Jonathan Dodd: That’s a fine memory

Jonathan Dodd’s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed

Now that the brouhahas are over for a while, at least I hope that they are, I’d like to spend a little time thinking about more pleasant things. We all need a balanced life, not just vertically, as in all the tightropes we walk daily, but laterally, as in the range of experiences we participate in on all sides.

I’ve always thought that a life lived without your eyes fully open at all times to all things that might be seen is perhaps peppered with opportunities not seen, and therefore missed. And a life littered with opportunities seen but not at least investigated might be a sad thing. I’m all in favour of seriously considering opportunities when they appear, and seizing them fully, provided my judgement agrees.

I can’t explain, and I don’t worry about that at all
Many of my most cherished experiences and memories come from the unexpected side of life. I’ve been blessed (or cursed) with eyes that never stop looking, and an internal life that wants to see and know everything. I’ve often done things or gone to places for reasons that I can’t explain, and I don’t worry about that at all. I feel that impulse so strongly. And I can’t remember being let down.

Einstein graffiti

One day, back in 1970, I found out that Leonard Cohen was playing at Leeds University the next day. Back then, tickets would be bought locally, or applied for by post, and I had very little money. And I lived in Brighton (Hove, Actually). The concert was sold out. And I had no ticket. So there was a choice. Stay at home and wonder, or just do it. So I got up early and walked to a roundabout and stuck out my thumb.

I had a change of clothes and a sleeping bag
Back then there were far fewer cars on the road. It was at the tail-end of the Sixties, there were no motorways, and every junction and roundabout was always lined with hitch-hikers. It was a way of life unimaginable now, and that’s a shame, IMHO. But that’s another column, not this one. I had a change of clothes and a sleeping bag shoved in my duffel bag, and I stuck out my thumb.

Hitch hikers

People really did stop for hitchers then. It lightened the journey and you’d generally get to meet and talk with complete strangers a lot more than you do now. My lucky thumb was having a good day, and by early evening I arrived at the outskirts of Leeds. I walked to the University, asking various people for directions, and arrived at the Concert Hall. I remember it was a large brick building and there were various people milling around, some of whom were holding tickets in their hands in a manner that suggested they might not be expecting to use them.

The enormous sum of £5
I approached some of them and asked if they knew how I could get a ticket. Eventually, after a lot of haggling, and as the doors were about to open, I bought a ticket for the enormous sum of £5, and skipped inside. I wormed my way down to the front and sat myself down about 5 feet from the stage (we weren’t even decimal then), and watched my hero play all my favourite songs, so close I felt I could reach out and touch him.

People on Stage

Now I know that not everybody liked Leonard Cohen. He was one of those Marmite performers. A lot of people didn’t like his voice, and thought he was gloomy and depressive, and that was always there in all his songs. But at the same time, under it all, was a powerful feeling of wonder, and love, and amazement at everything. And he was a great poet first and foremost, whose lyrics were a constant source of delight to me. One of the BBC commentators recently said this – “Bob Dylan writes poetic lyrics, but Leonard Cohen sings his poems”. Spot on.

Part of my soundtrack
At the end of the concert I wasn’t the only one still sitting there some time later, not wanting to break the spell. Eventually I got up and made my way outside and noticed it was very dark and it was after 11:00pm in a city I didn’t know and I had nowhere to stay. So what did I do? I asked everyone I met if they knew where I could sleep, and after a couple of minutes a bloke said I could crash at his place. So I did. That was another thing about those times which is sadly gone.

so_long_marianne_and_leonard_-

I’ve read Leonard Cohen’s novels and his poetry, and I’ve been listening to his songs for several decades now, and he’s been a presence in my life all this time, part of my soundtrack. He’d always be in my Desert Island Discs list, although I’d have trouble picking one song over many others. I’m very sad that he’s died.

I wouldn’t have those memories
But I hadn’t thought about Leeds and 1970 for a long while, and I’m so glad I obeyed that impulse and went. Because otherwise I would have listened to those voices telling me that it was ridiculous and asking me what would be the point if I didn’t arrive in time or couldn’t get in or if something had gone wrong. And I wouldn’t have those memories. And now that there’s the blessed internet, I found some photos too. There’s even a terrible portable-cassette recording of the concert to download and listen to. I can listen to myself clapping and cheering, along with a few hundred friends.

view-from-parliament-hill

I have so many of these memories, triggered by what appears to be impulse. A few weeks ago I took some people to a craft event in London, and I had a whole day to myself, so I parked the car and got on a train to Hampstead Heath. Why? Because I had never been there before, because I had heard of a place called Parliament Hill that looks over the whole of London and has featured in so many films and TV programmes, and because there was rumoured to be a Vermeer in Kenwood House at the northern end of Hampstead Heath. And because I could.

Ten centimetres away from a real Vermeer
It turned out to be one of the best days of my life. I got lost on the Heath so many times. It’s huge, and it’s criss-crossed by paths with no signposts, and the sky was overcast so I couldn’t get my directions from the sun, but I found Parliament Hill and looked at the whole of London. I walked and walked and walked my feet off, and I stood about ten centimetres away from a real Vermeer. That’s not something you do every day. And I took photos of it, while attendants smiled.

Vemeer

I could make lists of all the friends and relationships and music and books and films that have arrived in my life over the years through the same process, and all the ideas I’ve had because of all the conversations I’ve had, and all the places I’ve been to and seen, and I could give each of these a randomness score. But I’d miss so much out, and I don’t have to, because they’re all there.

I know it will arrive sooner or later
I don’t believe that we forget things. At least while we can still access our memories. I’m constantly finding things reappearing in my mind after years and years, things I hadn’t thought about, and suddenly they’re there again, because of some connection. When I can’t remember something immediately, I just wait, because I know it will arrive sooner or later, and it always does. Sometimes your memory is like that witty rejoinder you only seize upon minutes or hours too late, long after the moment has gone. But it always shows up, in its own time.

postit notes

I don’t dwell on my good memories, and I don’t spend time trying to store away memories when the real events are happening. I can’t stand the modern habit of going to concerts and holding your phone up to capture it and send to friends, because when you do that you’re not there in the moment, being carried away by the experience itself.

For a while I forgot to breathe
I don’t deny people the right to do that, except that they spoil the moment for me, especially in cinemas. if they could do any of that without disturbing people around them, that’s fine by me. And I feel sorry for them, because they’re missing the point. Like watching a film on the tiny screen of a phone. Yes, you can say you’ve watched it, but you’re far less likely to feel passionately about the experience or the work of art if you haven’t gone and been there and experienced it in its original format.

The Vermeer at Kenwood House was one I’m very familiar with. It’s a girl in a yellow dress, playing a guitar and looking at someone out of view, in a very playful way. I’ve seen it in books and posters, I can describe it in detail, and converse about its importance and history and value. But standing in front of her in the painting, I was completely awed by the life in her, the magical way that those bits of paint daubed on that canvas made those fingers holding a chord so full of life and energy and youth. And she was flirting. For a while I forgot to breathe.

We only have this life, as far as we know
So please, keep your eyes open. Take everything in, and think about it all. When you get an urge to do something, talk to yourself about how you could do it, rather than saying all those negative things designed to stop yourself instead. Get out there and do things. We only have this life, as far as we know.

stephen hawking in space