Veni Creator Spiritus

From time to time I will spend a sunny afternoon sitting in a graveyard, generally around a church, generally when I’m doing a concert, or eating lunch or passing some time somehow. Sometimes I wander round, read some of the stones - how old were they? Were they married? Did they enjoy their life? Did they have hope? Were they in love?

Today I was doing this again, and it struck me what an amazing sense of peace it gives you to do this on a bright, warm day. To wander, and see these people all resting there, lives complete, remembered, loved, at peace. Somehow seeing this reality, and feeling their presence there, gives a peace about death, that it’s not something that has to be horribly frightening, but that you become, somehow, a part of this community that has journeyed that road before you.

It struck me too, what an amazing symbol it is to have a graveyard like this surrounding a church. A reminder that these people are still part of the community of worshippers, that they share in our worship, taking part with us in our adoration of God.

This evening I went to see Madame Butterfly in a stunning ENO production at the London Coliseum. The production was by the late Anthony Minghella (of Isle of Wight fame…) and was absolutely stunning.

Having seen the opera in the past though, I’ve been trying to think about what makes it so compelling as a story. It’s absolutely tragic in its substance - young, innocent, naïve girl marries a man in utter trust and love, he goes away, she waits for him three years with all her heart and then at the end of it he comes back married to someone else. She kills herself because of the grief. Yet, somehow there’s something that draws us in beyond the tragedy to a realm of pleasure and enjoyment.

I want to suggest that perhaps it acts on us by allowing us to somehow objectify all the pain and suffering we feel inside - to see someone outside ourselves experience all this so deeply brings it out of the realm of our own introspective subjectivity and creates some kind of objectifying distance between us and our own tragedy. By seeing it out there in such a vivid depiction, somehow the inward reality is transformed and we are able to stand in a different relation to it. It allows us to say “yes, these things happen in the world” and to somehow return with the knowledge that we’re not alone.

Beginning life as a student in Oxford, the Randolph is a venue you learn to revere, to hold in a certain amount of awe. Reviews of the establishment have questioned this reputation, but of course, what could be a better test of their truth than the state of the toilets.

I have to admit that having visited them, I’m left with the same kind of ambiguity present in my views of the establishment as a whole. In general, they are very tastefully done, a deep red coat of paint giving the walls a pleasantly mellow look, and various drawings hung around the walls to add interest to the experience. The obvious point of comparison is malmasion, and here, the differences are obvious - there is no attempt at subtle lighting, no folded toilet roll, no comedy playing in the background. Instead we have an establishment which had become comfortable in its place in the world and no longer feels the need to add these little innovations.

The ambiguity of the experience stems from the quality of the fittings. Whilst the floor is very pleasantly tiles in black and white, as your foot taps against it you have a sneaking suspicion that perhaps it is plastic. Likewise with the chrome fittings around the sinks - they lack an aura of refined workmanship that you would expect of an establishment as prestigious as this one. Whilst high-quality hand-towels are supplied in baskets they are, unfortunately, disposable. The hand soap is molton brown, but this is really to be expected anyway.

Overall, I must say these toilets were a pleasure to use and I would certainly commend them, however as those of an establishment with the reputation of the randolph you get the feeling that maybe a little more could have been invested in the design process and the quality of materials.

Climb up to the high places

the thin places

let the feeble hopes and dreams

of lower regions

be crushed beneath your feet

mere footholds, silenced with a tread

Aspire to the air worth breathing

live for the songs worth singing

outclimb the world

outclimb the pain within you

People often seem slightly surprised when I mention how much I like rain. It is useless getting into a stalemate of “I like rain” “I don’t like rain” and I believe a common ground could be found if we adopted a higher degree of nuance in our rain-talk.

Let me describe to you two different types of rain. Firstly the kind I suspect most people imagine when they say they don’t like it.

1. Rain that gets your trousers soaked when you’re cycling, that is driven by the wind into your face in a cold wet stream. Rain that exists in the context of a cold, dark, oppressive atmosphere.

2. Rain that falls in a gentle mist, which is cool and refreshing against the skin. Rain that falls heavily when you’re inside on a summer’s evening and you see it watering the plants and hear its music in the leaves and on the window.

There we go. That’s why I like rain. Because I’m talking about the other sort.

These toilets are a fine example of careful thought and attention to detail. Toilet lighting has been carefully thought out, with a selection of spots giving variation and atmosphere rather than an uninspiring wash. There is a separate toilet audio system which loops classic John Cleese comedy, demonstrating the same kind of care and attention with which people choose toilet books for home. The toilet roll has ends folded into a triangle to make it accessible and stylish, this really is something special. For washing there is a wide communal square basin with multiple sets of taps - slightly unusual and very pleasing, with a purple translucent floral handsoap which I highly recommend.

15 And gazing at him, all who sat in the council saw that his face was like the face of an angel.

I’m just finishing work on www.noelwhite.co.uk. Head on over and have a look.

Imagined futures die behind an immovable wall
The brief intersection of parallel universes
now fractured by the harsh voice of reason
Once rich and flowing rivers of potentiality
now run dry through rapidly drying banks

Temptation stands now, not as it once was
a new mask worn glinting with promise on its face
The mirage of all that could have been
still promising all that it can no longer fulfil

Old furrows begin to flow once more with water
straining and creaking with the pain of change
Unblemished surfaces will once more bear the wounds
of a new flow burrowing deep into their surface

The pain of gospel is the pain of rebirth
the harshness of hope within a skin that cannot feel it
Nails that bring with them new tendrils of growth
Courage to grasp the hurt to transform it

Some powerful reflections on Judas and on us