Instructions (Neil Gaiman)

Stories, like people and butterflies and songbirds' eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty six letters and a handful of punctuation marks. Or they are words on the air, composed of sounds and ideas - abstract, invisible, gone once they've been spoken and what could be more frail than that? But some stories, small, simple ones about setting out on adventures or people doing wonders, tales of miracles and monsters, have outlasted all the people who told them, and some of them have outlasted the lands in which they were created.

Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things, 2006

* * *


Instructions

(Quite literally, a set of instructions for what to do when you find yourself in a fairy tale.)

* * *

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before,
Say 'please' before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing.
However,
if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.
From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads down to Winter's realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle. Inside it
are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favours for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferryman will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too loudly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister:
know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope - what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.
Favours will be returned, debts be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall)
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown)
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your journey started,
you will recognise it, although it will seem much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.

Or rest.

Chester

I survived ...

... The Large Hadron Collider First Beam Event Horizon !

Provenance

When people spend fortunes on a Rolex or a Piaget or a Cartier watch it means very little to me. Because they are buying into a brand name which is, after all, someone else’s character, personality, history and provenance. And the question I always ask (quietly, inside) is, “don’t they have any of their own?”

I suppose my vague resentment comes from a conversation about City men and how they spend fortunes on watches and suits and shoes and briefcases. I remember the most beautiful briefcase I ever saw was one carried by a Creative Director I used to work with. It was leather, battered, bent, curled at the corners, handle darkened by the sweat of his palm on steamy days, and it matched his shorts and scraggly beard and the pillow he always carried for Power Naps, perfectly.

In Africa they speak of seriti or isitunzi – those symbolic shadows we cast; a reflection of our greatness as a remembrance of the way we have lived our lives, and the richness we have offered to the community. Although our mark is sometimes measured in the number of cattle and the tangible wealth we’ve brought to the clan, more often it’s measured in the potency of action, the bravery and courage we’ve enacted and inspired. The izibongo – those epic poems sung about each individual recalling the anecdotes of a life lived well – accumulate from the person to the people and become a history spoken of for ages after. What will be the izibongo of the City men of London; the Viking raiders in a new age of rape and pillage?

In another sense we talk of context and of how it frames our paintings, our lives, our interests, perspective and focal points. So for instance, while people may ridicule the art of Damien Hirst, he serves as such a perfect foil for our time. He uses gold and diamonds as paint on his canvas. But he uses butterfly wings too. It’s all filthy lucre and fragility; gold spun fine as a spider’s web, ephemeral crap much in the same vein as Andy Warhol in his own time. Damien’s art is framed by the context of the London Cityboy - all Style and no Substance, more Wealthy than Wise. I sense it in other people too – that vacuous and empty search for the ultimate party, all glitter, UV, chemicals, alcohol, music and bright lights. Sometimes it just looks and feels so sad.

In a hundred years time, what will your provenance be?

And mine? For it’s all very well being a bard who sings the epic poem of my time, but out here in the “blag”osphere who will ever hear me over the babblings of all the other troubadours, blogging about turnip farming, turgid sex and expat life?

After all, the shadows we cast are only the momentary reflection of shapes passing through sunlight ...

Return

Is this the season, I wonder, when all expats feel the saddest? This is moment when you are halfway, the furthest away from "home". It's been six months since I was in South Africa and it will be at least another six before I can be there again. Guy feels it too, and we seem to be spending a lot of time on nostalgic discussions of home-things, home-places, home-people. He mentioned something funny about New Zealand and had to stop for a moment, because it all turned around - some memory had struck him - and he choked up with sadness. I woke up yesterday from a vivid dream of a family reunion, at the Vaal Dam of all places, and had to cry on his shoulder. He laughed because I had the imprint of pillows all over my face, but how good it was to have someone to hug me who completely understood me.

This is the moment when the cold weather returns, when we go from living out-of-doors, back to the interior life of heaters and jumpers and floor-socks. The rain comes down out of a stolid, unrelenting grey sky, and I have returned to my books, back to the intellectual life of study once more.