Teatime Gridlock

Another grey Monday morning, with housework to do after breakfast, and then digital housekeeping with new booking dates to add to the calendar, and a clean-up of my Chromebook for optimal efficiency and speed. The trouble with doing this is that you have to re-enter all your Google account sign ins and jump through their security hoops, which is time consuming. So, better to do this when I'm not eager to get on with work.

There were photos in the news of two Banksy stencil graffiti work which have appeared recently on walls of bomb damaged ruins in a town outside Kyiv. One depicts a young gymnast dancing, the other is of a young lad in judo dress throwing a large man wearing a black belt with Putin's face. An amazing political artistic statement, bound to give Ukrainians the encouragement and recognition they need to persist in the costly struggle to liberate their country. President Zelensky visited the newly liberated town of Kherson today for a morale boosting speech and photo opportunity, declaring this victory was the beginning of the end for the Russian invasion. A bold and risky gesture to make considering that the city is within range of front line Russian artillery.

Banksy and his team give such an imaginative prophetic insight into contemporary moral and social concerns, often mocking the art world's obsession with wealth and status. The ancient prophets were poets of the word, using the language of metaphors, conjuring up images to make their point. Banksy and co just use images that speak louder than many words. What a gift to our image conscious era.

We had mussels with cauliflower and rice for lunch, then I went for a walk in the park before driving to Newport for another osteo treatment by Kay. I left in what I thought was good time and drove as far as the junction with Cardiff Road on Penhill. The traffic was heavy but moving, but stopped completely just as I was about to turn right in the middle of the road, with another car in front of me, both of us blocking the traffic flow both ways as a result. There was no alternative but to drive straight on, turn around as soon as I could and rejoin the traffic queue, this time turning left. This way I lost ten minutes, and arrived at Kay's place ten minutes late. 

Traffic congestion locally is getting worse with commuters to and from the centre and the Bay needing to go through Llandaff to get to new suburban housing estates now being occupied on the north west of the city limits. There seems to be no infrastructure improvement plan in place to alleviate the growing traffic problem. Additional rail capacity from Radyr is said to be coming, but this won't meet all requirements for people living several miles from the railways station there.

Anyway, the treatment and conversation with Kay did me good and I was back home in time for supper. I started watching a couple of programmes about Ancient Egypt after we'd eaten, but missed part of the first after falling asleep, relaxed by the treatment. Cue for early bed, I think

Costa Cash

For much of the day a layer of cloud persisted from sierras to sea, with little wind to blow it away or break it up, so it was pretty humid and tiring. 30C heat in the afternoon thinned the cloud into haze, but that's the first time since I've been here that there's been no bright blue sky at all. I picked up Patricia and we drove to San Pedro for the coffee morning, where I was regaled with stories about traditional cash trading culture and how this had been taken advantage of by international money launderers. Modern rules based digital banking exists here in Spain as in any other EU country, but alongside it there's still an attachment to cash trading, using effectivo as they call it, which is far less easy to regulate and pay tax on. Britain is much more tightly regulated, but this hasn't prevented mega rich Russians and Arabs from investing in UK property, pushing house prices up to ridiculous levels.

I noticed at the ham slicing fiesta that all purchases of food and drink were cash in hand. No debit or credit cards, electronic no tap and pay systems used. Maybe it's impossible to impose a fully accountable system of recording trade in such a free market situation. At the end of an evening, stalls will have taken hundreds of thousands of euros between them. Depending on how each business is set up, some earnings may go home in supermarket bags for life, whereas others will be delivered to banks by armoured security car. I understand it's still possible for someone to buy an expensive car, a house or a piece of land with the correct documents, and pay for it in hard cash, if you can find lawyers willing to make it happen for the right fee. It's still a matter of who you know will act in your best interests, rather than who has trustworthy professional credentials. Or at least, so I'm told. 

Perhaps this is true in the rural agrarian economy which is not entirely taken over by big food industries, but still has a place for campesinos - small farmers working on family land. Sadly, this way of life is becoming unsustainable and the countryside and its villages are being drained of population. There are stories of a deserted villages with land and habitable houses being sold for the price of a town house because there's no work for the rising generation.

At the end of the coffee morning we met Rachel and Paul, who are having their wedding anniversary blessing at church a week tomorrow. They've been married twelve years, and covid denied them the possibility of a tenth anniversary celebration in this area, which they visit often having honeymooned here originally. Now they have six children, so they have a lot to celebrate. I think we've got everything sorted out and approved now. It's just a matter of service sheets and music supplied by YouTube to get organised.

It was three by the time my lentil extravaganza was cooked and eaten. With the weather being so humid I have washing to do every day, which takes up time even if it does dry quickly. It was gone six by the time I walked along the senda litoral to the port and back. The sand dredger is no longer chugging away off-shore, and the earth moving equipment on the beach replaced by holidaymakers again. There's a new layer of fine sand all along the seashore, good for making sand castles it seems. There's very little seaweed on the Playa del Cristo and the Playa de Seghers, but further west along the foreshore there's a lot of sea week at the moment, just like there is on the Playa de Rada. I wonder why.

There was a superb documentary on BBC One Wales this evening called 'Who needs Banksy?' It was shot in Port Talbot, where earlier this year Banksy did a subversive mural on a back street garage wall. Sadly it didn't stay there long. Despite local campaigning to retain it, the mural was sold to an art dealer. This awakened an amazing response from local graffitistas, and the Council gave £20k to artists to cover the walls of the town's underpasses with original street art. It's drawn in people who have never used a spray can in their lives, plus a contribution from a Bristol street artist, commission to paint a head of actor and local hero Michael Sheen on the side of a house near one of the parish churches. I couldn't figure out which one it was from the brief glimpse. This outburst of street art is like a love letter from Port Talbot people to their town, so powerfully portrayed in Michael Sheen's 'Port Talbot Passion' of ten years ago. I imagine Banksy would be pleased at this little 'people's revolt'.

Banksy interpreted

I'm enjoying better nights of sleep these days, as my wound closes and heals. Less discomfort, pain and irritation, and I can sit properly for much longer as well. Somehow the change leaves me more relaxed, not so driven by the impulse to survive and cope with normal everyday living. This may sound odd, but it is what I have realised is a consequence of the easing of stress on the vagus nerve system that runs through the body from top to bottom and drives fight/flight reactions. With a wound so close to the core of this, it isn't surprising that that the body physically reacts to this as a threat. Ancient iconography portrays the devil poking his pitchfork into the backside of the condemned to drive them into hell. With good reason. Any impact on one of the most sensitive parts of the body is experienced as an evil threat,

I took the funeral of an ex-professional soldier this lunchtime at Thornhill Crem. Although the family hadn't given much attention to this aspect of his life, I asked if Elgar's Enigma variation 'Nimrod' could be played after the eulogy. Also I spoke the allocution 'They shall not grow old...', as I thought this was appropriate. Afterwards, the lady who provided the material for the eulogy expressed appreciation for this. It seems the deceased had mentioned this to his in his last days as something he'd like at his funeral, but she hadn't remembered this in the rush to prepare the service.

I arrived home to find that Clare had returned from her study group and had just put lunch on the table, although we'd agreed to have a snack and cook this evening. That was a nice surprise. Then I went to the bank and continued with a walk down to Blackweir where I took some more photos of the resident heron, standing fishing in the same place as yesterday.

Before supper, I recorded the components of Thursday's Morning Prayer and Reflection and edited them together afterwards. I can produce the final version with slides for upload to YouTube tomorrow.

An excellent two hour long documentary about street art on the Sky Arts channel later in the evening, much of it about the career of Banksy, though not exclusively. It's not often you can sit through a serious programme about art, and spend much of the time laughing at what you see. So much of Banksy's work is a humorous insightful commentary into the contemporary world and a critique of accepted values. As the early part of the programme charted his nurture in the alternative creative Bristol scene of graffiti and hip hop music, it portrayed a city we know well and lived in as students and when I was a Parish Priest in St Paul's. 

In those days I was more into reggae and black artistic development and hardly aware of what was emerging in the neighbouring inner city white working class barrio of Barton Hill. Owain was born in St Paul's, and now lives the other side of Barton Hill in Redfield, a rising gentrifying multi-cultural place, less deprived than his birthplace. It's fascinating to look back on our time there after forty years, and how everything has changed since.

It occurred to me that Banksy's work is challenging and critical of contemporary values in a way which prophets of ancient times would have understood. Although words and sentences often appear in his art, it's always in a visual framework juxtaposed with images that make you think. Prophecy is associated with declarations of God's Word in poetic oracles. Sometimes these oracles describe a visual metaphor. In Banksy's work the prophetic Word is expressed primarily in revelatory images. I'm trying to figure out if this is innovative, or if I've just missed something in my view of twenty centuries of art history.

Painful learning and Banksy strikes again

Thankfully there was only slight and intermittent rain today, so it was good to walk to St Catherine's and celebrate the midweek Eucharist with half a dozen regulars. The level of pain and discomfort I had yesterday continued all morning. It wasn't quite bad enough to prevent me from functioning, but once again, it was a challenge to remain relaxed and focused while leading worship. 

This is a fairly rare experience for me. Over the years there were odd times when I suffered chronic back pain, when I was waiting for a hernia operation, and when I ripped a cartilage in my first year of priesthood. Standing at the altar on that occasion was difficult. I remember having sit down to preach in order to concentrate on what I wanted to say. The only time in my ministry! Celebrating was tricky, but easier. 

I've been blessed with a relatively pain free life until the last six months. I don't approve of ascetic practices which induce pain for the sake of self-mortification, but realise something can be learned from living as well as possible while coping with pain within the healthy bounds of reason. I think I'm learning not to take life so much for granted at the moment, savouring and valuing everything as a consequence what I've endured so far while waiting for this operation. 

The wound continues to get worse, though thankfully it's not infected, hence the recent increased pain. I've written yet again to my GPs with an update to pass on to the surgical team. It's not in a state to heal properly until surgery has been done. I have to wait another month, so they need updating if there's to be no nasty surprises on the big day. There's little help or advice about how to manage this condition or the pain being offered by medics. One way or another however, I'll learn to cope and live as normally as I can. Funnily enough, writing about it helps keep things in perspective.

This afternoon an news item about graffiti maestro artist Banksy came on line, about his latest art work on adjacent garage walls in Taibach, Port Talbot, not far, as brother in law Anthony says, from where Richard Burton was born. You can read about it here.

It's yet another hard hitting political and social comment ironically entitled 'Season's Greetings'. A child stands out in the snow, except that it's a snow of polluting particles from rubbish burning in a skip on the wall at right angles. A dark modern take on the ancient diptych visual format. Location is significant too. According to the World Heath Organisation, air in Port Talbot is the most polluted in Britain. The steel works, the M4 and Balgan oil refinery are close. Decreased average life expectancy goes with the territory too.

Despite its daunting urban industrial environment people who live and work in the Port Talbot area are proud of belonging there, as the street theatre production of Michael Sheen's Passion Play testified back in 2011. Banksy's work is already being 'curated' by protective locals, and attracting visitors. I believe people will be delighted that the artist understands what they live with and in his own way is championing their daily concerns.

   

Recollection in Bristol

Another visit to St German's this morning to sing the Solemn Mass. Nice to have a late relaxed start to my Sunday. I was asked if I'd be willing to cover more regular duties during Fr Dean's absence, and said yes for three of the four Sundays of the coming month. October Sundays are already fully booked, though nothing beyond that so far.

We drove over to Bristol to see Amanda and James after lunch, and Owain came and joined us, which was delighful. He told us all about his visit to Bristolian artist Banksy's Dismaland Bemusement Park in Weston super Mare, and showed us photos he'd taken on his 'phone. He said how much he'd laughed, how much it made him think, with its hard-hitting satirical social critique of modern consumer society, ruthlessly mocking the fantasy escapist ethos of Disneyworld, and reminding the audience of the many horrors of injustice and violence which mar the contemporary world. 

We also reminisced about life in St Agnes Vicarage when Amanda came to live with us, Owain was a toddler, thirty five years ago and there were aspects of life in the St Paul's area that had some of the bemusing characteristics of Banksy's Dismaland. We drove him back to his place in Redfield on our way home, passing through the edge of St Paul's, down Ashley Hill. Superficially, it all looks less run down now than it did in those days, but looks can deceive, Owain suggested. 

It's thirty three years since we left the St Paul's area, for me to do the career break R.E. teacher training course, which made an adult educator of me, rather than a schoolmaster. Two years later, I bought my first home computer, and a decade before the internet became public property, slowly found my way into understanding the coming digital era and what it meant for society as well as science. 

Sixteen years earlier, as an undergraduate researching data to back my final year Chemistry project in Bristol University, I awakened to the important potential of the development of Information Science, then in its infancy, and the use of computers as its tools. The data processing mainframe computers of those days filled a large room, yet my Amstrad CPC 464 in 1984 was just as powerful, if not more so. How much further have computers and information technology come in the thirty years since then, and the world is such a different place due to what can now be achieved for better or worse through data processing of every kind.