One of my carers had quite a shock over the weekend.
I had spoken to my Care Manager about the fact that over the weekend, I received notification that one of my films had been selected for exhibition at the Moscow International Disability Film Festival that is taking place just a fortnight away.
I had expressed my desire to be able to attend this Festival, and my Care Manager had sent a text to the carer that was to be looking after me for the next couple of weeks whilst my Care Manager is on holiday.
The shock that came in the text was the idea that she should explore all the logistics of flights and so forth, and all of the things associated with traveling long distances when you have the kind of needs that I have.
I have thoroughly enjoyed the shock experienced by my carer, and she is quite relieved to have had my more considered thoughts that of course it would be impractical at such short notice, not least of all because of the difficulty of arranging a Visa at such short notice.
Anyway, all of my efforts are being focused on making sure that the Festival has everything they need to be able to subtitle the film in Russian, and perhaps technology may enable me to take part in some way from the comfort of my apartment on the South Coast.
My friends are of course delighted, not least of all my cameraman Paul who is a great fan of Bond films, his e-mail response to me was along the lines of From Russia With Love, and equally delighted were my friends that work in the world of opera and and enabled me to use a short recording of their work as part of the soundtrack.
It is most surreal for me to contemplate this latest film success, following from my inclusion in the programme of the Calgary Festival in Canada, earlier this year, and so two of my films have been included in different festivals in different parts of the world.
And a short version of this film was considered to be a runner up and shortlisted for a BBC World Service competition earlier this year, and therefore broadcast outside of the UK in a World Service television programme.
I have spoken to my shocked Carer and suggested a further change to the way in which I describe her work for me, which more recently I have in any case changed from Carer to Minder. Mainly because her principle job when we are out and about seems to be keeping me out of trouble.
The latest suggested change is to Handler, which has a ring about it of someone looking after someone important.
But I am not losing perspective entirely.
The irony of my success with my filmmaking, and also with my writing for a national magazine targeted at Carers and Care Managers, is that it has come about only as a consequence of my becoming severely disabled.
But it is some recompense, and certainly gives me a sense of satisfaction that I am still able to contribute something to the world.
Tuesday 30 October 2012
Saturday 27 October 2012
The Reminiscence Of A Fire
This morning, the carer that looks after me every weekend told me a story. It is the kind of story that makes me feel something is very wrong with the world.
For the sake of not upsetting too many people, I won't say exactly which country my carer was talking about, although many of you reading this may well have seen something similar within your own culture.
Whether you’d find it as distressing as I have depends upon whether you are like me or not, and I am a self confessed bibliophile, and my shelves are groaning with numerous antiquarian volumes, which I feel I have rescued from the kind of fate that my story indicates.
What my carer explained was that he had visited a house in this nameless country, and had been impressed with the way in which it appeared to be filled with books. Almost every wall, often behind glass fronted cases were interesting looking books, clearly of antiquarian interest.
At this point, I will make my first small digression.
My favorite old book on my own shelves is a first edition (the only edition) of a book first published in 1676.
It is the kind of book that any university library would be proud to own, and my copy is in poor condition though complete with all of its fabulous engravings.
Included in these engravings is the first ever pictorial representation of what a Druid looked like, and although no-one really knows what they looked like, this engraving is interesting because every pictorial representation after this date of a Druid seems to have been based upon it.
So for example Stukesley, who first surveyed Avebury and attributed it to the Druids in the 18th century, produced images of what the Druids looked like, and these images seem to have been based almost exactly on these first representations of what the Druids looked like.
In fact, Gandalf the Grey in Lord Of The Rings could also have been based on this pictorial representation.
Additionally, the volume contains lineages of the Saxon Kings, and traces many of them back as far as Noah. It is anthropologically interesting, because when King Arthur is mentioned, very little is said about him, because of course so much of what we think we know about King Arthur is a Victorian romance, concocted many years after this book was first published.
I have many other battered old volumes, which in better condition would be valuable to collectors, but I am an inveterate rescuer of old books, especially those with beautiful engravings or images, and I have a sense of duty to prevent them from being broken up so that their illustrations can be framed, often making more money than a copy of the book in poor condition.
Another favorite of mine I always describe as The Rough Guide to London for 1801, a small pocket sized volume which would have been targeted at the Gentleman visiting London for the first time in the early 18th century. It lists all of the places of interest, all of the salons where music can be heard, and is an extraordinary insight into the early history of London.
My copy is worth much less because the external boards have become separated from the book, and besides, I would not be able to afford a copy in good condition.
My carers’ story was simply that the apparent library contents of this house proved on closer examination to be simply the first inch or so of interesting books, in effect to make the owners seem as if they were well read, but in effect demonstrating that they cared nothing for the fate of such volumes, if indeed they had been created by the destruction of original old books.
I was reminded of a poem written ny me perhaps 25 years ago, after my own personal collection of books from my earliest years to my mid 20s were destroyed in a fire, as they were being stored in the attic of the large house that had its roof completely destroyed as the consequence of an accidental fire.
Fortunately nobody was injured in the blaze, but the cost of replacing the roof was £250,000, giving some indication of the scale and historic importance of the house.
I was working at the house, and hence most of my personal property was in storage in this extensive roof space, and unfortunately although the building itself had been insured, staff property was not insured, and so I lost many precious volumes, and all of my University textbooks, from my Philosophy degree, in this unfortunate Winter fire.
And so perhaps the terrible nature of this story told to me this morning can be appreciated. The destruction of books is a terrible thing, and on occasions in the past when it has been undertaken as an act of vandalism, it has usually been associated with some terrible political calamity.
Reminiscence Of A Fire In 1985
All the books I have ever read
lay scattered by the winds,
charred and burned out hearts
recognized like old friends
as leaves of text flutter in the breeze.
An accidental pyre in the cold of Winter
leaves behind the body of my childhood
to become food for new Spring growth.
The love of books is a love of life
no less to be mourned
when lost. After the fire
home comfort to destruction
what remains will be purged
by Nature's waiting furies.
Stephen Page
For the sake of not upsetting too many people, I won't say exactly which country my carer was talking about, although many of you reading this may well have seen something similar within your own culture.
Whether you’d find it as distressing as I have depends upon whether you are like me or not, and I am a self confessed bibliophile, and my shelves are groaning with numerous antiquarian volumes, which I feel I have rescued from the kind of fate that my story indicates.
What my carer explained was that he had visited a house in this nameless country, and had been impressed with the way in which it appeared to be filled with books. Almost every wall, often behind glass fronted cases were interesting looking books, clearly of antiquarian interest.
At this point, I will make my first small digression.
My favorite old book on my own shelves is a first edition (the only edition) of a book first published in 1676.
It is the kind of book that any university library would be proud to own, and my copy is in poor condition though complete with all of its fabulous engravings.
Included in these engravings is the first ever pictorial representation of what a Druid looked like, and although no-one really knows what they looked like, this engraving is interesting because every pictorial representation after this date of a Druid seems to have been based upon it.
So for example Stukesley, who first surveyed Avebury and attributed it to the Druids in the 18th century, produced images of what the Druids looked like, and these images seem to have been based almost exactly on these first representations of what the Druids looked like.
In fact, Gandalf the Grey in Lord Of The Rings could also have been based on this pictorial representation.
Additionally, the volume contains lineages of the Saxon Kings, and traces many of them back as far as Noah. It is anthropologically interesting, because when King Arthur is mentioned, very little is said about him, because of course so much of what we think we know about King Arthur is a Victorian romance, concocted many years after this book was first published.
I have many other battered old volumes, which in better condition would be valuable to collectors, but I am an inveterate rescuer of old books, especially those with beautiful engravings or images, and I have a sense of duty to prevent them from being broken up so that their illustrations can be framed, often making more money than a copy of the book in poor condition.
Another favorite of mine I always describe as The Rough Guide to London for 1801, a small pocket sized volume which would have been targeted at the Gentleman visiting London for the first time in the early 18th century. It lists all of the places of interest, all of the salons where music can be heard, and is an extraordinary insight into the early history of London.
My copy is worth much less because the external boards have become separated from the book, and besides, I would not be able to afford a copy in good condition.
My carers’ story was simply that the apparent library contents of this house proved on closer examination to be simply the first inch or so of interesting books, in effect to make the owners seem as if they were well read, but in effect demonstrating that they cared nothing for the fate of such volumes, if indeed they had been created by the destruction of original old books.
I was reminded of a poem written ny me perhaps 25 years ago, after my own personal collection of books from my earliest years to my mid 20s were destroyed in a fire, as they were being stored in the attic of the large house that had its roof completely destroyed as the consequence of an accidental fire.
Fortunately nobody was injured in the blaze, but the cost of replacing the roof was £250,000, giving some indication of the scale and historic importance of the house.
I was working at the house, and hence most of my personal property was in storage in this extensive roof space, and unfortunately although the building itself had been insured, staff property was not insured, and so I lost many precious volumes, and all of my University textbooks, from my Philosophy degree, in this unfortunate Winter fire.
And so perhaps the terrible nature of this story told to me this morning can be appreciated. The destruction of books is a terrible thing, and on occasions in the past when it has been undertaken as an act of vandalism, it has usually been associated with some terrible political calamity.
Reminiscence Of A Fire In 1985
All the books I have ever read
lay scattered by the winds,
charred and burned out hearts
recognized like old friends
as leaves of text flutter in the breeze.
An accidental pyre in the cold of Winter
leaves behind the body of my childhood
to become food for new Spring growth.
The love of books is a love of life
no less to be mourned
when lost. After the fire
home comfort to destruction
what remains will be purged
by Nature's waiting furies.
Stephen Page
Friday 26 October 2012
A Moment Of Reflection
I haven't written as many blog posts as I have become accustomed to recently. Over the past couple of weeks or so, so that my September total was quite small, and my October output almost Zero.
This isn't anything to do with me having run out of steam, or lacking ideas. If anything, I have paused quite consciously so that I can observe the rate at which my blog has continued to be read in spite on my lack of regularity in creating new posts.
Interestingly, this month has been an important month for me from the point of view of the way in which my care is funded.
Some of you may have read about the way in which I benefit from something called Self-Directed Support (SDS), something relatively new in the world of providing independence to people with disabilities in Britain.
Instead of having a contracted agency paid for by the local County Council, I am paid directly an assessed amount based upon the strict criteria applied by the Council and according to my needs.
In return, I provide regular reports as to the way in which I have spent the allocated monies, which is principally on the salaries of the half a dozen staff that support me with personal care, providing my meals, and more recently a programme of physiotherapy to maintain the capacities I currently have.
This week, I have had my annual review, in which an officer from the County Council has visited to see how I have been managing on this new scheme, and to see how if at all my condition, multiple sclerosis, has changed, and perhaps affected the way in which I have been managing my care.
It's not that this review has taken up a great deal of time, in fact it was much less stressful than such an annual review might be considered to be, especially in such straightened financial times that we live in in the United Kingdom.
Of far more interest than simply my adherence to the schemes’ requirements and the possibilities of savings, were the outcomes of my participation in SDS. I was able to talk about the sort of things that I have been doing as a consequence of the support my care package has provided, and this has taken into account not only the practical satisfaction of my daily needs such as dressing and washing, but also my social self, my ability to take part in those things that are so much taken for granted when we are able to live independently almost without thinking.
My assessor was very interested in some of the things that I undertake, not least of all my blog, and interestingly there was a significant spike in the number of page views just the day after my assessor's visit which I can only assume has been because she has actually had a look at some of my blog posts, and in fact passed on the details of my blog to some of her colleagues, because of the way in which some of my blog posts have received several hits over the course of a couple of days.
This is very gratifying, and added to the fact that I have just passed the important milestone of my 1000th page view, has perhaps contributed to my taking a moment to reflect on what I might do next.
I think it's important sometimes to take time over these reflections, and my first thoughts have been to look at ways in which I can more effectively promote my blog, and perhaps specifically in order to promote the sales of my special edition of my first book of poetry, all proceeds from the sales of which will be entirely for the benefit of the Hospital Home for Soldiers just across the road from where I live in Worthing.
I have written about this important institution in several of my blogs, and from my 70 blogs, my absolute favorite has been my blog post entitled Diaghilev and Lady Ripon.
I will of course be continuing to write my posts, and I am even contemplating putting together all of them as if they were the chapters in a book, just to see how effectively it might work as perhaps an electronic book. Into the modern age I might venture, with perhaps a Kindle publication, aimed at further supporting the hospital that I have already mentioned.
I continue to write occasional articles for the magazine Care Talk, and this gives me great pleasure and satisfaction. It was always an ambition of mine to write perhaps in some national context, and the fact that it has taken my disability to give me my material is simply background. Nothing to feel saddened by, no more than anything might affect the flow of one's life.
And so a period of reflection, perhaps natural when I have just celebrated my own birthday, and yesterday my mother celebrated her 93rd birthday. More reflection perhaps.
Whatever the outcome of my navel gazing, I will come refreshed to my task, and hopefully witha new vigour and purpose.
As the ancient philosopher Heraclitus once wrote, a human life is like a river, constantly flowing, perhaps varying in width according to the season, and we lead our lives as if we are dipping our feet into this constantly flowing stream.
Perhaps it's about time I started swimming, not necessarily against the stream, but simply because I can still swim.
This isn't anything to do with me having run out of steam, or lacking ideas. If anything, I have paused quite consciously so that I can observe the rate at which my blog has continued to be read in spite on my lack of regularity in creating new posts.
Interestingly, this month has been an important month for me from the point of view of the way in which my care is funded.
Some of you may have read about the way in which I benefit from something called Self-Directed Support (SDS), something relatively new in the world of providing independence to people with disabilities in Britain.
Instead of having a contracted agency paid for by the local County Council, I am paid directly an assessed amount based upon the strict criteria applied by the Council and according to my needs.
In return, I provide regular reports as to the way in which I have spent the allocated monies, which is principally on the salaries of the half a dozen staff that support me with personal care, providing my meals, and more recently a programme of physiotherapy to maintain the capacities I currently have.
This week, I have had my annual review, in which an officer from the County Council has visited to see how I have been managing on this new scheme, and to see how if at all my condition, multiple sclerosis, has changed, and perhaps affected the way in which I have been managing my care.
It's not that this review has taken up a great deal of time, in fact it was much less stressful than such an annual review might be considered to be, especially in such straightened financial times that we live in in the United Kingdom.
Of far more interest than simply my adherence to the schemes’ requirements and the possibilities of savings, were the outcomes of my participation in SDS. I was able to talk about the sort of things that I have been doing as a consequence of the support my care package has provided, and this has taken into account not only the practical satisfaction of my daily needs such as dressing and washing, but also my social self, my ability to take part in those things that are so much taken for granted when we are able to live independently almost without thinking.
My assessor was very interested in some of the things that I undertake, not least of all my blog, and interestingly there was a significant spike in the number of page views just the day after my assessor's visit which I can only assume has been because she has actually had a look at some of my blog posts, and in fact passed on the details of my blog to some of her colleagues, because of the way in which some of my blog posts have received several hits over the course of a couple of days.
This is very gratifying, and added to the fact that I have just passed the important milestone of my 1000th page view, has perhaps contributed to my taking a moment to reflect on what I might do next.
I think it's important sometimes to take time over these reflections, and my first thoughts have been to look at ways in which I can more effectively promote my blog, and perhaps specifically in order to promote the sales of my special edition of my first book of poetry, all proceeds from the sales of which will be entirely for the benefit of the Hospital Home for Soldiers just across the road from where I live in Worthing.
I have written about this important institution in several of my blogs, and from my 70 blogs, my absolute favorite has been my blog post entitled Diaghilev and Lady Ripon.
I will of course be continuing to write my posts, and I am even contemplating putting together all of them as if they were the chapters in a book, just to see how effectively it might work as perhaps an electronic book. Into the modern age I might venture, with perhaps a Kindle publication, aimed at further supporting the hospital that I have already mentioned.
I continue to write occasional articles for the magazine Care Talk, and this gives me great pleasure and satisfaction. It was always an ambition of mine to write perhaps in some national context, and the fact that it has taken my disability to give me my material is simply background. Nothing to feel saddened by, no more than anything might affect the flow of one's life.
And so a period of reflection, perhaps natural when I have just celebrated my own birthday, and yesterday my mother celebrated her 93rd birthday. More reflection perhaps.
Whatever the outcome of my navel gazing, I will come refreshed to my task, and hopefully witha new vigour and purpose.
As the ancient philosopher Heraclitus once wrote, a human life is like a river, constantly flowing, perhaps varying in width according to the season, and we lead our lives as if we are dipping our feet into this constantly flowing stream.
Perhaps it's about time I started swimming, not necessarily against the stream, but simply because I can still swim.
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