Tag: shakespeare

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.

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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 as usual to write my meditation, I am not concentrating on the flame from the candle in front of me. I am thinking about another light. Moonlight. Last night as I looked out onto my garden from the kitchen door, there was a full moon in the clear night sky. It was strikingly beautiful. ‘The watery eye of the moon’ (as Shakespeare describes it’s surface) was crystal clear all those miles away. There was a warmth about this moon, like a pale version of the sun. It was not silver and cold but a delicate coral and warm. A benign presence in the night sky. Comforting. A beacon of hope.

I have learnt today on the BBC News website that last night I had been captivated by a supermoon. This occurs when a full moon or a new moon comes closest to the Earth in its orbit and so from the Earth it appears slightly larger than usual in size and also appears brighter. The website page showed some stunning photographs of this supermoon from across the UK and Europe and several friends have posted photos too on Facebook. It has been dubbed a ‘pink supermoon’ because it appears to have a rose coloured hue, although in reality there is little colour difference to a full moon.

Among these photographs was an image of the supermoon above the city of Rome and its shadowy ruins. This made me think of Marcus Aurelius. No doubt he had seen a supermoon himself when he was in Rome or on the plains of Pannonia when he was on his campaigns. He must have engaged in a great deal of sky gazing, skies devoid of high rise buildings and planes of course. And, as I have mentioned before, his sky gazing outside his tent on his campaigns probably put him in the right mood to compose his meditations. His contemplation of the heavens may have fed his writings.

He felt a deep affinity with Nature and was in awe of it, writing of it in exalted terms: ‘Nature, all that your seasons bring is fruit to me, all comes from you, exists in you, returns to you.’ Even though he was a philosopher emperor, he acknowledged his indebtedness to Nature, to Creation. He recognised and celebrated his primal bond with Nature, with Creation.

We too in this lockdown are able to gaze at skies free from air traffic, to enjoy the clouds, the stars and the moon, be it from a garden, a balcony or the window of an apartment. And if we have a garden, we have more time now to connect with the earth again, to be truly grounded. Or to take a slow meditative stroll in the park or by flowing water.

The lockdown has given us the opportunity to be like Marcus: to exercise the contemplative side of our human nature. To recognise our own indebtedness to Nature, to Creation, a dependency which our world has disregarded and shunned and trampled on. We too can acknowledge and rediscover our primal bond with Nature. To do this we need to allow ourselves to slow down, to let go of our frenetic selves, to accept the quieter, slower pace of life which this lockdown has forced upon us. It might seem strange, eerie even because we are not used to the calm and the quiet. But once we get over the initial fear or uncomfortableness perhaps we can enjoy the calm and stillness and maybe even luxuriate in it eventually.

This I am sure would have been Marcus’ approach to the lockdown. As a stoic philosopher, Marcus would have strove to accept the situation too and hopefully with equanimity. For him it is not only the duty but the delight of a good man (or woman) to accept and welcome all that is allotted to them. He may be saying to us down the centuries, ‘Will you not be satisfied with your present state and take pleasure in all that is presently yours?’ Once we have accepted this situation we can make the most of it and be positive about it and go with this strange, slower and calmer pace of life. To take the opportunity to live in and enjoy the present moment. And be thankful for what we have, especially our loved ones and friends and of course our health.

After a very cursory look again at Marcus’ ‘Meditations’, I feel this would have been his approach to getting through the lockdown. This would be Marcus’ method.
I shall be exploring a few more possible methods in my next blogs.

Stay safe and well dear readers!

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.

I am still staying here on Vancouver Island in my aunt’s apartment and I am once again writing by lamplight and not my usual candlelight. My aunt goes to bed early so there is a stillness in the apartment and there is much of the evening left. I have been out on her balcony looking at the sky. The sky always seems more open and expansive here than in my little garden at home in the UK. Of course the sky is open and expansive everywhere, but here there are less houses to block the view. Tall spruces and pines on the horizon add to the sky’s grandeur. High as they are, they are dwarfed beneath its immensity.

A full moon has already appeared, even though the sky has not yet darkened and is still a light azure. Streaks of pink twilight clouds try in vain to hide the moon from view. I am reminded of Shakespeare’s line from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’: ‘the watery eye of the moon.’ The moon does look like a watery eye tonight. Its shadowy contours look like tears forming. So as I gaze at the sky, I am at one with Shakespeare again. Those moments have been magical in my life. I am sure he was a sky-gazer himself in his youth in rural Stratford and in London for that matter for there were fewer tall buildings then to block his view.

As I look at the moon, I wonder what it would be like if could see two moons from the earth in the night sky. What if they were in orbit close together – like two great eyes shedding tears for the woes of our world? My reverie is broken as a flock of crying seagulls, presumably on their last flight of the day, suddenly dart through the sky beneath the moon as the chill night breeze rustles the leaves of the pines.

I sit down and admonish myself for not sitting in my own garden enough so far this year and looking at the sky. Marcus would have spent hours gazing at the sky on the Danube plains on his campaigns, helping him to reflect, as much as gazing at the fire in his tent would. Sky-gazing is an ancient form of meditation and no doubt it was practiced by the indigenous communities on this island as it was by indigenous communities across the world.

I am now thinking back to a little ceremony I was privileged to witness this evening. It was conducted by Bruce Underwood, a representative of the Salish nation. The Salish are one of the Canadian First Nations. They are the indigenous people of this particular part of Vancouver Island. The Pacific Ocean on this coastline is also known as the Salish Sea, being named after them.

Bruce Underwood, the Salish representative was performing a ‘blanketing’ ceremony. In the ceremony, someone receives a blanket as a symbol of high regard and respect from the Salish nation. The blanket, which has a clasp to turn it into a cloak, is placed over the person’s shoulders, like a ceremonial robe. Before he did this, Bruce gave a speech explaining that we are all people of the spirit and that our own spirit speaks to the spirit in another person. Just as the spirit of one nation can speak to another nation, one community to another community and needs to in these fractured times.

Then he chanted a song, a blessing, while slowly beating a small drum. The slow beat of the drum reminded me of the slow beating of the heart. The chant was haunting, strong and resonant in his baritone voice, yet gentle and beautiful. As soon as he begin to sing it, I was aware of the echoes of distant times and places. It reminded me of the soaring of the human spirit through the centuries, as simple as a sea bird in flight.

Through this simple chant, this Salish man’s spirit spoke to my spirit and perhaps the spirits of his ancestors did too. For there is more to us than our physical selves and our cognitive selves for that matter, our critical and analytical faculties. Our minds are never still, forever processing the endless bombardment of different media. It is only in stillness and silence that our own spirit can speak to us and the spirits of others too, as his spirit did to me. We are mind, body and spirit and the chant was an integrated expression of all three: the drumbeat signifying the body; the words of the chant, the mind and the music of the chant, the spirit. So his slow dignified chant helped me to listen to my own spirit and to experience the spirits of other times, of other ages.

It also prepared me for the blanketing ceremony that followed. There is nothing regal about a blanket yet the ceremony was as dignified as a coronation. A coronation robe is a symbol of power and therefore of finest gold cloth and bejewelled. A blanket is a piece of woollen cloth after all, but it is warm, protective and comforting over the shoulders. I could see from a distance that the blanket had a special woven design. What it signified I do not know. But it was lowered on the person’s shoulders with great dignity.

There have been times when I have felt lonely, apprehensive or lost and it has seemed as if my shoulders were covered with a blanket of snow. But there have been other times when I have felt surrounded by love – the genuine love and affection of friends and family, the respect of colleagues and students. The ceremony I witnessed tonight has made me realise that I am more than surrounded by love – I am blanketed by it. This is what covers me, keeps me warm, protects and comforts me. It invests me with a special dignity. We are all blanketed – it is just that we don’t stop and listen to our spirit to realise it.

By now I imagine you are wondering who was ‘blanketed’ at this little ceremony and where it took place. You may even be thinking it was myself! Well it wasn’t. Although, as I have just explained, in a highly personal way, I did feel ‘blanketed’ myself.

The person who was ‘blanketed’ was a priest, Fr Rolf Hasenach, at the beginning of a party at his church to celebrate the 50th Anniversary of his ordination. The ‘blanketing’ was a sign of respect which the Salish nation have for him as he does for them. It was an acknowledgment by Fr Rolf and his parish community that the celebration was talking place on the sacred ancestral lands of the Salish people. So Bruce Underwood, their representative was invited to give a welcome and a blessing before the great ‘potlatch’ – the great feast – to celebrate the anniversary. Hence his chant with the drum.

It was a wonderful occasion with 350 parishioners and I felt privileged to be invited and especially to witness the blanketing ceremony at the beginning of the festivities. Some of Rolf’s brother priests were present and the local bishop and yes, prayers were said too. I felt that he was also blanketed with the deep and warm affection of all the guests in the room. As was I being only an annual visitor.

But as the Salish representative said, we are all spirit and our spirits speak to eachother. Fr Rolf’s celebration was a witness to that. In the Christian church we speak of the ‘communion of saints’, of being one, through prayer and through silence, with the holy men and women who have gone before us. Perhaps there is also the ‘communion of spirits’: of being one with the spirits that have gone before us. They may not be people we have ever met or even read about or know about. As I listened to the Salish chant, I was experiencing this, as much as when I listen to ancient plainchant sung by monks in a monastery. There is a unity of spirit which binds all humanity together. Any attempts at uniting peoples is an expression of this.

At the celebration, I felt myself wanting to stand up and recite a toast written by Noel Coward for a one act play of his called ‘Family Album’.

‘Here’s a toast to each of us
And all of us together.
Here’s a toast to happiness
And reasonable pride.
May our touch on life
Be lighter than a seabird’s feather
And may all sorrows in our path
Politely step aside.’

May our touch on life be lighter than a seabird’s feather, indeed, and may our own spirit circle and soar like a seabird too.

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!
And please do pass on the blog address to others who may be interested.
I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.
Many thanks
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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I would also value any feedback on nzolad53@gmail.com or my Facebook page or Twitter.

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.

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.

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

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

Many thanks

Neilus Aurelius

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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