On the Dreaded Dog and the Lady's Influence.

Well now, it's been thirteen days since I last made a post. The reason is simple enough: the old black dog has been making his presence felt most alarmingly for the past thirteen days, snarling and slavering and spreading darkness, decay, and the Red Death through waking and sleeping hours alike. Several times I thought of making a post on the two things currently bothering me about the decline of British culture – increasing state control over personal freedoms and the constant attempt to sanitise society beyond reasonable bounds – but the desire to communicate flies out of the window when the black dog wakes up.

But today was different; today, fate granted me another short interview with the Lady B and the littlest of the little princesses (who is utterly adorable, by the way.) And you know what the black dog did? He did what he always does when the Lady B is around – shuffled off and lay grovelling at her feet like a whimpering puppy who would be mortified at the merest thought of accidentally treading on a butterfly.

Or, to put it another way, the sun came out as it always did when the Lady B was within communicable distance. Or, just in case you haven’t got it yet, or have no truck with metaphors, my dolorous spirits always get a bit of a lift when fate grants me an audience with the said Lady.

So that’s why I wrote this. I might write something else tomorrow if the dog is either asleep or still whimpering. Then again…

The Bird That Thought It Was a Hedgehog.

So should I tell today’s story of the stricken bird? I don’t think so. It was one of those situations which seem terribly meaningful and interesting at the time, but when you go into detail you imagine that the reception would be nothing more than yawns and eye rolls. So I’ll just tell the beginning and the end.

I was going out for my daily walk this morning when I spotted what appeared to be a ball, about the size of a tennis ball, stuck to the side of the birds’ peanut feeder. Closer examination showed it to be a small bird gripping the holes in the feeder, but without any visible head or wings. It really had managed to tuck everything away so that it looked – quite literally – like a ball, brown on one side and buff on the other. Clearly it had learned the skill by watching hedgehogs, and that, in my experience, is very unusual.

That’s the start of the story. Now for the end.

An hour and a half later I saw it shoot away from the feeder and fly straight and fast to the big sycamore tree on the opposite side of the lane. I cheered silently.

(The interim, for what it’s worth, consisted of me cradling the little creature between my hands to bestow warmth, stroking it gently, and speaking words of encouragement in a quiet and gentle manner. It didn’t seem to mind.)

So that’s about it. Maybe I earned some positive karma or maybe I didn’t. Who can tell? Oh, and it was a nuthatch if anybody’s still reading.

On Stats and Synchronicity.

I looked at my Blogger stats page earlier today and it gave the number of page views up to that point as 777. When I looked again they had increased to 888. Later again, the total was 1111. And after I’d made the last post I took a look and the figure had increased to 1146. Next to it on the page was the total for yesterday which was also 1146.

So there we have 777, 888, 1111, and 1146:1146.

Just lately, YouTube keeps throwing videos at me explaining Carl Jung’s theory on synchronicity. Jung was adamant that these apparent coincidences are deeply meaningful in the prosecution of life. I’ve also read before that the coincidence of numbers, particularly in sequence, is especially noteworthy and shouldn’t be ignored.

Is this all nonsense? Was the great Carl Jung wrong? If not, what should I make of today’s coincidences? I wish I knew. And further, I wish I knew whether it matters or not.

The One Benefit of Growing Old.

I watched a YouTube video recently, of The Wailin Jennys performing a live set for CBC in Canada. I remembered having watched it before, around ten or eleven years ago before I became old and broken and a little worn around the edges, and I remembered I’d entered a comment in praise of their performance.

Now, one of the band – and the one I always found most ‘appealing’ – in those far off, halcyon days, was called Ruth Moody. She was an Australian who later went on to form a band of her own, and she was pretty dishy (to use a term sufficiently archaic as to be more amusing than offensive.) In this particular piece, each of the combo was both singing and also playing an instrument. Ruth was playing the bodhran, and doing so very well. I read the comment I’d left back in whatever year it was and it made particular reference to Ruth’s playing of the bodhran. I wrote:

If she can play the bodhran that well, imagine what she could do with a piece of wood and a pot of almond paste.

It confused me. I couldn’t imagine what I could possibly have meant by it, and yet somebody had replied with:

That’s one of the best comments I’ve ever read on YouTube. Love it! And I agree 100%.

So then I was even more confused because he had apparently understood what I meant, but I hadn’t a clue. What on earth did almond paste have to do with anything?

And then enlightenment began to appear dimly in the mist of my ageing mind. It seemed I had intended something lewd, but expressed it somewhat tangentially because that’s what passes for humour to us Brits.

Was that it? It’s the best I can come up with, and it led me to realise just how much my mindset has changed since then. Lewdness has seemingly gone the way of the dodo. And maybe that’s the one true advantage of ageing. The gaining of wisdom is just delusional baloney. Or maybe they're the same thing.

And Then There Was Light.

I just read an old post which reminded me that at one time I was much interested in the duality of light and dark.

And then I thought it a curious coincidence that both scientific and spiritual traditions aver that the universe was born out of darkness.

And then a little sound bite offering a connection dropped into my head: From the darkness of the womb I came, and to the darkness of the earth I shall return.

And then I remembered that one of my most abiding suspicions is that I was here before my body was, and will still be here after it’s ceased to be.

And then I thought again how clever women are in being able to make new human beings. (I imagined the likelihood that some fervent religionist will yell at me: ‘Women don’t make human beings, you stupid git. God does that. Women only carry them around.)

And then I ignored the objection and was further reminded that I want to start telling children: ‘Forget about the Presidents and pop stars, the sages and the scientists and the sports personalities. They’re not the most important people. The most important people in this life are the mothers.’

And maybe one day I will.

This is an off-the-top-of-my-head ramble, deliberately written in rambling form. Maybe it should be entitled ‘Lines Beginning with And Then’.

I get a little embarrassed sometimes when reading my old posts. Many of them contain some of the tendencies I find most repellent in people.

A Rare Gaza Reaction.

It seems that the mass of public opinion around the world – and even in some of the right wing media – now agrees that Mr Netanyahu has gone way too far in his response to the Hamas atrocity. It now has the unmistakeable stench of that old mediaeval and Nazi tyrants’ principle: For every one of ours you kill, we’ll kill ten of yours.    

So is this post to be primarily about the arch villain Netanyahu? Not really. He and his hard line cohorts are merely the latest example of the kind of dross running most of the world. If karma is a fact, they are building the weight of their debit side by the bucketload. And if the hungry ghost realm exists – as the Buddhists say it does – they are surely destined to suffer there before too long. Netanyahu’s day will come if there’s any justice in the universal consciousness.

What really bothers me is America’s reaction, and that of the UK, America’s persistent poodle. I don’t remember the exact words used by the likes of Biden and Cameron, but it may be accurately paraphrased as:

We think you’re overdoing it a bit, and we’d rather you were a little more careful.

Excruciatingly weak, isn’t it? A classic case of trying to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, of making a facile attempt to appear humanitarian while ensuring that they don’t risk offending a useful ally. I’m tempted to ask why America, if it really wants to appear humanitarian, doesn’t simply withdraw all military funding (which I gather is substantial) to Israel until Israel agrees to a long term cessation of hostilities and serious negotiation.

But of course, this is unthinkable, primarily I would suggest because it would deplete American influence in the Middle East. But then there’s also the case that it would leave Israel in a vulnerable position since the country is surrounded by hostile Arab states, and that would be unfair to those Israelis who disagree with the murderous policy of Netanyahu and his Orcs. (But would it or would it not be reasonable to consider that the Israeli people were the ones who put the hardliners in power? That’s a difficult one for various reasons.) Meanwhile, tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians – including children – are being killed or irrevocably maimed by the actions of the Israeli military under the instructions of a hard line government.

So where do I go from here? Should I embark on the rationale around the existence of terrorist organisations? Should I argue that terrorism is ultimately created by oppressors? Should I consider the similarities between apartheid in South Africa and the Jim Crowe laws in America, and ask how they compare with the treatment of the Palestinians by the Israeli state over the past seventy years?

No, I’m shutting up. Maybe it’s all just another example of the serious deficiencies in the human condition, or maybe there’s something I’m not being told. I still agree with whoever it was who said that revenge is the most abject of motives, and the whole business is depressing the life out of me. I dislike being depressed. Out.

An Old Ditty Promoted.

I just read a reply of mine in a comment thread from quite some years ago. It included a ditty which came easily off the top of my head and has been ignored ever since, so I thought I’d put it into a post so it can enter the Ditties file:

 In Tennessee

I met a flea

Who said ‘now, y’all come talk to me'

 

'But treat me right

Or else I’ll bite

And then you’ll itch from morn ’til night'

Fatigue and the Maiden.

I’m so tired these days. Every morning when I wake up I immediately fall back to sleep. And every evening when I’m sitting in front of the computer I fall asleep again.

It reminds me of those days ten or more years ago when I was suffering chronic fatigue syndrome, and the Lady B said on one occasion ‘Can’t you walk any faster, Jeff?’ She could have followed it with ‘You remind me of my grandmother,’ only she didn’t. She saved that one for later. Ever the one to hoard discursive currency for a rainy day, you see.

For all her general quietness and demure demeanour, she was a real Hermione Granger in the matter of put-downs and giving orders. ‘Come closer so I can hear you better’ was another one. And then there was the day when she took from me a hook and chain that I was fiddling with. She did so quietly but firmly and fastened the hook in one smooth movement, then turned and walked away without a word. Can you wonder why I grew to love her so much?

Such good memories, but memories are two-dimensional, and the question of whether they have value remains moot. No substance, you see. Shakespeare said of tomorrows that they ‘creep in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time.’ He could have said the same of yesterdays, since all our yesterdays led only to our tomorrows. What he actually said was ‘And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.’ The lady merely said ‘Life moves on, Jeff.’ And so it did, leaving one star less to adorn the bowl of night.

(Dear, oh dear. Shakespeare and Omar Khayyam in one post. Whatever is wrong with me today? Better get my feet back on the ground and wash the dishes.)

Just to add, however, that when I was posting this I realised that the word 'maid' is so prosaic, but 'maiden' has a distinct ring of both the poetic and ethereal about it.

Briefly...

No post to make today. Just filling a spare five minutes to mention that I spent and hour and a half tonight talking to somebody very close who is facing an imminent, close family bereavement. We covered the emotional and much of the practical issues, insofar as such matters can really be said to be ‘covered.’ That sort of thing can be a little draining. Hopefully back tomorrow.

Explaining the Name.

I have nothing to write about tonight because Uttoxeter was mostly grey and uneventful today. (Unless you count the vision of an attractive young woman wearing a most unusual dress. It was white and made of some lightweight fabric which clung to all parts of her body and gave the distinct impression that there was nothing underneath. The middle part of the front of the dress was missing – not just open, but missing, as though a panel had been removed, revealing her bare legs from ankle to upper thigh. I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything quite like it. She was wearing no coat, in spite of the February weather being dry but quite chilly, and her face suggested a hint of Middle Eastern antecedents. And because I’m becoming ever more of a gentleman as I grow older, I restricted my observation to an extended glance rather than a stare. Was that slightly interesting?)

So anyway, since I have nothing to write about tonight, I thought I’d re-post a picture which first appeared on this blog around twelve years ago:

 

This is the entrance to the Harry Potter wood, which has been mentioned several times down the years. The track which winds around to the left is deceptive because it only goes into a relatively recent – maybe 30-50 years old – conifer plantation. The main track goes straight on, and then bends right to run downhill. And in case you’re wondering why I call it the Harry Potter wood, here’s the explanation:

Unless you happen to be one of the three people in the world (two from Bhutan and one from Mongolia) who’ve never seen the Harry Potter franchise, you might have noticed an interesting feature about scenes set in woods. In those involving the gang or assembled multitude going into a wood for non-threatening purposes – such as to meet the beast which gives nasty little Draco a much-deserved injury – the walk through the wood is made on the level. But in sinister scenes – such as Voldermort sucking the unicorn dry of blood, or meeting the giant spider, or taking Dolores Umbridge to suffer the wrath of the centaurs – they’re always walking downhill into the trees. And so it is with this wood. The track continues downhill for about a quarter of a mile before opening onto farmland.

My own fondness for the wood, however, comes from walking in it on one occasion with a special lady and her special dog. I speak of no less than the Lady B and Inca, the cocker spaniel. And the gate which appears in the foreground of the photograph is the very spot where the Lady amused me with her most potent expression of Hermione nature. So there are two references to everybody’s favourite tale.

I really mustn’t end this post, though, without mentioning that dear little Inca came to the end of her days a few weeks ago (I think she was around fifteen.) That was this week’s sad news. But she had a good life in a safe home surrounded by much affection, and repaid the favour by giving just as much back.

I wrote a post in praise of Inca many years ago. It’s here if you want to read it. I sent a link to the Lady B in the hope that she might consider it a fitting obituary to her faithful companion and my valued little friend.

A Wish Granted and Walking Notes.

I wrote this in a recent post:

I must look at my inbox upwards of a hundred times a day, waiting for the email which will drop a spark into the tinder box. Sad, isn’t it?

This situation has pertained for a long time, but last night an unexpected email dropped a spark into the tinder box. How long the tinder will continue to smoulder remains to be seen, and it really, really doesn’t matter anyway. I insist upon that.

*  *  *

Today’s perambulatory encounters consisted entirely of women with dogs and women on horseback. I recognised precisely 20% of the combined mass of sentient creatures, and wished I weren’t the type who feels obliged to speak to random strangers in country lanes.

*  *  *

I found a brand new dog lead lying abandoned on Church Lane this morning. It was a choker type, which I don’t entirely approve of, but it was very smart and probably quite expensive. So who on earth drops such an article on the road and leaves it there?

*  *  *

The abandoned dog lead contained a certain circumstantial connection with the sadder part of last night’s email. Coincidentally, I watched a YouTube video two nights ago in which the narrator explained Jung’s theory on the phenomenon of synchronicity. He said that it’s simply the universal mind demonstrating the patterns which suffuse existence and the interconnectedness of everything. And maybe it is.

*  *  *

My friend Millie the Horse has developed the habit of watching me when I walk down the lane adjacent to her field. She looks expectant, so I always feel sad and guilty if I don’t have an apple in my pocket (which I usually don’t.)

*  *  *

The bluebottles are back, but only two so far.

Odd Weather and a Yellow Oddity.

The climate is being a bit odd over here at the moment. Yesterday was probably the most depressing day of the winter so far – the snow, the sleet, the rain, the roads running like rivers again, the cold, biting wind, the glowering sky… Today the temperature rose quite substantially and it felt almost like spring was on the rise. We had plenty more rain, but walking in it was far more tolerable than yesterday.

And while I was out doing just that, I encountered the Lady B out running (she’s planning to take part in the London Marathon this year. Mad, but there you are.)

What startled me about her, though, was her apparel. It was tight-fitting as running gear always is; I’ve seen her wearing that before. But the predominant colour was yellow, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wearing yellow before. I still associate the Lady B with pink and pale blue, with a change to black for the running. She must have come to within about twenty yards of me before I recognised her.

And the beanie hat didn’t help (I think that was yellow, too.) The only time I ever saw her wearing a hat was that day around ten years ago when I encountered her on the lane wearing a blue Paddington Bear hat. (The next time I manage to have a conversation with her, I must remember to ask whether she still has it. Then again, since the opportunity to speak with her happens about once every three years, I might never get to know. And that gives me a rather neat haunting plan – ransack the house, and if I discover the blue Paddington Bear hat, leave it on a work surface in the kitchen while everybody’s out. Next to the cooker. Yes indeed. Good plan. Only kidding. Or am I…)

So that was my bit of excitement for today. I expect my blood pressure was coming under severe duress.

A Poor Day in Appropriate Prose.

Today’s morning walk was taken entirely out of a sense of duty to my atherosclerosis rather than with any expectation of pleasure.

It was snowing when I set off, and then the snow turned first to sleet and then to rain. The road was slushy and slippery, and the first hint of it turning into a river again began as the rain took effect. The temperature was hovering around freezing and the stiff breeze was wet. I was constantly reminded that cold, wet winds feel so much colder than cold, dry ones. 

The problem for me now is that such conditions engender not only a sense of discomfort, but also make me feel physically ill. I expect it’s the eighteen degrees effect. I’ve read that 18°C is the tipping point at which the vascular system begins to narrow in order to conserve energy, and that’s not particularly helpful to cardiac function. So, since I have both a heart and a vascular condition, it’s bound to be inevitable that I should feel some discomfort if I will insist on taking hour-long walks in cold conditions.

But insist I do because the surgeon who performed my angioplasty procedure said to me: ‘Make sure you walk as much as possible. Doing so will force the deposits in your artery to remain at the periphery – to which position I have just relegated them at no insignificant amount of pain to your good self – rather than returning to where they were before I and my magic tool-with-the-little-balloon-at-the-end corrected the problem.’ (Or something along those lines.) So that’s what I do, come rain or shine, frosts or heat waves, hell or high water. Maybe his advice will finish me off with a heart attack one day. That would be ironic, wouldn’t it?

But now I’m off to read some more of The Thirteenth Tale in the sure and certain hope that Ms Setterfield’s prose style will be several leagues better than the one used to write this post. (I'm not really in the mood for writing posts at the moment, but I have faith in Ms Setterfield.)

The Llama Explains His Absence.

It might have been noted by regular visitors that my friend the llama has been absent from these pages for a long time. (Mel is particularly disappointed because she very much enjoys my conversations with the old boy. But llamas are their own people and I have no right to attempt any invocation of his company.) Well, today I saw him again.

I was standing at the entrance to the Harry Potter wood at the top of my lane, leaning on the gate and offering my respects to its inhabitants, when I saw him standing on the bend in the track which winds downhill. He was staring at me with an impassive impression, but said nothing.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘why have you been away so long? Have you been busy or something?’

He continued to stare for a few seconds, and then spoke. Although he was some distance away I heard his voice as clearly as ever.

‘Since you ask two questions with the same breath, reason will be best served if I choose to answer the first one first. Not only would that be arithmetically appropriate, it would also render the second redundant.’

‘You haven’t changed much, have you?’ I replied.

‘’Why should I change? What purpose would it serve? And neither have you, come to that. You are rather given to the habit of asking redundant questions.’

I smiled and continued:

‘Very well, so what’s the answer to the first?

‘In order to answer the first I must correct a misapprehension. I have visited you several times, but you didn’t see me because your mind was filled with two considerations which are vexatious to my spirit.’

‘Which were?’

‘The brevity of the human lifespan and the question of whether anything matters.’

‘They seem perfectly reasonable considerations to me. Why do they trouble you?’

‘They don’t exactly trouble me in the sense that the word is habitually used; what they do is irritate my indefatigable capacity for reason.’

‘But why?’

‘“But why?” he asks. “Why?” Very well: to take the first one first. All physical creatures in your world have a lifespan. What does it matter whether that span is ten years, a hundred years, or a thousand years? There is birth; there is a period of life; and there is death. You’ve known that for as long as you’ve been here, so why should it be of any more of concern now than it was when you were young? As for whether anything matters, the human animal is not equipped to know whether anything matters. You have books; you have religious traditions; you have teachers (I believe you call them gurus in the hope that it will somehow endow them with infallible credibility); you have philosophers. You can choose to take any one of them and believe what they tell you if you like. But none of them actually know whether anything matters, and neither do you, so why waste time wondering about the answer to the unanswerable?’

‘Because human beings are made to wonder, I suppose.’

‘I know they are. I consider it to be one of their worst – or at least most pointless and therefore irrational – failings.’

‘I see. Oh well, reason was ever your strong suit. So have you given up on me now?’

‘Not necessarily. I’m watching and waiting to see whether you change. I might be back, or I might not. Goodbye.’

With that he turned and walked away, around the bend and out of sight. Wishing to say a few last words, I unfastened the gate and hurried after him. When I reached the point on the bend where he’d been standing, I looked down the long straight track running through the wood and he was nowhere to be seen. Llamas are much in the habit of doing that sort of thing.

On Small Pleasures, Creepiness, and French Films.

The God of Small Things was feeling benevolent today (and I suspect the Lady Fu was showering me with a little Chinese fairy dust, too.)

It all started with the young woman assistant I occasionally talk to in one of Uttoxeter’s discount stores. She’s seemed a little distant lately and I’ve deliberately avoided her so as not gain a reputation for being the creepy old git who stalks the aisles every Sunday at around lunchtime trying to ingratiate himself with nubile young females. (Those who know me well could vigorously and honestly attest to the fact that I don’t have a creepy bone in my body, but not many people know me at all well so I’m in the habit of exercising discretion.)

Anyway, today she was full of vim and vigour and talked willingly and confidently about her current position and her aspirations and so on and so forth. In return she got lots of comments-born-of-experience and what passes for wisdom to young people who haven’t lived for very long yet. Is that what creepy old men do? How can I know?

So then it was off to Tesco where I finally defeated one of my little bêtes noir. I walked past the newspaper rack without looking at the tabloid headlines. I hate tabloid headlines because they’re so crass and bigoted, but I find it hard not to read them anyway. Maybe it’s my jaundiced view of the human condition trying to find something to be angry about, but I’m no more a psychologist than I am a creepy old git, so that’s something else on which I have to reserve judgement. Today I averted my gaze, breathed on my finger nails, polished the imaginary medal on my chest, and then walked off with head held high to seek the cheap porridge oats for the bird tables.

There was a young woman walking towards me with her coat open. She looked so sweet and wholesome, and she was wearing a sweater almost identical to mine. Instinct took over again. ‘Like the sweater,’ I said without a hint of a pause. Surprisingly, she smiled a lovely smile and said ‘thank you’, but I decided to play safe because I didn’t want to be thought a creepy old git. I pointed to my own sweater. She smiled again and I smiled back. Imagine that: me exchanging smiles with somebody, and on a Sunday, too. That’s the sort of thing better writers write in better novels and films; the little things which make life so much pleasanter even if only for a few seconds.

And talking of Sunday, tonight I started watching a French film called The Brand New Testament. (I expect the version they sold in France was called something in French, but that’s what my version is called. And the soundtrack is in French with subtitles, which I greatly prefer to dubbing.) It’s about God being a real person living in Brussels. He’s boorish, ignorant, selfish, cruel, and a bully. His young daughter dislikes him mightily and decides to go out into the world to make it better, just like big bro JC did.

I’ve only watched half an hour of it so far, but the time passed quickly. The style is similar to Amelie – the same Gallic quirkiness and deadpan humour which draws me to French cinema like wasps to an onion seller’s shirt. Looking forward to the rest. Still haven’t got a copy of Mon Oncle yet.

The bluebottle count reached 31, by the way, before I stopped counting

Being the Invisible Man.

In a recent post I referred to the einzelgänger – the sort of person often called a lone wolf, or who is simply a loner by nature. When I first heard about this it was pointed out that the einzelgänger has the unconscious attribute of being effectively invisible in a group of people, and that suits me.

I was washing the car yesterday, quite close to the gate that leads onto the lane, and walking up the lane were the Lady B’s Dear Mama, Honourable Sister, and Oscar the dog. I stopped what I was doing and waited for them to reach the gate so I could offer a greeting. This is something I rarely do, but I make an exception in the case of the Lady B’s family because I like them. Eventually they reached the gate and walked on. None of them noticed me, so maybe what they say about the einzelgänger being invisible is true. I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? And so I am.

Connecting With Ms S.

I’m finding myself becoming quite enthralled by the world contained within the covers of The Thirteenth Tale. It’s sufficiently far outside the box to be intriguing, but not so far as to be called fantastical. Diane Setterfield is a wonderful observer of the quirky little things which fill the minds and lives of slightly odd – and maybe even not so odd – people, and her use of metaphor is beguiling at times.

And you know what? After I’d read this evening’s ration of three chapters, I checked my blog and found that the mysterious visitor who comes here fairly regularly using Chrome browser on an Android phone – and whose location is never recorded by Blogger stats – had visited and read a particular post. And so I read the post, and was surprised to find that I was reading pretty much the same style as I’d just put back on the little bookcase in my office. It was a pleasant surprise. (I wonder whether Diane Setterfield and I would get on. That would be a rare thing indeed, but maybe not. They say opposites attract, don’t they?)

And here’s something else I find interesting. This book was recommended to Mel by a friend of hers who hasn’t quite finished it yet. Mel subsequently recommended it me when she was about half way through. And now I’m about a third of the way through. We’ve formed a Thirteenth Tale train, haven’t we? A locomotive, a carriage, and a guards van (caboose to Americans), all running happily on a track twisting this way and that through a sumptuous landscape en route to the terminus at the end of the book. I’m prepared to guess that Ms Setterfield would quite like that.

On Writers.

I have nothing to ramble on about tonight, so I thought I’d copy a few words from The Thirteenth Tale because they resonate with me on a personal level. Miss Winter, the world famous author who has engaged the book’s narrator to write her biography, is recalling her life as a writer.

I have closed my study door on the world and shut myself away with people of my imagination. I have eavesdropped with impunity on the lives of people who do not exist. I have peeped shamelessly into hearts and bathroom closets. I have leant over shoulders to follow the movements of quills as they write love letters, wills and confessions. I have watched as lovers love, murderers murder and children play their make believe. Prisons and brothels have opened their doors to me; galleons and camel trains have transported me across sea and sand; centuries and continents have fallen away at my bidding. I have spied upon the misdeeds of the mighty and witnessed the nobility of the meek. I have bent so low over sleepers in their beds that they might have felt my breath on their faces. I have seen their dreams. (© Diane Setterfield.)

It’s what writers do, of course. And yet, having engaged with the craft of writing a little myself over ten years of my life, I still have to consider the question I’ve posed before on this blog:

Given the possibility that reality is a rather more fluid concept than we are conditioned to believe, could it be that in writing characters we create an alternate reality in which they become somehow real? And if that is the case, do we owe them respect? Should we acknowledge a sense of obligation towards them? Should we take some form of responsibility for their pains and pleasures, their gains and losses? In other words, do writers assume the role of God in a sense that is somehow more than mere imagination?

Or am I just being fanciful because the sort of people who are driven to write fiction are inevitably fanciful by nature? I expect I probably am.

A Few of My Alternate Worlds.

You know that type of animal video on YouTube in which a faithful dog sits by the porch door every day come rain or shine or even perdition’s flame, waiting for its beloved human to come home from the war? I’m pretty much the same these days, only in my case the door is the computer and the porch is my email inbox. I must look at my inbox upwards of a hundred times a day, waiting for the email which will drop a spark into the tinder box. Sad, isn’t it?

*  *  *

I tried to watch the film The Piano tonight. I seem to recall that the priestess recommended it many moons ago. I lasted twenty minutes before switching it off, in spite of the fact that its much vaunted quality was already well in evidence (especially in the performance of Holly Hunter.) I think that was where the problem lay; it was too realistic. The human condition is so full of darkness to my eyes now that I can no longer tolerate seeing a woman being mentally tortured without having my own spirits pulled deeper into the mire. And why would I want to do that?

*  *  *

But the characters who are now beginning to populate The Thirteenth Tale are most compelling – some blunt, some sharp, and some exhibiting varying degrees of strangeness – and Ms Setterfield’s writing continues to enthral. This I can take by the bucketful.

*  *  *

If I might be permitted to enter territory wholly unrelated to the above, I might mention that I had an odd dream a few nights ago. I was in Canada. Why Canada? I have no idea, but being in Canada was no cause for concern. What I was anxious about was the fact that to return home I would have to fly back in a small, single seat plane on my own. I knew that I was still a novice pilot and was particularly concerned that I might get the angle of ascent on take-off wrong. But it had to be done, and so it was, and the end of the dream saw me climbing skyward with just about the right angle of ascent. I’m sure this must indicate something at least moderately profound, but what? I’ve no idea.

Seeking Late Night Peace.

At around midnight last night the bucolic silence was punctured by a loud and unfamiliar sound seemingly emanating from just outside my office. Being sudden and unexpected, it disturbed me and I tried to describe it to myself. That was difficult, so instead I tried to visualise what would make such a noise. That was easier; my first impression was of a grizzly bear clearing its throat – loud, deep, harsh, guttural. It lasted about a second.

Intrigued, I went to the window and looked out, but could see nothing in the darkness beyond the panes save for the old enamel sink which is now a repository for spring and summer flowers. And then it occurred to me that something ugly and not of this world might suddenly appear and look back at me through the fragile window glass. I didn’t relish the prospect, and so I went back to my computer and watched a YouTube video instead. It was about the perils which a person might encounter while engaged in the practice of raising their vibrational rate.

Some of that was a bit scary too, so I changed my mind again and listened to Sheila Chandra singing the Hindi version of Wings of Dawn. Peace and the prospect of pleasant dreams at last. I think I would quite like to go out to this song, and maybe then somebody will be able to tell me just what was impersonating a grizzly bear in my garden at precisely the start of Imbolc 2024.

The song is here if you’ve got four minutes to spare.