When YouTube Suits Me Nicely.

I watched a YouTube video a few nights ago in which a reputable scientist said that it has now been demonstrated that plants communicate with each other. He even showed a video to prove it, but a mystery still remains.

Although it can now be accepted that communication takes place, they don’t know why it takes place. What, for example, is the point of one plant saying to another: ‘My leaves are being eaten by caterpillars’? (That was the actual example he used.) And what he didn’t address at all was the big question: Is this the start of us accepting that plants possess a form of consciousness?

Well he wouldn’t, would he? How could he continue making YouTube videos if he were to be banished to a small rock a few miles to the north of Svalbard? Being no scientist myself, I can only have suspicions.

A Matter of Only Personal Interest.

We humans do so like to attach names to everything, and that includes the labels we give to periods of time.

Where time is concerned, we do it in one of two ways. For some we use events of cosmic significance – what we call a year is the time it takes the planet to make one orbit of the sun, and a day is how long it takes for it to make one revolution of its axis. The rest – seconds, minutes, hours, and even months, are merely artificial constructs to help us organise our activities and rationalise the progress of life. It’s why I’m of the opinion that New Year’s Day should be placed on either the winter or summer solstice when the sun is at its lowest or highest. January 1^st is meaningless.

So tonight, it being nearly 1^st February, I was wondering whether there is any point in recognising the Gaelic tradition of celebrating Imbolc (or Beltane, Lughnasa, or Samhain.) I asked myself why 1^st February, a mere artificial construct, should be worthy of a major seasonal celebration.

But of course, the first few days of February do have a connection of sorts with matters of cosmic significance because they occur at the halfway point between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. That’s why 1^st February is taken to represent the end of winter and the start of spring, even though February can sometimes be the harshest month of the year. And in these two temperate islands off the north-west coast of Europe, it’s also the time of year when the first of the spring wild flowers begin to bloom. (And incidentally, that precious little vanguard of winter flowering – the lonely snowdrop – has been late this year. I don’t know why.)

So now I’m content. Spring starts tomorrow whatever the weather.

And you know, this is the point at which people usually roll their eyes or switch off completely when I talk to them. They do the same if I talk about God, psychology, the persistence of consciousness, the possibility of there being an infinite number of parallel universes, or anything else which has nothing to do with wealth, soaps, or the performance of Premier League football teams. I’m used to it.

The bluebottle count, by the way, reached twenty six this morning, but I think the plague might now be over.

Two Woeful Tales and a Better One.

The advert shows an attractive young woman with the sort of eyes which tell you she knows what she’s about. Her torso is naked save for a sports bra. She’s in a gym, wearing boxing gloves and working out. The tag line reads: 

 What moves you

Makes you

As sound bites go, that’s not a bad one. It’s a simple philosophical statement which has merit. The only other words appear on a button below. They say:

Shop Now

Ah, I see. So the only things which move us and give validity to the dictum are things we can buy. Got it now.

*  *  *

I have a Hoover vacuum cleaner and need new bags for it. The only place I’ve ever found them in this area is the Argos store in Uttoxeter, but they’ve been out of stock for at least several weeks. I asked one of the assistants if he knew whether Hoover still supplied that type of bag. He didn’t, but he gave me the phone number for Hoover Customer Service. I called the number yesterday.

I was given no option to speak to a customer service assistant (I sat through the interminable recorded message twice just to be sure.) I was told to go to the Hoover website and select the option for live chat, so that’s what I did. I typed my enquiry into the dialogue box and an obvious robot repeated it back to me. Upon confirmation, I was told that I would be transferred to an assistant who would handle my query. What I actually got was a page informing me that I must take out a subscription before the matter could be progressed. The subscription fee was £1 and I would need to enter my card number.

Thinks: Hoover expects me to pay them money, even if it’s only £1, just to ask a simple question about a supply issue? This is pure Alice in Wonderland.

I went back to the offending page and read on. It told me that the £1 would be valid for only three days, after which I would be charged £30 a month to continue the subscription. I vowed never to buy another Hoover product as long as we both shall live. And I won’t.

*  *  *

This brings up the old question again: Was Karl Marx right when he asserted that capitalism will one day destroy itself through its own greed? Can you imagine what life will be like in the west if Big Capitalism does implode, at least for a considerable time until a better system is developed? It won’t be pleasant. Thankfully, I expect I’ll be dead by then.

*  *  *

Off to read more of The Thirteenth Tale now. The narrator has just arrived at the big old house located on remote moorland somewhere in Yorkshire, and the imposing figure of Vida Winter (the world-famous author who wants a biography written) has appeared silently behind her. I presume this where the description of the novel as ‘gothic’ begins. Tee hee. Can’t wait.

First Response to The Thirteenth Tale.

I said I might write a little something about Diane Setterfield’s novel The Thirteenth Tale, and I can’t think of anything else to write about so that will have to do for now.

I’m being premature in doing this because I’m only up to page 36 of a 400-page novel, but that’s enough to ‘feel’ the sense of a book and make a reasonable assessment of the author’s skill. On both counts, and to put it simply: I’m already hooked.

The physical environment is relatively mundane in terms of detail, and yet there’s a brooding sense of introspection about it. Such a statement suggests melancholy, but there is none. Everything is matter of fact, and yet loaded with nuance and keen observation. I love keen observation, especially of the small, subtle things, some of which are open to read, while others are there to be surmised with a reasonable degree of certainty. It’s like seeing an involuntary hand gesture or noticing a shift in the eyes. This writer knows how to draw you close with only a minimal shift in body language. In my experience, that’s a rare skill.

As for the writing style, it isn’t lyrical – which is what I usually prefer – but it is superbly crafted. It’s immaculately balanced and derives its strength from economy rather than extended description. A few words can say so much, as long as they’re the right words in the right order. If the first thirty six pages are an accurate guide, this book is an object lesson in the value of brevity. The sense of place is almost palpable.

I await the presentation of more characters. So far we have only three – the young woman narrator, her father who is a dealer in rare books, and her mother who is mostly in the background, being nervous, neurotic, and seemingly oppressed by the pressure of being alive. I have difficulty seeing clear pictures of them at the moment, and yet they’re no mere wraiths; they’re physical enough, just not yet clearly defined. Maybe that’s how they’re supposed to be. Already I bow to the writer’s judgement. And now I’m going to read some more.

On the Mail, the Monarch, and the Mangy Warrior.

King Charles has been in hospital for a couple of days, undergoing a standard and fairly minor procedure to treat a swollen prostate. Today’s Daily Mail, being ever in the tabloid vanguard, printed a huge picture on the front page of Queen Camilla (how strange that combination of title and name still sounds) smiling and waving regally (!) The caption read: Camilla’s Smile Tells Us That the King is Well.

I could hardly contain my joy, as you might imagine. I very nearly did a Rubiales on the nearest female shelf filler in Tesco. (Those of you unaware of the story of Rubiales and the kiss haven’t been reading the sports pages for the past six months.)

The other feature on the front page had a picture of that arch clown and ne’er-do-well Boris Johnson claiming that he is ‘prepared to fight for King and Country.’ (The military top brass in the UK are joining forces, you see, to warn us that we should be establishing a citizens' army to be ready for when the Russians start WWIII.) Seems to me that if Boris Johnson is typical of what we aspire to produce with such an army, the Russians should be well pleased. You have to laugh, don’t you?

The Good, the Bad, and the Excusable.

The good side of today came in the form of lady contacts (several humans and a dog which had sad eyes until I paid her some friendly attention.) The bad side was provided by the pestering of rats and bluebottles (current count is 21.) The worry came from the fact that Mel failed to call me on Skype at the appointed hour which she does every Sunday. I tried prompting her with a text message but that brought no response, so I tried calling her mobile. Voice mail; left message. Repeated the exercise two hours later. Same. This is very unusual.

It occurred to me that in the days before mobile phone use became effectively universal, a situation like that could be optimistically ascribed to the person involved being in a place where there was no private or public phone accessible. But now that everybody except the strange man who lives in a cave somewhere in the Grampians has a mobile phone, there’s more reason to worry. Odd, isn’t it, how we invent something really useful, but even that has its down side.

And by an odd coincidence, I received a text from Mel while I was typing this post. Seems she’d forgotten that it was Sunday, and has had her phone switched off all day in order to escape from the world. Sounds pretty acceptable to me.

(I’m well satisfied with Diane Setterfield’s novel The Thirteenth Tale so far, by the way. More on that tomorrow, maybe.)

The Problem of Roles and Some Tangents.

Something suddenly occurred to me tonight, and I don’t know why it’s never occurred to me before. I was sitting here, alone as usual and with the prospect of several long, dark, and mostly silent hours between nightfall and the early hours of the morning before me, when I realised that I’m not playing a role.

It seems to me, you see – and I’ve said pretty much the same thing before – that everybody spends their lives playing a role. It’s as though an infinite number of stereotypes are placed before us sometime early in our lives, and based on a deeply rooted sense of our natures and an appraisal of our environment, we unconsciously choose a role to play. And then we play it for the rest of our lives, or until the role has resulted in us becoming so incapacitated that all we can do is vegetate.

Such a suggestion is highly speculative, I know, and maybe I could offer other speculations, such as the notion – favoured by some – that we choose our roles even before we’re born. Well, I can’t know where and how the process begins, but I’m quite sure that play a role is what we all do.

So how does this relate to the loner, the recluse who never goes anywhere of any consequence, hardly ever talks to anyone of any consequence, hardly ever entertains visitors, and hardly ever gets invited to visit anybody’s weddings or other celebrations, but sits alone through the long, dark, and mostly silent hours until bedtime? If I were writing a book with the likelihood of publication, or writing this week’s feature article for the Sunday Times, or slaving over the end of year figures for my company’s accounts, or even watching my favourite soap on the TV, it would be different. But I’m not; I sit here through the long, dark, and mostly silent hours trying to think of something by which to be entertained. And that’s a problem because I’m so fussy about what sort of films I want to watch on DVD, so fussy about what sort of books I want to read, and I have no interest in porn whatsoever.

And that’s probably why my life feels so flat. And it probably contributes considerably to the depressive tendency. I’m lacking a role, so now I know.

But writing the above reminded me that one of these days – and if I ever get the opportunity, of course – I must ask the Lady B why she didn’t invite me to her wedding. It amuses me sometimes because I find myself speculating as to the reasons on offer. They include (off the top of my head):

It never occurred to me to invite you

I didn’t think you’d want to come

Would you have come? (To which I would reply ‘certainly not’)

My mother would have quizzed me on why I was inviting you

My future husband would have quizzed me on why I was inviting you

I thought you probably wouldn’t have had anything suitable to wear

Your tatty little old car would have stood out embarrassingly among the Land Rovers and Volvos

You might have laughed audibly at what the vicar was saying

I knew you’d hate the music at the reception

The caterers had no vegetarian options on their list

I didn’t want you there

That’s the first eleven off the top of my head. And I’m sure they’re all wrong because most of my speculations turn out to be wrong. And now it’s time for coffee and toast again (with marmalade, I think.)

I’ve started reading The Thirteenth Tale, by the way. And I must try to get the DVD of Mon Oncle. I think I’ll understand it better than I did when I first watched it a very long time ago. The bluebottle count in the house has risen to fifteen.

Treats and Trials.

Today’s treat was having a proper conversation with a highly esteemed person with whom I haven’t had a proper conversation for about three years. I decline to say who it was but I might add that she’s been no stranger to this blog since I began it fourteen years ago. And she hadn’t changed a bit – same commendable lack of make-up and all the lovelier for it; same richest raven hair which gave genesis to my favourite ditty (although as far as I’m aware, she never did tie it up with a black velvet band. That was the Irish in my ancestral line coming out.)

*  *  *

I set myself five jobs this afternoon and did all of them. That’s unusual.

*  *  *

The bluebottle count in my house rose to seven today (see previous post.) Where are they coming from? In January?

*  *  *

My hairdressing appointment was cancelled and I’m beginning to resemble Worzel Gummidge again. Maybe that’s what’s attracting the bluebottles.

*  *  *

Off to grab another fifty minutes of A Passage to India now. I also have two new books to read. Such an embarrassment of riches to keep me entertained. I worry I might start wandering around in circles wracked with indecision, and be like the Buddhist goat that died of starvation because it couldn’t decide which pile of food to eat.

A Reason to Watch the Film

I started watching the celebrated movie A Passage to India tonight, a mere forty four years since it was a much celebrated release (not least because it was David Lean’s last film.)

I didn’t like it at first because it was all about arrogant and privileged English people swanning about without very much to do and taking a superior attitude towards the natives. But Judy Davis impressed me – hard eyes but a perfect nose and mouth. Very attractive. So I carried on watching it.

A Minor Concern.

I’ve had three bluebottles and a housefly in my office tonight. I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen bluebottles or houseflies in January before, so to have four of them in one room felt like an infestation and was therefore a little creepy. Don’t plagues of flies appear in horror films?

I managed to catch them all and put them outside, and then felt guilty because it’s cold out there. Being strange can be inconvenient sometimes.

A Little Late Note.

When I was going to bed last night it suddenly occurred to me that the earth is such a tiny fragment of rock when compared with the vastness of the galaxy, let alone the universe. And then I realised that even a small change in the alignment of this tiny piece of rock would bring about such a cataclysm that all life but the odd few microbes would be destroyed in probably less than a day. It made me feel a little insecure.

A Book and Some B******t.

In my last post I mentioned that I’d ordered a book online and was awaiting delivery. Shortly after publishing the post I received an email telling me that the book had been picked and despatched. Fine, so far.

So let’s ask what exactly is involved here. I order a second hand (or ‘pre-loved’ as they now like to call it because simple, honest descriptions are anathema these days) book costing a mere £4. I pay for it and now they’re sending it to me. That’s it; a simple transaction. If I’d bought it from a bookshop the assistant would have put it into a paper bag, handed it to me and said ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

Not the modern online retailer…

The subject line of the email begins: Great News. Why is it ‘great’? I suppose it’s a small mercy that they didn’t add two exclamation marks after this startling announcement, but it’s still a bit over the top. And it gets better. The text of the email begins: Your order is on its way! (they didn’t forget the exclamation mark that time). We hope you’re as excited as we are. Excited? Bemused, more like.

Why do they do it? The corporate world. Why? Do they really have such little regard for the intelligence and general adroitness of their customers? Or could it be their version of Have a nice day! (The exclamation mark is mine, I admit, but I think it’s reasonably inferred.)

Shifting Universes.

I was talking to Mel on Skype two nights ago and she was telling me about a book she’s currently reading and enjoying. She said it’s called The Thirteenth Tale by a woman called Diane Setterfield, and she read a few sentences to demonstrate the style. It sounded like a style I would like and so, being lamentably short of reading matter at the moment, I ordered a copy online and am now awaiting delivery. But there’s a mystery attached to it.

Mel told me that Diane Setterfield is an American now living in Harrogate, UK, and that the book is an autobiography. I Googled the name to learn more about her. According to Wiki, Diane Setterfield is British, not American, and she lives in Oxford, not Harrogate. It also said that the book is a novel categorised as gothic.

This is a bit odd. Mel has a Masters in English Literature and so is familiar with its forms. She’s also usually perfectly sound with facts, so how did she get these three bits of information completely wrong?

As ridiculous as it sounds, my immediate thought was to question whether we might have gone through a universal shift, a possibility which seems to be gaining a surprising amount of credibility these days in light of the multiverse theory. Could I have been talking to another Mel in a parallel universe, one in which Diane Setterfield and her family were born in America, and in which she moved to Harrogate after writing a gothic novel rather than an autobiography?

Sounds pretty outlandish, doesn’t it? I can’t help but agree, and maybe I’ll get the explanation when we speak again next Sunday. But if she tells me that she never said those things, and maybe has never even heard of Diane Setterfield, I think we might have a mystery on our hands.

(Incidentally, just so you know I’m not completely barking, YouTube is full of moderately credible stories of people finding themselves suddenly shifted to the same space and time in a parallel universe. As with all reports of happenings purportedly outside the confines of normally perceived reality, I keep an open mind.)

Today's Ruminations on Damage, Death, and Connections.

When I went for my morning walk today I was pleased to see only one tree which had suffered major damage from last night’s storm. Maybe I was just lucky in not passing any felled ones. Being both fond and respectful of trees, it troubles me to a surprising degree to see one uprooted and lying on the ground.

*  *  *

But what of the squirrel? The field boundary hedge on the opposite side of the lane from my garden was not trimmed last autumn, and so it has 3-4ft of bare growth sitting on top of its optimum level. Lying within it a few yards from my gate was a squirrel, obviously dead. I asked myself how it had got up there and how it had died. I could see no way that the storm could have been responsible, and so I assumed it had been hit and injured by a vehicle, and that instinct had caused it to seek higher, safer ground before it expired. That was what made it rather more poignant than the usual sight of a squashed road kill. And yesterday there was a dead mole, seemingly uninjured, lying in my gateway. Maybe it’s just that kind of week.

*  *  *

It occurred to me yesterday that growing old means becoming almost totally unconcerned with things like activity, adventure, and aspiration, and instead pushes you into a seemingly never-ending exercise in damage limitation.

*  *  *

I found myself reading old emails to and from the priestess again today. What on earth is wrong with me? And lately I’ve developed an intense desire to meet Madeline Ryan before I die. You don’t know who Madeline Ryan is, do you? Neither should you because even I don’t know who she is. She seems to lie somewhere between a favourite niece and a kid sister who’s cleverer than me.

*  *  *

I've been unusually busy today, and now I think it’s time for coffee and toast.

A Note on the Priestess.

Having spent upwards of two hours growing colder and ever more bored (because I really, really have nothing to occupy or amuse or entertain me at the moment, and the cold wind was howling outside and gaining access to my draughty house), I decided to click on the button marked ‘Archive’ in my Hotmail inbox (something I’ve never done before for some reason.)

And what do you think I found there? An email thread between the priestess and me from a little over two years ago, and which went on and on for nearly three months.

And such a revelation it turned out to be. I’d quite forgotten how strangely intense the apparent and clearly undefined connection was. I’d quite forgotten how much thought, time, and effort I’d put into writing some of the missives, and how much of the same she’d put into writing hers. I’d quite forgotten how utterly frank we were with one another, and how I’d told her things I would be unlikely to tell anyone else. And I’d quite forgotten that I had a penchant for humour back then, and it was a many-faceted attribute.

So what was it all about and where did it all go? Why did I walk quietly away and shut the door behind me one day last summer? Answer: because it’s what I do.

I confess I still think about her often. I wonder what she’s doing now and hope she’s happy and successful. It really doesn’t matter whether I do or not, of course. I also wonder whether she ever thinks of me, and that doesn’t matter either.

*  *  *

This morning I thought of an excellent analogy for my current state of mind. My natural inclination was to write it into a blog post because my blog is, after all, my journal, but decided against it because endless negative introspection eventually becomes terminally boring. But tonight I realised I could use the simple deflection device of writing it into a short story about a man called Joe (one of the stories my mother used to tell me as a child was about a man called Joe who got lost in the snow), and maybe I will. But I probably won’t.

*  *  *

This was written very quickly. It might get edited or it might not.

The Universal Mmm.

I saw Natalie for the first time in several months when I was out walking this morning. Natalie is the French woman who lives in the village. She came up behind me and walked past because she was walking faster than I was (probably because she’s younger.) ‘Hello’, she said. ‘Hello’, I replied. So far so good.

Eventually I approached her house just as she was checking her mailbox. She turned and saw me and said something else, none of which I understood because she was too far away. ‘Mmm’, I replied, which seemed to satisfy her because she collected her mail and disappeared into the house. They do say ‘Mmm’ in France, don’t they? I hope so, but I really couldn’t say. At times I feel stricken to the core by my shortcomings.

I do so admire polyglots, you see. Here’s me trying to write half decent English, while there are other people out there who can speak ten languages fluently. How do they do it? I would like to have Noam Chomsky’s opinion on that one. I gather he has a lot of controversial theories on the process of learning language.

Little Thoughts on Roads and Reality.

I mentioned in a recent post that I’ve always been driven to search for the unknowable – and by ‘unknowable’, I mean aspects of reality which are invisible, inaudible, and untouchable to humans possessed of only the normal range of faculties.

I realised just a few minutes ago that ‘search’ is an inaccurate term because I know of no way of doing that. It seems to me that what I’m really doing is holding myself in a permanent state of readiness for when the time is right to become aware of such an aspect, which I think has come close to happening a few times. I’m inclined to say ‘be shown’, but that implies the existence of some third party and makes the matter more complicated.

I know it’s often said that certain drugs can perform the role of a third party, and I consider it feasible that such may be the case. But you couldn’t trust the vision then, could you? You couldn’t be sure that what you were experiencing really was an alternate reality, or whether the drug was simply messing with your brain and producing a delusional state. That’s why I decline to take the kind of drugs which are capable of doing that, and why I resist the lure of shamanism.

So that’s today’s little thought. (And I suspect that my thoughts really are shrinking these days.)

*  *  *

Nevertheless, let’s throw caution to the wind and relate another little thought:

I watched a YouTube video last night on a woman’s experience of taking a Buddhist retreat in Vietnam. She was less than complimentary about the experience and I felt moved to offer my thoughts on the matter. (I think they were slightly larger than usual.)

This morning I received a reply from one of the viewers which said: ‘Thanks. It helped me, too.’ And now I’m slightly worried because I wonder whether I helped someone to see the light a little brighter, or whether I led his poor soul astray and he’s going to suffer the consequences some way down the road. How many times have I said that it’s difficult to win in this life?

I also received another reply to a comment I left some weeks ago on a video about the origins and authorship of the Torah. The comment said ‘Islam will find you.’ Sounds menacing, doesn’t it? I decided it was just a little boy indulging in some wishful thinking and chose not to be concerned.

Random Notes on Today.

There are a few people I occasionally bump into on my walks around the Shire – people who are apparently in the habit of taking regular walks at the same time as me. And because I see them quite frequently, the habit has developed of stopping and chatting for a few minutes. Most of them are predictably conventional, but one is particularly so and therefore unacceptably boring. He’s suddenly started walking by with no more than a brief ‘good morning’, which leads me to wonder whether I should revel in the fresh, chill breeze of rejection, or bask in the warm zephyr of blessed relief. I choose the latter.

*  *  *

One of the little known side effects of chronic depression is that it suppresses the ability to firmly connect with the rare few compatible people. And even when the will to connect is still there, making the effort to communicate becomes an intolerable burden. And even when lighter moments occur and the desire to communicate re-surfaces, the stern voice of intractable authority reminds you that you’re not worth knowing anyway, so you let it go. It’s all a bit counter productive.

*  *  *

Today I read the Wiki article on Noam Chomsky, and discovered that in terms of our political and social views we’re almost identical twins. But there are two notable differences. The first is that he has an academic background and is possessed of the mental energy and will to write books, make speeches, give lectures, and submit to interviews. I come from peasant stock and can’t be bothered with that sort of thing. The second is that he appears to restrict his interests largely to politics and his major academic discipline which is linguistics, whereas I’m endlessly driven to seek whatever reality might exist beyond the one we humans routinely inhabit. In other words, he’s driven to rationalise the known, while I’m driven to search for the unknown. Our birthdays are eight days apart.

*  *  *

It was cold but sunny again today, and a woman I passed in the lane said ‘it’s a lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?’ I concurred out of politeness and the desire to avoid a conversation, but I felt inclined to point out that she was on her way to a warm house, whereas I was going back to a cold one. It makes a difference in the matter of general perception. And on that note, it appears I’m about to have another fall out with the humanoids (vaguely so) in the corporate world because it’s possible that my core heating (two storage heaters) might not work after 31^st March. The corporate world is fast becoming my arch enemy. I think I’m on my way to becoming a committed anti-capitalist.

*  *  *

I encountered two horses with which I was previously unacquainted today, one skewbald and one piebald. They ignored me. They were carrying on their backs two teenage girls with whom I was also previously unacquainted. They gave me strangely searching looks. If I’d been beset by tedium, the four of them would have relieved it. I wasn’t, oddly enough; I was idly musing on the reason my fingers get so cold even when I’m wearing top of the range mountaineer’s gloves. (It’s an old problem which leads me to suspect that my mother probably smoked during pregnancy.)

From the Mundane to the Ultimate.

It all started when I remembered a photograph of my mother washing her feet in a receptacle built beneath a natural spring in Devon, way back in my childhood.

My thoughts went immediately to the realisation that existence is built upon countless billions – and that’s a massive understatement – of interconnected moments. It’s a hugely complex picture, and there was a time when I would have stopped there.

But does ‘moment’ mean the same as ‘instant’? I’ve long been of the opinion that there can’t be any such thing as an instant as long as we perceive time as something that never stops flowing. (I referred in my novel to ‘the space between the milliseconds.’ Maybe it should have been ‘nanoseconds’, but how far do you go in subdividing time until you arrive at a state of nothingness and ask ‘is that all there is’?)

And so, of course, this led me to further contemplate the notion that time itself doesn’t exist. Every single fact that has ever ‘existed’ or ever will ‘exist’ is already in place, but we have to delude ourselves that time exists so that we are able to move through it in order to experience reality.

So that took me to the next question: ‘Does this mean that there is no such thing as reality’? And that was where the implications really reached out to the edge of the universe and beyond. Everything that we experience, learn, take for granted, choose to believe – it’s all one great delusion. No God, no science, no politics, no reproduction, no machines, no wealth, no nature… All delusion. But feelings are a different matter, because maybe one thing does exist – consciousness.

At that point we’re back to the old and ultimate question: What is consciousness? The words at the bottom of this blog emanated from a similar set of questions earlier in my life. Was I right? I’ve no idea. And it all stemmed from remembering a photograph of a woman washing her feet.

Thank you if you made it to the bottom of this. I’m not sure I would have bothered, especially since my house is so cold tonight (or is it?)

A Minor Mystery and the Touch of Emotion.

The latest mystery tugging at my brain is the reason for having the old hymn When the Roll is Called Up Yonder running through my mind on an almost regular basis. It’s the one which has: ‘when the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there’ at the end of each refrain. I don’t know why this should be since I have no particular reason to suspect that I’m about be called up yonder any time soon. 

I wonder whether it might have something to do with its origins. I’ve always imagined it to be a chapel hymn being belted out with great gusto by the downtrodden masses of the Victorian working class. Large numbers of them were persuaded to non-conformist denominations because the Anglican Church was a leading arm of the Establishment which sought to keep the iniquities of the class system firmly in place. Life for the labourers in the satanic mills and mines of Victorian Britain amounted to little more than endless drudgery, poverty, disease, and all manner of distress, and so I suppose a song envisioning a better existence post mortem would be popular because there was nothing else to be optimistic about. I further suppose that my own generally non-conformist attitude is probably enough to make the connection.

*  *  *

Today was a cold one with temperatures hovering around freezing all day, and there was a beggar sitting with an upturned cap on the cold pavement in Ashbourne. I saw a woman go over to him and hand him a pack of sandwiches and a hot drink. I confess that it raised the suspicion of a tear, and I wanted to put my arm around her shoulder and say ‘thank you.’ It might have been only a minor gesture, but a light is a light when all’s said and done, and we don’t see too many of those in a world seemingly being turned ever darker by black-hearted leaders near and far.

But she was too far away and chasing after her seemed unbefitting. Besides, I wondered whether I should feel ashamed because even the suspicion of a tear is not very manly, is it?

Life and Changes.

Today I had reason to consider the nature and practice of modern book publishing, and it caused me to think back to my time as a teenager.

I had somewhat of a dualistic nature, you know. On the one hand I loved doing the sort of things teenage boys are supposed to love doing – partying, playing rugby, spending countless hours in pubs achieving various states of drunkenness and sometimes becoming a bit raucous, and engaging in dalliances with attractive teenage girls. But I was just as happy sitting alone with rod and line by a placid lake all day waiting for the float to bob and disappear, investigating bookshops just because I so liked the look and feel of books, and browsing the old public library for hours on dark autumn afternoons, seeking to sit quietly at an old table under a yellow tungsten light bulb for the purpose of erudition and conveyance to other worlds.

It’s all a bit Jekyll and Hyde, isn’t it? And I truly wonder how I got from there to where I am now, a veritable einzelgänger living in a cold old house who spends more time connecting with sheep and cows in the fields than he does with other humans, and who will bestow any amount of fuss on dogs and horses while keeping people mostly at arm’s length. I never drink in public these days, and such alcohol as I consume at home is strictly controlled in the hope of keeping my liver and other bodily functions working as they should.

I do still read though, but only novels these days. I find that they examine the complex nature of the human condition more realistically and less didactically than reference works, and also offer access to the fresh fields of imagination which reference and philosophical books don’t even attempt. I suppose the latter is the one aspect of the teenager still left to me.

And there’s that pronoun again. Another ‘me’ post comes to an end. Introspection is becoming an increasing habit as the years advance and the terminus draws ever closer, and I constantly remind myself that I’m the only one who is interested in the fact.

An Unreliable Source.

I saw a YouTube video recently which told a tragic story. A woman in Japan with evident mental health issues became trapped in a malfunctioning lift. Engineers were called and took the lift out of commission because the woman made no sound and so they thought it was empty. The woman died of dehydration.

Being curious, I Googled ‘How long can a human survive without water?’ The returns varied widely. One purportedly authoritative website said that the longest anyone was known to have survived was eighteen days. Another offered the dogmatic statement: ‘No one can survive without water longer than three days.’ Others explained the various factors and complications involved and gave estimates between the two. One even suggested that three weeks was possible in some situations.

We see the internet as one of the foremost advances of modern times. All that knowledge available free to everyone, and I gather it’s routinely used by students worldwide as a reliable learning resource. So how do they know which facts to accept as accurate and which not? It’s a serious question.

The Genius of the Tree Rat.

I was watching a squirrel in the Harry Potter wood this morning, walking slowly and carefully along a pencil-thin branch and then leaping with unerring accuracy onto another similarly thin branch on an adjacent tree. And then it turned around and made the return trip with consummate ease. I assumed it was investigating routes through the tree canopy. I remembered seeing another squirrel once walking along a whippy branch that was dipping more and more with each footfall. When it dropped to a point level with a thicker, firmer branch on the next tree, it made the leap and carried on. It seems they know the geography of their habitat supremely well, and are absolute experts at navigating it.

You know, I do realise that squirrels are considered pests for various reasons (a neighbour of mine once referred to them as ‘tree rats’, which I suppose they are in a manner of speaking.) And the grey squirrels are regarded with particular suspicion because they were introduced from America and have now almost totally supplanted the smaller, cuter, native reds. It’s illegal in Britain to release a grey squirrel into the wild. I also have to admit that they irritate me quite badly when they get onto the birds’ feeding tables and scoff all the food.

But we must admire their skills and ingenuity, mustn’t we? The way they navigate their arboreal realm, and the skills they exhibit when so doing, have to be a thing of wonder. I’ll chase them off the bird table when I feel they’ve had enough, but I would never knowingly hurt one.

The Colours of the Days.

I learned earlier that today is Blue Monday. It appears that some psychologist once put several random factors together, came up with some sort of equation, and declared that the third Monday in January is the most depressing day of the year and should have an official title. Wouldn't you think that psychologists would have better ways of spending their time? (And I would have thought that Black Friday has an equal claim, but that’s just a personal thing.)

Today was depressing for me actually, but I’m sure it was merely coincidental. It had more to do with the coldness of the day, two unusually extended internet dropouts, and a stinging sensation where my old Wartherin’s tumour used to be. I’ve also discovered this winter that walking in low temperatures makes me feel not only cold, but ill. Whether it’s to do with heart issues, vascular issues, or just the plain drip, drip of the ageing process I have no idea.

As for Blue Monday, it occurs to me that people born between the fifteenth and twenty first days of January might have a problem, because approximately once every six years their birthday will fall on the most depressing day of the year. What a life sentence, eh? I suggest that some psychologist should conduct a study of such people and give them an official title. It might alleviate their depression, or at least give them a clinical excuse for being grumpy.

It Being January.

Warning: Downbeat.

I find January the most tedious month of the year. The days are still short, the nights are still long, the light is still low, the landscape is still bare, the gaiety of Christmas colour is all removed, and the house rarely produces much in the way of relief from its incessant chill. February might still be winter, but at least the colourful crocuses and primroses come along to brave the blast and offer a modicum of optimism. January is the epitome of drabness.

So how do I occupy these long dark evenings? Well, at this particular point in this particular January I find myself devoid of amusements. No DVDs, no reading matter, and nothing of even minor note to write to the blog. Household jobs are beyond consideration because every part of the house except my office (I would love to call it my study, but that would seem far too grand for an unassuming soul like me) is unremittingly cold. I have a TV, of course, but the programmes are too reflective of the culture to persuade me to want to watch them.

And so I sit in this office and play trivial card games on a computer growing old, crotchety, and intolerant of all but tightly rationed amounts of streaming. And when I grow tired of that I find something to research online. Tonight it was the British comedy actor Will Hay whose films are among my favourites. I have a mug of tea at around eight o’clock, and a mug of coffee (usually with a slice of toast) between ten and ten thirty. And then I persuade myself to write something like this blog post in order to wallow in the belief (of sorts) that I’ve spent at least part of the long winter’s night doing something productive. I hope somebody out there was mildly amused. Soon be time to attempt some tightly rationed streaming, courtesy of YouTube.

*  *  *

But just as I was finishing writing the above, I remembered something which caught my eye today:

We have a retail chain in the UK called Poundland. I suppose you could categorise their stores as the base level of the discount store phenomenon – a bit like the old American five and dimes. As I was passing one of their stores today I saw a big notice on the wall just inside the entrance. It said:

Make sure you grab a basket or trolley

You’re going to need it!

Now, is that a prime example of corporate wishful thinking or merely an unusually crass attempt at manipulating the mindset of the masses? (Or could it be, perhaps, an altruistic attempt to brighten a cold, damp January day for people like me who think too much? If it’s still there in June I’ll go for the first two options.)

Class at Last.

Over the past six months or so I’ve developed a new habit when making toast. Instead of taking it out of the toaster as soon as it pops up, I leave it in there for about thirty seconds first. I realised, you see – after all these eons of life – that if you butter toast as soon as it pops up, two factors come into play: Firstly, there’s still a certain amount of moisture left in the bread; and secondly, it’s at maximum heat. The heat causes more of the butter to melt and be absorbed into toast which is still a little soft, and so what you get is a squidgy slice of toast. If, on the other hand, you wait patiently for half a minute, some of the moisture has evaporated and the bread is less hot so it absorbs less butter. Result: a crispy slice of toast, which is how I prefer it.

Do you realise what this means, and in consequence why it’s worth committing to a blog post? It means that after all these years I can finally claim to be a connoisseur in one area of the culinary art. In all other matters pertaining to food I’m as basic as basic gets, but now I have standards and a level of expertise in the matter of making toast. Maybe I should write a book.

I have to admit, of course, that I do use wholemeal wheat bread which is conveniently sliced and provided in a plastic bag by Messrs Hovis. If I laboured diligently to discover and try different kinds of bread, maybe the story would follow a different narrative. But life is about taking one step at a time, isn’t it? It is. Maybe I’ll make friends with a German one day and be persuaded to move onto stage two.

Late.

I just watched a video of the Queensland Symphony Orchestra playing ‘Nimrod’ from Elgar’s Enigma Variations. It was a proper orchestra with a conductor and violinists and everything, and some of the violinists were men. Can you imagine an Aussie male even knowing what a violin is? Me neither. (And I imagine most Australian men would thank me for saying so.)

It’s many years since I made a post this late. That’s why I’m doing it. I was going to make a post earlier about a sad side effect of feeling both cold and depressed in my old dark house, but decided it was a little too deep for a bear of fading brain.

The Big Mystery and a Big Find.

A communication I received today led me off down memory lane to a house in which I lived between the ages of 1 and 11. I have lots of memories from that time and several of them came flooding back, but such is never enough for me. I have to take the process a stage further and consider the question: what is memory? Well, to put it simply, it’s something stored in the brain. Scientists can tell us which bit of the brain stores it, but that doesn’t explain how something which has no form, no material existence, can be stored and accessed at will, even being capable producing false memories from heaven knows where.

And something else which can’t be explained is feeling, which also has no form. Again, science can explain the relationship between brain function and feeling, but it can’t explain what feeling actually is. We feel sadness and happiness, depression and euphoria, pride and disappointment, and many others beside. So feelings have to be real, don’t they? Or do they?

And of course, the more you consider the reality of things like memory and feelings, the more you get steered to the ultimate question which is the root of it all: what is consciousness? Of all the mysteries life throws up, consciousness has to be the most important. Without consciousness – which can include things like dreams, imaginings, and even hallucinations – there is no life, even if the heart still beats and the blood still flows. Consciousness is the root of the whole life phenomenon. We know how it interacts with the brain, but we don’t know what it consists of. Biological science likes to presume that consciousness is a product of the brain, but only because it can’t be explained any other way. Maybe it isn’t (which is s strong suspicion of mine.)

So where do we go from here? I don’t know, except to suggest that we have to accept that the bedrock of the life phenomenon is a complete mystery and keep an open mind. I’ve been doing that for years and it continues to frustrate me. Maybe I’ll learn the secret when I die, but I suspect that mere death is not going quite far enough for something of that magnitude.

And where has this post gone? Nowhere, really, but I felt like saying it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll meet a particularly interesting dog and I’ll be able to write about that instead.

*  *  *

One thing which did catch my eye today, however, was that an archaeologist – or he might have been an anthropologist – has discovered the 2,500-year-old remains of a large city complex in the rain forests of Ecuador. It includes a complex network of roads, several canals, and very many large buildings. It appears that, at a stroke, he has proved wrong all those archaeologists (and maybe anthropologists) who have been telling him for decades that such a sophisticated complex could not possibly exist in such a place and he should stop wasting his time. I love it when things like that happen, I really do.

A Curious Piece of Perception.

I woke up feeling chilled in bed again last night, in spite of the wall-mounted electric heater keeping the room aired and several good layers of heavyweight bed linen covering my recumbent form. I don’t know why that happens occasionally, but sometimes it does and it did so last night.

Naturally, I did my best to emulate a hedgehog in defensive posture – even though humans are not as well equipped as hedgehogs to morph into temporary spheres – and tried to go back to sleep. What happened next was interesting.

The room was fully dark and my head was tucked down and covered by the weight of bed linen, and yet I seemed to open my eyes and look around at the space in which I was enclosed. It appeared cavernous, somewhat lumpy, and coloured a deep red. There were two black holes at the bottom of the cavern, being the tops of two tubes extending downwards towards the foot of the bed. My immediate thought was that I was lying in my own heart, or rather my consciousness was. And then I went back to sleep.

Now, the fact of feeling chilled in the circumstances described is a little odd in itself, but surely the more important point is the question of why I should perceive my consciousness to be lying in my own heart. Is this something physical, philosophical, psychological, poetical, or shamanic? If anyone should have an opinion on the matter, I would be glad to hear it. My own feeling is that I’m slowly losing the plot.

On Einzelganger and Being Invisible.

I learned a new word last night: Einzelgänger. It’s a German word which has a few nuances but basically refers to the lone wolf type – the sort of person who can run with the pack when it suits, but is mostly drawn to a loner existence where he or she can be free to do their own thing in their own way. That would appear to suit me fairly well, so now I can confidently tell the very few people I ever speak to that I’m an einzelgänger. Won’t that be fun?

I picked it up from a YouTube channel I watch a lot which takes the word for its name. It’s presented by a man who talks about life, lifestyle choices, and general philosophy. His voice is always calm, compelling, and comfortable, and he uses it to talk simply and succinctly about ways of seeing and being. He rarely comes across as preachy, which is why I find him worth listening to and recommend his short videos of usually around 15-25 minutes.

In this week’s episode he talks about the ‘relevance’ phenomenon: the modern mania among people – mostly young people – to seek ego boosts, the attention of the masses, fame, celebrity, call it what you will; anything to avoid being invisible. And they do this, of course, mostly through social networking facilities where they hope to attract a huge audience. He then goes on to talk about the benefits of being just the opposite: the privacy value which comes from being invisible, and the freedom to go about your business relatively unnoticed and unquestioned.

Well, that suits me too, so now I can be happy wandering invisibly through my own little world unmolested. It means that nobody ever invites me to tea, but I can live with that. I do miss the odd few special people, of course, but you can’t have everything, can you? And I admit to owning a purely academic curiosity as to the precise nature of things called TikTok and WhatsApp, but I don’t lose sleep over it. My feelings regarding the scourge of celebrities have been often stated on this blog. As for the word ‘influencer’, I think it demonstrates the need to re-open Bedlam.

On City Hall and Soaring Costs.

I had a minor thrill tonight while watching a film on my computer. (Thrills, even minor ones, are all but non-existent in my world these days.) To explain…

I was watching the 1995 film Twelve Monkeys, and there was a scene near the end where the main characters are standing outside Philadelphia City Hall. I didn’t need to be told what it was because I recognised it. Philadelphia City Hall was the location of the meeting between Joseph and Lisa in my story A Fairytale of Philadelphia which I wrote around ten years ago. It only existed in my mind at the time, but when I saw it tonight it looked just about exactly as I imagined it.

What you have to understand, you see, is that when people write fiction – and I’m sure this must apply to most people, not just me – the story becomes an alternate reality in which they live for a few hours at a time. And there was my alternate reality revisiting me after all these years. (I looked for Lisa, believe it or not, but she wasn’t there. Then again, the real Lisa would have been a young child when the film was made, so maybe I just didn’t recognise her.) What a shame I was feeling cold and depressed when Philly came a-calling, but life’s like that sometimes.

And on the subject of being cold in my house, I’ve been watching the thermometer in my office fall day by day as the winter season asserts its supremacy, so I did a little calculation today. I have a 2kw wall-mounted panel heater in my bathroom which I’ve never used for reasons I needn’t explain. I decided to work out how much it would cost to have that heater running 24 hours a day so that I’d have a more comfortable bathroom to visit, and do you know how much it would add to my heating bill after recent cost increases? £522 a month (approx $US660). One heater, one room, £500+ every month through the winter. How rich does a person have to be to have a warm refuge these days?

Inconsequential Oddments Vaguely Connected by Time.

I was doing some manual work in the garden earlier and a thought occurred to me. When I was a young man doing manual work, there was often some kind of overseer present who would chivvy me into putting more effort into the job. ‘Put your back into it’ he would say aggressively, or something similar. Now I’d be much more likely to hear a young woman’s voice saying ‘Are you sure you should be doing that, Granddad? Please be careful.’ Shameful, isn’t it?

And I keep seeing my face reflected in mirrors and shop windows. I really am having difficulty reconciling it with the self image still occupying my brain.

*  *  *

I was watching the film Twelve Monkeys earlier and another thought struck me (based on the rationale of the film.) Let’s suppose I really could travel back in time just few decades, and let’s suppose I met my younger self and gave him some advice. He might take the advice to heart and do something different some way down the road, and that might change his destiny. It might even cause him to die, in which case I wouldn’t exist in my own present and therefore couldn’t have travelled back. It’s the same principle as what I believe is called ‘the grandfather syndrome.’

And that takes us back into the territory of time lines and parallel universes again. I’m not sure I can be bothered with such speculation any more. No point. I wrote the theory into a short story which got published. I think that will do.

*  *  *

I had a visitor this evening and between us we sorted one of the issues with the car. The cause was what I thought it was. Aren’t I clever? He also brought me a belated Christmas present – a bottle of whisky and a box of assorted chocolate biscuits. He gives me a Christmas present most years, which I don’t understand because I never give him one. And he isn’t usually late.

(Incidentally, I haven't posted for a few days because there was an impediment. Never mind what it was. And I've been talking to a Russian and a Swede on YouTube. That's my idea of excitement.)

On Yin, Yang, and Relics of Yore.

Yet another day of near-incessant rain, and the Shire has been indulging its Venetian pretensions again. I read a news feature which reminded me that for some years now the climate scientists have been forecasting that, as the effects of climate change take hold, British winters are likely to become warmer and wetter while the summers will turn hotter and drier.

I’m not all sure that I approve of either. Winters blanketed under leaden skies and running with excess water mean too much yin. Blistering sun and arid earth means too much yang. It seems we’re moving to a state of uncomfortable imbalance. I think this is probably why I so love those warm summer evenings with a light drizzle falling. I think I’ve come to know when the balance is just right.

*  *  *

Tonight I had reason to look out an old photograph from my picture files on the computer. I found it and discovered that I was included in the group shot at around age seven. Well, what does one do in that situation but spend time searching the files for other pictures taken through the multitude of personal ages? And so I did.

I saw clear eyes and an open visage bereft of frown lines. I saw thick hair that fell naturally into waves at the back, like a lion’s mane. I saw dark beard growth clothing a jaw line that was more prominent than it is now. I saw an easy, upright bearing and a strong body capable of doing all that might justify its gender. And then I asked myself whether there was any particular period to which I would like to return if such a thing were possible.

I decided there wasn’t. It seems to me that as each age and experience passes and floats away on the wake of the ship of life, it becomes a stale thing fit only for the fishes or the falling. I’ve spent the whole of my life in the foc’sle looking ahead, anticipating the next thrill, the next revelation, the next new romance, and the next enlivening experience. Such a view has its benefits and drawbacks, but that’s how things have always been for me and still are. The difference now is that I see nothing in the distance but some far off, strange island where the ship will one day run aground. And that’s why I feel flat and more than a little nervous sometimes.

*  *  *

Talking of ships and wakes, it occurs to me to wonder how many millions of seagoing vessels have sailed the oceans of the world over the centuries. And, further, how much gash has been tipped over the stern to sink ingloriously to the sea bed. And then I wonder whether all that matter – mostly organic – has left tiny traces of its presence down there in the depths. Given the right circumstances and equipment, could those traces be examined and identified? Here is a fragment of a tomato dropped by a Spanish sailor in the 16^th century. This is what’s left of a chicken leg which, by its size and conformation, must have been an ancient breed know only in Anatolia. There would also be the remains of wrecked ships, and maybe some human bones, and tools aplenty I expect. There might even be another antikythera mechanism or something even more mysterious.

I’m dreaming, of course. It’s what I mostly do these days.

On Fools and Fine Ladies.

I was thinking this morning that I see church weddings as being somewhat akin to good old fashioned British pantomimes. It’s partly the rituals and the stuff the vicar spouts, but it’s also the fancy dress on display – the men in hired dress coats, top hats, and sometimes other paraphernalia which never sees the light of day on any other occasion, and the women in those curious constructions they place on their heads to look as laughably un-feminine as possible.

And then I thought that if ever I get invited to another church wedding, I might seriously consider hiring a mediaeval fool’s costume (complete with bells.) And when the vicar remonstrates with me for being improperly dressed, I can reply ‘Well, half the people in this building are dressed for a pantomime. Why shouldn’t I?’

But now I’ll tell you what’s odd (and this is a big admission): Just occasionally – and the reasons are many and varied but unimportant for the purpose of the post – I experience an image in which I’m standing at the front of the church watching a young woman in white finery walking slowly up the aisle on the arm of her father. And you know what? I come close to feeling emotional.

Now why should that be, I always ask myself. I really don’t know. Maybe it’s because I never saw such an image from that angle, nor ever provided support for any bride. Maybe it’s just a feeling of having missed out on something in the torturous path we call a life. Then again, it might be my incorrigibly Romantic predilection regarding the search for the Holy Grail manifesting itself again. Maybe the Holy Grail is a woman in a white dress. (Nobody knows what the Holy Grail is, or was, you know, because Chretien de Troyes died before he finished the story. All that stuff about it being the cup from which Jesus drank at the last supper, or the cup in which Joseph of Arimathea collected Jesus's  blood during the crucifixion, are just guesses. It's a curious fact about human nature that if somebody writes a guess into a book and enough people read it, before long it becomes accepted as established fact. Religions are full of that sort of thing.)

And now I’m going to stick my courage to the sticking place and post a picture which at one time I found difficult to look at. I’m not going to say who the happy couple are because that would be breaching a confidence, but I hope you’ll agree that the Woman in White is worth feeling close to emotional about. (And I hope nobody objects to the breach of copyright. I'm not rich enough to bother suing me.)