Tag: Drama

As I sit here gazing at my candle, instead of being aware of the final rays of the day’s sunshine through my lounge window, I am focused on the gathering gloom. I must confess that my spirits are rather low at present. They are being dragged down by the lockdown, I think, which has now made its weary way into its eighth week. Living alone in the lockdown and being in my first weeks of retirement is quite a struggle. It’s rather like being on a really fast waltzer at a funfair and wheeling around dizzily after you get off. And in this lockdown, it is like hurtling into a void within a void.

I am sure Marcus had his moments of melancholy. It is part of the human condition and emperors are therefore not excepted from it. Neither are writers of blogs! I am no guru, but only someone who wishes to share his thoughts and reflections with others. No-one is a guru. No human being is able to know the complete truth about anything or to be an inexhaustible fountain of wisdom, least of all myself.

In Shakespeare’s time, melancholy was not only acknowledged and accepted but fashionable. It was a pose adopted by young gallants writing sonnets to the objects of their affection, especially if they were unsure that their amorous feelings were reciprocated or if they were downright refused. Shakespeare’s own sonnets (which I am re-exploring at the moment) are no exception and Jaques in ‘As You Like It’ is a melancholic with his cynical and world-weary ‘Seven Ages of Man’ speech.

Hamlet of course is the melancholic par excellence, especially at the beginning of the play and has been christened ‘the moody Dane.’ I studied the play at A Level and fell in love with it. I related to Hamlet’s mood swings completely in my own adolescent angst. I wanted to play the role of course and learnt all Hamlet’s soliloquies for my exam and enjoyed doing so. However, I think I would have been more suited to playing Horatio, Hamlet’s good friend, a role I have played constantly in real life.

I once accused one of my sixth form students of being melancholic – he was being particularly moody in class – and had to explain the word to him. Thereafter, he brightened up because there was a big word which described his feelings and he used the word continually afterwards as young people will do when they find a new word that attracts them. He adopted a melancholic pose for ages afterwards. He had morphed into being an Elizabethan gallant, thought he did not produce any sonnets as a result.

I have been trying to identify why my spirits are low at present, dear readers. Along with many others, I am sure the lockdown has ground me down week by week. The first flush of online games and fun activities and contacting friends on social media and discovering

new ways of doing so is over. And you can only go up and down the Amazon to buy online purchases for so long.

I have asked myself what I am missing. Well, the theatre (though I am enjoying online archive performances of productions I have missed) and the cinema (though a lot of new movies are being streamed) and art galleries of course and concerts and the opera. Although I have seen so much theatre, movies and operas in my time (and especially over the last few years) that I cannot complain.

I think what I am really missing is the opportunity to share them with friends over a meal and a drink. I do not like going to the theatre or the operas or a movie or concert for that matter on my own. It is sharing these with others that makes them special. Yes going up to London to see friends is what I miss and of course the chance to visit friends around the country and most of all my family in the North and have friends visit me. Especially now that I am retired and have so much time at my disposal to do so.

I have of course been in constant contact with all my friends and family in these eight weeks and it is wonderful to see them on FaceTime or Zoom but it’s is not the same as being physically together. However, I’ve gone on safe distance walks with a few friends too in a local park which is wonderful and breaks up the week. And, of course, nothing can replace an embrace or a hug.

As I am at home a lot now, I’ve been looking at all the pictures on my walls. So many are from places I have visited. I have almost filled the doors and one side of my fridge with fridge magnets I’ve collected from places I’ve been to. Gift shops in museums and art galleries are magnets to me! And I have been scrolling down the photos on my phone and computer. I bought a digital photo frame years ago which I have hardly used so I’m going to upload a selection of them onto the digital frame to cheer me up in the evenings.

Traveling abroad is in the balance at present and I have had to forego two visits to Italy this spring. Fortunately my final Drama tour of Budapest took place in February before international travel restrictions. However I am a much traveled person, as regular readers of this blog will know. I didn’t go on a plane till I was 35 years old but have made up for lost time since! Perhaps I will make a list of all the trips I have been on. If I never travel on a plane again, I have certainly travelled enough! Again, it is seeng family and friends in other countries that I miss.

I have been thinking of my aunt Barbara, who lives on Vancouver Island. She has albums and albums of photos. Some of them are quite valuable to me as her albums go back to before World War Two when my father’s family were in Poland and there are pictures of my parents’ wedding which I had never seen. And of course there are photos of my childhood.

One I find rather embarrassing. It is of a chubby little version of me as a baby in walking reins. Every time I see it, I am back to being a teenager again and hot with embarrassment at being reminded I was an infant once. However, dear reader, I do look cute!

You see at the moment we are all in walking reins. We are unable to go where we want to for our own safety. And yes we tug at the reins because someone else is in control. We want to be out and about. We want to wander off (on a plane). Built we can’t at present. For our own good.

I suppose we are beginning to realise what we really value in these days of quarantine. We are being to value what we have rather that hanker after what we do not. And to remember all the riches we have experienced up till now.

Like Friar Lawrence in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ (another part I’d love to play), who counsels the miserable Romeo because he has to go away in exile (to be quarantined effectively) and will not be able to see Juliet. He reminds Romeo that at least he has not been sentenced to death and keeps repeating the phrase ‘Thereto are you happy.’

A phrase we should be repeating to ourselves at this time.

Think – ‘Thereto are you happy!’

But an embrace or a hug would be wonderful!

Stay safe and well!

Ave atque vale – Hail and Farewell! Till the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up!

And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.

A selection of previous meditations is also available in audio form as ‘Meditations of Neiulus Aurelius’ ASMR on YouTube. I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

As I sit here watching the flickering flame of the candle beside me, the whole world seems to be a flickering flame in the face of the virus that has engulfed us. Not even emperors or the powerful of our own time are able to totally control it. It is a humbling corrective to their own towering self-confidence, should they possess it. Indeed it is a humbling corrective to us all, in our own little busy worlds, which have now perforce been interrupted in the most dramatic and sudden way.

In the wake of the week’s events in our own country, indeed across the world, it seems pointless, even crass and insulting to the suffering of others to write a meditation about anything else. I must admit to feeling numb and powerless myself, as indeed we all are, like someone standing stock still in the street when an accident happens, a neutral observer but unable to do little if anything to prevent it. Nevertheless, despite our fears and inherent panic at the spread of the virus and the sudden restrictions that have been imposed upon us, life must continue as far as possible. We must take up again our preoccupations and activities with calm determination and above all hope, hope for the future. The flame, though flickering, is not yet spent.

So with this in mind, I would like to share with you an exhibition I attended early last week before the closures at the National Portrait Gallery near Trafalgar Square. It was a display of David Hockey’s portraits. They included works from his teenage years in the 1950’s to the present day. The passage of time was very evident in the drawings, prints and paintings. This was because the portraits were of four particular sitters who are close to him: his muse Celia Birtwell, his mother Laura, his lover Gregory Evans, his print maker Maurice Payne as well as a series of portraits of himself.

They were executed in various locations around the world which gave the exhibition an exotic feel though being portraits there was equally an intimacy about them. Hockney is a fine draughtsman. His drawing skills are remarkable particularly in depicting the clothing of the sitters: the detailed prints of Celia’s numerous dresses for example. He is also an acute realist: these were not flattering portraits but carefully outlined the changes time had wrought on the sitter (including himself of course!). Yet though he accurately showed how the effects of age had changed the subject, the expression on their faces changed little and so their personality, their inner spirit seemed constant.

It was the self portraits that fascinated me. I have always been deeply moved by the realism in Rembrandt’s self-portraits (especially his ones painted in old age) and the realism in Hockey’s moved me too. It is Rembrandt’s eyes that draw you to him and they show you the ages of man: from quirky insecure youth to benign accepting old age. But in

Hockney’s portraits the eyes are always the same: they look startled, almost scared like a deer suddenly disturbed in a forest. I suppose this may be a trope that he uses for all of them and this startled stare even looks out at us from his first drawings as a teenager in his room in Bradford. This constant expression helps us to appreciate the different backgrounds and locations, the different clothes he wears over the years, the different media he uses at times and of course the changes in his face wrought by age.

But it is an odd expression. It is as if he has been caught in the act of painting, as if his art is reprehensible. The title for each one might be ‘The Guilty Artist’! That was certainly the cumulative effect they had on me. For a moment I wondered if it was something to do with his sexuality, with being afraid to be who he is, especially when gay men of his generation had to be closeted and furtive, when every expression of their sexuality had to be behind closed doors and there was always that fear of the door being suddenly opened and being found out, exposed. But this does not sit with the fact that he has been openly gay and even flamboyantly so for most of his adult life in contrast with his contemporary and fellow Yorkshireman, the writer Alan Bennett who only ‘came out’ in his later years.

Maybe that startled look does stem from a primal fear of being found out that was deep rooted from his teenage years.

Or perhaps it is something to do with the embarrassment about being in any way artistic and creative when you are brought up with an ordinary working class background. But then I may be reading something of myself into Hockney’s paintings. My own feelings of embarrassment were unnecessary really as the adults around me and my peers accepted that I wrote little plays and enjoyed acting. My primary school teacher encouraged me. She thought I would end up as a producer or director for BBC Drama.

And yet it is an extremely courageous act to commit a portrait of oneself to paper or canvas especially when it is realistic rather than narcissistic! There are times when I have shied way from writing this blog because I have been a little wary of committing myself to paper as it were. It is a private act that becomes public. Perhaps it is my childhood and teenage embarrassment taking hold again.

In one way I found the exhibition depressing. Walking around and gradually observing these five sitters (including the artist) getting older and older made me feel as if I was growing old with them! In truth they made me realise my own age. I am not young anymore myself. Looking back on my walk around these portraits with their constant expressions, I see that Hockney has hit upon a truth about human nature: our bodies grow older but we look out to the world with the same eyes we did as a child or young person. This can make us forget our real age sometimes: we think we are younger than we are in reality. As I have been working with young people for over half my life, yes, as others

have repeatedly pointed out, working with young people keeps you young, but it can also lead to self delusion at times!

Inevitably the restrictions imposed this week for our own good have also reminded me of my age and vulnerability. I am but four years off 70! Living alone has compounded this. I have always said that living alone is an art form, something in the coming days of isolation we may have to learn. But so many friends, neighbours and colleagues and of course family have been in touch for which I am so very grateful.

So I am once again reminded of the stained glass window in St Pierre de Montmatre in Paris. That abstract stained glass reminded me many years ago about all my family and friends, each one a bright and colourful pane of glass welded to the other by the molten lead of affection and love. We may be well aware at present that we are an individual and isolated pane of glass. We may even feel that our bright and cheerful colour has faded but the sun will still shine through it. And we need to remember that we may be a single pane but we are surrounded by the molten lead of affection and love.

Ave atque vale – Hail and Farewell! Till the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up!

And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.

A selection of previous meditations is also available in audio form as ‘Meditations of Neiulus Aurelius’ ASMR on YouTube. I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

It is quite a while since I sat here beside my candle to write a meditation. I have not had much time to be reflective as, like Marcus, I have been on a campaign and like him I have been in Pannonia for a while. Except I have not been leading a military campaign but a theatrical one and to modern day Pannonia, that is Hungary. The time has come around again for our annual school Drama tour to Budapest. Like Marcus, once again I watched the sun come up over the Buda hills, though not from a military tent (as he would have done) but from my hotel room a week or so ago.

The sun has come up, or rather, gone down on my final tour. It is hard to believe that it is thirty years since the first one in February 1990. As I sat in my hotel room the other morning and gazed through the window at the sun over the Buda hills, a dazzling disc in the clear early morning winter sky, many memories inevitably flooded in. Now that I am home again I am sure many more will stream into my consciousness and perhaps into this blog too.

But on that particular morning there was little time for nostalgic reverie. It was the morning of my final performances at the Kolibri Theatre and I had to be breakfasted and out of the hotel early with the technical crew so we had time to set up the production before the cast arrived. My final production there was ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ and we were giving two performances: one at 2 in the afternoon and the other at 6 in the evening. I was too busy to be sad or nostalgic that day. But I did take lots of photos of backstage, the auditorium and the beautiful foyer. As the theatre is a children’s theatre, it is painted like a jungle with tigers, monkeys and exotic birds peeping out of the foliage. I had hoped to have a little time alone on the stage while everyone went to lunch but it didn’t happen.

Strangely it did last year, when we were performing ‘A Christmas Carol’. Somehow we had set up quickly and efficiently and when everyone else went to lunch, I did find myself sitting alone on stage in the stage lights looking out to the empty auditorium. There is an alert stillness about an empty theatre, especially when the stage is set and the performance will soon begin. There is an atmosphere of anticipation, an air of expectancy. As I sat there I felt the warmth of that lovely theatre seep into my bones. Memories flooded in more potently than in my hotel room just now. That is because the stage is where it’s at, not a hotel room. And so, as I sat there, it was then that I felt sad. And yes I did shed a tear because I knew that either then or a year later would be the end.

Prior to the tour, the 30th anniversary was celebrated at the school with a Gala Performance,which the Consul General of the Hungarian Embassy here in London and the Mayor of Kingston attending along with ex-Drama students who had been on the tours over the years and colleagues and ex-colleagues and friends too. Several friends, ex-students and colleagues attended the other two performances as well. So many people to see and so little time to talk to them all. The memories streamed in with them. A heartfelt thank you to all who came along!

I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs – it was in connection with ‘A Christmas Carol’ last year – that, as in Ancient Greek Drama, the director and actors’ aim is to create an invisible circle between the performers and the audience. Experiencing Wagner’s Ring Cycle of four operas at the Royal Opera House in autumn 2018 had reminded me of this. It is easier, of course, to create this circle in a small studio theatre than in a large auditorium like the opera house at Covent Garden. Nevertheless, it is a magical thing when it happens, like the magic ring at the centre of Wagner’s operas. I am pleased to say that it did happen, both in the school’s studio and the Kolibri Theatre.

During those performances at school and at the Kolibri, another circle appeared as if by magic as I watched the performances from the wings. For these were my final performances. My career as a teacher and director had come full circle. And all those students, the past ones in the audience and the present ones on stage, were part of that circle, that golden round, which extended to a country a thousand miles away. My heart was almost bursting with as much pride and excitement as when I watched our first ever performance in the school by Lake Balaton from the wings 30 years ago.

At the beginning of the second performance at the Kolibri Theatre, Janos Novak, the theatre’s director, made a presentation to me. It was a plaque: oblong in shape and of polished wood. It had a wooden marionette attached to it. There is a brass citation underneath in recognition of our 24 year creative friendship and officially making me an honorary member of the Kolibri Theatre Company. I do feel greatly honoured and very moved.

The marionette is very appropriate as because Kolibri is a children’s theatre, puppets are often used in performances, even for older children and young people. The puppet on the plaque is a Harlequin and is beautifully carved and painted in a delicate cream. The large diamonds of Harlequin’s costume are a contrasting peach in colour. He wears an orange hat and brown shoes. Harlequin is one of the oldest characters in European Theatre, first appearing as one of the stock characters in the Italian Commedia dell’arte plays, which began before Shakespeare’s time. So I am doubly honoured. Although I am too short and slightly too rotund to play the slim Harlequin!

The marionette is attached to the plaque by a piece of wire at the back of the head. Therefore the arms and legs are able to move. They clattered about in a plastic bag when I carried the plaque back to the hotel after leaving the theatre. Dear old Harlequin reminds me of how my life has been in semi-retirement. Like the puppet on the plaque, my hands and feet have been free to move but I have still been attached to the school through productions and the drama tour.

Now I am totally unattached. I am like Pinocchio: ‘I got no strings!’ But like Pinocchio when he first tries to walk without them I am a little wobbly on my legs. Losing his strings was a big deal for Pinocchio and it is for me. The fear of freedom threatens to blow me over. However, once I find my feet I am sure I shall be fine.

Like Pinocchio the marionette has a slender nose. His features are carefully painted onto his wooden face. Sometimes when I look at him, his mouth appears to be smiling, At other times he looks sad, as if he saying farewell. Perhaps he represents the theatre’s farewell. His eyes smile sometimes too, and at other times look wistful and sad. He appears to be a marionette with mixed emotions.

As have I.

Ave atque vale – Hail and Farewell! Till the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up!

And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.

A selection of previous meditations is also available in audio form as ‘Meditations of Neiulus Aurelius’ ASMR on YouTube.

I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks
Neilus Aurelius

As I sit here by my solitary candle I am looking at the corner opposite me in my lounge. It is now empty. Today I took down the Christmas decorations and so the tree in the opposite corner is no longer there. My candle seems very solitary indeed now that the lights on the tree are packed away upstairs. Now that the garlands and cards are gone from my bookshelves too, the room seems empty indeed and cold as if a chill winter breeze has crept in though the window or under the door.

I am reminded once again of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’, when the Spirit of Christmas Future returns Scrooge to the Cratchits’ parlour and the corner where Tiny Tim used to sit is sadly empty. Of course, Scrooge changes heart when he wakes up in the present on Christmas morning. He helps Tiny Tim as much as he can and presumably Tim recovers from his illness and lives so the corner will not be empty at all. And of course I will be putting up the decorations and tree once again in December and, like Tiny Tim’s corner, my lounge corner will not be empty once more either. And it will once again glow with the lights on the tree.

At the end of ‘A Christmas Carol’ we are told that ‘it was always said of Mr Scrooge that he knew how to keep Christmas well’. We are also reminded: ‘May that be truly said of all of us.’ What does this mean? Scrooge’s sudden change of heart, indeed the opening of his heart in generosity to others, including those less fortunate than himself, did not end with that first Christmas season when he became truly alive. The spirit of Christmas remained alive in him throughout the year. Moreover, his heart had been opened for the rest of his days.

You may remember the phrase ‘A dog isn’t just for Christmas’, warning people not to buy a puppy for Christmas without being aware of the responsibilities of looking after it afterwards. Well perhaps Dickens is saying ‘Christmas isn’t just for Christmas’. We should keep the generous spirit of Christmas alight in our hearts even though the Christmas lights have been extinguished in our home. Just as, if we buy or receive a dog or puppy at Christmas, we have the responsibility to look after it, so we also have the responsibility to be generous and kind to others, especially those less fortunate than ourselves, all the year round. If we are looking for a New Year’s resolution perhaps this should be it. Or perhaps we should be thinking more in terms of a New Year’s attitude.

A few days ago, I mentioned to a friend that my lounge looked gloomy now that the decorations had been taken down and packed away. He suggested that we should put up different decorations for each month of the year, in line with the seasons I suppose. I do know that in Hungary (and I imagine other parts of Eastern Europe) people put up an Easter tree in their homes. This is very often a large bunch of bare branches decorated with ribbons and imitation eggs made from wood or papier-mache. The eggs are painted with traditional designs and are very colourful. I have a few on my Christmas tree! When I bought them in Budapest several years ago, I thought they were Christmas decorations!

My Christmas lights may be put away now but my solitary candle is still burning brightly. Perhaps in the year ahead, we should burn a candle to remind ourselves of the spirit of Christmas in season and out of season and to remind ourselves to live by that spirit. And

to encourage us, in the dark and uncertain opening days of this New Year and new decade.

Happy New Year.

Ave atque vale – Hail and Farewell! Till the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up!

And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.

A selection of previous meditations is also available in audio form as ‘Meditations of Neiulus Aurelius’ ASMR on YouTube. I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

I am writing this meditation with a candle nowhere in sight. I am in a rather cosmopolitan location. I am seated in the Cafe Dumas in the Institut Francais overlooking the Danube in Budapest. As I am soon about to begin rehearsing my dramatisation of a great work of French literature, ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ by Victor Hugo, perhaps it is appropriate that I am writing my meditation here in the Institut Francais and in a cafe named after two other great 19th Century French writers : Alexandre Dumas, father and son. And my dramatisation of Hugo’s novel will be presented here in Budapest next February. So the location is very much appropriate.

So here, quite close to the famous Lanchid (Chain Bridge) I am watching the boats on the river and the yellow and white number 2 tram going up and down the opposite embankment. It is the most popular tram in Budapest, the tourist tram. The weather has been extremely hot here since I arrived as it is the last days of summer. Today is cooler with a welcome breeze and distinctly autumnal. The leaves on the trees on the embankment are beginning to change colour already and are a mix of vibrant green and russet brown.

How many journeys have I made on that tram since I first came here? Next month, it will 30 years since I first came to Hungary and to Budapest. The Republic of Hungary will be 30 years old too next month, as first I came here in the week the republic was first established in October 1989. So like the leaves in the breeze, there are many memories swirling around in my head this afternoon. I am feeling distinctly autumnal. I am autumnal. I may even be slipping into winter. These last few days have made me realise that I am getting older, if not old! I have finally realised how old I am.
I have just been in one of the city’s museums: the Museum of Fine Arts.It has an antiquities gallery in the basement, with artefacts from Ancient Egypt, Greece and Italy. In this gallery there is an funerary monument: a man and woman and a boy between them. The boy is not their child or grandchild but one of their slaves as they were obviously a wealthy couple, if they were able to have funerary statues for their burial.

The man has a middle-aged head with curly hair and a beard ( a typical ancient philosopher’s head) but his head is on top of a youthful, athletic body. His body suggested to me that he was guilty of wishful thinking! Or was he a young man with an old head on his shoulders?
However, the woman’s head was missing but her body looked clearly like that of a Roman matron, ‘a lady of a certain age’ as we would say. So it appears that the man was in some sort of mid-life crisis: middle-aged but imagining himself still youthful and athletic (if he ever was!). Looking closely at my own torso in the mirror recently, I think I am beyond imagining that now! I have now become part of the ‘realist’ school of literature!

By reading the information card beside these statues, I discovered that this kind of funerary statue was common in Roman times. It was an attempt to depict the idea of ‘a beautiful and good man.’ Presumably the ‘philosopher’ head of the statue suggested that the man had good and humane thoughts and lived by them and his youthful, athletic body suggested that this way of thinking and living made the man beautiful. For is it not goodness that creates beauty in a person?

I may be getting old but I still have a youthful spirit or I wouldn’t be in any way successful as a director of young people. They appear to still enjoy rehearsing with me. So here we are about to start rehearsing another production in the next few weeks. And next February we will be embarking upon another tour to Budapest. Except it will be my last production and my last tour.

It was quite emotional for me as I walked into the Kolibri Children’s Theatre last Friday for my usual meeting. We have been presenting productions there for over 20 years. I found it very hard to tell the production team that next year will be my last one. But it is time to bow out, to retire. I did not realise how difficult it was all going to be until I stood outside the theatre last Friday. How difficult it will be to let go. That is because I did not fully comprehend how close I am to the Kolbri Theatre and its director, Janos and its staff and it’s wonderful, warm appreciative audiences down the years. I had not realised how big a part of my life it has been. Or how big a part of my life this country has been.

In the antiquities gallery there was a quote on one of the large information boards. This quote has been attributed to the Greek philosopher Heraclitus: ‘The invisible connection is stronger than the visible.’ That is what I had forgotten: the invisible connection. The invisible connection that binds us together, that touches our heart, becomes part of us. And so this city and my friends here and the dear Kolibri Theatre will still remain part of my life because of that invisible connection, but in a different way. Like one season shifting into another.

Several friends who read my blog have asked me why I do not include photos . My reason is partly because, although I do sometimes write about my travels, I would hope my meditations are more than a holiday diary. I would hope that my blog is more discursive than that and that my powers of description are sufficient for you, dear reader, to visualise the people, places and works of art I seek to describe. Besides, shortly you will be able to hear the author’s voice as well as read his words as a selection of these meditations will be appearing on YouTube in an audio version. More news on that in my next meditation so:

Ave atque vale until the next blog.

If you are enjoying my blog, and have not already done so, please sign up below to receive notification of each new blog by e mail. Just add your e mail to ‘Follow’ as it pops up!
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Many thanks
Neilus Aurelius

I am writing this away from home and by lamplight rather than candlelight. I am in a place that Marcus would not have known about and would not have been able to conquer, thousands of miles away from the mainland of Europe.

At present I am on a little holiday in Canada, visiting family on Vancouver Island in British Columbia. I come here almost every summer. My aunt Barbara lives in a little town called Sidney by the Pacific Ocean. This afternoon, the ocean lived up its name: it was peaceful, placid and still. So was the grey heron I observed, perfectly poised on one leg in the water by the shore, as thin and elegant as a ballet dancer en pointe.

However, since I arrived a few days ago, I have been far from calm and cool and collected like Mr Heron. To begin with, dear auntie no longer has wi-fi. I find this quite irksome as I have to go down the hall to my cousin’s apartment or to a coffee shop to read my mails, check my bank and credit card accounts, What’s Ap and Messenger, see who has died recently on Wikipedia and continue with my Italian course on Duo Lingo. Not to be able to comprehensively use my I phone at a swipe has seemed like losing a limb. Of course I would have lost a small amount of money as well as a limb if, in impatience, desperation and extravagance, I had switched on mobile data on my phone thereby enabling instant Internet access.

In addition to this inconvenience, I have been able to receive texts on my phone but unable to send them. So my sense of isolation has seemed complete. I might as well have been in the far flung Northern territories like the Yukon, where they are enjoying very warm weather at the moment according to local TV here. The text situation has now been rectified but nevertheless my first text-less twenty-four hours here have been exceedingly bleak.

Over the last day or so, I have spent much of my time settling in and catching up with the family but, nevertheless, I have been constantly checking a phone that wasn’t doing anything. As a result, I have felt bereft, dare I say it, in cold turkey. I have realised how addicted I am to my phone. A prominent businessman recently commented that his mobile phone is his mistress, and a mistress to be obeyed. How right he is. We are not only addicted to instant gratification but also to instant communication. I am an impatient person, and even more so since I purchased an I phone. ‘Why haven’t they replied yet?’ I ask myself, ‘Why haven’t I got an e mail?’ I suppose, now that I am retired I have nothing else to think about.

This continual concentration on the little screen in our hand can also stop us from noticing our surroundings or the people around us. A friend recently told me that he was annoyed with people who watch movies on their phone while they are walking in the street and so slow down the people behind them. When I first tried to use google maps to find the house of a friend I was visiting, I actually bumped into a lamp post!

Headphones can make people oblivious to others around them. I have often found it amusing watching people talking into their phones in the street or on the bus or train. They look as if they are talking to themselves, sometimes quite dramatically as if they are insane. It is annoying, however, when their conversations are forced upon others sitting close to them. The other summer, I remember sitting opposite a woman on the train and being most disconcerted as she talked to her boy friend or partner on the other end of the line in graphic detail about the rampant sex they had enjoyed the night before. And this was on a crowded train on a Saturday afternoon with families sitting nearby. Private lives are becoming a thing of the past.

So I felt rather guilty this afternoon, as I observed Mr Heron, who also appeared to have lost a limb as he stood elegantly on one leg in the waves. Since arriving here, I have been so immersed in my phone trauma I have hardly noticed the tall stately pines in the creamy twilight; the driftwood on the shore, blanched white by the waves; the small islands on the horizon, like blue grey pillows on the surface of the azure sea.

As I breathed in the sweet smell of the ocean and watched a lone boat skid over the waves breaking the stillness, I decided that technology may be a wonderful tool but it is also a tyrant.

Ave atque vale until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

Once again I sit here gazing at the candle before me, and like Marcus, I reflect up on my life or one part of it: my youth.

I have spent the long weekend at my old Oxford college: Pembroke. I go there once a year to preach to students at Sunday Evensong and to catch up with friends, including the chaplain, Andrew Teale, who is a most kind host.

Inevitably memories flood in as I walk around the college where I studied English for three years. Pembroke is a small college: intimate and cosy, I would say, and I felt at home there most of the time and made good friends there, a few of whom are still part of my life now. One, my friend Peter, came to Evensong and stayed to dine in Hall. As we looked out over the sea of young faces in Hall, the inevitable line came to us both: ‘Were we ever that young?’

I like to stay in college in one of the guest rooms and one room in particular, which overlooks the Chapel Quad. I look out onto the small squat 17th Century chapel to the left and the Victorian dining Hall ahead with the lawn in the centre. This weekend students have been playing croquet on it. But it is the buildings to the right almost under the window which most attract my interest. At this time of year, with the window open, I can smell the lush wisteria that blooms around the entrance of the old senior common room and the roses around the arch to North Quad immediately under the window sill. The stillness is inviting in this heady fragrance.As the sky darkens, the old lamps in the walls of the buildings make their sandstone glisten. I sit watching the sky fade ineluctably into night and the glow of the lamps growing stronger, giving warmth to the gloom.

When I was an undergraduate in college, I noticed little of this, except the stillness and the freshness of the twilight sometimes. Summer term is something special in Oxford. My first summer term was like arriving at college for the first time all over again. The college looked so different in the summer, and the city too: the other college gardens and the parks and Christchurch Meadow by the river.  I was intense and in my own world in a way: self absorbed then recklessly convivial. Little has changed! I was young – and, dear me, the students do look so very young now to my older eyes. No: I am wrong. I do remember being caught up in the stillness of those summer evenings fading into night and the intoxicating perfume of the flowers.  

But I didn’t notice the lamps then: the indigo sky, yes, but not the lamps. Perhaps lamp-gazing in the twilight is for older people, when we are more mellow and content, when life is less intense, less raw, less filled with angst. Less vibrant? No: I am still capable of reverie: in that room overlooking Chapel Quad.  When I was an undergraduate it was that heavy floral perfume that sent me into a reverie, and the violet sky. Now it is the glow of the lamps. I am older now, so I am looking in a different direction, I suppose. The reverie is still real, still potent, but not as intense.

Earlier today I visited the Weston Library, which is the new building opposite the university’s main library: the Bodleian. The Bodleian Library is one of the largest libraries in the world and houses manuscripts and books ancient and new. It is the old medieval university library which was restored by Sir Thomas Bodley in 1598. The library has a right to a copy of any book that is printed and famous people have bequeathed their private papers to the library too and there are a multitude of volumes from all over the globe.

So the Weston library is a new overspill of the extensive stock for use by students and academics. I like to go in there because on the ground floor there are always some interesting exhibitions and there’s a gift shop and cafe.  

As I sat in the cafe in the entrance hall this morning, I noticed two strange customers seated a few tables away, opposite me. It was a man and woman dressed in identical long dark green gaberdine coats and identical woollen green and cream hats. It was cold for May today but they looked trussed up for winter and they both wore mittens. There were two large cups of coffee infront of them: they were sharing one and the other was being saved for later as the saucer was placed over the top of the cup to keep the contents warm.

It was difficult to work out their ages as their faces were lined and worn with care. They could have been late middle-age or a little younger. The man’s face and hands were dirty but the woman looked cleaner and their bags were on the floor beside them.

Oxford is famous for its eccentrics but I am not sure they were. I would call them ‘homeless’, but it seems too modern a word for the odd couple sipping coffee opposite me. If they were both male, I would use the old phrase ‘gentlemen of the road’ or ‘tramps’. They seemed to be vagrants. But their innate dignity makes me ashamed to use any of those phrases to describe them. They seemed more like late 19th or early 20th Century rural travellers, going from place to place looking for work. Yet they were happy and content and totally at home in the tall and spacious modern entrance hall, watching the world go by, looking rural and incongruous in this centre of academia: to be written about, rather than writing themselves. Or perhaps in their shabby bags, a masterpiece lay hidden. Or a thesis to shake the world.

The woman’s face was round and lined: an apt subject for Rembrandt to paint. The man had a red hatchet face and would have been more at home in an illustration in a Dickens’ novel. As they conversed their heads bobbed about in comical fashion.  There was something cosy about them, as if they were Hobbit residents of Tolkien’s Shire.

As I observed them, I tried to work out their relationship: fellow travellers perhaps? Or brother and sister? Husband and wife? Or lovers even. The man would look around now and then as if protecting the woman from a hostile world. They sat side by side and seemed close and intimate, sharing the cup of coffee lovingly.  Then the man looked around again and quickly kissed her on the cheek. Such a tender moment as if they were two secret lovers on the run.

I finished my coffee and wandered into the gift shop. Then I went into the exhibitions. I was meeting a friend for lunch and still had time to kill when I came out so I got myself another coffee.

There they still were, sipping coffee from their own loving cup, cocooned in their own company, comfortable and free. I envied them their intimacy – something I have never known.

Then I worked out where they were from. They would have been at home in a Thomas Hardy novel. They had brought Hardy’s Wessex into the Weston Library. His novels are on the shelves somewhere. I thought of students studying them and analysing them

somewhere in the library or sequestered in their rooms in colleges nearby.

Perhaps they would learn more from studying this deeply intimate and totally free couple and then their own intense student angst would drift away. I wish mine had.

Ave atque vale until the next blog.

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Neilus Aurelius

​​

       

It is evening and the darkness is only closing in because the days are getting longer and the nights shorter now. The candle burns cheerfully beside me as I begin to write. It is as if it has realised that Spring has come, although the sky has been grey and devoid of sunshine all day! Whenever I begin to write this blog, so many memories and different facets of my life come to mind. This was especially true in my last one, when I had just visited Redcar, my hometown, and memories of my childhood and youth understandably crowded in.

Yesterday evening I visited another place which evoked memories and reminded me of different aspects of my life.

I was at a performance in the West End at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. I visited that theatre several times when I was a teenager, on annual visits to London with my mother and grandmother. When I was 14 and in the 3rd Year (Year 9 as it is now) our class had to undertake a History project. Being a budding actor and excited by my fleeting visits to the West End stage, I concentrated on London’s historic theatres and, in particular, the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. The elegant auditorium impressed me so much and took a hold on my imagination, as there is reputedly a ghost in the theatre.  It was built in 1716 and was only the third theatre to receive a Royal warrant (after the other Theatre Royals in Drury Lane and Covent Garden). It was known affectionately as ‘the little theatre in the Hay’ as it is smaller than the other two though equally as opulent.

The interior has been beautifully restored in recent years but even without this, to my young eyes it was magnificent, with powder blue seats in the Upper Circle where we sat and an elegant Victorian bar with marble floors and glass mirrors. I felt so sophisticated and a true gentleman as I drank my ginger beer there in the interval. I have moved on to wine and gin and tonics since then of course!

The first play I saw there was the 18th century comedy, ‘The Rivals’ by Sheridan starring Sir Ralph Richardson who was wonderful, I remember. And to be seeing an 18th Century play in an 18th Century theatre was perfect: the action on the stage matched the ambiance of the auditorium. I am sure Sheridan’s comedy had played there many times before, down the years.

We went back the following year for ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’- my first introduction to Oscar Wilde’s comedy, with Dame Flora Robson, not as Lady Bracknell but as a highly strung Miss Prism. It was a delightful comic characterisation and I remember it clearly. But I wasn’t allowed to elegantly swill ginger beer in the bar this time as we were at a matinee and the licensing laws didn’t allow theatre bars to be open for matinees then. So we had afternoon tea instead. This was brought to our seats by elderly waitresses on trays which clipped to the back of the seats infront of us (and complete with china cups, tea pot, sugar bowl, milk and hot water jugs and fruit cake, would you believe!). The way they juggled the trays up and down the upper circle stairs would be worthy of Cirque Du Soleil these days!

I enjoyed the play so much that I bought the LP’s of a 1940’s production with Sir John Gielgud and Dame Edith Evans (as Lady Bracknell with her definitive rendition of ‘A handbag?’). When I got home, I would play those records over and over again and eventually knew the play virtually by heart. I was surprised how much I remembered many years later (in 2002) when I directed the play at my school. I also played Lady Bracknell and managed to avoid imitating Dame Edith’s ‘A Handbaaaag?’

Memories of those performances swirled in my head as I sat in the theatre last night, waiting for the performance to begin and I shared some of them with my friend Phil who was with me. However, at the moment, the theatre is not playing host to an elegant society comedy, but a musical based on the classic sit-com ‘Only Fools and Horses.’ Nothing could be more different: the chirpy, cheerful exploits of the wheeler dealer Del Boy and his family in 1980’s Peckham in South London. A very incongruous production for the historical Haymarket Theatre. Photos of the show in the foyer reminded me of watching it  on TV, but more than that, it brought back memories of when I used to work in Peckham myself at Camberwell Unemployment Benefit Office.  

I worked there in my twenties before I began my teaching career. It was a difficult time for me: I was rather lost and in my ‘terrible twenties’ as I call those years. I found it very challenging trying to deal with human need but being circumvented by unemployment benefit rules. I survived there for three years, however, and made some good friends there, three of whom, Alan, Teresa and Janice have remained friends since.

It was my friendships and my visits to the theatre that got me through. I saw everything I could: plays, musicals, opera, ballet. I thought I might become an actor or a director or even an opera director but of course didn’t have the personal drive or confidence then. At the back of my mind I knew I could be a teacher, though. I remember being with my friend Teresa at a performance by the Royal Shakespeare Company and thinking about it: instead of being an actor, maybe I could become a teacher to help young people to appreciate Shakespeare. And that’s what I tried to do in the end.

So it was rather strange last night seeing those two worlds – Peckham and the plush West End Theatre – together.  

However,  I wasn’t at the Haymarket Theatre last night to see a performance of ‘Only Fools and Horses’. It was to attend a ‘Sunday Encounter’ – one of a series of weekly interviews with current theatre stars.  Sir Derek Jacobi was being interviewed by his ‘Last Tango in Halifax’ co-star Anne Reid. You may have surmised from earlier paragraphs that when I was a teenager I was in awe of theatre Knights and Dames. I would look out for them in films and on television and of course it was a thrill to have the chance to see them live on stage. Sadly I never saw Sir Laurence Olivier on stage. ‘Sir Laurence’ was one of my father’s nicknames for me when I was a teenager as he knew I had theatre ambitions. Olivier was mentioned frequently by Sir Derek in his reminiscences as he gave the young actor a place at the Old Vic in the first National Theatre company.

Now I am no longer in awe of theatre royalty and it wasn’t because Derek Jacobi is a ‘Sir’ that I was interested to hear him last night. I have seen him many times on stage before anyway.  I idolised him when I was a young man, long before he was a Sir. He was the kind of actor I would have liked to have been: sensitive, perceptive, witty and a master at playing Shakespeare and Chekhov (my two dramatist idols). He has a beautiful voice and has formidable vocal skills, being able to play Shakespeare’s poetry and to find the poetry in what ever text he is performing. As a vocal actor myself, I have always tried to emulate him and to pass on some of the skills he demonstrates to my students. Indeed, when I am being mannered as an actor, I sometimes dissolve into an impersonation of him!

Obliquely, Sir Derek gave my teaching career a boost. I had a rather shaky start in the first two years (as most of us do) and was even thinking of giving it up and going on the stage. Sir Derek was appearing with the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Barbican Theatre in a triumphant season in Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ as Benedict and Prospero in ‘The Tempest and as Cyrano de Bergerac. Needless to say I saw all of them and he was the best Benedict I have ever seen and heart-rending as Cyrano. He was also very genuine when I got his autograph afterwards. So I decided I would write a fan letter to him (care of the stage door of the Barbican) and to say that, at the age of 29, I was thinking of becoming an actor. To my surprise he wrote a long handwritten letter back and was very helpful. His advice was the advice he had been given as a young actor: ‘If you want to act: think twice. If you have to act: go ahead.’ So I persevered as an English teacher! And eventually I found my true niche as a Drama teacher. I have kept the letter and have never forgotten the  advice. I have passed it on to many students who were thinking of an acting career themselves.

So I had ended up where I was meant to be. I am a very fortunate man!  

Ave atque vale until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

​​

The candlelight beside me is steady this evening as I begin to write. However I will not be writing about the small flame of a candle this time, but about a larger more vibrant light.

I have recently been back to my hometown, Redcar, which is on the North East coast in Cleveland. I was visiting my sister Ann for the weekend. Ann collected me from the station at Thirsk, a market town in North Yorkshire. As we drove towards Redcar, I could see a flare glowing in the twilight sky. It was from one of the tall narrow jets outside the local chemical works. It was a continuous stream of red and gold as it rose in the sky. The flare was stately and thin compared with the huge tubby grey chimneys belching smoke behind it. It was magnificent, yet welcoming.

We were driving on the edge of Wilton, Redcar’s main industrial area. Clearly the ICI chemical works is still in operation, but tragically the steelworks over the road has finally closed down. Many years ago, My father worked in both: British Steel (or Dorman Long as it was originally) and ICI. I remember him bringing home plastic beakers and small bowls, samples from the plastics plant he worked in at ICI.

Whenever I go into my school, I am still reminded of my hometown. One of the girders supporting the stairs to the first floor has ‘Dorman Long, Middlesbrough’ emblazoned on it. That area of the school is part of the original building, which was opened in 1959. I like to think my father shaped that girder in the blast furnaces he used to work in.    

Observing the flare from my sister’s car reminded me of being on the local bus when I was  a teenager on the way home from school in Middlesbrough. Often on the journey I would notice the flare. It would burn all day and all night. If I was coming home at night from Middlesbrough, from the cinema or from a rehearsal at Teeside Youth Theatre, I remember it burning brightly in the dark. It was like a beacon reminding me I was almost home.  And now the flare was welcoming me home again.

At that time, of course, Teeside (as it was known then) was flourishing and quite prosperous with other light industry besides the two giants at Wilton and with Middlesbrough docks still operating.    

I remember Mr Maidens my English teacher telling me that Teeside was a good place to live because there was plenty of industry to support the area and there was so much  beautiful countryside round about: the coastline by the North Sea and, inland, the rolling North Yorkshire Moors. He took the class to see ‘Macbeth’ at the newly opened Forum Theatre in Billingham (where ICI’s other large works was situated). The theatre was a source of civic pride. The metal framed set for the production had been built by the local steel works. That production starred a very young Michael Gambon in the title role. I was so excited to see a live Shakespeare play, even though some of my fellow pupils weren’t really bothered and were quite boisterous. Fortunately some of us ended up in a side box away from our unruly mates, though it wasn’t all gilt and red plush like the West End, but very modern and metallic.  Ever the theatre critic, at age 15, I thought Sir Michael was good but not magnetic in the role!  

That was half a century ago. The area has slowly gone into decline and the steel works is no more. So now the flare is a beacon of hope – hope that the area will once again be prosperous. It is also a symbol of the warmth of the local people.

The people of Redcar have lived with an unclear future for decades. Now the nation (and indeed Europe) is living with an unclear future too. Every day the future becomes more a and more uneasy as the ‘ignorant armies’ are still ‘clashing’ in the House of Commons (to quote Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach’ again -as I did a few months ago). Times are even more unsettling as we witness terrorist attacks in New Zealand and Europe, and not long ago, in our own country.

The flare has reminded me of another poem – this time by W.H.Auden: ‘September 1, 1939’.  

It’s set in a bar on 52nd Street in New York, where Auden was living before the imminent outbreak of the Second World War in Europe. He writes:

​​‘We must love one another or die.​​​

​​Defenceless under the night

​​Our world in stupor lies;

​​Yet, dotted everywhere,

​​Ironic points of light

​​Flash out wherever the Just

​​Exchange their messages:

​​May I, composed like them

​​Of Eros and of dust,

​​Beleaguered by the same

​​Negation and despair,

​​Show an affirming flame.’

In these fragmented times of unease, may we all be a point of light – an affirming flame – a flare of hope.  

Ave atque vale until the next blog.

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I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

​​

A I write, a candle is not flickering beside me this time. Instead a lone electric lamp is my companion. I am in my hotel room in Budapest and through my window, above the buildings I can see the Buda hills wreathed in mist in the distance. Dawn is beginning to break and its pale cream light rises over the blue mounds of the hills. A bird has just flown over the trees towards them as if intrigued by their shadows.

So now I am in Pannonia, where Marcus and his legions once trod. My fancy would like to think that Marcus pitched his camp here on the site of this hotel and that in his tent, as he wrote his meditations at break of dawn he had the same view of the hills as I have now. He would have been writing more slowly than I am of course. He would not be pounding a portable keyboard attached to an I pad. No doubt he would have gazed into the gathering mists of dawn and slowly wrote on his parchment or wax tablet. To think that we might both be writing our thoughts onto tablets! And just as my meditation is saved on my mini computer so his would have been transferred to scrolls of parchment by a scribe. And somehow those scrolls survived to be read by far distant generations.

What will happen to my digital meditations? Will they survive? I am not so vain as to think that future generations will read my thoughts, let alone appreciate them. I do not know if I want them to. But I am enjoying sharing my thoughts with you, the followers of this blog and heartened by the positive comments I have received. Marcus’ own meditations were also an essentially private document, as I have said before, a compilation of the writings and teachings that had most influenced him, the ideals he aspired to, and in his striving to live up to them, made him who he was.

The light has gone off in my room. The electricity doesn’t appear to be working. So I am writing this now by the light of the dawn through the window. I am in true Marcus mode!

I awoke very early this morning at four. The hotel was quiet and unusually still. All 300 rooms. It was to early for the habitual slamming of doors and footsteps in the corridors. I could not hear a sound: ‘Not a mouse stirring’ as Francisco says in the opening scene of  Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’.  

I could not go back to sleep. I have my big show today: two performances of ‘A Christmas Carol’ at the Kolibri Theatre. It will be a long day: arriving at the theatre at 10 to set up and have a brief technical rehearsal for scene changes, lights and sound before curtain up at 2 and then a break and curtain up again at 6. So understandably my mind was teeming with things to do.  When these thoughts finally dissolved I turned over and tried to get to sleep again. But to no avail.

So I listened to the silence in my room. It was then that I realised just how still the hotel was. The silence was comforting, like a blanket around me. I have learnt that silence can be comforting. It is not necessarily threatening – something to run away from, to escape from into music or noise. In fact the best music has silent moments, as does the most effective drama. But silence can be challenging, challenging us to sit down, relax, to be still. To be aware of where we are and who we are.

In the silence as I lay there, I listened to my heartbeat – regular and strong. Being a cerebral person, living in my mind, my thoughts and, in my writing, my imagination, I am not always fully aware of my body. I live mainly in my head. As a result I have not taken care of my body as I should over the years!  It may seen strange that as I am an actor and a Drama teacher I am not always fully aware of my body. I am when I am on stage, of course, or demonstrating something in a rehearsal or class. Nevertheless, I have never been a very physical actor: my strength has been in my vocal skills and interpretation of text.    

As I listened to my heartbeat in the silence in the room, I wasn’t annoyed by it as I have been before: ‘All I want to do is get back to sleep and I can’t because I keep hearing my heartbeat!’ I just gave in and listened to it. As I listened, I was reminded that I am a physical being, that I am dependent on that heartbeat to live. And I was reminded of my mortality, that the time will come when that heartbeat will stop. In the silence it was a gentle beat, not an aggressive one: my heart is my old friend after all.

I wonder if Marcus listened to his own heartbeat in his tent in the night and if he was reminded of his own humanity and mortality. It would seem so from his writings. He is constantly aware of mortality, of what little time we have:. ‘No you do not have thousands of years to live,’ he writes, Urgency is on you. While you live, while you can, do good.’

Later in the day I was alone on the stage of the theatre. I had sent everyone off to lunch and was working out the scene changes alone. The theatre staff were at lunch too. I stopped scribbling for a moment and looked out into the auditorium.It was still. It was silent too. But the silence was one of expectancy – a performance was soon to take place. And again it was warm like a blanket. I was at home again in the Kolibri, where I have been for over twenty years. And hopefully I was doing good.

 

Ave atque Vale until the next blog.

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Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius