In JJ's Reality.

I woke up with a deeper sense of dread than usual.

The neighbour’s cat spoke to me for the first time.

I decided that I’m not mad, but merely bored with the fact that life isn’t letting me find what I’m looking for.

I discovered that the original sequel to Ringu was not Ringu2, but another film called Rasen. I expect to impress somebody with that little gem the next time I talk about films to a person who is easily impressed.

I continued to strut and fret my hour upon the stage, but saw only an empty auditorium beyond the footlights.

I mused on the question: ‘If you’re not aware of something, does it exist?’ My logic and my instinct fell out over it.

A man and woman in Mill Lane asked me the way to Ellastone. Giving people directions is curiously satisfying, although the reason isn’t necessarily as obvious as it might seem.

The cottage which used to hold such magic appears to be forever deserted these days. I don’t suppose it is.

Raindrops and dry leaves fell together over field, lane and garden. I felt that I was watching a picture break up and fall apart.

I’m only making this post because there’s a little over an hour left of September and I would rather see September (50) than September (49).

Bad Dreams and Cold Days.

I have bad dreams nearly every night. I’ve been having bad dreams nearly every night for what seems like a very long time. It wouldn’t be true to say that I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have bad dreams nearly every night, because I do; it’s just that I don’t remember how long ago it was. A few years, certainly.

They’re never the really nasty nightmare kind of bad dream, so I can’t blame them on my habit of watching Japanese horror stories nearly every night. They’re more the uncomfortable sort of dreams which precipitate premature waking feeling troubled, anxious, under pressure, that kind of thing. They used to fall into one of three categories:

1. Living in a ramshackle house with broken down walls and water pouring through the ceiling.

2. Being in unfamiliar buildings habited by unfamiliar people with whom I don’t feel comfortable, and sometimes having to do things which are highly perilous and induce fear.

3. Being in an unfamiliar landscape and knowing that I have a very long way to walk in order to go home. Sometimes I know the way; sometimes I’m lost and have difficulty working out which way to go.

More recent ones have been different. I’m among people and spot somebody who I know and want to talk to. I approach them to engage in conversation, but they deny recognition and ignore me. And I’m sure it’s no coincidence that the two major ‘culprits’ in this latest type of bad dream are both women I used to know called Sarah. Isn’t life strange?

And today has been mostly a waking bad dream. It started with yet another equipment malfunction which further eroded the prospect of heating the house adequately this winter. Still, I have an extra duvet which I can wrap around me to keep hypothermia away, although I doubt it’s easy to type blog posts with a duvet wrapped around you. Some choice. The waking bad-dream-day continued from there…

And on the subject of being cold, I lived in a small, single storey cottage through one very cold winter once (up north, where it’s a bit grim.) There was no heating in the bedroom, and so I went to bed fully clothed and covered with two duvets. (I did take my shoes off, though, just in case I accidentally kicked myself during the night.) In the morning I would keep myself well wrapped up while I endeavoured to scrape the thick ice off the inside of the window. Pity I didn’t just stop breathing; it would have saved a lot of effort. It’s what happens when you’ve never chased money, your financial position is becoming perilous because the Prime Minister’s policies are killing your career, and you’ve just left your (now ex) partner living in the house which she owns.

Life is such fun when you don’t play it by the book.

Unto the Breach.

I’ve decided to throw caution to the wind and watch Ringu2 again (see earlier post.) I want to see whether the kid escapes the curse by copying the tape and passing it to somebody else. I’ve decided that:

If the TV mysteriously switches itself on I can always switch it off again.

If a Japanese woman in a long white dress and with long black hair covering her face climbs out of the TV (or monitor) screen, I can offer her a glass of 12-year-old malt and make my escape while she’s thinking ‘this sake has a bloody funny taste.’

If she ignores my hospitality and kills me instead, what the hell. We’ve all got to go some time and her modus operandi is mercifully quick.

Here goes. If you never hear more of me, pray for my soul.

Ignoring the Instinct.

I am all in a quandary. I have a strong sense that keeps stepping out from wherever senses reside and nudging my mind, a sense that somebody out there wants to talk to me urgently but feels constrained from so doing.

‘Ah,’ I hear you say, ‘it is but wish fulfilment come to pass. It is all illusion born of the need to say what should be said for both your sakes and for the sake of enlightenment. You merely seek the excuse to excise the dream. It is a foolish sense that must be ignored.’

And the muse of sanity which sometimes engages with me is moved to agree, for senses are not to be trusted. And so ignore it I do, but still it persists.

Revealing Obsessions.

When I was a kid I had an oddly persistent obsession with parachutes which lasted from as far back as I can remember up to my mid to late teens. I was forever drawing them, and here is a drawing of a JJ parachute:

Not very good, is it? There are no rear shroud lines showing.

If there was an upcoming TV programme which promised to show parachutes, I would give up all other pleasures to watch it. On one occasion I was told that I’d missed one the previous night and I remember feeling quite livid about it. That was at age 10. And I played with toy parachutes right up to the age of 14.

The best of them was a real miniature parachute designed for dropping small parcels which was given to me by a friend’s mother. She had once worked in a parachute factory which supplied them to the armed forces. My favourite place to play with it was a bridge over a disused railway line close to where I lived. By launching it over the line from the bridge, I got the longest fall I could manage. I remember being ever fascinated at the point where the chute opened, and almost mesmerised by its slow descent. It was a damn nuisance having to go down the embankment to retrieve it every time, but the fascination was worth the effort.

I also used to spend time poring over pictures of them, and in so doing came to have some knowledge of how they’d developed down the years. I took an interest in how the packed parachute was worn in different situations, and learned the different way in which British and German parachutists respectively were taught to land. And when the opportunity came to test my knowledge of landing technique at a public display on one occasion, I was the first one jumping off the platform to do the knee bend and roll.

Of course, all this might have had something to do with the fact that my older brother spent three years in the parachute regiment when I was aged between 5 and 8, or then again it might not.

When I hit my twenties I stated drawing different pictures, like this:

 

Amateur psychologists might wish to comment.

Unconvincing Voices: A Film Review.

I’m currently watching the 2005 live action version of Beowulf and Grendel (not to be confused with the more famous CGI version made some time in the 90s.)

The icy, gale-swept Scandinavian locations are excellent, but I’m afraid that’s about the only plaudit I can offer so far. Stellan Skarsgard (one of my favourite actors) seems wasted in the ineffectual role of King Hrothgar, and the action sequences are but typically formulaic, choreographed, actors-playing-at-heroes-with-big-shiny-swords stuff. What really bugs me, though, are the accents.

The fisherman on the beach in Dane Land has a Lancashire accent. The King of Dane Land has a Scandinavian accent. The local witch has an Irish accent. Beowulf himself, who has arrived from a place in modern day Sweden, has a Scottish accent. I wish they’d be a bit more bloody diligent about consistency in the matter of accents!

But I haven’t watched the whole film yet so there might be more, but probably not.

(Sorry this is a boring post. The more interesting one about Abi, Bella and Ash isn’t finished yet, and probably won’t be because I imagine some people will make entirely unfounded judgements. Bad blog day, yes.)

Isolating Dixie.

I gather Trump’s man in Alabama lost, beaten by a ‘firebrand Christian conservative.’ I wonder whether the voters of Alabama realise what brainless, bigoted and potentially highly dangerous animals firebrand religious conservatives are. I doubt it, but I wouldn’t know of course. Never been to Alabama; wouldn’t want to. I understand one senior Republican called the Alabama voters ‘a bunch of morons’ so one might be tempted to defer to an authentic American opinion, but more than that I couldn’t say.

It occurs to me to wonder, however, just what might happen if other firebrand Christian conservatives manage to climb onto the apple cart and end up in a position of influence. It could be that Islamism and Christianism would soon become close bedfellows – since they’re fundamentally the same in attitude and outlook – and then there would be no shortage of the radicalised young faithful driving trucks at great speed over innocent bystanders here, there, and everywhere.

OK, so let’s hope that Trump, sufficiently enraged at the ignominy of having his favourite knocked off the podium, will perform his first useful act as President by having a wall built around Alabama to stop the plague spreading. Ah, but… there’s that guy in Arkansas who wants children to be executed for showing insufficient respect to their parents (and backs it up by quoting the Bible.) Oh dear, better build the wall along the Mason-Dixon Line and have done with it.

(But make sure that the few people with IQs above 10, and the many whose faces are even marginally darker than bleached ivory, get out first. Don’t forget that bit.)

Fear and Favour, Japanese Style.

I just finished watching the original Japanese version of Ringu again, so now I want to follow it up by watching Ringu2 as I did before. The problem is that the last time I did that, the TV mysteriously switched itself on about an hour later while I was taking a shower at around midnight. It had never happened before and it’s never happened since.

Admittedly, I didn’t get a phone call immediately afterwards and no vengeful Japanese women with long black hair crawled out of the TV set (and I didn’t die as you might have guessed…) But how do I know the first time wasn’t just a warning? Dare I take the risk?

(Actually, it’s a strange fact that I find those Japanese female ghosts with their long black hair covering the face and their long white dresses covering everything else more sexy than spooky. It’s probably another indication of insipient insanity.)

The Ages of Man: A Fool's View.

I remember having the impression as a child that the purpose of life was to become an adult. From then on, I thought, life would become a permanent state of mattering, being respected, and being able to do whatever I wanted. That was, I now think, an illusion created by the near-irrelevant awareness of physical growth.

The way I see it now is that life is not so much a state of being as the taking of a journey. You set your foot on the road the moment you are conceived, and you disembark when you take your last breath. There is really no such thing as infancy, childhood, adolescence and adulthood, but only the observing of the scenery as you walk through all its many complexities.

Betjeman saw it differently. He said:

Childhood is measured out by sounds and smell and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.

So why is the hour of reason so dark? Maybe it’s because we forget that life is one long journey, and imagine instead that the state of being we call ‘maturity’ is the purpose of the whole mysterious business.

And there is really no point in my saying any of this. I just felt like saying it.

Descending to the M Word.

I watched the first half of The Madness of King George tonight. I don’t think I want to see the rest of it because watching a person go mad is pretty depressing.

I feel that I could easily be driven to madness. It wouldn’t take much. Being put in a straightjacket, for example; I’m sure that would send me over the edge. And then those who tightened the straps would say:

‘Oh look. I do believe this man is mad. How fortunate a coincidence that the straightjacket was already in situ. Imagine the unimaginable terror (for such is the proclivity for oxymoron which inhabits the mind of the strap tightener) in which we should now be consumed if he were free to run amok.’

And so the world would turn, ruled as it so often is by the Law of Absurd Coincidence.

I said to the Lady Lucy today that I would like my headstone to read:

Here lie the

Mortal remains

Of JJ Beazley

He kept his own teeth

To the end.

She might have said ‘You’re completely mad, mate. No point in ordering a coffee; once the straightjacket goes on you’d have to suck it through a straw, and we haven’t got any.’ But she didn’t. I expect she was being polite.

Women and Foreign Connections.

For weeks now the accent sported by the woman on the checkout in a certain supermarket which shall be nameless has intrigued me. It sounded Russian, but it didn’t seem likely because we don’t get many Russians in Britain, at least not out here in the Styx well away from the major cities. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met a Russian in my entire life. But it definitely sounded Russian; she sounded like a character from a James Bond movie, or one of those Russian pianists you get on YouTube talking about Shostakovich. So today I asked her:

‘That’s a splendid Slavic accent you’ve got there. Where are you from?’

She looked at me and scowled (like Russian women do in James Bond movies.)

‘A big country,’ she murmured darkly.

‘Ah! Russia?’

She reached an arm out and touched mine.

‘Good boy,’ she said with an air of congratulation (the voice of Mother Russia, no doubt.) ‘People say to me: "Poland," or "Czech Republic." Czech Republic? Big country? Pff.’

And so I felt duly congratulated, but I had to go because the woman behind me in the queue – who looked 100% dyed-in-the-wool English – was getting restive. (Just like the English women you see in Jane Austen movies.)

*  *  *

But then I saw the delightful Lucy in the coffee shop again, as I always do on a Monday. (You might remember that Lucy is ¼ Greek, although she speaks with an East Staffordshire accent.)

‘Would you like to hear my new ditty?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Is it about me?’ she replied without betraying the slightest sign of covert intent.

Well, what would any self-respecting Englishman do in such a circumstance but be frank?

‘Erm… No.’

She didn’t even look disappointed. And don’t serving wenches employ strange opening gambits these days?

Achieving my Goal.

I just discovered that a comment I made on a YouTube track about a year ago now has 33 likes. That’s a record. The track in question is a rendition of a Hans Zimmer film theme played by a Japanese marimba ensemble, so there you have it. Exactly what you have I wouldn’t know, but I expect it has something to do with my destiny. (And I think I might be slipping into that strange place again. Better go to bed before I go ‘plop.’)

Aiming True.

I see the Dork of New York is now making an enemy of the American sporting establishment with his short sighted, mean minded, typically juvenile reaction to athletes who protest peacefully during the playing of the national anthem. He claims that they are insulting America and should be fired.

OK, at the risk of offending the American people (a few of which I count among my most liked and respected of people), let me make a point.

America’s reputation on the world stage has always been ambivalent. To explain why would take a longer, more complex post, but please take it from me: it has. At times it’s been high, such as during the Kennedy and Obama years. Kennedy and Obama were both statesmen with a statesman-like bearing and a statesman-like attitude. There was maturity, good sense and a cool head about them, which was noted and respected. At other times it’s been low, such as during the GW Bush years when everybody was laughing their socks off wondering what the hell the Americans were playing at.

But I doubt in all seriousness whether America’s reputation has ever plumbed the depths to which it has fallen now that Trump is in charge. What was it one NBA player said in reply to his silly tirade? ‘Being invited to the White House was an honor until you showed up.’ Quite. Straight from the mouth of a loyal American.

Having said all of which (and having deliberately kept it short), isn’t there a certain irony involved here? If anybody in America is insulting the nation, the flag, and the American people, it’s Trump and his lamentable pretence at being a President. So shouldn’t he be the one to be fired?

Ageing in Ditty Form.

When you look like Quasimodo

And your eyes have lost their glint

And you’re ancient as a dodo

Although not yet quite extinct

And you feel averse to match them

When the young girls sweetly smile

For you know you could not catch them

If they chose to run a mile

Then you know you’ve reached your nadir

On yon bonny banks and braes

For it is no longer May, dear

But the autumn of your days

And might I just add that these things are all relative. Of course they are. It’s just what happens when you finally convince yourself, against all your natural instincts, that you’re definitely not thirty two any more.

A Loony Leaders Cartoon.

The headline on the BBC News website reads:

Trump and Kim Call Each Other Mad

I think that about says it all. It’s heartening to see that the leaders of the US and North Korea enjoy a level of parity in the matter of how to settle disputes, although which of the two can blow the louder raspberry is too close to call. Is there an adult in the house?

Fulfilling the Contract.

I’ve said often enough that I’ve never been driven by money. I’ve always chosen to do things I wanted to do for free, rather than things I didn’t want to do for money. I’ve never coveted wealth. Wealth always seemed like a cul-de-sac because once you’ve got more than you can readily spend, where do you go from there?

This unconventional attitude of mine has sometimes led me to the edge of the pit of real poverty, and the pit of real poverty is not a nice place to be. It’s a sticky, clinging sort of place that’s difficult to get out of, and attempts to get out of it often just lead to lower and lower levels. (It’s how people become homeless, and sometimes kill themselves.) I’ve stood at the point of being unable to function for more than another week or so, and of seeing no prospect of being able to pay the rent that month or any future month. But here’s the interesting bit:

Whenever I’ve been in that situation – without exception – enough money has unexpectedly dropped into my lap, sometimes from the most unlikely sources, and I’ve been able to carry on. Looking back on it now, it has me wondering.

It all seems a bit too much, a bit too perfectly timed, to be mere coincidence. Calling myself ‘lucky’ seems somehow inadequate. Surely, lucky people are those who win the lottery and buy themselves a new car or a cosy seat in the cabin of comfort. Simply being given the means to carry on appears to hold more gravitas than a mere lucky break.

And that makes me suspect that there might be some preconceived plan involved, or maybe the intervention of a higher being (or even both, since they are not mutually exclusive; the doctrine of determinism does not deny free will even on the part of the gods.) If that is the case, it would appear that there might be some sort of bargain attached to the business of my life, and bargains have two sides.

So now when I exhort the favour of whatever higher being might be listening, I ask for the strength to carry on and the ability to do or say the right thing when the lot falls to me. Because it seems – rightly or wrongly – that maybe I have my half of a contract to keep.

Lacking Material.

How does one make a post on a day like today? Let’s have a rundown:

I had my hair cut.

I had lunch, dinner, and the odd nibble in between.

I put Beddy the Bear out on the lawn and said hello to the car.

I went out for a short walk.

I spoke to Mel on Skype for nearly two hours.

I read that the man who hosted the only TV quiz show on which I appeared as a contestant died.

I languished under a monotonously dark grey sky while the incessant rain kept even the birds under cover.

What is there to write about? Maybe I’ll jot something down on the subject of money and obligation later, or maybe I won’t. Right now I’m going to watch an old episode of Doctor Who. I have three of them on a DVD I bought yesterday.

Unfamiliar Perceptions and Forgotten Marmalade.

My mind was in supremely rational mode this morning. It was busy constructing one of my deeper posts on the subject of loyalty and patriotism, but I didn’t write it down because I was going out. And now it all seems so pointless because at about 3.30 this afternoon my consciousness shifted onto a totally different level.

I began to have unfamiliar perceptions about my place on this planet and my relationship with its denizens. Later on I realised how quickly physical death will come to me, however long it takes. And then the sudden and seemingly certain sensation that time is an illusion in which we’re all trapped brought tingling sensations down both arms. I even began to feel moderately sure that there is a way to escape the illusion if only you can find the key.

And I suppose I might as well stop there because it just brings up the same old question: When the carriage in which you’re travelling suddenly lurches, you really don’t know whether you’ve switched to a better track or simply become derailed.

*  *  *

Those who read this blog regularly might be interested to know that I didn’t buy the marmalade today. I forgot. But my conversation with the Lady B’s ghost was eloquent and quite moving. What a pity that she’s in no position to acquaint her former host with the facts, thereby removing certain misapprehensions under which the latter is almost certainly labouring.

The Cost of Ageing.

A pretty girl smiled at me as she passed me in her car while I was out walking today. She had dark hair – maybe even black – and her car was red. The combination of being pretty, having dark hair, and driving a red car was… what should we call it? Compelling, I suppose. It turned my head, which is unusual for me these days.

Pretty girls were always my weakness, you know. It started when I was age 10 and had an innocent fling with Elaine Bailey who lived a few streets from me. She had a friend called Janice Turner who I also thought rather attractive. Elaine had dark hair; Janice was a frizzy blonde. One of my most abiding memories of childhood was going to Janice Turner’s birthday party and knocking a glass over. It’s my earliest recollection of feeling embarrassed to the point of being mortified. I’m sure I squirmed in my seat, and I have little doubt that my face was the colour of the car which passed me in the lane.

When a pretty girl smiles at me these days, I go straight into an inner dialogue:

No point in looking longingly after her, JJ old lad.

‘No?’

No. When a pretty girl smiles at you now it’s a smile of congratulation that you can still walk unaided and manage to carry you own shopping.

‘D’you think so?’

I know so. If you dropped something she would probably hurry to pick it up for you and ask whether you need any help carrying it to the car.

‘Oh.’

Besides, remember all that trouble you used to get into? All that stress you used to pile on yourself?

‘I do.’

And you wouldn’t want all that again, would you?

‘Erm… well… erm… Suppose not.’

Well there you have it. Content yourself with marvelling at moths and beaming at bats during the magical hour of twilight. And remember this: the older you become, the less you know; and the less you know, the less you judge; and the less you judge, the wiser you are. Isn’t that a worthy substitute for the approbation of pretty girls? Isn’t it worth something very much deeper and more meaningful?

‘Like what?’

Er… mmm… OK, let’s leave it there for now.

The Dork in New York.

I see Trump has been doing his Muhammad Ali act at the UN today.

‘We are the greatest,’ he intones while the rest of the delegates exercise those muscles which make the eyes roll in cartoon circles. ‘We can destroy North Korea any time we like. Just try to attack us, Rocket Man, and see how many more minutes you’ve got left in this world.’

Do excuse the paraphrasing, but it’s all very Trumpian, isn’t it?

The trouble is that Trump might have an ego as big as Ali’s, or maybe even bigger, but he doesn’t have the wit, wisdom or sense of humour to go with it.

*  *  *

I once sat in that big chamber in the UN building, you know, when I was a naval officer cadet. Is that something to boast about? Not really. I was but a callow youth at the time and easily impressed. I even bought a postcard of the place.

I might buy a jar of marmalade tomorrow. It’s been years since I had marmalade.

Moving On.

I’m just listening to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue again. It’s been a favourite of mine for a long time, and whenever I hear it I want to go to New York. But of course, New York isn’t the same place as it was when Gershwin wrote his tune, any more than London is the same as it was when somebody or other wrote A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.

Such is Life.

I just sent a really good email to somebody I haven’t seen or spoken to for twenty years. (I remembered it’s her birthday today, same as Greta Garbo.) It bounced, and I only did it because I couldn’t think of anything to write to the blog.

Lucy's Odd Line.

Remember Lucy, the ex-Head Nurse from my dental practice who is now a serving wench at the coffee shop which I frequent? I walked up to the counter today and she said:

‘Hi. How are things with you? Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else to say.’

That’s an odd opening gambit from a serving wench, don’t you think? It is. I have several theories as to what it might have indicated, but I don’t suppose any of them matter any more than I do.

(It’s quite a sobering experience to realise that you don’t matter. It’s even a little depressing, but I expect to get over that in the fullness of time.)

Being Ghost or Mortal.

The process of becoming reclusive is an interesting phenomenon. As you grow more distant from the people around you, you begin to lose sight of the reference points which others use to manage their sense of self so that it remains safely and conveniently in the mainstream. Your perceptions begin to wander off the cultural track and grow closer to who you really are. And this, in turn, changes your understanding of who you really are. You begin to see things you didn’t know were there before, and you become more honest about the things you did.

And there’s one thing about your sense of self which becomes ever more confusing. You find yourself pondering a difficult question: ‘Am I a ghost moving quietly among mortals, or am I a being of substance living in a world of ghosts?’

I don’t yet live in a cave and allow my fingernails to grow until they resemble claws. I still shop in supermarkets and talk enthusiastically to rare people of like or similar mind (I even talk unenthusiastically to people of unlike or dissimilar mind, be they the ghosts or the true mortals.) But it will be interesting to see how things progress.

Milly on Cue.

A day spent shuffling invoices which aren’t even yours and trimming garden hedges which really shouldn’t be quite that high and quite that wide is just what you need when your precious inbox is full of nothing but cobwebs.

So eventually I went for a walk around the lanes of the Shire, and who should I meet but one of my favourite lady horses. She nuzzled my ear as she usually does, and having your ear nuzzled by a filly called Milly is just what you really need when the spiders in your inbox are paying you scant attention because they’re too busy building cobwebs for the next generation.

A View of the Tram Lines.

This ad for equity release has started appearing on my YouTube home page:

Isn’t it hideous? I mean, just look at it. The characterless suburban setting, the wife who looks like she lives for tedious suburban dinner parties with robots who wax enthusiastic about the relative merits of Volvos and Audis, the guy with a sub-executive hairstyle and a chain store sweater which can’t wait to get onto the golf course where it belongs, the pristine furniture which has about as much soul as a squashed slug, the token books and pictures, the immaculately painted door with the B&Q doorknob, the floral cushion to represent nature in its wilder aspect, the grey and sickly smiles which speak volumes for the emptiness of tram line comfort… And nothing of any real value anywhere.

Why do they insist on showing me things like this? Is it because I don’t matter?

A Little Discovery.

I’m a little long sighted. I don’t need glasses for general work and driving, but I do need them for close work like reading and working at the computer.

But I made an interesting discovery recently. I found that if I apply a small amount of pressure to the outside of each eyeball with my fingers, my visual acuity at short distances noticeably improves. And I suppose it makes perfect sense. No doubt the pressure on the eyeball causes the lens to become more compressed so that incoming light rays are more acutely refracted. In other words, you’re doing the job the optical muscles used to do before they grew weak. I love making discoveries like that.

And I think this is probably the most boring post I’ve ever made. But at least it isn’t about America.

Noting America.

Ah, the land they call America. Where Gershwin and Disney share the same neon, where Liberty shares a home with a creature called Trump. How do you manage to enthral and repel so easily and in the same breath? Will you ever choose the virtuous and become great, for enigma you stand while you prevaricate.

I’m listening to Rhapsody in Blue, thinking of Venus, rueing a difficult day, and drinking India Pale Ale. I shall probably be almost normal tomorrow.

Another Deplorable Day.

I went out today to get a couple of things I needed and was driven (yet again) to abject distraction (literally) by the deplorably dysfunctional state of British commerce. I decline to go into the whole story since I can’t be bothered and the memory is still painful, but I might just mention the website in which I searched ‘headphones + microphone’ and was offered an appealing display of mops and mop buckets. That particular example is beginning to seem mildly amusing five hours down the line, but at the time it was just the latest in a long list…

I might also mention that the level of anger and enervating frustration reached such a pitch that the matter of the Lady B’s ghost retired to the furthest corner of my mind and shivered visibly from its sense of relative insignificance. And that really is saying something.

So did anything nice happen today. No. (Apart from meeting a 9-month-old Labrador who was determined to convince me that I was his very best friend. That was nice.)

Mental Extremes and Bad Stars.

I was in the supermarket today looking at washing up liquid. The choice was between red and green. The woman-in-Sainsbury’s-who-talks-to-me (Chloe by name) came over and asked:

‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to decide which one suits my personality best – Cherry Blossom and Red Petal, or Apple,’ (I managed a rare rueful smile in an attempt to indicate that I thought the concept amusing.)

‘I always go for the blue one.’

‘There isn’t a blue one.’

‘Yes there is, up there. But it’s more expensive.’

It was, too. Nearly twice as much because it was a branded label, not Sainsbury’s own.

‘In that case I’ll go for red.’

And then she walked away without another word.

*  *  *

At the other end of the scale, I’ve started thinking about thinking. Just as I’m in the process of working something out or deciding between options, my mind splits. One half carries on performing the original function while the other half tries to observe the process.

‘What is this "thinking" thing all about?’ it asks. ‘How does it work? Can I watch it happening?’

And so I try to watch it happening, but my eyes are on the outside of my head and all I can see are loads of cars in a car park. I imagine synapses flashing, but I can’t know whether they’re the right ones because I can’t actually see them. And even if I could, it wouldn’t answer the fundamental question: how does something simple and objective like flashing synapses translate into the abstract and utterly mysterious business of thinking? And the interesting thing is that this new habit of mine is coinciding with an increasing tendency to be absent minded.

So then I think some more and consider a potentially disturbing question: does all of this represent an ascent into greater use of the higher mind, or a descent into the twilight zone of true insanity? Or is it the same thing? Being me can be a frustrating business at times.

*  *  *

Generally speaking it was a horrible day today, replete with absent minded errors, malfunctions and minor monetary losses. And the bats declined to visit me at twilight. It was one of those days when you begin to give credence to astrology after all.

Tonight's Tiny Epilogue.

No time or inclination for a post tonight, for tonight I was the gobsmacked recipient of a most unexpected email from a beautiful woman who still seems to think I’m worth knowing and life suddenly looked up. In consequence, I spent the remains of the pre-shower period concocting an inadequate reply. (I’m really good at inadequate replies.)

What I want to do now is listen to some music and get quietly inebriated, and then I want to go to bed and try to forget that we're forecast storm force winds to compliment the drenching we’ve just had. Not as bad as Texas and Florida. Quite. Night.

Admitting Another Failure.

I don’t think I ever mentioned on this blog that I played the trombone in the school orchestra. And since my high school (bless its peasant roots) had only one trombone to its name, my role was to play all the base parts along with a girl called Jennifer who played the cello.

I’ve often wondered why I chose that particular instrument, since it has no mystique about it and is rarely associated with the word ‘soulful.’ I imagine it was because I’d played the bugle in the Boy’s Brigade and was, therefore, much practiced in the art of blowing raspberries into a cup-shaped piece of brass.

You know how to do a raspberry, don’t you Steve? You just put your lips together and blow. ~ To Have and Have Not (almost.)

The irony here is that, although the cello is very much associated with the word ‘soulful’, I played my trombone much more soulfully than Jennifer played her cello. But I have to offer a defence of the dear girl in that regard. Getting a good sound out of a cello requires manual dexterity, the ability to finely coordinate both hands, and the development of just the right ‘feel’ for the pressure of the bow on the strings. All you need to get an acceptable sound out of a trombone is the ability to blow a raspberry, which comes naturally to all young boys as a matter of genetic inheritance.

But still I had a problem with the instrument. My strength was my tone and expression; my great weakness was sight reading, which is why I would never have risen beyond the ranks of the school orchestra where tone and expression is of paramount importance, but the music itself is simple.

You might wonder at this point why I didn’t take up jazz where sight reading is of relatively little importance. It’s because I didn’t have a musical mind. And by a musical mind, I mean a mind which instinctively understands musical structures. I had an academic mind which did well at English, History, Geography etc, but not a musical one as required by exponents of jazz and high level folk. It’s a little understood gift, but a rare and singular one.

After I left school I took up the guitar instead and learned to strum and finger pick simple three chord riffs. My reward was to become the minstrel for the group of school friends who liked to play at being hippies during weekend camping trips. When I stopped being a part time hippie, my musical career was over.

Running Your Own Reality.

Something reminded me today that I have a dental appointment on 4^th October, and that realisation further reminded me how much I object to appointments. They place an obligation on you, and I dislike having obligations placed on me. I only like doing what I want to do when I want to do it.

‘Can you do 11.00 am on Thursday 17^th July?’ asks some weasly receptionist trying hard to avoid displaying his or her power complex. How can I know that? I might not be in the mood for going to the dentist that day. I might be in a very bad mood and want to stand in a field doing a primal scream instead. But I still have to say ‘yes’ because that’s the system.

It’s a bit of a cheek, isn’t it? And I’m not at all taken in by the NHS who would have you believe that if you miss an appointment your teeth will turn a darker shade of aubergine and disintegrate within fifteen seconds of missing the appointed time.

According to some people, we each make our own realities. OK, so if that’s the case why can’t I turn up when I want to and the dentist will be all ready and waiting.

‘Good morning, Mr Beazley. Are you in the mood for our services today?’

‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, would I? Just get on with it before my mood changes and I want to go feed the ducks instead.’

There’s something going wrong with reality, isn’t there? I wonder what it is.

The Bog Lady Review.

The Japanese horror film I’m currently watching is a mummy film directed by Kyoshi Kurosawa (no relation to the great Akira.) Actually, it isn’t exactly a mummy film as normally perceived since the character in question is a bog lady in a black dress rather than an ancient high priest swathed in bandages. But at least she’s been mummified by the mud of the bog, so I suppose the term might be excused.

Anyone familiar with the standard mummy films produced by Hollywood and Hammer Films will know that they exemplify Macbeth’s view on life – full of sound and fury, signifying nothing – the vengeful revenant having been inadvertently re-animated by some dumb archaeologist who ‘doesn’t believe in all this superstitious nonsense’ (they never learn, do they?), thence to stagger around evoking pity while violently despatching sundry onlookers in the most unlikely circumstances.

In contrast, the Japanese effort is more restrained, more subtle, more atmospheric, and I can tell you this: Japanese bog ladies are a damn sight scarier than Egyptian high priests. And if there’s one thing you need to learn in life, it is that you should never allow a mummified bog lady to rest overnight in your house (especially if she's wrapped in a tarpaulin.)

It’s called Rofuto and is available on YouTube.

A Random Thought.

I was thinking recently about the discord in academic ranks over the question of whether William Shakespeare wrote the plays attributed to him, and the popular dissenting view that the Earl of Oxford had a major hand in the affair. It struck me as surprising that I’ve never yet heard anybody claim that they were written by a woman.

And can anybody tell me what this means in internet shorthand: \^o^/. It was a reply I got to a YouTube comment. Does it mean that the respondent agrees or disagrees? It looks to me like somebody sticking their fingers in their ears.

The Latest Excuse.

I was going to make a stream of consciousness post late last night, but it all became so jumbled in my head that I think I would have typed the words backwards. So I didn’t bother. I watched the first half of a Japanese horror film instead.

They make very good horror films, the Japanese. It’s a universally accepted fact even by the people in Hollywood who pay homage to them by producing substandard remakes, thereby demonstrating the superior quality of the original. I suppose that’s one example of life working out right.

But at the moment I’m too full of troublesome cars, troublesome plumbing, troublesome weather, the ghostly allure of a woman who isn’t dead, the anticipation of an unwelcome deed which has to be done, and the discomfort of having a living space which prevents me from being who I am… But mostly, I think, I’m becoming ever more acutely aware of that black hole, the one I’ve spoken about which should have something in it but I don’t know what. It’s getting bigger.

So should I just mention, in passing, the two women who came into my house recently (for perfectly respectable reasons, you understand)? I heard one of them say quietly to the other: ‘Isn’t it clean?’

I assume it was an example of gender stereotyping. Men who live on their own are supposed to be slobs incapable of noticing that they’re living in squalor. Their rooms are expected to have cobwebbed corners, littered floors, shelves mired in greasy dust, and sundry surfaces kept from their intended purpose by the incongruous presence of ill-matched receptacles blighted by the festering remains of mostly-eaten ready meals. And their bathrooms are known to be places which no woman with feminine sensibilities could bring herself to enter even in an emergency. Mine isn’t, even though I’m the only one who ever enters it.

I think this must be another failure of mine: dishonouring my gender. But I do write some quite long sentences.

In Defence of Fire.

I’ve long been a convert to climate change action, and so I appreciate the need to vastly reduce carbon emissions generated by humans. And yet there’s one thing that worries me slightly: I do hope the legislators won’t stop people having open fires.

The relationship between the human and his fire is buried deep in the race memory. For millions of years he has been warming himself by utilising radiant heat – from the sun during the day, and from flame when the celestial body sinks low or disappears altogether.

The tin box sitting on the wall, or the pipes lying under the floorboards, gently dispensing conducted and convected heat to warm the room evenly, are practical enough but they lack soul. The open fire is so close to the human soul that I regard it as indispensable to a species which prides itself on looking beyond mere mundane exigency.

So please, you legislators, make cars and planes which run on electricity; manufacture that electricity by harnessing the power of the sun, the wind, and the waves; fuel the factories and the shops by the same means, but don’t deprive us humans of our soul mate.

On Lifting Veils and Tomorrows.

I’ve been musing a lot today on the mystery of the Lady B’s habit of shaking me rigid every now and then, and I think the veil is beginning to lift. I think I’m now getting to grips with what made her human alter-ego so compelling and therefore her ghost so insistent.

I very much doubt that her erstwhile corporal host knows it, and I also doubt that anyone in the host’s orbit knows it either. I strongly suspect that the truth of the matter lies in a place rarely visited by the common tread of human perception, and that she will go through life sadly unaware of a rare virtue.

But enough of the Lady B, for now at least. It isn’t my place to acquaint her with her special quality, especially since I promised ‘no more words from me.’ I’m also aware that I must seem a fool to most disinterested readers, and there are only so many times I want to be so regarded in one week. And I might be wrong anyway.

*  *  *

To other matters:

Vis-à-vis the previous post about Will’s ramblings on yesterdays. I now remember what he said about tomorrows:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time;

It makes you wonder whether tomorrows are worth having, doesn’t it? Admittedly, Macbeth was in a bit of a fix at the time, what with having no friends to speak of and Birnam Wood marching up the hill to snuff him out, but it still encourages a simple muse:

When you’re young you take tomorrow for granted and welcome it unthinkingly, but you get to a point in life when you start wondering how many you’ve got left and whether they’re worth the bother.

Life Made Simple.

I think it’s probably my favourite line from Shakespeare:

… all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death

To sum up the outline of a human life from birth to death in eleven words is surely nothing less than genius. And I’m quite sure that his use of the verb ‘lighted’ was far more informed than the simple nod to metrical expediency might suggest. And I wonder what he meant by ‘fools.’ Was he merely expressing a pejorative attitude towards the human creature generally, or was he referring to the ignorance of that creature with regard to its true nature and purpose? I’ve long felt it likely that whoever wrote the words attributed to Shakespeare had access to arcane knowledge.

I was thinking about that line while having my lunch in the car the other day, and ever since then I’ve been obsessing a little over all my tomorrows.

The Lady B Mystery.

I went to the bottom of the garden this evening to watch the bats flying, and as I stepped onto the lane I was suddenly – and surprisingly powerfully – swamped by the ghost of the Lady B. Being entirely unexpected, it was a shock and an oddly enervating one. This needs explaining because my chequered but relatively narrow history has not afforded me this experience before, and so I’m unprepared for it.

In life our relationship – if such a minor liaison can be graced with such a grandiose term – had little of identifiable substance because there were many impediments which precluded anything other than brief and irregular episodes of verbal intercourse. I could claim in truth that she was the fairest maiden who ever blessed my path in the current vale of tears, or I could be more prosaic and say simply that she was the most beautiful woman I ever met. But it isn’t enough; it’s nothing like enough, even for someone with a nature like mine. Such a minor matter should be easily consigned to history and left to lie quietly in the drawer of pleasant memories along with all the others.

My problem is that it won’t stay there and I really don’t know why. My limited brain appears incapable of working it out and there’s nobody to ask, so I suppose I’ll just have to ride it until the haunting stops of its own accord.

And I know I shouldn’t be posting this. It’s just that mysteries, and a pint of Abbot Ale, have a habit of making you impervious to the danger of appearing foolish.

Giving Customer Satisfaction.

I went to a Sunday market once where there was a stall selling DIY and garden tools. The person operating the stall was an attractive young woman wearing a transparent rain jacket with nothing underneath, and I do mean ‘nothing’ quite literally.

You might imagine that it was the best patronised stall in the marquee, and that the patrons were all men. And you would be right. They were arranged in layers fronting the trestle table, all jostling to get closer so they could pretend to be appraising this hammer for strength, or that trowel for comfort. And many of them were buying things, presumably to salve their consciences and excuse their lascivious loitering.

I asked myself the obvious question: ‘Is this a mild form of prostitution or merely a commercial expedient?’ I couldn’t make up my mind at the time, but I’ve since decided that there is no definitive answer.

The Fear that Drives Commitment.

I read the word ‘commitment-phobe’ somewhere the other day. I’m familiar with it, of course, because I’ve been called one myself often enough. And it’s largely true, although it did occur to me today that there’s one principle to which I have committed myself all my life. It goes like this:

I was never much influenced by my parents. Whatever ideals or modes of behaviour they told me to adhere to largely went ignored, either because I disagreed with them or because I’d already worked it out for myself. As a young child I was more influenced by certain passages in the Bible – like do unto others as you would have them do unto you, for example. And certain individuals occasionally said something which made a mark, like the white witch I knew in my early twenties who told me: never use magic to get what you want. Only ever use it to achieve what you believe to be right. But my greatest influence was Arthurian mythology with its emphasis on those cardinal virtues to which humans can aspire – courage, compassion, honesty, fair dealing, equal justice for all, protection of the weak, and the pursuit of truth.

And so the one guiding principle of my life, and the only one to which I have been consistently committed, is to strive to be a better person. But I’ve failed miserably on many occasions through giving in to anger, fear, laziness and self-interest. That troubles me because I’m an idealist, and so I have to keep on trying because that’s what commitment is.

And I’ve asked myself often why I bother to strive for ideals while others seem to sail happily through life being untroubled by, and often unaware of, their imperfections. Is it the possibility of a looming appraisal at the end of the road which drives me? I suppose it might be on a subconscious level, but I think it’s mostly just the fear of failure.

A Metaphor for Talking.

Just lately I’m finding that I’m dividing people into three groups when it comes to holding a conversation.

First there are the great majority of people with whom having a conversation is like trying to dig into builders’ rubble. It’s all on the surface, so you pick among the stones, half bricks and bits of broken glass, getting nowhere. Eventually you tire of the effort and say ‘well, must be going.’ And that’s that.

Then there are those who resemble soft sand. Digging is easy and you feel you’re getting somewhere, but only for so long. Eventually you hit bedrock and there’s no point in digging further. You say ‘well, must be going.’ And that’s that.

The third group is the special one and composed of a very small number of individuals. They’re like soft sand, too, but this time there’s no bedrock. You can dig for as long as you like, but as you get deeper the air becomes thinner and the light level drops to inky darkness. When you get to the point of becoming blind, suffocated and confused, you have to hightail it back to the surface and try again another day. They’re the people I talk to. I don’t talk much.

(There’s a fourth group, too. They’re the ones who let you do all the digging while they keep pace and watch in silence. I only know one person in that group and I’m not allowed to talk to her any more. That’s why I put it in parentheses at the end.)

Getting the Hang of Lucy.

Remember Lucy, the ¼ Greek ex-dental nurse who now works in the coffee shop and distinguishes herself by remembering me? She was on the counter again today when I went in (she was wearing a multi-coloured bandana which looked quite splendid holding back her naturally dark hair…)

‘Hello Lucy,’ I said.

‘Hello Mr Beazley,’ she replied with half a hint of a smile.

‘I would rather you didn’t call me Mr Beazley, if you don’t mind. Mr Beazley was my stepfather and I wasn’t too keen on him.’

‘Oh, right… erm… Jeffrey, isn’t it?’

(Where does this woman come from? She even remembers my forename, for heaven’s sake. She just cemented her place in my good books.)

‘Jeffrey, Jeff, JJ, buggerlugs, monstink… anything other than Mr Beazley. But tell me: what persuaded you to abandon blue pyjamas and the medical profession for the mufti of middle England and the role of a serving wench?’

She said it was to do with going travelling and becoming stressed by the protocols and regulations of modern medical mania, but that isn’t the important point. The important point is that she was singularly unimpressed by my elegant and well constructed vernacular, despite the fact that I even managed to slip a bit of alliteration cleverly into the mix. I was hoping she might draw her hand across her brow and fall into a swoon, but she didn't. Instead I imagined her thinking ‘why doesn’t this guy stop being a pretentious jerk and speak proper English?’ Now, if she’d actually said that, I could have explained:

‘It’s because I’ve been writing for the last fifteen years and writers have to keep on finding new ways to say things which fall outside the parameters of normal English. And then we find ourselves doing it naturally as a matter of course and people write us off as pretentious jerks.’

But she didn’t, so neither did I. And since I wasn’t prompted to explain, I thought it better that I should shut up. So I did.

But then, guess what. I saw her again in Tesco, minus the multi-coloured bandana. I decided to keep it simple that time.

‘Hello again,’ I muttered with something approximating to a disinterested smile. (Was that simple enough?)

‘Hello Jeff.’

Mmm… She still remembers my name and uses the diminutive to boot. The air in Tesco turned a mild shade of cerise and then I went home.

The end.

Awaiting a Favourable Wind.

I was watching a DVD tonight in which the phrase ‘purity of heart’ was a leading theme. It’s one of those concepts which are difficult to define – if definition is possible at all – and yet it has the ring of something grand and meaningful about it. So I took to wondering (as I always do when I encounter a concept which is difficult, if not impossible, to define) and it led me to a recollection.

A long time ago I made a promise to somebody and kept it when it was called in. Doesn’t keeping a promise indicate purity of heart? I really don’t know because things went badly from there.

It plunged me into a period of torment which echoes frequently to this day, but that’s all right because I was the architect of my own fall and can have no complaints. The problem is that I wasn’t the only one to suffer. Innocents suffered too, so what should I have done?

*  *  *

The sky has been unremittingly dark and gloomy today. The wind has been cold and fresh, the air laden with drizzly rain. There was a sick robin in the garden this morning which I could do nothing about, and there was a dead mole on the lane which would have looked as cute as moles always do had it not been for the unnatural red ribbon streaming from its open mouth. Add mild waves of nausea and periods of intestinal discomfort, and the day has been more dolorous than most.

I do so wish I could escape from this run of remorseless dolour. It loads my shoulders with that suffocating earnestness of which the doldrums are well stocked. I’ve said often enough that I dislike and mistrust earnestness. Oh for the days of ditties, ironic humour and general silliness. One day, maybe.