Through Changing Scenes

Through Changing Scenes by David C. Potter.

The history of Prospects, the parent organisation of Plas Lluest, and thus of great interest to both of us. We had known previously that Lluest was the first residence set up by the charity, but not the manner in which it had happened; i had assumed, which is as we know dangerous, that the Alfred Place members whose daughter was the first resident were the prime movers behind the charity, but i was quite wrong. David Potter was a minister in the south of England; he and his wife had a Down's syndrome daughter for whom they had to work out the future; in the process of doing so, they were put in contact with Geoff Thomas of AP, and events moved on from there. As Potter tells it, Thomas was more deeply involved than his parishioners, though that may be simply his recollection; certainly he was admirably interested in and working out the needs of his congregation. Apparently much as Christians Against Poverty, the story in Nevertheless, which i read recently, the charity grew more than expected, though a little more slowly than CAP, and God was clearly in control of the process ~ allowing some purchases, forbidding others, and guiding the board of directors. The interesting thing about Potter and Prospects is that he has taken a very real step back from the running of the charity, perhaps forced to by the health issues which have attacked him, perhaps because he has been able to recognise that there were far more capable men available and involved, and he was sufficiently in tune with God to hear Him and allow them in. Quite admirable.

Friends...'Til the End

A new idea; i think, for a while anyway, i'll post my reveiws as i write them.  Here's the current:

I am in two minds about this, mostly, i think, because i am reminded that i enjoyed the show Friends when it was on ~ though i never made it a passion to watch it, and have, indeed, been caught by surprise by a number of things i’ve read about here ~ and i now have a mild urge to watch all the episodes in order, and yet i found the book itself rather annoyingly smug about its insider knowledge and overwhelmingly gushing about the actors, writers, caterers, indeed everyone with any connexion to the programme. And, of course, the simple grammatical mistake in the title (the title!) of the book just irks me further. Overall, though, i would have to regard this as a successful book, because it has, as i said, re-interested me in the show. I suppose that’s the best that can be hoped for of a TV book like this, from a non-TV person like me!

Review.

This is actually two reviews put into one, so does not flow perfectly smoothly; nevertheless, it's worth posting, i think:


This has been a hard review to write; it is, in fact, right now a week and a half since i finished the book, and i'm still not sure what i want to say about it. Apparently it affected Dad & Susan well, too, because they bought and sent copies to all nine of us, a couple of months ago. I don't know which (if any) of the others have read it, but i have ~ twice now since Christmas ~ and so has Lynne.

Let's see; the book starts quite unpromisingly, i think. I don't mean the death of Missy, the little daughter of the protagonist, though that is painful it is not a bad beginning; somehow, i found that the narration was a bit difficult to get myself into. There was no question that i was going to continue with it ~ i was committed to it, probably because D&S had spoken highly of it ~ but despite that commitment i slogged just a bit at first. Nevertheless, once i was into it, certainly by the time Mack, the protagonist, returned to the place of his daughter's death, and met the three persons there, i found it moving quickly enough to hold my interest and desire to know what was going to happen, what they were going to say.

“Say” because much ~ almost all ~ of what is important in the book is contained in the dialogue between Mack and the other Three. It is not a straight exposition, but it could have been that way and quite boring; Young, however, has done a great job, in my opinion, of avoiding any theological or doctrinal prose, and allowed his beliefs and understanding of God to come to the fore through the narration, just as in the Bible story God is revealed. It has always been clear, i have previously preached, i think, that God reveals himself through story, not through theology and doctrine; this book has simply made this point clearer to me, as i have read and meditated on the story in it.

It is, in fact, a story pretending to be true; and truth masquerading as story. Perhaps the words and the phrasing aren't perfect, but i can't really think of a better way to describe the book I was more moved the second time that i read it ~ if this is a linear relationship, a couple more times through it and i will be weeping openly from beginning to end; that might not be a bad thing, i suppose, so long as i understand, and am better able to live in, the reality of the relationship within God and between me and God.

The experience of Mack with the God revealed as Papa, Jesus, and Sarayu is glorious; the way that Papa talks with him, leads him to the point of forgiveness, and helps him to understand, is wonderful; the image of Jesus snickering as Mack gets his shoes and socks wet walking on the lake is lovely; and Sarayu is now, more than ever, a person i want to know and experience. Together these stories make this one of the most enjoyable books i've read recently; and certainly the most exciting for me: I have taken to Papa, Jesus, and Sarayu, and i am finding that my prayers are a bit realer for me. A Good Thing. Once again, the grace with which Papa, Jesus, and Sarayu open themselves to the possibility of loss, and the joy with which they reclaim their beloved Mack fills me with emotion i don't understand, but i want the reality behind it. Yes, Papa, more of you; more of Jesus; Sarayu.

Music Madness

I was, i confess, disgusted at work recently. Doesn't happen a lot; i'm usually pretty tolerant of the foibles and eccentricities of customers ~ and, trust me, some of them have foibles! This time, though, what i saw was a bit over the top.

There were two young mothers in the shop; i say young mothers, but if they hadn't been pushing prams i'd have called them girls: Neither of them can have been far into her twenties, if at all, both were dressed in typical “girl-clothes” rather than “mum-clothes”. The key point, however, the thing that so greatly surprised me, was that each of the girls had some kind of an MP3-player sitting near their babies, playing music, loudly enough to be heard from some feet away.

Now so far, you might think, this is just the story of two exceptionally rude youngsters, not terribly unusual i fear, who needed their music with no regard to politeness or thought for fellow customers (for they weren't alone in the shop). There is more, though, which makes the story, to my mind, just a bit stranger.

First, their music was particularly tinny sounding, evidently being played through a speaker that really wasn't designed for music, but probably for voice, while being held close to the ear ~ a mobile 'phone, in other words ~ and, as such, it wasn't doing the music any favours at all.

Second and, perhaps, even stranger, we have music playing at all times in the shop. Not Muzak; not classical stuff; not even old-time pop. GPHQ central office sends out CDs to be played, with relatively new, modern music, of a variety of popular genres. So, apparently, it was so important to these two girls that they keep hearing their own music that they were willing to put up with it in competition with two other music sources, and played in poor quality. Now, perhaps it is my age speaking, but i don't understand that, i confess.

Nor do i understand, and this is the part that i really found distasteful, the attitude that said that their own pleasure was so important that they were willing to subject everyone else in the shop ~ including each other, their friendship notwithstanding ~ to their ridiculous behaviour. I know that technology today is working quite hard at reducing us from people in relationship with our surroundings to individuals out of contact with all around, by mobile 'phones, by music players, by laptops, all of which say, “I am too involved in myself to have any relationship with you” ~ and say it far more effectively than a book or even a newspaper held up to the face can. I know it, i say, but i don't understand it, and nor do i, most assuredly, approve of it; we people only in relationships, denying them we lessen ourselves. Thus, though what they did was completely tasteless, in the end i am sorry for those two young mothers, because they are the sufferers for their own behaviour.

A Newish Review

Global Jihad, by Patrick Sookhdeo.

Patrick Sookhdeo spoke in St. Mike's about a month or so ago, and we bought this at that time, as it is his latest book. Interesting it is, if somewhat frightening.

Sookhdeo was raised in a Muslim family, as i understand it, and became a Christian around the time that he left home, and has, evidently, made the study of Islam one of his life's works. His has written this book primarily for those in power, the decision-makers in such countries as the US, Western Europe, and further afield though, the blurb assures us, it is useful to “any reader who seeks to understand Islamic violence in the world today.”

The basic, general thesis of the book is that violence is inherent in Islam, and has been present in just about every manifestation of the religion since Muhammad, so it is thus almost impossible to work against the violent interpretation of jihad until and unless there is a true reform of the religion, perhaps to the original Mecca-period suras of the Koran that have, by most interpretations been abrogated by the later, Medina writings. And, of course, anyone who writes on, promotes the cause of, or attempts to reform the religion is branded heretic, with the distinct possibility of being killed for that crime.

Interestingly, and quite contrary to many contemporary commentators, Sookhdeo does not go down the road, far from it, in fact, of trying to redeem Islam as a whole by condemning the few who are preaching jihad and practising war and terrorism, but he rather insists that the submission the word Islam refers to is to be forced (in the view its adherents) if there are any who will not submit willingly. This use of force is shown very clearly to go all the way back to the time of Muhammad, who was not above the judicious use of murder to enforce his will on the tribes of Arabia, even when claiming to be respectful of the people of the book (Jews and Christians), whom he actually killed as he chose.

The biggest issue i have with the book is nothing to do with the content, but the presentation. I know nothing about Isaac Publishing, but suspect that they are a minor operation, or a vanity house, because there are a number of errors in the style or presentation that a good editor or publisher ought to have caught. For example, the format of Arabic names is not consistent, as some are given as X bin-Y and others X b. Y, where the b. can only stand for bin. There are words or phrases used which are not defined in the glossary, though i would think that in a work like this, written to persuade, any and all means ought to be used to aid in that end. These, and others like, are minor irritations, i admit, but enough that i noticed them, and therefore they are flaws. Otherwise, however, this is a fine book, with detailed notes, a huge bibliography, a fairly comprehensive index, and seven appendices, four of which are quite substantial themselves. In over six hundred and fifty pages, well worth the almost unbelievable ten pounds we paid for it.

What'm I Reading?

A review for you, of a recently read book: Arthur; the Seeing Stone.

We went to a meet-the-author event at the Arts Centre late last year to see Kevin Crossley-Holland, and were surprised that JAG was the only person under twenty there, and even more surprised to discover that the author enjoyed in this household for his Arthur books was actually better known for being a poet and Anglo-Saxon scholar. The upshot was that we all enjoyed it ~ including Crossley-Holland, who had the, possibly unexpected, task of making it interesting for a group of adults and one child with varied expectations ~ and it was, for me, a learning experience.

I now know that i enjoy some of Crossley-Holland's poetry; i would like to get his translation of Beowulf and compare it with that of Heaney which Chen and i read and liked; and i was, eventually, stimulated to read this book, the first of the Arthur trilogy, and therefore the rest which will follow for me. I found this a much quicker read than i had expected ~ probably i'd have read it before if i'd realised ~ which was partly facilitated by the style of having a lot of very short (less than two pages, most) chapters, and jumping the action quite quickly (though not usually within the chapter) between the past and the present so that neither ever grows tedious. Arthur-the-narrator, as opposed to Arthur-in-the-stone, is a lovely character; sufficiently precocious to be able to be writing and holding my interest at age thirteen, yet naïve enough to be worried about a “devil part” his body is growing, he tells us everything, but he doesn't know everything, so we are both left partly in the dark, as the book progresses. Lovely; it only remains to be seen if Crossley-Holland can keep it up for another three books ~ yes, another “trilogy” with more than the requisite number of books!

I go to...?

There is a youngster who works with me at GPHQ whom it is so easy to tease that really it's no challenge at all. As well as our mutual employment, she also is taking a course at the local 6th form college. Her goal is to complete this course, then apply to and attend a university, and emerge with some form of employable degree. The teasing ~ and my interest in it today ~ comes from the fact that, as in so many other areas, our language use is slightly different.

Here, apparently, it is an insult to call all places of education schools, the word being reserved solely for use with those institutions which actually have the word in their name ~ Penglais Secondary School, or Rhydypennau Primary School, for example ~ and not for other places. Thus, since although my friend is still involved in her secondary education she is attending a college, not a school, all i have to do is to ask her when i see her how school is going for her to be annoyed.

This is, to me, a funny distinction to make, as in the usage i am used to (Canadian?, American?, i don't know) school is used to all levels ~ primary, secondary, and tertiary ~ with no derogatory implication. Thus, i have talked about doing this or that “at school” referring to the post-grad university course i'm taking. In fact, my friend usually tries to tease me back when i ask her about school by saying something along the same lines to me, but it has no effect ~ to her further annoyance.

The reason that i find this interesting is that it seems to me to run ~ in both parts of it ~ counter to the stereotype. One expects, according to type, North Americans to be quite concerned with status, especially their own, and thus if they were attending a university to be sure all know that fact, rather than allowing it to be called school or, as is also often the case, college. The British, however, have a reputation for understatement, for allowing the wrong impression to gained by people they meet. How curious it is, then, that my British friend is so concerned (apparently as a cultural influence) that her college be recognised as such.

Goes to prove, i suppose, that stereotypes are merely a guide to what can be expected, not graven in stone guarantees of what people will be like. Maybe that's what makes them dangerous.

Language Loveliness

I find it difficult to overstate my interest in language, how it works, the relationships between different ones, how we can learn them, similar words with different meanings, and vice versa. One of the fascinating things, therefore, about being here is the interplay between the two languages, English and Welsh, and the people who use them under what circumstances, and, especially, the process of learning the second.

With regard to the latter, Jacob is of particular interest. When we arrived, we were told that although it is really an English-speaking school, the local primary school uses Welsh as the medium of instruction; obviously, this concerned us a little, because we were arriving in the middle of the school year, and Jacob had absolutely no Welsh. We were assured that he would learn it, that there were a few pupils new in the system each year and the council provided a language centre which he would attend for several months. And, indeed, he did. The remarkable thing now is that he is fluent ~ which by my definition means that he can communicate with anyone at any time, with the means to ask them to repeat or rephrase if he happens not to understand something. So much so, in fact, that there are things he now knows in Welsh that he does not know in English!

An interesting illustration of his fluency, the totality with which he thinks in Welsh, arose the other day. I am taking lessons, struggling to learn it, a bit at a time and, to help, have a simple children's picture book that i'm getting Jacob to read with me. We came across the word roedd as we were reading, and i asked what it was, as it wasn't in my vocabulary. The closest he could get to telling me was that it is a word that means that something happened or existed, in the past. I asked if it were like once upon a time, an almost meaningless phrase just used to indicate a story in the past; he agreed, but said it meant a bit more, happened a bit more often, but he couldn't give me a more precise meaning. It turns out that roedd is the third person singular imperfect indicative active of the verb bod (to be), which is absolutely essential; it translates almost exactly as (he or she) was. Try telling a story without using was and you'll see its importance. Yet to Jacob it was just a word that he knew, without being able to be more specific. To me, that is a sign of fluency!

There is far more to comment on, especially the interplay between the language, so i'll hold off now, since i'm getting close to my (self-imposed) post limit, and write more another time.

Consequently...

I read an interesting children's book to JAG a week or two ago. It's quite a simple tale, but one that was just right for us to read. It's a funny thing, though, that we only heard about it because someone tried, officially, legally, to censor it. The law of unintended consequences came into play again.

The book's title, Olympic Mind Games, was the point at issue with the censors. The book is set just slightly in the future, at the time (and partially at the location) of the 2012 Olympic Games in London; the Games themselves don't really feature in the story, other than as setting for the action: The key is that the Olympic Village is apparently the most secure place in Britain at the time, and security is one of the protagonist's needs. While he is in the Village, through the aid of the alien he is working with, he discovers he is in telepathic communication with his twin sister, who is also in the Village, as a competitor. Thus the title. Quite clever, actually.

The problem arises because the organisers of the 2012 Games have trademarked the word Olympic. As if one can claim that the use of a word which, in assorted languages, has been used since at least 1896 and, in its original language, since about 800 years before Christ. And yet, at utterly stupid as it seems, the law has not firmly slapped the organisers and told them (in suitably restrained language) to get a stronger grip on reality, and behave themselves in the public arena; still no one ever said that the result of law is fair.

Instead, the author was given some kind of legal restraint on using the word in his title, presumably in case any of his potential readers should be mistaken and think that his book was authorised by or in any way tied to the 2012 Olympic Games. Of course, no one could possibly make that mistake, not least because the book's cover conspicuously features an alien face, and nowhere is it tainted with the monstrosity that is the official logo of their games. In the end, thanks to someone whose common sense must have recoiled at the sheer effrontery of what they were trying to do, Ronsson, the author, was permitted to use the title of his book.

So why do i write this now? Because i heard a news story on BBC Radio 4 one day, about the conflict between Ronsson and his would-be censors and, immediately, with no real knowledge of the book, not even exactly what age-group it was aim at, i ordered it. There is no way that an intrusive, out of control, bureaucratic organisation ought to be allowed to prevent anything from being written or published, particularly not for such an appallingly asinine reason. The amusing point and unintended consequence here is that i had never heard of the book, and was unlikely to, except for the actions of the censors; they stimulated action directly opposite to what they intended.

I enjoyed the book, as it happens. Both of us did, in fact. If you'd like to read the review, you can.

House Resolution

An end to the saga of our house in America. Briefly to recap: We abandoned it, after no help from the mortgage-holder, when we were unable to sell it; they tried to auction it, asking some thirty thousand dollars more than the remainder of the mortgage, but it did not sell at auction. Now, though, a resolution has been reached; like the rest of the story, though, it is not altogether straightforward.

The house has been sold, finally. Not at auction, not surprisingly, but as the result of foreclosure proceedings. One of the ironies is that it sold for between twentyfive and thirtyfive thousand, when we had a cash offer for fifty thousand that our bank wouldn't let us accept, and about sixty thousand was still owed on the property. Sadly, in the end, the bank probably didn't lose any money over it, despite their appalling behaviour, as i expect their mortgages are insured in some way to prevent loss. (Of course, just because they didn't lose money, it doesn't mean they aren't losers.)

There are a couple of rather curious features in the process; we have been able to find and access an inspector's report on the property, which has given rise to several questions. The report claims that there were no appliances in the house; we left a stove, refrigerator, washing machine, tumble drier, dishwasher, and garbage disposal unit. The same report also indicated holes in the walls; when we left the house, twenty months before the date of the report, there weren't holes. Not only that, but the report also says that there are no fixtures in the downstairs bathroom; again, when we left, the bathroom was complete.

It rather makes me wonder if, after we left, because it was empty for such a long time, somebody didn't break into the house and do some structural damage as well as removing the appliances. The only other alternative i see is that our good bankers themselves had the items removed, but i find that a little hard to imagine, as they could hardly have recovered much that way; everything was clearly used ~ well used, most of it!

Another curious finding is to be found in another report we located, this on referring to the lead paint inspection. Apparently the inspector “determined that there is deteriorated lead-based paint in the property and lead hazard reduction activities will be required”; that is, obviously, a concern, because we raised three young children there ~ indeed, our son lived there from the time he was born until he was almost nine. You'd think that the report before we purchased the house would have revealed that toxic paint. You'd have hoped so, anyway.

Anyway, the final resolution has been reached. The only interaction i can now foresee as possible is if, as some distant point in the future, one or other of our children returns and visits the house, as i have done to some of the ones i grew up in. I admit, i'm curious about what will happen to it; i had a number of happy years there, but it's gone now.