address so much wisdom in his dissection of existence, and to open up people’s
thoughts to looking at the world, and so I am prepared to give it a go. (Just
to be clear, I am not in any way arrogantly and misguidedly comparing the
scribblings of Musson to the Pure Gold of the Bard in that sentence; simply
following in his wake of open-mindedness in writing).
Interesting, or disappointingly, I
discovered first hand just how hard it is to penetrate many people’s bubbles in
this fast paced world of London Chile
With a full room of friends and friends of
friends, there were a few empty seats remaining, and so, a few minutes before
the talk started, I nipped down to the two lower bars (clad with a few flyers
and a winning smile) to invite some of the Monday night drinkers to join us upstairs
and have a listen. Explaining that it was a free-to-listen-to talk, about
something they will not have ever heard about; something a little bit beyond inspiring
and a rather unusual way to spend an hour on Monday evening, I expected at
least a few folk to bring their drinks up and join us. It was with rather
slump-hearted disappointment that I realised at the end of the talk that not a
single soul bothered to climb those twelve stairs to a different world.
Talking afterwards with a friend who had
managed the climb, we pondered on why
so. “It’s too far outside their bubble”, she concluded, and I saw that she was
right. These people had come out on a Monday eve for a quiet tipple and a chat
with their friends about whatever it was happening in their lives right now;
about their day, about their family, their plans, the weather, whatnot. To
shove a new thought, a new idea and a new direction in front of them was just
asking too much. Well, more fool them is all I’ll say, as we had a fab night on
the top floor, and successfully raised over $500 for the cause. Hoorah.
Bullet proof bubbles are certainly a
consideration to make when thinking of writing what I am working on, but a
consideration that has done nothing but strengthen my resolve to write these
thoughts, change my direction and do what I’m wanting to do with my life. I am
choosing to do what makes me happy right now. Just because I am not towing the
line, doesn’t mean that my line isn’t worth drawing. Yes, I am choosing to work
for very little money this year, when I could easily get myself a solid
teaching job and a sturdy wage. Yes, I am contemplating a nomadic existence of
house-sitting for a year, due to a lack of readily available rental funds, when
I could be securing myself with a mortgage (if any of you know someone in need
of a house-sitter b.t.w, I offer a very reliable and totally free service!) And yes, I am choosing to go in a different direction from the
one I was taking a while ago. But hey, it’s my “right” and therefore no-one can
tell me it is wrong. And so the freelancer (working for a friend’s fabulous educational
enterprise project (www.brightgreenenterprise.co.uk )
and the writer emerges, with plans to return to Tanzania in the new year. Interestingly (or rather, worryingly) a recent visit
back to Mum and Dad’s found my sister and I unearthing a large cardboard box
stacked with remnants from our childhood. Amongst the first pictures, birthday
cards, school reports and knickknacks I discovered a bound publication of my
primary school’s Creative Writing Booklet, containing my first piece of writing
in print. Aged seven, I had, admittedly, much to learn:
I’d like to hope that my style and delivery
has moved on a bit since then. Worryingly, however, my ability to come up with
good endings remains something of a flaw as, coherent as the journey and
direction of this book I’m working on is, the “conclusion” remains something of
a blur: at present seemingly an apocalyptic call for readdressing the way that
we live. Far too big an ending to leave (and understandable to see why my little
seven year old self found it much easier and more satisfyingly conclusive to
end with: “The Fairy Died.” Done. ) However, I plan to try to burst some
bubbles along the way and am not prepared to settle for such a sell-out ending
(no offence, former self) and so, with a trilogy of Shakespeare locked in my
memory (twice over) and a pen in my hand (yes, I am still that old-fashioned
that I write things with pens! For now, anyway...) I begin the next chapter of Nomadic Musson and
set off down this unknown and exciting road.
(The word bubble,
by the way, was made up by none other than my favourite man, William Shakespeare.
His genius is unrelenting.)
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