A Matter of Fairness.

I finished watching Schindler’s List tonight. When I realised that it had been produced and directed by Steven Spielberg I was concerned that I would find the ending maddeningly unsatisfactory. Not so. In my opinion, the ending stayed just the right side of the line between moving pathos and absurd mawkishness. He who is ever ready to swing the brickbat should not be averse to offering the bouquet.

Today's Question.

Here’s an interesting question:

If, like me, you were born to observe the human condition rather than engage with it, is it better to become emotionally involved so that you understand it better, or to remain aloof so you avoid unnecessary pain (assuming you can)?

I don’t have the answer yet. I’m working on it.

Trump's List.

I just watched the second instalment of Schindler’s List. What a horribly harrowing film it is, and what I find interesting is this:

The Nazis were just about as low as low can get, right? I think most of us are agreed on that. So isn’t it a little strange that Mr Trump wants those who claim to be anti-Nazi locked up? And is it perhaps appropriate to note that Mr Trump is in the habit of wishing violent, or at least draconian, retribution on those who think differently than him? Might that have some connection with the fact that he is so avowedly anti-anti-Nazi?

On Clearance and Questions.

I began the process of throwing away my history today. One full refuse sack so far. It’s a drop in the ocean, but every journey has to start with a single step. I reasoned, you see, that my present is uncomfortable and what I can see of my future looks bleak, but clinging to dusty old memories was offering no compensation. All it offered was the poignancy of comparison, and what value is there in that? The future starts with every passing moment, so the future is all there is.

Besides, one of my most vivid memories is the business of clearing my mother’s house when she died in ’95. It was a tedious, tiring and depressing process which lasted several weeks of going over there for a few hours nearly every day, picking through the detritus of a person’s life and deciding how to dispose of it all by the various means possible. (I’ve even still got some of it.) I wouldn’t want to impose that sad legacy on whoever has the job of clearing my own detritus when the big day finally arrives.

*  *  *

Being effectively confined to my house by the weight of circumstances at the moment, I decided to watch Schindler’s List again last night. I wondered whether the seeing of people in situations rather worse than mine might help raise my mood a little. It didn’t. It only augmented my perception of the depth to which the human animal will freely sink when naked self-interest is allowed free rein to ride roughshod over the virtues and finer values to which it could aspire.

*  *  *

And on that note, I have to mention America again. I’m sure I’m not alone in finding the prospect of the next presidential election a fascinating one (assuming Trump doesn’t find a way of having it cancelled.) I occasionally think of Trump, Biden and Pelosi, and am left wondering whether America is mature enough yet to accept that a woman with principles might run a country better than men driven solely by the pursuit of power. I can’t answer that one because my view is almost entirely determined by what I read in the media, and I’m not foolish enough to accept that what I read in the media is complete or even accurate.

The Populist Delusion.

I find it more than a little irritating when I see the phrase ‘best-selling author’ being trotted out to persuade the gullible that here is a fount of high quality literature. Where, for example, does Dan Brown – a best-selling author – stand in comparison with Franz Kafka who hardly sold anything during his lifetime? Since when has popularity ever been any guarantee of quality in any field? On which note, the same applies to ‘Academy Award-winning.’

Reprising the Bucket List Blues.

This blog is ailing. My life is shrinking, you see. Most of the things which used to give me pleasure are no longer available and there’s very little left, so there isn’t much to write about. And my circumstances have taken a turn for the worse which would be too tedious to talk about.

But last night I had the chance to cross one of the items off my bucket list. I took a cruise up the mighty Yangtze River, courtesy of a video on YouTube.

It was a bit disappointing, actually. There were none of the mist-shrouded pepperpot mountains I was hoping to see, and the river was hopelessly oversubscribed with tourist boats.

Aside

I’ve long been in the habit of only visiting tourist spots at times when I could be reasonably sure that there would be few, if any, tourists there. Tourists are one of my major bêtes noir, and the current relaxation of Covid restrictions is offering ample support for my view. Tourists are too often prone to showing me the stupid, selfish, disrespectful side of human nature, and so I have little time for them. I lived close to a beach once that was popular with day trippers at the weekend and on public holidays. It was awful. To continue…

The Three Gorges Dam was impressive from an engineering point of view, but it wasn’t exactly traditional China. The facsimile of the Sydney Harbour Bridge looked oddly out of context (although it was painted red, as it would be in China), and when we did drop anchor to allow the chance to go ashore and explore ancient pagodas at the top of innumerable stone steps, I had to remain onboard because of the old leg problem. I saw no hint of peach blossom or pouting goldfish, and nobody treated me to a traditional Chinese tea ceremony. But at least I now know that I’m not missing very much.

So what of the other two items on the list: viewing the aurora and being treated to a piece of baked Alaska, lovingly made by a comely wench with the touch of a master chef? Unlikely, I think. I suspect I would find Svalbard a little on the cold side for my taste these days, and comely wenches lie dead and come to dust deep in the trunk of my personal history.

Surprising Myself.

In an effort to keep this storm-ridden mind of mine in some sort of check, I’ve been reading a lot of my old blog posts. Tonight’s main occupation was the full canon of posts under the heading ‘Dracula’, and rather good some of them were. They even made sense without exception.

Not so some of the others, which contain references which are a complete mystery to me this far down the line. I really have no idea what I was talking about in some cases. Who, for example, was ‘the rather lovely woman who lives a little way north of here’? I remember a rather lovely woman who lived a little way south-west of here, but north? Haven’t a clue.

I hope to get back to normal blogging some time sooner or later, but time will tell. Or maybe I should take a leaf out of Mina Harker’s book and place my trust in being in the hands of God.

The Cop-out Post.

I did say that another hiatus would ensue when the next psychological storm arrived, didn’t I? We’ll, so it has. Psychological storms have the effect of greatly subduing my capacity for communication because they make me feel trapped in a bad dream from which there’s no escape. It’s one of my frailties (I have others.)

The odd thing is that I seem to be getting more visits to the blog than I did last month. Can’t imagine why, but there you are. It makes me wonder whether there are people out there who are getting a bit frustrated that there’s nothing new to read (heaven forbid that I should be so presumptuous, but I can’t help wondering.)

In the event that such is the case, might I suggest sliding to the bottom of the page and clicking ‘Llama’ under the Labels heading. There are six or seven posts there which I quite like, being a record of the occasional visits from my favourite Peruvian quadruped (which is a silly thing to say because I only have one Peruvian quadruped, and saying silly things is another of my frailties.)

Whether any of them will be to any particular person’s taste depends on the particular person’s sense of humour, but they might. And this post is a cop-out. I’m good at cop-outs.

A Little Thought.

One of my best hopes for the future of western civilisation at the moment is that Trump and Facebook will destroy one another. My best guess is that Facebook will win, which is at least the lesser of the evils, but time will tell.

Finding the Lady.

I discovered quite by accident tonight (I swear, it really was by accident) that Emma Watson is shorter than me. That fact in itself means very little if anything at all, but it can, therefore, be extrapolated that the film version of Hermione Granger is also shorter than me.

This is big news because it means that if only I could get Emma Watson hypnotised and persuaded that she really is the film version of Hermione Granger – and think and act and talk like Hermione Granger – it means I could be on my way to getting the perfect woman after all. (Yes, I know she would also have to be persuaded that a mixture of Quasimodo and Wurzel Gummidge with a bit of Methuselah thrown in is a highly desirable prospect, but that would be the easy bit.)

To Boldly Go Or Not.

When someone in your personal orbit dies it’s the most poignant of all reminders that everything in our version of reality is transient. A favourite garden plant blooms and you have only a short time to enjoy it before the flowers wither and die. Bodies that were once fit, strong and supple also degenerate and die just when you’re getting used to the human condition. The grandest of mountains is constantly shifting and being eroded by the elements. On the physical level, everything dies; nothing lasts for ever. I find it all somewhat frustrating.

And that’s why if I get my wish to be reincarnated and become a deep space astronaut, there’ll be no boldly going for me. I’ll disappear into the holodeck, pick my very favourite scenario, and stay there for the duration. It won’t last for ever, but there’s a chance it might at least feel that way. And I will be in control.

Ah, but… Chances are I’ll get bored; the present version of me is rather prone to becoming bored with repetition. So then I suppose I’ll have to start boldly going after all. And that seems to me to be further evidence that the whole business of being is more than a little absurd.

(There is something satisfyingly irrational about this post. I like being irrational occasionally.)

Emasculating the Individual.

It seems to me that one of the problems of globalisation is that it makes the individual’s voice so much smaller and insignificant. When I first had a bank account I dealt at a personal level with people in my local branch. That branch might have had, say, 10,000 customers. If I have an issue with my present bank I have to deal with somebody in a call centre which might be almost anywhere in the world, and the person I’m talking to has a caller base of maybe a billion customers. I’ve gone from being an average sized fish in an average sized pond to a tiny minnow in a lake the size of Superior. What value my voice now?

Following the INFJ.

I tend to be a perfectionist in nearly everything I do. I’m rarely happy to leave a job until I’m satisfied that the result is as perfect as I can make it. (You should see how long it takes me to hang pictures on a wall.)

I used to think that this trait was just another example of good old OCD, but I gather it’s a classic trait of the INFJ type. It goes along with wanting to make the world a better place (and getting very frustrated when a bunch of bozos in America lead a braying donkey into the White House and give it a microphone to play with.)

But is it laudable? I suppose it depends how you look at it, and one problem does occur to me. When you aim for perfection in doing a job, and largely achieve it, it sets a standard for others to follow. And when those who do follow and do a normal job because they’re normal people, critics are sometimes inclined to judge them harshly for it. And that isn’t fair, is it?

On Loss and Change.

My daughter’s mother died last night. Given that any affection disappeared decades ago, and that I haven’t seen her even in passing for several years, I wonder why it should be troubling me so much. I’ve spent much of today trying to work it out.

There’s my concern for my daughter, of course. She was emotionally very close to her mother and she’s an emotional person. And yet it isn’t quite enough. I’ve come to some tentative theories, but I won’t bother boring the blog by enumerating them.

We’ve also had more thunderstorms today. It’s unusual to get so many of them on consecutive days. They usually come at the end of a hot, humid spell in July or August, and that’s often it for the year. And when I add my own woes and bleak prospects to the list, I can’t help suspecting that some unidentifiable storm of cosmic proportions is stirring up the game of life everywhere, forcing change and reconstruction at many levels.

But then I always did have a fanciful streak which feels compelled to look beneath the surface of pragmatic reality in the expectation of finding wraiths of one sort or another.

Storms and Records.

This is pretty much how it is where I live at the moment, and my response is not unlike that of Horace Femm:

 

As far as I know there is no Morgan in the house, but there is rain water coming under the skirting board and wetting the bedroom carpet. And some difficult news I’ve just had isn’t helping.

*  *  *

And I suppose it’s just about worthy of note that this is my 8,000^th post since I started the blog in January 2010. I just did the calculation and worked out that I’ve made approximately 1½ posts a day for a little over ten years. (I like statistics.) I would estimate that about 25% of the things I’ve said were worth saying, one way or another. The rest may be put down to human frailty.

Lockdown Loopiness.

Britain took another step out of lockdown today. Non-essential shops were allowed to re-open with distancing measures in place. And in light of this major leap forward the BBC headlines have been shouting from the rooftops all day about the fact that people are out and about buying things again. 

There are pictures of crowds queuing for the major stores, and they interviewed people to ask: ‘What did you buy today?’ They featured photographs of people proudly displaying what they had bought today and looking quite delirious about it all. One man had bought a watch strap. (A watch strap… This is the BBC national news headlines we’re talking about here. Bedlam beckons.)

But what I found just a little ironic was the fact that after all the crowing about how the level of CO2 emissions had fallen wonderfully during lockdown, the first thing we celebrate when restrictions are eased is the fact that the masses are now re-engaging with rampant consumption.

‘Well, of course they are,’ you might offer. ‘People need to re-engage with mass consumption in order to help the economy back onto its feet.’

I know. That’s the sad bit.

My First Molehill.

There’s a mole wreaking havoc at the top of my garden. Big mounds of soil are appearing everywhere, although there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the plants yet.

I was sitting at the top of the lawn this evening with a cup of tea, and when I got up I noticed two mounds that I was sure hadn’t been there when I’d sat down. One of them appeared to move, so I watched it for a few seconds. It moved again, and so I continued to watch it as the mound jerked a little higher and trickles of loose earth ran down the sides.

And that’s the first time in my life that I’ve watched a mole hill under construction. It appears life still has things to show me after all. Whatever next, I wonder.

The Churchyard and the People.

I took a packed lunch to the local church again today. The advantage of the local church is that it’s set on the far side of the Shire, and so is largely isolated from the main village and other places of human habitation. And that means that it’s quiet, the only noise being the occasional snatch of birdsong and the sound of the river running at the bottom of a steep slope and screened by a wide variety of mature trees.

Having enjoyed the food and the peace and the general sense of bucolic isolation, I spent an hour wandering the churchyard and reading the inscriptions on the headstones. I realised that I respond quite differently to different groups of edifices.

The old ones from the 17^th and 18^th centuries invoke a dispassionate and, one might say, academic sense of history. The newer ones going back around fifty years or so are much easier to read and I find myself piecing together what information I can about old residents now lying beneath the hallowed earth. And it’s often the case that I know some of the family of the occupants, so there’s a vague sense of personal connection involved. And, of course, I paid my customary respects to the ladies Isabella – the mother and daughter who both died young over a hundred years ago (and whose grave is the only one on the east side with a kerbed surround, so the family must have been reasonably well off.)

But there were two which stood out. The first was a recent grave with the earth still fresh and a simple wooden cross noting only the man’s name. Lying on top of the mould was a blue stone, over-painted with a rainbow which has become the symbol of the coronavirus crisis in Britain. That one was obviously topical and led to the suspicion that the virus might have been the agency which brought him there. And then there was the small, highly polished headstone which said:

Bethany Louise

Born sleeping

R.I.P.

Sitting on the plinth was a small stone teddy bear, a small stone sheep, and a small stone book with a simple memorial rhyme written into it. That was the one which got to me.

Dominique.

Once upon a time there was a woman called Dominique. She was Indian, or so I assume. At least she lived in India – Mumbai, I think.

She used to comment fairly regularly on my blog but hasn’t done so for many years. I’ve mentioned her a few times, praising the way she wrote which was quiet and succinct yet suffused with far more meaning than the number of words would seem to allow. So why am I talking about her again?

Well, because I’ve been reading a lot of old posts recently and I keep coming across her comments. And I’ve noticed something quite extraordinary. Never in all my life have I experienced such a strong sense of a person’s physical presence drifting into my consciousness from the power of their words alone. It’s as though some misty, ethereal form manifests in the room, smiling one of those smiles one might expect of a benevolent and truly wise person. Quiet yet strong, non-judgemental, perceptive and intuitive.

Am I being fanciful? Possibly; life is uncomfortable at the moment and chronic discomfort can wreak havoc with the mind’s regular functions. But I still miss her after all these years.

On Mist and Mortality.

The following lines from The Lady of Shallot might not be quite strictly accurate, but they’re certainly very close and will suffice to evoke the sense of this evening’s twilight:

In a stormy east wind straining

The pale yellow woods were waning

The broad stream in his banks complaining

Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot

I stood, as ever, at the top of the garden as the gloaming gathered, and perused the view – down the garden, across the fields, further to the river valley, then up to the higher land beyond, all studded with summer crops, verdant hedgerows, stolid copses, and rocky outcrops topping the whole on the far hills. There was, indeed, a chill east wind, and the sky was, indeed, raining. The succession of grey half tones grew ever denser as the view progressed and gave the lie to the clear, bright greens of early summer. And, as always, the grand Romantic mythology of King Arthur and his world took centre stage in my mind. When that point was reached, the mist ceased to be merely misty and became both mythical and mystical.

For that was how the end came to Camelot in the received versions of Mallory and Tennyson. The grey clouds gathered, the days grew gloomy, the chill wind blew, and the spitting rain left the benighted land dripping mournfully. It was a fitting end to the rise and fall of a world which was never perfect. And such is life.

Those who have been reading this blog over the past two years might remember that my brush with cancer took the perception of mortality out of the cupboard and placed it on my shoulder, there to sit in permanent state and whisper in my ear when the mood is conducive. And so it was this evening. The conviction settled that it won’t be long before I meet my own Mordred, and take the fall, and rest in the arms of three queens en route to Avalon.

But what if there is no Avalon? Maybe there is something else, or maybe there is nothing at all. How can any of us ever know? And which of the alternatives is more comfortable? The persistence of consciousness in a different reality and the possibility of return, or a blessed finale in which there is not even the agony of emptiness?

My life is going to change shortly, and probably not for the better. I’m confused as to whether I really want it to continue or not. I think I probably do because, although I’m tired of life, I’m not yet tired of living. Does that make sense?

Winning the Ism Battle.

Here we go again – eight days without a post and the excuse is the same as usual: the pressure of dire prospects sits on my shoulders like an overweight sack of coal, and the result is a kind of depressed inertia which isn’t conducive to free communication.

Aside

I’ve suffered a propensity for anxiety all my life. I’m sure it isn’t the psychological condition known as General Anxiety Disorder because my anxiety usually needs a trigger to set it off. I have had a few bouts of GAD over the past few years, but only rarely. It’s just that I’ve always had the sort of mind which is constantly looking forward, and when prospects look grim I get anxious, and when I get anxious I get very anxious because I feel things deeply. Is that so unusual? I’ve no idea, but what I have found is that the only thing which alleviates anxiety is to allow myself to descend into depression. Anxiety is a hot emotion, you see, whereas depression is cold, so what better way to treat a fever than to sink into cold water? That’s the rationale and it works, even though it’s only replacing one unpleasant frame of mind with another. I find that depression is the lesser of the two evils. But to continue…

One of the pressures eased today, only temporarily but at least it turned down the heat a bit. So why don’t I make a little post by way of celebration? OK.

*  *  *

While I was in Sainsbury’s today I found myself approaching the end of an aisle where another aisle crossed at right angles. Walking towards the same junction from my right was an attractive young woman, and since we were on a collision course I naturally halted and deferred to her right of way. ‘After you,’ I said.

Aside

‘Naturally?’ you might ask, ‘why naturally?’ Well, we English males are conditioned from birth to defer to the female in matters of right of way, or at least those of my generation were. We hold doors open for them, too. And if I were seated on a crowded train or bus I would feel strongly inclined to give up my seat to a woman just because it seems the right thing to do. Only I don’t these days, of course, because women these days don’t like it (pregnant and elderly women excepted.) ‘Why are you giving up your seat for me?’ they ask through gritted teeth. ‘Do you think me weak and feeble because I’m a woman? That’s sexist.’ And so it is; I can’t deny that it is; I bear the fact in mind every time I feel the old compulsion coming on. But to continue…

The young woman stopped at the same time I did. ‘After you,’ she said. A state of impasse was duly achieved and we looked at each other for several long seconds, during which time it occurred to me that, given my status as what is euphemistically called a ‘senior’, her inclination to insist on me having right of way was probably influenced by the fact. Isn’t that ageist? I think it probably is.

Aside

How I wish she’d said ‘After you. Age before beauty’ so I could have replied ‘No, after you. Pearls before swine.’ (Thank you so much for that line, Dorothy. My admiration for it has never waned, nor shall it.) But she didn’t. Life was low on opportunity today. But to continue…

Eventually she blinked first and walked past me, and so it appears the day was mine on this occasion. I followed at a respectful distance so as to maintain at least the regulation social distancing imperative which has become so ingrained now that I wonder whether we will ever talk to somebody face to face in a normal voice again.

But then I kept encountering her all the way around the store, and every time I did she stared at me. I assumed she was consumed with the desire to re-light the fires of conflict and gain sweet revenge (because the other rational alternative – that she was thinking ‘how can somebody as young and attractive as me find a man as old and repulsive as him compelling enough to want to fall into his arms on the pretence of a maidenly swoon – isn’t very likely, is it?) I even got directed to the same checkout as her. (One is directed to checkouts in Sainsbury’s these days, in some cases by assistants old enough to remember the days when policemen were required to direct traffic with hand signals at busy junctions. I expect the memory comes in useful.) And so she had another opportunity to stare at me, which she accepted, albeit in silence. And I never saw her again.

*  *  *

And that’s about all I have to say by way of a blog post. And do bear in mind that the pressures will return and weigh heavy again before long, and then I expect another hiatus will ensue. Please consider checking every so often. One day it will all be over, one way or another.

It's a Destiny Thing.

You know, I often think of those women back in my history who I pursued, and who also showed some romantic interest in me, but who eventually gave me the slip. And do you know what’s odd? They all subsequently went on to have happy, contented marriages to other men, and they all gave birth to girl children only.

And then I think of all those little girls – now grown to big women in most cases – who wouldn’t have existed if their mothers had made the wrong choice and followed me into a few years of domestic disharmony.

And did you know that the Irish folk repertoire has several examples of women following strange, unconventional men into unconventional lives? I take it as matter of pride that I should be the living embodiment, albeit the unsuccessful variety, of the Irish folk repertoire. My ancestry on my father’s side is Irish, you see, and the Irish display an odd proclivity for being fond of failures.

Some Minor Woes and the American Question.

It’s been a difficult couple of days. Heavy garden jobs, big car problem, tricky correspondence with the land agent, and the rats in the garden are becoming bolder and more visible (which makes me uncomfortable.)

*  *  *

But enough of my woes. What about the question surrounding what is probably the biggest non-medical issue in world news at the moment: Who is going to cure America?

Not Trump, certainly. I note from this evening’s news that he’s off on one of his usual childish, reactionary, bellicose rants at the moment which will fail to ease the current problem and might well make matters worse. Trump just doesn’t get it.

Because let’s face it, there’s a sickness in American society which goes beyond racism and the death of one man. It’s evident for all to see. It has been for a long time. The death of George Floyd was the spark which lit the powder keg, but I would suggest with more than a tentative degree of confidence that if racism were to be magically removed from the American consciousness, the powder keg would still be ready and waiting.

You sense an aura of tension in so many things which come out of America. I remember the Dalai Lama saying after a visit he made there a few years ago that the air was suffused with fear. Fear of what? Fear of violence? Fear of losing your job because the innately conservative, free-market-obsessed Establishment doesn’t believe in safety nets? Fear of insipient invasion by foreigners (in the biggest racial melting pot on earth)? Fear of failure in a country in which success is almost entirely measured by wealth? Are there more things to fear? Probably.

And what about Chauvin? He must be tried for murder and consigned to life in prison or the electric chair or whatever passes for retribution in the state of Minnesota. Fine, do that, but it won’t have any effect on the sickness. Chauvin isn’t just a bad guy; there are bad guys everywhere. Chauvin is one of the fundamental faces of America which we’ve been seeing ever since movies were invented. A bunch of people take to the streets to protest about a black man being killed by a white cop, and another guy drives a truck at them. This is America. There are plenty more Chauvins where Chauvin came from.

Meanwhile, politicians and celebrities come out to paper over the cracks with their array of big shiny teeth, and their waving of the flag, and their unquestioned insistence that patriotism is everything (not wealth?) Children recite the Oath of Allegiance every day and are assured that America is the greatest country on earth. America – and I really don’t want to say this but I have to – is anything but the greatest country on earth. It seems to me that America is insecure and divided down to its very roots, and all the flag waving and oaths and patriotic fervour amounts to nothing more than trying to hold together an illusion made with sand but no cement.

So who will provide that cement? I don’t see anybody at present. Who will make America the greatest country on earth just because America has the potential to be great, not because it’s the wealthiest? Wealth has, after all, been the power base on which American imperialist aspirations have always been built. 

And so on and so forth ad nauseum...

OK, OK, I’ve rambled enough, so let me say what I’ve said before on this blog: Some of the finest, most intelligent, most considerate, most erudite, most thoughtful, most genuinely decent people I’ve ever known have been American. Some of them might be angry with me for saying all this; some of them might even agree with me. But when, oh when, is America going to stand together as a homogeneous nation of people and start listening to them?