I have recently released two new Apps to the iTunes App store:
More details on both of these Apps can be found at the Palace Software website.
If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?
– T.S. Eliot
It’s been a while since I have posted here. In fact, it’s been nearly a year …
I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly it’s taken me so long to write. The easy answer is: “because I’ve been busy”. But everyone’s busy. I think mostly it’s because there has been so much new in my life over the last year, and you need to be paying attention when new stuff is happening.
But now it’s time I brought things up-to-date.
Are there downsides to life in the countryside? A few … but nothing you can’t easily accommodate. The local supermarkets have a very limited range of out-of-season fruit and vegetables, and a narrow selection of meats and cheeses at any time of year. But we’re focused on enjoying what’s actually in season, and looking forward with anticipation to what’s coming along in the garden. And even here, it’s possible to obtain more interesting meats and fish: you just have to catch them yourself!
With summer vacations approaching, I’m now able to contemplate my first proper holiday in a couple of years. It’s a different dynamic, working for yourself. Every day off work is a day without income, and the only job security is a belief in your own ability to create value for others. It will be nice to relax for a bit, this summer, and to enjoy together the results of our hard work since moving to our new home in early September.
Looking back on the past year, I think perhaps blogging had become something of a solo pursuit. It was “all about me” for a while there. So it has taken me some time to found my voice again, as part of a new “us”.And speaking of “us”, yesterday Nicole agreed to marry me. Which makes everything complete.
Now, as I was saying …
As I sit down to write this, I know what I want to say, but I have no idea how to express it in words that won’t seem trite. I’m trying hard to avoid the sickly, over-ripe scent of platitude.
For me, 2014 has been a year of endings. In January I decided to call time on a 24-year career, and also on a 3-year sojourn in France. These had both been fabulous experiences and there is so much I’ve enjoyed about both my company and my adopted country. But in both cases it was time to move on; time to try something new. Then in June, my wife decided to call time on our 26-year marriage. And that didn’t feel the same to me at all. I wasn’t ready for that change; in fact I would never have been ready for it. I couldn’t see past it to any kind of new future. It felt like something much more terminal. An ending. And then a void.
But vacuums don’t easily exist in nature. We can create them artificially, but we can’t sustain a void without enormous effort. As much as I might have wanted to hide from the world, and as much as I didn’t want to look for new love, somehow love found me. And now for each of these endings I can see new beginnings. I find myself in December, living in yet another (old) new country, working on a new career path, and suddenly, unexpectedly, head over heels in love with someone new.
I could never respect the “Harriet Smith” character in Jane Austen’s “Emma”; her propensity to fall repeatedly in love always seemed way too accidental to me; too passive. Yet somehow I’m caught up in a whirlpool that’s simultaneously planned and deliberate, conscious and intelligent, visceral and instinctive, and utterly, utterly delicious. Because someone else has chosen to share that whirlpool with me. And this is just the beginning.
What am I trying to say here? That I could see the potential life beyond the end-points that I chose myself (career and country), but I couldn’t do that when the end-point was not of my own making. But in every case, the world beyond that end-point was the same, whether or not the Ending was of my choosing. The range of opportunities in life is unlimited; what holds us back is our own visibility of those opportunities. Sometimes what appears to be utter darkness is just the result of us choosing to keep our eyes tightly closed. Or an apparent lack of choice is just our decision to focus on one specific option (which then isn’t an option at all; you need two options before you actually have any sense of self-determination). In animals, as in humans, our natural survival instincts cause us to narrow our focus when in fight-or-flight mode; but as we relax, our peripheral vision opens up again and the full range of possibilities and choices becomes visible once more.
I believe we are defined by the choices we make. I choose to begin again.
Happy New Year.
I have been thinking about depth of connection today. What confuses me is how different my level of connection can be with different people, regardless of how long we have known each other.
I have “friends” I have known for decades who I really don’t know at all. We share small-talk, and we share time, but little else. I don’t know what really grips them at the deepest level of their souls.
And there are friends I have known for barely a week, who I can say with certainty are soul-mates and who know me so deeply we don’t even need to verbalise our thoughts; people to whom I can say the most outrageous things without fear of judgement or misunderstanding.
How does this happen? I’m the common denominator, so it’s tempting to say it all depends on the other person. But I behave differently too, depending on the person to whom I’m relating. Why do I sometimes dive deep, exposing all my flaws and vulnerabilities without fear or pride? Why do I sometimes keep all that stuff safely tucked away, and present the veneer-du-jour instead?
I really don’t know the answer to “Why?”, but I do know how to recognise when the connection is something extraordinary: when we go so deep, so fast, that both of us start to feel the effects of emotional narcosis (and carry on despite the risk and the pain). It’s not just the thrill of the dive (though that is certainly an element of it). It’s also the joy of a mutual connection and intensity of communication that blows away the cobwebs of everyday life.
I caught a Snapper for the first time in my life last night. In fact I caught two. And – with a slightly guilty feeling of pride – I posted this picture on Facebook. As you do.
But this morning, a comment on the picture made me wonder why I’d gone fishing in the first place. It’s not something I’d ever thought to ask myself … Fishing is just something that seems to happen to people here in Golden Bay. Like growing your hair long and losing track of which day (or which month) it is.
As I pondered the question, I realised that I really don’t enjoy the physical process of fishing at all. You know, the part where you sit for hours doing nothing much. I can imagine, hypothetically, that some people might find this soothing, or peaceful. But inactivity drives me batty. It’s not like I have the attention-span of a clam, but when it comes to doing nothing, I just can’t get with the program. I’m the kind of person who needs to be doing stuff, even on vacation. Especially on vacation. I’ve always had an irrational dread of waking up to find that I’ve somehow been taken on a cruise-ship holiday. I can’t imagine doing nothing day after day (and of course it’s not like that; there’s presumably a whole lot of activities but I can’t shake the feeling that it would be some kind of hell-on-the-high-seas for me). I can never see past the idleness of the whole thing.
So I’m not there for the fishing itself. Why then do I do it?
Partly, I’m there for the conversations. Somehow, sitting out in the bay in an aluminium tin can gives people an altered perspective. They’re looking back at their daily lives, from the outside, a bit like an astronaut looks back at the earth from space. And that different perspective drives some very different conversations. And different conversations are what I love. Getting past the everyday facade to see some of what goes on behind the curtain. And getting to hear from people who sometimes don’t talk that much on land. All of which means that I can’t even begin to imagine fishing by myself.
Also, I’m there for the sea: I love being out on the water, where the light is so different. As an amateur photographer, I’m a light junkie. I get depressed by grey weather, which is probably why I’ve been happiest living in places where there’s a lot of clear sky. It’s not that I mind rain and storms: I just need the weather to take itself seriously and pour down, rather than pissing around for days on end trying to gather the motivation to precipitate. So by definition, it’s always good weather when you’re out in a boat (because if it’s bad weather, you’d be mad to go out fishing). Ergo, Fishing equals interesting colour and light.
And I’m there for the drama. By nature, I’m the kind of person who used to think he had life under control … that if I paid due attention to life, things wouldn’t go wrong. And mostly they didn’t. Until they did. So I’m normally someone who would avoid drama. But somehow drama at sea is different from drama on land. It feels more natural. Like it’s supposed to be unpredictable, whereas everyday life is supposed to be the opposite. Take last night: we had three Manson Men(*) in a boat, and our collective confidence in the likelihood of catching anything was sufficiently lacking that none of us had thought to bring along a container(**) for the fish. And we never have the right gear: we’ll talk about how hard it is to bring in the set line or remove a fishhook without gloves, but then two days later we’re back out on the boat with none of us having visited their friendly local glove emporium in the intervening period. And there’s nothing better to spark a friendly argument than three people all being wrong at once. Speaking of drama, there’s also nothing quite like running into a sandbar on the way back to the harbour, just before dark. At speed. Twice. Fish tastes better when there’s still some burnt adrenalin in the back of your mouth.
Oh yes. And I’m there for the fish. I knew there was a reason. Yum.
(*)Manson Men are like Mountain Men. Just shorter.
(**)Disclaimer: I actually had brought along a bucket to bring home the fish I needed for lunch guests today. But I’d left it in the car. That’s about the limit of my drama-queen repertoire.
It has now been a month since I began my new life here in in Golden Bay. I can’t believe it has gone so quickly, but I’ve spent most of the time working, trying to make a solid start on my new career, writing iOS apps. I had set myself an internal deadline to have something to show by the end of the first month, and yesterday I submitted my first 3 apps to Apple for review (just Beta Test review, not final iTunes store review). So now I’m in the nerve-wracking phase of waiting to see whether any of the three have a chance to make it onto the iTunes App Store. I’m sure I’ll get better at this, but I also know that I still have plenty to learn about the whole process. And whether or not Apple decides these first three attempts should live or die, I’m pleased with the progress I’ve made.
I am enjoying the privilege of living in a fabulous house by the beach, with one of the best “corner office” views in the world. It’s the most amazing place to work: I’ll sit there staring at a computer screen for an hour or two at a time (as indeed, I’m doing right now), then suddenly I’ll look up and realise that I’ve forgotten the glorious view and I just soak it in for a few minutes. I definitely want to keep on doing this …
Away from the work, I’ve been walking and running on the beach every day (when it isn’t raining), and I’ve loved catching up with family, and with the few old friends who still live in the Bay. Everywhere I go, pretty much everyone here knows someone with whom I’m related or acquainted, and that’s not something I’ve experienced for a long, long time (living in the relative anonymity of Europe). One thing is already clear: no-one who lives here should have any illusions about their “privacy” … we are all
I’ve been making the most of my new ability to grow and collect and catch my own food: we had a first fishing trip yesterday; I’ve collected shellfish a few times; and I’ve been eating my own potted herbs from the beginning. But this week I took it a step further and harvested the first “vegetables” from my new garden: rocket, which in just three weeks has grown to the point where it needed to be picked and eaten. Is that normal? And does the triffid-like growth rate continue indefinitely? If it does, I’ll be serving Rocket and Parmesan salad for lunch every day!
For me, life has always revolved around the dining table. Last night, a few friends and family got together for dinner: Confit de Canard, cooked to perfection by (sister) Fi, with potatoes roasted in duck fat. Just stunning! It wasn’t Thanksgiving Dinner – because this is New Zealand (and we were already a day past Thanksgiving) – but something to be thankful for, certainly. As I drove home to the Beach House last night (with the top down), the night sky was just amazing. I had forgotten how clear the sky is, down under.
While Golden Bay is – objectively – the end of the earth, already I’ve been blessed with visitors from France, the UK, New Zealand and even Tanzania. I’m really pleased to hear so many people planning to visit the Bay. I’d love to be able to host as many visitors here as we did in France or at Blenheim Palace.
So my impressions so far? This new lifestyle is certainly worth the journey … and while I have yet to prove that I can sustain it financially, I already know that I’ll be working as hard as I ever have in my life, in an effort to achieve that.
This is a lifestyle worth living for!
With Thanksgiving week upon us, this seemed an appropriate quote (from Series II of The West Wing):
[Setting: The Oval Office]
CJ Cregg: Mr President?
President Bartlet: Yeah?
CJ Cregg: Hi. I’m sorry to ask you this, Sir, but … I need you to pardon a turkey
President Bartlet: I already pardoned a turkey.
CJ Cregg: I need you to pardon another one.
President Bartlet: Didn’t I do it right?
CJ Cregg: You did it great, but I need you to come out here and pardon another one.
President Bartlet: Aren’t I going to get a reputation for being soft on turkeys?
CJ Cregg: Sir, can you just come out here and get this over with?
President Bartlet: No, I am not just gonna get this over with .. What the hell is going on?
CJ Cregg: They sent me two turkeys. The more photogenic of the two gets a Presidential pardon and a full life at a children’s petting zoo, while the runner up gets eaten.
President Bartlet: If the Oscars were like that, I’d watch! OK, show me this 2nd turkey …
While I was “between continents” a couple of weeks ago, I chanced upon a speech by John Cleese on the subject of “Creativity”. It was quite an old video of a presentation to a Video Arts audience, and unfortunately it no longer seems to be publicly available (due to a copyright dispute?) But the audio and transcript can still be found here. [Note: it’s not the only presentation by Cleese on this topic, but I think it’s the most interesting version].
Cleese, in his inimitable style, makes a number of useful points about the creative process. But the one that stuck out, for me, was the importance of “subconscious persistence”: of continuing to work on a problem subconsciously, after you’d come up with the first (or second, or even third) viable solution.
Cleese noted that some of his Monty Python colleagues, whom he regarded as more innately talented comedians than himself, would nevertheless write routines that lacked the spark of his writing.
They were good. They just weren’t great.
He attributed the difference to his colleagues’ tendency to find a solution and to then move on to the next problem, whereas he would continue to roll the problem around in his subconscious mind, polishing and refining the solution it until it shone. Until it made the creative leap from Good, to Great.
The difference is clear, and it’s probably one of the definitive separators between art and science; in science, there’s a clinically correct answer to most problems, and that solution usually looks just fine without being anything special; sparkle or shine is not a requirement. In art, on the other hand, there’s no definitive solution to any problem, but some solutions just look “right”; their intrinsic greatness shines through. And I can see how Cleese’s “subconscious persistence” gets you from Good, to Great.
Cleese admits that he sometimes took longer to complete some routines than his colleagues, but that the difference wasn’t significant over the long haul; most of his “extra” creative work was conducted in parallel, in his subconscious. And no comedian has ever been honoured (or remembered) for writing slightly faster than his or her peers. What’s remembered is the work that took the leap of quality; the work that made it across the line to greatness. The rest dies away, forgotten by everyone but the author.
Now this could be interpreted as a license to procrastinate, but it’s not (I loathe procrastination). The key is to keep up your momentum, moving consciously on to the next problem or opportunity, while continuing to subconsciously polish and refine your art until it shines. To use a sailing metaphor, you need to keep up your boat-speed, adjusting course subtly and continuously in response to changes in the wind and sea. At any moment you’ll likely be a few points off the perfect line, but you’re able to rapidly respond to the ever-changing environment. That’s infinitely better than sitting dead in the water, trying to calculate the perfect course before heading off. Take that approach, and you’ll never get anywhere.
Are these contradictory statements? Perhaps, but they represent the inherent conflict in real art, between progress and perfection.
So shine on … and hurry up about it!
Time for me to spread my wings once again, and migrate south for the (northern) winter. It has been a privilege to call Blenheim Palace “home” for the past 5 months. We always had the good fortune to live in interesting places, but this was one of the most interesting yet, and I will miss the energy (and quixotically, also the peacefulness) of the Palace Estate.
But there’s also a bittersweet element to this migration: it’s my 7th international move, but only the second without a wife or children to accompany me. I’ll very much miss being nearby to Alex and Jennifer, but at the same time I am looking forward to seeing Jonathan and my extended family (parents and siblings) again in New Zealand. Hence the mixed feelings.
So in the immortal words of the Hoodoo Gurus:
Paul Manson 