Jen Harvey

It’s not possible to write anything to do this magnificent musician justice. So I’ll let the music speak for itself, because that, after all, was what John Martyn was about.

Thank you for the music.

January 30th, 2009 | Tags: John Martyn | Category: Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

[I went for a walk with the dog. This is what I encountered]

Perhaps it was the wind that caught him unaware. After a week of damp south westerlies there was a sudden about turn. A sharp chill from the east that brought with it deceptively blue skies and a last hurrah of summer enthusiasm.

In the park, the kids were yelling and squealing, delighted at last that the damp had retreated. That they were finally able to scamper around unfettered by walls and ceilings. And if they shivered they did not care, for a cold day outside is always better that a rainy day spent indoors, noses squeezed against windowpanes.

Perhaps he sat on a branch and looked down at the playing children and, sensing their joy, spurred on by the unexpected blueness of the sky, decided to take a chance. To spread his wings (still downy) and see what happens.

Or maybe it was just the wind.

Turning as it did, so sharply, so early in the season, September having just begun, perhaps he had pointed himself west, into a wind that was no longer there, bracing himself against a force that was now behind him and pushing him downwards, as he fell and fell, those downy wings not quite ready for this moment.

So that when I arrive, I see him lying there, a crumpled heap on the pavement.

Thinking he is dead, I walk on, only to see him gasp. See his beak open, then stiffen, as if in a scream. He repeats this motion two, three, four times as I stand over him and watch, the small, singular drop of crimson blood the only indication of the violence that has occurred.

In the park the children play on while I watch him die.

September 17th, 2008 | Tags: Amsterdam, death, pigeon, things you see on the street, walk | Category: Amsterdam, Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

The sign above the door should have alerted me I suppose.

Boutique.

No mere shop this. No, this was a sophisticated outlet, catering for the more discerning fashionista.

Despite this, I went in.

Those who know me well will be the first to admit that when it comes to fashion, indeed to attire in general, I am detached at best.

Scruffy and inelegant would be fair descriptions of me, and though I try to deceive myself that my style shows a certain nonchalance, the truth of the matter is that my fashion sense sucks.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t appreciate style. If I see someone walking down the street looking stylish and individual, then I can appreciate it. Perhaps even more so, because it isn’t a talent I possess myself - the art of stylish dressing.

Unfortunately, my ineptitude in this department has also crossed over to my daughter, Helena. Too young to dress herself, she must rely on me to make a sartorial statement on her behalf.

The result being, she is often mistaken for a boy…..

And so it was in this boutique.

I should point out here that I was in a children’s clothes store.

Boutique sounds so adult, so a la mode, so sophisticated, it seems implausible it should be used for a kids’ store. But there you go. Such is the subtle, fickle nature of the fashion world.

Boutiques have evidently branched out into fresh markets since I was last inside one and today’s kids are clearly more fashion conscious and discerning than I realised.

So I browse the store while the shop assistant casts a bemused eye over Helena’s ensemble. Lots of stripes and colours and blue jeans. Tom boy chic is how they could market it I suppose.

He asks how old he is, and I tell him SHE is one.

“Ahhh” is all the reply he can muster.

Browsing through the rails I am taken aback at the amount of black there is. Sombre, edgy outfits seem to be the only thing available.

And all I want is a raincoat. Some cheerful little jacket to help fend off the rain and the winter blues.

I ask the assistant what they have in the waterproof department. Something sturdy and easy to clean. You know, something that can survive the battering a one year old will give it.

He nods sagely and produces a few pieces, with a definite flourish and flick of the wrist.

A little black, leather looking all in one suit and a matching jacket.

The kind of thing a Hell’s Angel would wear. Only minituarised.

Hmmm.

“They’re a bit, you know, black….” I stutter.

“Oh but black is very in this autumn for the wee ones.”

His enthusiasm and conviction are impressive, but I am still a little unsure.

“The winter is dark enough. Do you not have anything in red, say?”

No, no red.

Perhaps that was last season then?….

For the hell of it, we get Helena into one of the biker outfits, just for amusements sake.

Apparently she looks “great” but I’m not so sure.

Do I really want my daughter to look like some mini hellraiser?

I politely decline further assistance and explain that I don’t really get fashion.

“All I want is a bright, plastic mac really….”

The assistant shrugs and gives Helena a friendly ruffle of the hair. Clearly he sympathises with her plight.

For while all the hip young things will be smooching about in their gothic ensembles this winter, there will be Helena, all kitted out in the pink plastic raincoat, decorated with butterflies, that we found in a store further up the road.

And while she may not be trendy, at least the sheer pinkness of it should ensure she stops getting mistaken for a boy…..

September 1st, 2008 | Tags: Children, Fashion, Parenthood | Category: Miscellaneous Musings, Parenthood | Leave a comment

In 1954, my father, then just fifteen years old, made a pilgrimage to Lourdes.

It was, by all accounts, a life affirming trip, made all the more memorable by the monumental effort it had taken my father, and his friends from the local youth club, to raise the necessary funds.

For three years they had toiled away to get the money they needed. No fundraising effort was too exhausting or bizarre- raffles, variety shows, bob-a-job, laundry, shoe shining, even a snooker tournament - you name it, they tried it.

And when the funds were raised, they boarded their bus and made the three day long journey to the south of France.

I suppose we forget, these days, just how time consuming and exhausting travel used to be.

A bus. From Glasgow to Lourdes. In 1954.

It gives me muscle cramps just thinking about it.

But for my dad and his friends, this effort was an important aspect of the trip.

It was supposed to be an effort, supposed to be special, supposed to be out of the ordinary and memorable.

Just as the destination itself, the holy shrine in Lourdes, was special, out of the ordinary and memorable.This extraordinariness, is what turned the journey from a simple trip to France into a pilgrimage.

Faith played a huge role as well, of course.

That unshakable belief that the grotto in Lourdes really was a holy place, a place of miracles. The sacred ground where a marvellous apparition had occured.

For my father and his friends, Lourdes was more than just a small town at the foot of the Pyrenees. It was a place to be close to God.

Fifty four years later, I found myself holidaying in France, just a couple of hours drive from Lourdes and decided to pay a visit myself.

In contrast to my father, my little excursion was a casual, effortless affair, imbued with no more significance than any other holiday excursion would be.

It was simple curiosity which took me there, rather than faith.

Nevertheless, I found myself promising that I would light some candles at the shrine and, if not pray, then at least pause to think about those friends and family that were ill or departed.

It’s not something I have a problem with, performing these little acts of faith, despite my agnostic/atheistic tendencies.

For me, such symbolic acts offer an opportunity to pause and reflect. To step aside from the moment, from the mundane, and simply think.

Little concentrated moments of reflection. That’s all they are.

So I was surprised to find myself slightly overcome with emotion as I stood in line at the grotto, candles in hand and a list of people in my head - requests for votive offerings having been passed on to me over the phone.

Of course I knew that Lourdes was a place of pilgrimage. A place where the sick and the old came to pray in one last effort to fend off what is, for all of us, the inevitable.

But prior to being there, all of this had seemed so very abstract.

Confronted with the reality of the long lines of “les malades” being helped forward to the shrine however, I was suddenly struck by a strange mixture of melancholy, rage, pity and confusion.

The young boy, lying prone in his bed being wheeled in front of me. The baby so sick it was being fed through a tube in its navel. The old woman, bent and buckled and vacant. The able bodied whose eyes nevertheless revealed a sadness and a pain that afflicted them just as much as any illness. Were they here to pray for sick relatives, for dying friends?

I looked at them all and felt my throat thicken and my skin burn.

All that pain. All that hope.

I clutched my candles and tried to keep pushing forward. I’d promised I would do this, so there was no going back.

But as I stood there, a rage took hold of me. Quietly I dug my nails into the wax and shuffled forward.

All these people, so ill yet so hopefull. Struggling, despite infirmity, to make it to this place in the hope of what? Some miracle cure, some salvation, some relief?

For that is what is on offer here, no?

Release from all that pain.

That’s the hope that brings them here, year upon year.

Yet how many of them will go on home, to linger, to die?

I watched them all and felt my anger turn to confusion.

What was I doing here, with my candles and my rage? If this is all such nonsense to me, then why am I doing it? Surely it would be better to simply turn around and pass my candles on to someone in the crowd, then leave?

But I kept on going.

Too afraid to turn back, I suppose. Because I was on a promise. Because I was caught up in the spectacle of it all now. Ushered along through the lines of people, closer and closer to the shrine.

At some point it just becomes too late to turn around.

At the altar I lit my candles and started once again to recall the people I was doing this for.

And in an instant, the whole circus around me disappeared. All there was was the thoughts in my head. The fleeting memories as each name entered my head. Little snapshots of happier days. Days before these candles were needed.

It made me happy, at that moment, almost despite myself.

Is this what all the others feel, I wondered?

Is this what the believers feel? This small, timeless, transcendental moment.

A moment of bliss, which curbs my anger and makes me happy but which gives them hope and brings them closer to God? ….

August 25th, 2008 | Tags: France, Lourdes, Religion, Travel | Category: Miscellaneous Musings, Religion, Travel | Leave a comment

June 21st, 2008 | Tags: Campaigners, Greenpeace, Human Rights, Whaling | Category: Politics | Leave a comment

We’re at the zoo, sitting in the small garden, just watching the people go by.

When you’re only one year old, it’s the comings and goings of people that remain fascinating, rather than the idle lounging of lions or water buffalo.

From her vantage point on the lawn, Helena watches the people come and go, babbling and giggling all the while, as tiny tots do, in a bid to attract as much attention as possible.

When none is forthcoming, she increases the volume, waves, and tries out a “real” word.

“Dada!”,”Mama!”, “Hi!”

It has the desired effect, and soon a host of admirers are upon her, chatting away and returning her waves and calls.

Delight all round.

Watching her however, I feel a slight pang of sadness. That little punch in the gut you get when nostalgia gets the better of you and you realise, very suddenly, and very briefly, that a moment has passed. That time has moved on.

There is my daughter, shuffling around in the grass, talking to people. Communicating and interacting with the world around her. Out and about and gaining in confidence and independence.

It’s a wonderful thing of course. This is what I am here to do. To teach her about the world. To show her the wonders around us. To encourage that sense of delight and adventure.

Yet here I sit, watching her, feeling amazed and proud and decidedly numb.

It’s not so much her independence that is knocking me sideways, so much as the realisation that a very special, very intimate period of communication is now coming to an end.

For the past year we have communicated wordlessly, often soundlessly. A glance was often enough for me to understand what was required.

The smallest of changes on her face and I would know what was going on inside that tiny mind.

I had expected this, of course. Happiness, anger, frustration, sadness, pain. All these large scale emotions are easy to anticipate and understand, even without the benefit of maternal instinct.

It was deciphering and anticipating the smaller emotions that astounded me.

Curiosity, uncertainty, pleasure, insecurity. Tiny, almost imperceptible shifts of meaning that moved across her face, through her eyes.

I didn’t understand that it was possible to communicate so freely, so easily and so instinctively, using this, most intimate and atavistic of languages.

A quick glance my way for reassurance, the last, soft squeeze of my hand before falling asleep, the quick smile of cheekiness before setting out on a mischievous mission. I saw and understood them all.

It’s often felt as though we possessed a secret language, the two of us. A code that only we could decipher.

But time moves on.

If there’s one thing having a child teaches you, it’s this. You see it progress, with every day, as you watch them grow.

Time is no longer abstract and invisible. It is there, in front of you. Growing and moving. And talking.

As I sat in the grass and listened to her sing and chatter I caught a brief flash of the future. Sensed the days that had already gone.

The melancholy only broken when Helena turned to look for me, all smiles and squeals, urging me to come on over and join in the fun.

May 19th, 2008 | Tags: Helena, Parenthood | Category: Miscellaneous Musings, Parenthood | Leave a comment

A few years ago I was holidaying in Sicily, taking in the sights around Mount Etna and the town of Taormina.

There are many wonderful memories that can accompany such a trip. Sicily is the kind of place which overwhelms the senses and leaves deep impressions.

On this occassion however, the trip became memorable for one rather bizarre and haunting reason.

Padre Pio.

For the uninitiated, Padre Pio is something of a phenomenon within the Catholic church, and is largely famed for his stigmata, his ability to levitate and his powers of bi-location.

Being in possession of such supernatural powers, a whole host of miracles were naturally attributed to the good Padre and a large following of devotees around the world soon attached themselves to this apparent saint within their midst.

Although many sceptics within the Catholic Church doubted the veracity of the Padre’s powers, his huge popularity among the faithful ensured that, upon his death in 1968, the case for his beatification gathered a momentum that was impossible to ignore.

By 2002 Pope John Paul The Second had no choice but to bow to the inevitable and declare the Padre a Saint.

Although I was brought up in a very Catholic household, this devotion to saints and fervent belief in miracles is something which has always eluded me.

There is a superstition about it all which I find hard to fathom and, try as I might, I find I cannot suspend my devotion to reality long enough to become a believer.

I am a faithless heathen, in other words.

That year in Sicily however, offered me a brief insight into the manner in which some things come to permeate our consciousness.

Everywhere we looked that summer, the beaming, kindly face of Padre Pio seemed to be staring back at us.

In souvenir shops an impressive range of Pio adorned paraphernalia was available. T-shirts, tea cups, key rings, even bits of rock from Mount Etna, no object was too banal or too outlandish that it could not be embellished with the smiling Padre’s image.

In cafes and restaurants, the familiar gaze would invariably beam down upon us from the walls.

Out on the roads the face of the good Padre would stare back at us on the bumper stickers of the cars up ahead.

Even in public toilets, there he would be, hanging above the wash basin, gently reminding the patrons that “cleanliness is next to godliness”.

Padre Pio, was everywhere.

Not a day could pass without encountering him, without pondering the mysteries of his existence. So much so that it became a sort of a game to see who could spot the Padre first.

On one occassion we managed to find a restaurant that was conspicuously Pio free. No walls were adorned with his image, no plates or cups or spoons were graced with his gaze. We sat in disbelief for a while then sighed with relief. Finally some respite from the omnipresent holy man!

As I sat there relaxing, I stared down at the little vase of plastic flowers on the table. Tiny little white blooms with a happy yellow centre. And there, amid the petals and the colour. There he was. The grinning, contened face of Padre Pio.

I remember actually letting out a squeak. A mix of terror and delight that caused all heads to turn in my direction.

Curious as to my outburst my companions asked what was up, but, dumbstruck all I could do was point to the flowers and whisper “The Padre”.

There really was no escape.

And so it was that “The Padre” seeped into our consciousness. The daily encounters led us to wonder who he was exactly and why he was so revered. We came to know of his mysterious, holy qualities and of his miracle working. Suddenly Padre Pio came to mean something more than a smiling priest. He was a mystery, a cult, a hero.

He had meaning. A meaning we could see in the faces of the people around us. People who clearly took their devotion to Padre Pio very seriously.

In the midst of all this worship and adoration, amidst the constant bombardment from his image it was hard not to begin to feel some measure of connection with the man.

In much the same manner that a modern day celebrity can enter our lives (whether we want them to or not), Padre Pio became a familiar, comforting figure to us that summer. A figure so prolific in his manifestations that in the end we stopped being aware of him.

At some point he was simply there. Simply a given.

While none of us actually succumbed to the Padre to the extent that we could believe in him, our experience of the devotion of his followers, the passion with which he was unquestionably revered, nevertheless allowed us to understand how such a figure could take on an importance in people’s lives.

We could feel it around us, this genuine devotion and love. And at its source was Padre Pio.

If we had stayed in Sicily much longer, who knows how long it would have taken before we started to believe ouselves.

For it is such a powerful combination of influences, this mixture of emotion and iconic imagery, this unquestionable devotion, this shared experience, that at some point the subliminal influence becomes irresistible, belief inevitable.

Towards the end of that summer however, we came home, and our exposure to Padre Pio ceased. Over time he became nothing more than a faded memory, a vaguely remembered figure. The smiling padre who had followed us around Sicily that year and made us giggle.

Last week however, he made a rather dramatic return, when his exhumed corpse was put on show in the Padre Pio Shrine of San Giovanni Rotondo in Southern Italy.

When I first saw him there, staring out at me on my TV screen I found it difficult to decide what it was I felt.

Besides an initial ghoulish curiosity as to the state of preservation of a 40 year old corpse, I couldn’t help but wonder what the point of it was, what this exhumation and public display could mean.

Seeing him lying there like that, his face shrouded in a wax mask, his body clothed in heavy Capuchin robes , I couldn’t help but think that, far from being the ultimate act of faith and devotion, this exhumation was actually some sort of failure in belief.

It was as if his mere image wasn’t enough any more. Didn’t satisfy the demands of his followers.

Not content with his image, with the reports of his miracle working, they needed the real thing, this corpse, in order to sustain their devotion.

It wasn’t enough to hold Padre Pio inside themselves as an idea, a miracle, a belief. As something spiritual.

They needed something more earthly, more tangible, more real.

They needed the Padre himself. They needed his corpse.

Exhumation and public display of saints is nothing new in the Catholic Church, of course, and some would argue that it is the very preservation of the Padre which offers proof as to his holiness, which offers proof to sceptics like myself, that mystical events do take place in this world. That saints exist, that God exists.

Just look at this untainted body, they proclaim, and then deny that such metaphysical forces are not at work.

I could of course reply that the unmasking and de-robing of the Padre could strengthen their argument in this regard, but that would rather be beside the point.

Because the point is that faith, true faith, should surely not require that our saints are exhumed and displayed. Faith in itself should be enough.

Faith in itself, implies that proof is never needed. All that is required is belief.

That summer, before his beatifcation, before his exhumation, the power of that belief was to be felt in the streets of Taormina.

It was a faith and belief that permeated the atmosphere and was capable of touching even cynical, atheistic souls such as myself.

Seeing that supine corpse last week diminished some of that mystery for me.

The spiritual, inexplicable, mysterious were nothing more than I had always suspected them to be.

A charade. A plastic mask.

April 28th, 2008 | Tags: Padre Pio, Religion, Sicily, Travel | Category: Miscellaneous Musings, Religion, Travel | Comments (2)

April 24th, 2008 | Tags: Helena, Parenthood, Video | Category: Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment

Last year our neighbourhood was terrorised by a lovelorn blackbird.

All through spring and deep into summer, this optimistic little minstrel would perch on the edge of our building and sing his heart out, in the hope of attracting a mate.

He sang for months. All summer long. But in vain. For despite the most elaborate of vocal pleas, she never arrived.

Now, as the days grow longer, he has been roused again, and taken up his perch once more atop the roofs, chirping away with eager anticipation.

A few days ago, I came across some of my neighbours, standing on the pavement, necks craned, staring hopelessly upwards at the little creature as he sang his flirtatious overtures.

Another summer of sleepless mornings seemed to be beckoning and it was hard to look forward to the onset of spring, knowing that this tiny bird would be providing the soundtrack.

We could only look upwards and hope that, this spring, his musical appeals would be heard, and the elusive mate would fly to our rescue and provide our blackbird with the love he so clearly craves.

As we were standing there however, I noticed that one of our sad little group seemed genuinely pleased to see his return.

She alone was smiling.

“Do you like birds?” I asked her

She looked at me a little puzzled at first, then shrugged.

“Not particularly.”

“Oh. It’s just, I thought you were smiling at him.”

“Yeah, well, I like this bird.”

Surely she was kidding? This twittering menace? Even other blackbirds found him impossible to love.

“You’re joking, right?” I asked her.

“No.”

“But he’s going to keep you awake all summer! Don’t you remember him from last year, then?”

“I do. That’s why I like him.”

She could tell I wasn’t following her, but paused nonetheless, apparently amused by my confusion and incredulity.

I stared at her and tried my best to convey the fact that I thought she was more than a little eccentric.

We stared a little while longer at the bird. Then she continued.

“He helped me out last summer when I was sick. I was stuck at home, and some days I would sit out on the balcony in the sun. I just wanted to be outside, even if it was just to sit on the balcony. All the while, I could hear this bird singing, but it took a few days before I managed to spot him.

He was alone in the sun, just like me. Or that’s what I thought anyway. So I’d talk to him sometimes. Tell him things. I had a friend at school that I missed a lot. We’d fallen out just before I got sick, and it was only after a few days at home that I realised I missed her, and that I was sorry I had argued with her. The longer I sat there, the longer I was sick, the more I thought about that.

That I wanted to tell her I was sorry.

But I wasn’t getting better and it looked like school would break up before I got the chance to get back and make my apologies before the summer recess.

So I spoke to the bird. Told him about it. Asked him if he could maybe do me a favour. Maybe fly over to her. Let her know I was sorry.

I don’t know why I thought this. Why I thought this bird could do such a thing. I just knew, that if I asked him, if I wished for it, then it would happen.

He would fly to her house and pass on my message.

It was a few days before I heard from my friend. Days when I sat on the balcony and stared at the bird wondering why it was he hadn’t helped me. Why it was he had ignored me.

I was starting to hate him. To hate the sound of his singing. His cheerfulness.

He was nothing but a bird after all.

Then the phone rang and it was my friend. She was calling to see how I was. Calling a truce. Accepting, my apology. The bird hadn’t let me down after all.”

She finished her story, but never turned to look at me. Just kept her face tilted skywards towards her friend, the bird.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to question her or believe her.

So I said nothing. Simply turned my own gaze upwards, and smiled.

March 23rd, 2008 | Tags: Fiction, Short Story | Category: Amsterdam, Miscellaneous Musings | Leave a comment