Time consumes; art distils

Time is like a forest fire, consuming everything in its path. Our most intense moments burn bright and hot, leaving nothing but fragile tatters of memory. Where would we be without art, snatching moments before they disintegrate into oblivion? What else but art, crucible for smelting the ore of our lives till we get a lodestone, with power to excite other souls, in other moments? How else can time be defied? This is the prodigious, mythical, Promethean feat which propels us animals to create gods, and be punished by them for such effrontery. This is what makes us human, and comes with its price.

I wrote the other day of the medieval peasants’ Christmas. The mythic power of Bible stories, even to those who could not read, illumined the darkest days of the Winter Solstice, the time known as Yule, whose druidical lore never quite died. A carol, “The Holly and the Ivy”, attempts a synthesis with Christianity, in these words:

The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good
. . .
The holly bears a prickle
As sharp as any thorn
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas day in the morn

But what of the mysterious mistletoe? Its role in legitimising stolen kisses remains obstinately pagan, especially with libations of ale and wine to help bring on the seasonal sentiment: “on earth peace, goodwill toward men”.

Ever since childhood I’ve felt awkward in the overheated jollity of parties, and have gladly stepped out into the night, to a New Year’s gift of pavements sparkling with frost.

So here I am at twilight on this December day, walking through the local park in steady rain. It’s like an amphitheatre, a bowl to see and be seen, surrounded by hillsides to the north and south, twinkling with streetlamps, glowing with lit windows. Going down an avenue of trees, I see raindrops quiver and cling to bare branches, reflecting what’s left of the sky’s glow. I hear their pattering on to a carpet of sodden leaves below.

This valley, the surrounding hills, the factory chimney throwing up black smoke, the children’s playground—all is made one in this song of the rain, whispering as it falls on grass, roofs, streams, undergrowth and paths.

All this demands to be shared. I can speak into this recorder, addressing an unknown companion. There are surely angels in the twinkling lights, the swish of the falling rain. There’s no sense of being lonely. And now my beloved calls on the cellphone, just to see how I’m doing. The blessing is doubled.

At the edge of the ground there’s a swollen stream. In the gathering gloom, I pee discreetly on a weeping-willow’s trunk, before passing a mysterious compound of humming transformers, protected by wire netting and yellow signs: “Danger of death: keep out”.

I think of the renowned house in nearby Sands, whose significant consumption of this dangerous electricity each Christmas helps distil today’s peasant art.

On another evening, when it was clear and frosty, I went there and took this photo, feeling the warmth of a few kilowatts, noting the collection boxes installed hopefully by the owners to help pay their bill.