Musings on elephants and failure

I have failed at my intention to photograph the 260 elephants scattered all over London - (spotted one at the Elephant and Castle as I passed by on a bus to Camberwell today).  My excuse is that I hadn’t realized that they were going to be moved today to various places – I understand there are to be elephant ‘parades’ at the new shopping centre in Shepherd’s Bush and the Royal Chelsea Hospital, so maybe I can redeem myself there.  Trouble is there will probably be masses of people and the elephants may be all mixed up so that I won’t know which ones I have photographed.  Ah well – nobody forced me to decide to photograph them all so the failure is all my own.  Anyway, I hope to put a slide show on my blog of the ones I have got as soon as I have worked out how to do it!  But here's a picture of another two elephant until I manage that.

Thinking about failure – I attended a course last year called ‘Fear of Failure’ which was far more interesting than I had anticipated.  Indeed I still have a little notice over my desk saying, ‘There is no failure; only feedback’ which I took back from it.  We (that is those of us on the course) came to the conclusion that we often don’t attempt something because of our fear of failure/being laughed at or scorned.

 Looking back over my childhood I remember not seriously trying at sport, for instance, because my older brother and sister were so good and I might not be … Interestingly, my younger sister told me than an English teacher she was taught by a couple of years after me told her that I was brilliant at English, the implication being that he expected much the same of her. (Why didn’t teachers then seem to understand the psychology of those who, far from being pushed to succeed by such behaviour, might not even try!)  Perhaps I am unusually stubborn, but I don’t like being compared with other people, especially not other members of my family.  We all have our strengths and our weaknesses – we are just different!!!

Birthday Blogging Blues

It was my birthday recently and suffice it to say that I way past 40.  As I grow older I find birthdays lose their significance and I don’t bother celebrating them quite so much.  In fact, I am looking forward to getting my Freedom Pass in the not too distant future – how sad is that?  Still, at least nobody can say ‘she doesn’t get out much …’ because I do – why would I be longing for the Freedom Pass otherwise?  I only hope the government doesn’t axe them before then – if they do I can see a silver-surfers rebellion on mobility scooters .  It’s enough that those of us born after 1950 are going to have to work beyond 60 to get their pension; in fact, there might not even be a pension by the time we get there.  Actually, given the money I owe, I can’t see myself retiring much before 75 anyway.

Spent the morning lazing about – partner got the breakfast and then we lay about reading the paper and generally taking it easy.  Thought we were not going to do anything, but he suggested a meal and the film Avatar – we’re close to the IMAX which, allegedly, has the biggest screen in the country. 

The meal was lovely (local restaurant so we were assured of a good one) and the film – well, I was gobsmacked.  It was fantastic – the special effects were brilliant and even the story, if a little corny, was good - I do like a bit of romance.  There were times when it felt like we were moving and I felt a little seasick; perhaps they should have provided sick-bags as well as 3D glasses. 

Maybe one day there will be a cover they can put over the screen so that you don’t have to wear the 3D glasses which make everyone look a bit like a poor relation of Elton John in his flamboyant days.  Thought my glasses had a dirty mark on them but discovered that wasn’t so once the film started – I had just tried them on too early.
 

Found it a bit noisy at times – my ears are not really attuned to our loud world, but that was my only complaint.  It was awesome and I particularly loved some tiny little blossoming things like dandelion blooms in bubbles which were an indication of the spiritual beliefs of the ‘blue people’ for want of a better word.  I liked humankind being called the ‘Sky people’ as a race who brought devastation from the skies.  Did wonder about the blue’s sex life as they didn’t appear to have any genitals and I assumed love to be a spiritual kind ‘I see you’ being their pillow-talk, but there were babies and if they had them with as little trouble and mess as they seemed to have sex – well, I’m all for it.   My partner said it was typical of me to think of something so basic, but then considering he made up a disgusting limerick with the ‘c’ word in it on the way home I don’t think he has any room to talk.

I’ve written a rather crap blues poem – set to music it might sound OK; after all, lots of blues don’t say much more than this.  Just imagine the piano/guitar riffs – I long to get good enough on piano to play blues!

Birthday Blues

I got the Birthday Blues

Can’t fasten my shoes

Cos I can’t bend enough

And I get out of puff

Got the Birthday Blues

Can’t even booze

Any more

Frightful bore

I just fall asleep

In a messy heap.

B

Carmen and more elephants

There should have been a photo of Trafalgar Square here in celebration of my amazing cultural evening but I forgot my camera, so here's a photo I just like.

From the (almost) ridiculous to the sublime.  On Monday I was seeking elephants to photograph, Tuesday night I was watching Carmen – amazingly a free viewing in Trafalgar Square where the opera was transmitted direct from the Opera  House to the big screen erected between the lions.  I hadn’t seen Carmen before and was absolutely transfixed.  It was fantastic!  I hadn’t realized how much of the music I knew, such as Toreador and others – someone said a lot of it has been used in adverts on TV.

It was warm at 7 when the choirmaster from that TV programme about getting people to join and/or start choirs locally, persuaded us all to join in and sing Toreador in English.  Somehow it doesn’t sound quite so sexy in English, but it was great seeing the public (especially the normally reticent English) singing with gusto.  He has such enthusiasm and charisma to manage that.  One of the spectators sporting a red flower behind one ear said she had come because it was free and she knew it was about gypsies – a synopsis of the reasons most people came I think.

Got rather colder as the evening wore on and I bought soup for myself and two companions in the interval – we had a bottle of wine too so were in ‘good spirits’.  We had to pour the wine into a plastic jug and use plastic cups to drink it – I suppose they were afraid of damage and/or violence.

The event was sponsored by BP but they were very low-key about it, perhaps because they are very unpopular just now.  There were no baseball hats, plastic macs or cushions handed out this time.  They are probably too expensive to provide now given the expense of trying to clear up the disastrous oil spillage.

Because I live in central London I was able to walk both there and back and because I was quite chilly by the time it finished, I walked/ran home with my disabled friend trying to keep up with her rather sophisticated scooter – no little runaround that only does 3 miles an hour!  Hers is called a  tramper and she rides it as if she’s a queen.  If she had whips and knives she could be a Cleopatra.  As it is, she makes do with calling out ‘excuse me darling’ as passers-by scatter in her wake.   I told her she could be the pacer for someone in practice for races.

Then we come to the elephants – on Monday afternoon I started out with the map I had downloaded from the internet allegedly showing the whereabouts of them all.  It is not exactly accurate and has clumps of elephants marked in one spot when they are in fact far more scattered.  Anyway, I found a small group in St James’ Park and two much larger groups in Green Park, including one on the pavement near the tube station.  All in all, I must have photographed about 20 and with the 15 I did a few days ago near the Mayor’s gaff, that makes 35 – only another 225 to go.  Perhaps I need to co-opt my partner in my project – there is a limited time, because the elephants are going to be taken away in July.  I wonder what they will do to them all – they would take up a lot of space if kept together.  Maybe they will let each company have the ones that they ‘bought’ or sponsored.

I was disappointed to find, predictably of course, that I was not the only person determined to find/photograph all the elephants and a diverse lot they were – a young business woman, a pensioner and a young (professional?) photographer with a very sophisticated camera - not trainspotter types at all, although I may have been wearing an anorak (no, it was a yachtie jacket – not that I have a yacht, but that’s another story).  I don’t mind having pictures with children on or by the elephants or adults looking/ stroking them etc., but people tend to get out of the way often when they see me with my camera or maybe I look scary!!!  Of course, there is a lot of anxiety around strangers taking pictures of children, but I don’t think any of us constituted any harm.  For a start, most of the children will be unrecognizable given the distance you need to stand to get the whole elephant in focus.

One of the best things about the elephant invasion is the conversations that spring up between complete strangers.  We Londoners are not the most talkative of people (not because we’re unfriendly so much as there are more nutters to the square inch in a big city) so we are cautious.  Anyway, in my quest I have talked with other photographers, children (parents in toe of course), businessmen, professionals, homeless people etc.

Oh well ONLY ANOTHER 125 TO GO!!!!!  Below this I have put a photo of a few elephants just to remind me (and anyone reading this blog in the blogosphere) of their amazing  explosion into London.

Anger Management/Temperament etc.

I have been giving some thought to my temperament/way of being lately, because I am trying to prevent episodes of depression (which I have finally accepted I am just going to have to live with) with some cognitive therapy and ideas of my own.

One of the definitions of depression is that it is suppressed anger with anybody, everybody and everything and that I must learn to accept that I have no control over other people, places or people – just me and my attitude/behaviour.  Makes me think that perhaps I am a control freak or just plain arrogant – either possible aspects of my personality I am unwilling to accept, but think I may need too.

As I learn to cope with both aspects of my bipolarity, I find that as I begin to feel better, towards the manic, my tolerance tends to go and I can become very angry, particularly over what I feel to be an injustice wreaked on someone else!  I am not so good at getting angry because of someone treating me badly.  Maybe that is why in depression mode I rarely socialize and disappear up my own backside as my partner says in his inimitable style – am I worried subconsciously that I might become uncontrollably angry and/or cry because I don’t like what someone is saying or behaving?

I have attended an anger management course and find that it is very difficult to count to 10, breathe deeply or any of the other tactics – they all seem to fly out of the window when I become cross.  The only way I can cope really is to leave the room/space or company of the person I am angry with.  If I could just learn to not shout as a parting shot – I know how annoying that can be.

My ex-husband used to move from room to escape my ‘nagging’ as he called it and I found that could build my anger up; he also sulked if he didn’t get his own way and then when I asked what was wrong he would say ‘you know’.  In the end, sometimes, in despair I would say, ‘Perhaps I am thick or something but I don’t know what I have done …’  But he came from a long line of sulkers – his brother sulked for so long one Christmas that his wife was driven to packing a suitcase and threatening to leave, at which point he admitted to having forgotten what had annoyed him in the first place.  Now that is weird behaviour in my book!

I have spoken with one of my contemporaries is mentor as well as friend and she suggested I  release my anger by some sort of energy outburst – hers is hitting a plastic bottle on the bed until she is exhausted.  That wouldn’t work for me, but perhaps punching something (other than my partner) might, but ideally a padded cell into which I could run screaming, hitting and kicking the walls.  However, that ain’t going to happen as our flat is minute – personally, I think every workplace should be supplied with a padded room for all members of staff, but it would probably be used so often a queue would have to form and anger doesn’t sit well with organized queuing which we Brits are so good at.

My problem is that I am far more likely to hurt myself when I am angry by, literally, banging my head against a brick wall or kicking the wall so hard that I hurt my leg.  I have tried howling in the shower, but the last time I did that my partner, who I thought had ‘left the building’ to escape, came in with a worried expression on his face and asked if I was all right.  I said, through clenched teeth, ‘just go away’ and he left the room looking puzzled.  (Mind you, it worked in one way – at least he didn’t go on yelling back at me!)

Health professionals will always ask a bipolar if they are violent, I suppose because they think you could be dangerous, but my psychiatric team know very well that I am much more of a danger to myself at such times.

Therapists suggest looking back at your childhood to try to understand why we are like we are today and that is an interesting exercise.  I come from a very loving background and have two sisters (one older, one younger) and an older brother.  Of the four of us, my older sister has red hair and the temper to match – she had an explosive temperament as a child and would become so angry that she would grind her teeth and clench her fists.  My brother used to kick me under the table and pull a face sometimes  to make me laugh and I would get my face slapped for my pains.  My parents were very firm in believing that behaving so angrily was not even on their radar and she was punished for it – not in any corporal way, as they weren’t that kind of parent.  Their punishment was a severe talking too and the implication that they were disappointed in you.  In consequence, perhaps, I learnt that anger was an emotion that it was wrong to show and perhaps went too far in believing I shouldn’t even get angry.  I am no psychologist, but I have wondered …  My  sister has of course learnt to control her anger over the years and channels it into throwing herself into causes she feels passionately about and lots of exercise – she is very sporty; does running, swimming, surfing etc.

All very curious, but still doesn’t help me to work out what to do when I am angry – fortunately, my partner is big enough for me to know that punching him wouldn’t work.  He could just put his arm out and I wouldn’t be able to reach him.  Perhaps I should get a punchbag …

Photograph at top is to remind myself that tranquility is something I aspire too.

The Elephant in the Room and Trafalgar Square, South Bank etc.

There are a noticeable amount of elephants all round the capital just now in an attempt to publicise the dearth of this magnificent creature because man is encroaching on their space.  Man (and woman)kind have not got a lot to be proud of - we are wrecking the planet, polluting the seas, over-populating the land etc. etc.  I could go on, but it would be too depressing.

However, the presentation of colourful elephants all over London is a bright and interesting way to highlight the problem - there are 250 apparently and I am going to try to photograph them all before they are taken away some time in July.  There is even an elephant parade at the Royal Hospital Chelsea at the end of June and I spotted a jewelled one, situated appropriately in Coutts Bank.  However, I have put a taster with this blog.  Enjoy!

Then I started to think about the expression 'the elephant in the room' and couldn't help remembering the Rise and Fall of Reginald Perrin with him seeing a hippopotamus every time his wife mentioned her mother.  My, very rude partner, suggested someone big to dinner one night and remarked that then we really would have an elephant in the room.

The expression of course means the presence of something not talked about or ignored, usually causing an atmosphere.  When I have an argument with someone and they think I am in to the wrong they may sulk and not speak to me - a punishment I don't enjoy.  I suppose that is 'the elephant in the room', but it usually refers to something much more sinister such as abuse, violence and sadism.  Fortunately, these days those subjects are shown the light of day more and no longer cast as dark a shadow as they used too.  However, there are still children and adults subject to abuse and violence and it is time for more refuges for the battered and care for the abused.

I believe the 'elephant in the room' in another home I know of was addiction - parents never referred to it and never even visited when their son was in treatment, nor his brother who was in hospital for drug-related problems at one time.  When I first mentioned addiction in that home, saying that Hepatitis C was probably caused by 'recreational drug use' the mother said she didn't know what I was talking about!  Now that is an enormous 'elephant in the room'.


I am not sure there was an 'elephant in the room' in my family home because we were encouraged to be honest and open and our parents were open and caring.  I was probably the one of us four children who shared least, being a rather private and secretive child.  I suppose sex was a little glossed over - my father was a minister and sex was considered taboo outside of marriage.  They had to give way on that after I moved in with a boyfriend, but it was at least a steady relationship - we were together for over 20 years and married seven years into the relationship.  Over the years, of course, they changed with the times and became less rigid in their beliefs.  I was proud of their honesty and belief in all of us children and couldn't imagine them not visiting us if one of us had been in treatment for anything.

Dedicated Follower of Fashion!

I saw Ray Davies (formerly of the Kinks to those of you who were born after the 70s) at the Albert Hall recently.  The concert was excellent and he and the band played many new numbers as well as some of the old favourites.  One of the old ones was 'He's a dedicated follower of fashion' and  I got to thinking how much I was a slave to fashion in my youth (many years ago).  I cringe when I remember many of the appalling clothes I thought I looked good in (I think it was called  'groovy' then).  I wore mini-skirts at the end of the 60s/start of the 70s  that were so short I couldn't sit down on the tube or sit anywhere except behind a desk  in case I showed my knickers and tights.  Thank goodness for tights though - imagine miniskirts with stockings.  I also wore hot-pants on a few occasions - I shudder at the thought.

Then in the 70s it was flares which got very wet and dirty, as well as downright dangerous if they caught in anything.  And the platforms -  which being 'vertically challenged' I wore a lot and have lost count of the times I fell off them when sometimes the worse for wear, but more often just because. ...  Then there were those awful tank tops and 'big hair' - I had an Afro which I could never quite manage and must have looked like a lollipop with a small, skinny body and a big head.

The long flowing skirts were a much nicer fashion and it meant you could be as undignified as you liked sitting down.  However, I never got up the courage to wear a see-through blouse - not got the boobs for it.  The hairstyles then were long and straight and I probably looked like a Amish and I coloured my hair with henna so I was red at that time.  I remember my boyfriend of the time had long, curly hair and wore an Afghan coat - he was always being stopped by the police who thought he must be on drugs to look like that.  I used to wear Patchouli Oil myself until a kind policeman told me the smell was similar to pot and I stopped - I was very naive then.

In the punk era I never really had courage for the chains, slashes and dangerous haircuts, but then I lived in Devon at the time and fashion was slow to reach Tavistock to say nothing of frightening the horses.  But I do remember an extreme punk hairstyled young man being refused employment because of the chances of him piercing the tyres in the garage where he was going to work.  There was the hairstyle I call the 'toilet brush' because that is what it resembled - hair pulled straight up.  There was a memorable occasion in a hospital shop when one of the elderly volunteers said, 'oh my dear, I am so sorry' - I presume she thought something had happened to cause her hair to be so bizarre.  Anyway, the young woman concerned came to work the next morning with her hair in a conservative ponytail.

In the 80s I became a great deal more conservative, not being in the first flush of youth, but I remember wearing a pale orange cheesecloth skirt and top on my wedding day.  I think my hair was mid-length and straightish by then.  But the ra-ra skirt was a step too far and I was proud of myself for avoiding this particular fashion - made you look as if you were a toddler going into a party.

In the 90s I went blonde and short - had a haircut similar to Annie Lennox but without her style and poise.  My own (then) husband walked past me in the street when I first had it done so it was a radical change.  It grew very quickly though and I couldn't be bothered having to keep having the roots done so grew it out and went for a different ringletty sort of perm - this was a disaster.  It looked fine to begin with, but when I washed it I couldn't get even an Afro comb through it and on one occasion my mother cut out a tangle which happened after a swim in Brighton.

In 2000 I am much more content and confident in dress and don't subscribe to being fashionable any more.  I look with fascination at the low-down jeans with the thongs showing at the top of them - I am always afraid they will either fall down or someone will tug them down for a laugh and the thongs make a weird sort of builders bum. Then there is the strange fashion of a pretty dress with Doc Marten's, shorts worn with tights underneath and warm boots with a light dress or skirt.  But I have to remind myself not to be an 'old fart' and remember the fashions I dressed in when I was young were just as ridiculous.

Totally wired - just another Manic Monday

For the last few days I have been feeling great, in fact probably too wired.  This is the manic phase of my disease and I must try to monitor it because these are the times when I can be in danger and my relationships suffer.  The difficulty is (I am told) bipolars lack insight when manic - I don'the think I do, of course, but denial  is all part of it.  It is fortunate that I have a dosset box to remind me to take my medication.  I sometimes feel I don't need the drugs I am prescribed at such a time, but just have to accept that I do at present.  The trouble is that in the last 12 months I have had 3 to 4 bouts of depression, one of them very serious, and not one manic episode - it seems grossly unfair to have so many, at times spectacular, lows and no highs at all.  Looking back I have been depressed for about 4 months and cycling between depression and 'normal' for eight.  No wonder one of the buzzwords in an argument is: 'why can't you behave like a normal person'.  I know that is said in complete desperation and understand why it is said to me sometimes, but it is very hurtful given the stigma attached to mental illness.

In the last couple of days I have had a bout of almost uncontrollable rage with my partner - so bad that I had to escape from the flat for a couple hours or I might have tried to hit him.  Of course I felt my anger was justified - he can be very impatient when I don't grasp something immediately, but the towering inferno that then erupted was awesome for both of us but because anger has replaced depression I feel it is a better emotion, but I do understand that I need to express my anger 'appropriately'.  I doubt he feels the same way and considering our argument in retrospect I know that my behaviour was out of control.  I just hope he doesn't get me sectioned one day!  That has not happened so far and if he felt it was necessary I trust him enough to go voluntarily rather than be forced into psychiatric care.

Other bizarre patterns include my thought patterns jumping about, not sleeping properly, talking fast, walking fast, not looking where I am going, carelessness when showering (tripping), falling over or treading on the cat, dropping things and generally mismanaging things in the home.  It is a good thing I am not responsible for the cooking as I would probably burn things or leave the gas on.

I have read somewhere that Omega 3 is particularly good for mood swings so I will try taking that in addition to the other medication I take, as long as it doesn't work against them.  I would really like to manage with just diet and natural medicines, but I suppose that is in the future.