On Hypotheses and Hairy Things.

Remember the post I made recently about having become apparently invisible to the Shire’s top family? I suggested that perhaps I’d wandered through a portal into another dimension. It was intended to be tongue-in-cheek, and so is this:

Today I read an old post of mine from back in 2013 in which I related having had a bad dose of flu. I found it odd because I have no recollection whatsoever of having had flu since I moved to this house twenty years ago, even though I remember having been struck down badly by it 1994. I remember that one in every gruesome detail, so why not remember having it a mere thirteen yeas ago?

I wondered whether it was another example of dimension tripping, but then realised it was more like an example of the Mandela Effect. Then again, some people insist that the Mandela Effect is explainable by dimension tripping, so who knows. I’m not yet convinced by the parallel universes hypothesis, you see; too many questions crop up which I find hard to answer, and the examples presented on YouTube don’t address them either.

For now I feel more inclined to make a post about cryptids, the existence of which I find more convincing. I don’t have sufficient information though, so that one can wait until I have. I might say, however, that I’m reasonably convinced of the existence of one cryptid: the Sasquatch. There was an apparent sighting of one a mere thirty or so miles from here quite recently, and from the reports I’ve read I have a sense that Bigfoot is a peace-loving creature which just wants to live a quiet life away from noisy and aggressive humans. And I suspect they have an uncommon fondness for apples.

Admitting a Fault.

I had cause to ask myself a question tonight: ‘How do you respond to people who laugh easily?’ The response was simple: I like people who laugh easily, or at least I like the fact that they do. Experiencing someone’s honest laughter is pleasant. I watched an American woman called Erica something-or-other do it tonight, which was what prompted the question.

But then I thought of those people on YouTube who comment on some mildly amusing video along the lines of: ‘This was absolutely hilarious. I couldn’t stop laughing for hours.’ This is obviously a wild exaggeration and patently fake. It irritates me a lot because anybody who has to exaggerate to the point of lying in order to feel they matter is revealing a kind of weakness that I find nauseatingly unpalatable.

I’m being unreasonably judgemental in saying this, aren’t I? Judgemental is what the J stands for in INFJ, which demonstrates that for all we’re generally lauded as bringers of light and empathy, we also have a bad side like everybody else. (I have several.) Unfortunately, what I don’t have are any vestments made of sackcloth, and such ashes that remain in my fire grate are very old and dusty.

An Issue of Smell and Practicality.

It’s 1940 and you’re a bomber pilot in the Luftwaffe. One night after a raid you’re making the return trip in the dawn’s early light when you get spotted by a Hurricane and badly shot up. You’re uninjured so you bail out, land in a field somewhere near Dover, get picked up by some sort of patrol, and two days later you find yourself incarcerated in a POW camp. Still wearing the same clothes. And because it’s 1940 you’re destined to spend the next five years living a restricted life at His Majesty’s Pleasure along with a few dozen of your compatriots. Still wearing the same clothes?

In all the years I’ve been alive the airways and bookshelves have been liberally splattered with dramas and documentaries about WWII, and yet I’ve never heard the need of a change of clothing being mentioned.

Good Associations and Grrrs.

Standing in my garden at twilight put me in mind of the orchestral work In a Summer Garden, by Frederick Delius. I don’t know why that never struck me before since I’m something of a fan of Delius’s music. This evening I could have imagined myself transported to his house and garden at Grez-sur-Loing in France. In fact, I did imagine it. I also discovered this evening that Delius was born on the same date as my mother.

*  *  *

The good experience I had with a contact at BT recently proved to be short-lived. It’s back to normal now with bucketfuls of stress, anxiety, and serious irritation. And a new pattern has emerged in my life: I go to bed at 3am, wake briefly just after 6, and again just after 9. It’s happened the past four nights in succession. I wonder what that’s all about.

Today's Two Notes.

A few nights ago I posted about having had a harsh email from my phone line provider regarding broadband provision and computer connections. It threw me into a bit of a funk, me not being a techno type, but today I stuck my courage to the sticking place and made the call to find out what it was about and what needed to be done.

I was connected with a Lancashire lass (middle aged I would say) from Manchester who was an absolute star. She took me through the whole thing clearly and methodically, explained all the reasoning behind it in words even I could understand, and offered to send an engineer to make the connections just in case there are any problems. Now I just have to await delivery of the new router. And to add icing on the cake, it appears that if all goes well I will be paying much less than I currently am and will have a very much faster internet connection.

When have you ever heard me say something good about BT? You have now.

*  *  *

Seasonal Shire news: The scented meadowsweet is blooming in Church Lane, the elder flowers are well advanced to promise a bumper harvest of berries for those who want to prove that elderberry wine is the equal of anything Bordeaux might offer, the golden barley is coming close to ripeness, and the wheat is still green but plumping nicely.

*  *  *

In fact, apart from a problem with arranging my transport to Ashbourne next week, it was a half decent day for a change. (My only regret is that I didn’t ask the BT lady’s name, because then I could have told you what it was.)

On the Kayak and the Cold Water.

For some reason today I was reminded of an amusing little incident during my school days. I might have told the story before in the early days of the blog, but I don’t remember and can’t be bothered search for it, so you can have it again.

Once upon a time when I was a teenager (I really was, you know, once upon a time), the boys in my high school class were taken off for the weekend to an outdoor pursuits centre. It had wooden shacks, ropes for abseiling, kayaks for canoeing, and various other oddments deemed necessary for the provision of  a fun-filled weekend risking life and limb. It also had a sizeable lake and lots of trees.

The first morning was put aside for giving each of us a kayak to sit in so we could happily paddle from one end of the lake to the other and back again. We had no idea what it was supposed to teach us or how it might add to our manly mettle, but that was the plan. And so we set off with me near the back of the group.

About 100 yds into this great adventure I was suddenly gripped by excruciating pain from cramp in both calf muscles. We’d been warned that kayaks take a bit of getting used to because they’re notoriously unstable and the trick is to keep the body in such a position in the cockpit (or whatever it’s called) to keep the little craft upright. It occurred to me that this might be difficult with both calves in the grip of excruciating pain, and so I called to the lead schoolmaster, explained my difficulty, and asked whether I should turn around and paddle back to shore. He said I should, so I dipped the port  paddle (left to the landlubbers) and began to make a 180° turn.

At that point the dear little red and white kayak grinned mischievously, overturned, and threw me unceremoniously into the lake. Fortunately, Dame Fortune was having none of it and came to my aid by dismissing both cramps completely as soon as my legs hit the cold water. Feeling somewhat relieved, I was easily able to swim to the nearest bank with the kayak in tow, and then walk back to the centre through the trees (which were rather nice I expect, although I don’t actually remember.)

Can you imagine such a situation being allowed today with our manic emphasis on risk avoidance? I expect they’d have to have a patrol boat now with lifesaving equipment bringing up the rear. Back then we just dealt with it (well, I did anyway because there was no alternative.) Maybe it was to ingratiate into us the notion that we were ‘the bulldog breed.’ Bulldogs are extinct now, although I gather kayaks aren’t.

YouTube and the Registration Obsession.

YouTube has suddenly started to throw a cocktail of new requirements and restrictions at me. One of them says: Register to like and leave comments on videos.

Where did that one come from? Why should I have to register to like and leave a comment on a YouTube video? YouTubers are constantly begging for likes and comments on their uploads.

I imagine it’s just the latest example of a pandemic sweeping so-called developed cultures in the 21^st century: registration for this, that, the other, and soon to be nearly everything else. Is it, perhaps, merely a matter of bureaucratic overkill which is something else infecting modern life in a more general sense? Or is it, as I suspect, another example of the corporate world and its insanely rich minions seeking yet another way to watch and control us so they can make more money?

Oh well, if I have to give up YouTube by way of objecting to their silly and intrusive little rules, then so be it. It would cause me some difficulty because the only time I relax these days is the final two hours before going to bed. (I set an appropriate music mix to play while I read old blog posts and the comments my old blogger pals used to leave. I have several from the Lady B, you know. They’re very precious.) But to a sad old idealist like me, principles are supremely important.

The Big Event.

My landlord has invited us all to ‘tea in the garden’ tomorrow afternoon. How very Virginia Woolf of him. I would have thought it more appropriate to have styled the event ‘tea on the terrace’, he being a kind of lord of the manor and all. Maybe he was concerned that one of the great unwashed might soil the hallowed flagstones somehow, and be too close to the interior of the mansion anyway. The odd one might even smell bad.

Will I be attending, you might ask. No. Saturday afternoon is the busiest time of the week for me, and I’m not really the type to go hobnobbing with the landed gentry anyway. Not that I have anything against him. I’ve only met him once, and then only briefly. For all I know he might be thoroughly likeable. He might be so distanced from any antiquated notion of social hierarchy that he sings ‘keep the red flag flying here’ while playing with his rubber duck in the bath.

And that brings me to an odd and unconnected thought. Why does the Republican Party in the USA use red as their colour of allegiance? Red is the colour of Russian communism. The communist Chinese flag is red. Red is universally recognised as the colour of people power, whereas the Republicans are known for the opposite proclivity. Could it have something to do with the traditional colour of British telephone boxes, I wonder. Must ask an American if ever I meet one. I should imagine Americans would be the first to accept an invitation to tea in the garden with the lord of the manor (sort of), but I don’t think we have any in these parts.

On Strange Lights and the Silicon Supremacy.

A few nights ago I saw something unusual in the eastern sky. It was around two o’clock in the morning and I was on my way to bed. The window in my bathroom faces east and the first thing I noticed was usual enough – the blinking wing light of a passenger plane heading north-west out of East Midlands Airport. And then my eye was caught by a most unusual pattern of lights just above the horizon at the top of the hill.

It consisted of nine orange lights arranged in three vertical rows of three forming a vertical rectangular shape. It moved slowly across the sky – rather slower than the aircraft lights heading in the opposite direction – and then stopped. The lights were much bigger than those on the plane suggesting that the whole pattern was bigger than a commercial aircraft or maybe much closer. It stayed still for a short while before descending and disappearing behind the hilltop.

I hope my description is accurate enough to evoke a visual image because I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. My usual presumption when I see a stationery light in the sky rests on the almost certain likelihood of it being a helicopter, but I’ve never seen such a craft showing a pattern of lights like that. If anyone has a suggestion I would be glad to hear it.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, my state of mind is not at its best. Over the past ten years my world has contracted to a point where it amounts to little more than tedious chores, troubled sleep, and trawling the internet for something to interest me, usually with little success. This morning I woke up disturbingly late and booted up my computer to find an email from my phone line provider. It was titled ‘You will soon lose your broadband’ and advised me that I was to make substantial changes to both my service provision and computer connections if I was to avoid being confined to the cyber wasteland.

Well now, being confined to the cyber wasteland amounts to being also confined to the functional wasteland these days, and so I rang my broadband provider and asked ‘what the bloody hell is going on?’ A long and fairly complex explanation was provided by a man with a strong Yorkshire accent (I think he said his name was John.)

I won’t bore you with the details; suffice it to say this: My proclivities lie in such areas as music, quality literature, philosophy, psychology, the state of the human condition, the beauty of landscape, and the meaning of life and reality. I’m not a techno type. I have to accept that the days when our functions were largely run by cables, physical switches, and electricity are gone because that’s the way it is. But the microchip leaves me cold and confused. And that’s how I felt after spending around half an hour talking – or mostly listening – to John (or whatever.)

The one heartening thing he said was that these changes might not have to be made until the end of the year. I wondered whether I might be able to conspire to expire before then, because that would save me the trouble, wouldn’t it? Maybe I’ll feel different tomorrow (if I have a tomorrow.)

A Special Day and a Nice Note on Sweden.

Today is something of a landmark in my life because today I exceeded my mother’s lifespan by one day. (Well, part of a day at least. It isn’t over yet, is it?) That’s an odd thing to work out, wouldn’t you say? I wonder how many other people have done the same calculation. I still have nearly two years to go to match my father, but I can’t work that one out precisely because I don’t know the date of his death. I hadn’t seen him for twenty six years.

I’m a bit glum these days, which is something of a coincidence because I seem to be suddenly getting a lot of visits from Sweden, and you might remember all those posts I made about the glumness of the Swede. Maybe there’s a connection. It was a joke, of course, because I feel a certain fondness for the Swedes. They seem to be as intolerant of egomania as I am so I always favour their football teams as long as they’re not playing England, and even then my attitude is dichotomous. I wonder what they think of Trump.

A Very Rare Connection.

I’ve said often enough on this blog that there are very few people with whom I can feel a connection sufficient to warrant extended discussion. Most people just get on my nerves.

Well, I met one today. Her name was Alisha and she was minding the store in the pet shop on Uttoxeter’s retail park. She had all the qualifications to be a JJ sort of person – authentic affability, easy and fluent use of language, intelligence, a permanent and genuine smile, and the admission that she does voluntary work at a rescue centre for injured hedgehogs. She was absolutely lovely (as several of them are in that shop, actually. It’s why I wouldn’t buy my wild bird seed anywhere else.)

During the course of the conversation she mentioned that she came from the south of England originally. ‘That’s unusual,’ I said. ‘You’re remarkably friendly for a southerner.’ After that we got on famously.

Not One for the Squeamish

Earlier this evening I was walking down Bag Lane en route to the post box when my foot slipped on something. I looked down to identify the cause and found that I had stepped on the flattened and disembodied head of a squirrel, and what had caused me to slip was the mess of brains spreading out behind it. And one of its legs was lying a foot or two away (if you’ll excuse the unintentional pun.)

That’s not very nice, is it?

And now I can’t think of a way to end this mini – and rather unpleasant – post except to say that my subsequent dinner was vegetarian as always.

All Three?

Regular readers might very well remember (though some might very well not) that a few weeks ago I reported having been apparently ghosted by the Lady B in Sainsbury’s car park. Since she had her youngest daughter with her I chose to speculate that the dear lady might have been distracted by the more pressing consideration of whether to give little pip squeak beans on toast or spaghetti on toast for lunch, and therefore being temporarily blind to the sight of some old reprobate staring back at her from a mere 30-40 feet. That would be understandable, but the matter of being ghosted didn’t end there.

A week or two ago I was walking down my lane when Dear Mama passed me in her motor car. Whenever she does that she always slows, waves, and smiles. Not this time. No slowing, no wave, no smile, no hoot of a horn. That’s most unusual, and the matter still doesn’t end there.

Two evenings ago I was doing some work at the bottom of my garden close to the gap which leads onto the lane. A movement caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Honourable Sister, accompanied by Oscar the Sprocker Spaniel, walking past me and down the lane without so much as a turn of the head and a ‘Hi Jeff’, which is the usual minimal greeting bestowed by said lady.

I speculated on the many possible reasons why I should have become suddenly persona non grata to the eminent members of the Shire’s top family. I won’t bother to relate the full list because most of them are probably wrong, but I did settle on one outstanding favourite: I suspect I might have inadvertently slipped through a veil and into a parallel dimension, one in which I’ve never polluted the airspace around the vaunted family and they have never noticed my presence in their demesne. And the reason for considering this the most likely explanation is that Honourable Sister’s hair was a different colour than it usually is.

Clueless, Characterless, and Clownish.

I passed one of the pub/bistro bars in Ashbourne today and saw that it was dark inside. And then I saw a hand-written notice on the window which said:

PLEASE YOUSE (sic) THE BEER GARDEN AT THE SIDE

Need I comment further?

And then I went along the high street and saw that my old favourite coffee shop, Costa Coffee, was thoroughly topsy-turvy and full of contractors. The notice on their window said that it was closed for ten days for a ‘makeover.’

I wonder what a ‘makeover’ means exactly. Does it mean that they’re going to make it a brightly lit, smarty-pants modern place like the others in Ashbourne? That would be an issue to me because my idea of a proper coffee shop is one which is clean and tidy, but a little beaten up almost to the point of being slightly seedy. It needs to be the right sort of environment for enjoying the heady, old socks aroma of French and Turkish cigarettes (even though it’s illegal to actually smoke anything – French, Turkish, Indonesian or whatever – indoors these days.)

I do hope not because I’m growing tired of the smarty-pants, sanitizing trend now infecting modern times in all sorts of ways. The big casualty is character, and I’m a big fan of character.

*  *  *

Finally, it might have been noted that I haven’t strayed much into the political arena lately. It’s because I’m becoming thoroughly disenchanted with politics and politicians everywhere, especially in America it has to be said. I do sympathise with good Americans who have to tolerate the lamentable state of their politics and politicians. It seems to me that the only difference between a circus and American politics is that in politics the clowns wear business suits.

Alternative Interpretation.

The field behind my house has quite a steep slope on it, and running up the middle at an angle is a track worn by the wheels of the farmer’s quad bike. The field is home to forty heifers and a smaller number of ewes with lambs.

Yesterday I saw one of the ewes with her two lambs resting half way up the hill on the track. The heifers were on the ridge at the top, and one of them decided to come down the field on the higher part of the track. I watched with interest to see what would happen when the lone cow reached the three sheep. Would she go around them, trample on them, or would the sheep move?

Ms Cow began to take a detour to pass the still resting sheep at a distance of a few yards, but when she came level with them she stopped and turned her head to look at them. I fancied I could hear her thoughts which went something like:

Bloody sheep. Who do they think they are making me go out of my way so as not to tread on them? I’ll show them, just see if I don’t.

And then she walked over and nudged the sheep which dutifully stood up and moved away. But then Mrs Cow continued to walk down the field without using the track, which made me wonder whether I’d mistranslated and what she was actually thinking was:

Poor sheep. Not very bright, are they? Haven’t they noticed that the big noisy thing goes up that track, and if the farmer doesn’t notice them he might run them over? Better go and move them I suppose, and that can be my good deed for the day.

Either way it would seem to be further indication that cows are smarter than people think they are. I well remember Ermintrude from The Magic Roundabout. She was pretty smart in a neurodivergent sort of way.

Questionable Comparison.

Today my thoughts fell to musing on the late conservationist, Dr Jane Goodall, who died aged 91 last October.

Being the incomplete spirit that I am, I fell to comparing people like Dr Goodall with the people who run this world of ours – those weak, seemingly soulless creatures who value nothing but money and power, however impoverished their claim to value might be.

I’m quite sure Dr Goodall would not have wanted me to say this, but I’m going to anyway: my thoughts proceeded to the matter of winning and losing, and a certainty soon settled that the true winners in this world are the Janes, and the real losers the likes of Trump and his fellow little failures.

And then came the usual question: why does the world have to be like this? Is it, perhaps to demonstrate the true nature of worth and worthlessness to those capable of seeing through the darkness to something worthier beyond? I wish I knew.

Not Quite My Way.

Sometimes when I hear a song – or even get one stuck in my head for some reason, as I have today – which was popular when I was a boy, it doesn’t only evoke memories of circumstances and environments prevalent at the time. Occasionally it connects me with my old sense of self and perception of life back then. I literally, though briefly, feel like the child I was.

It always takes me aback a little, and is usually followed by a feeling of disappointment that life didn’t turn out the way I expected it to. There have been thrills and spills and the occasional grand adventure along the way, but never any overall sense that life met my vague childhood expectations. It all feels a little too rhapsodic; there’s no architectural edifice on which to look back with satisfaction. And so, of course, it always takes me one step further into the old question: ‘what on earth was it all for?’

I’m the same with food, you know. I can have some favourite dish and enjoy it until it’s finished, but once the last piece has been swallowed there’s no rubbing of tummy and exclamations of yum, yum. Once it’s gone the pleasure disappears completely.

And do you want to know what prompted this little outburst? It was seeing a video on YouTube about the surprisingly high number of deaths connected with the playing of Sinatra’s My Way in Malaysian karaoke bars.

At Day's End.

I sat out in the garden this evening through a calm but cloudy twilight. I watched two bumblebees taking their last feed of the day from the foxglove flowers. And then I noticed several small groups of jackdaws, two or three at a time, flying home to roost. A single raindrop fell on my head. Just one.

Was that meaningful? I no longer presume to pass judgement on the matter, but at least none of it was polluted by any connection to money. And it made a pleasant change from doing strenuous jobs in the garden and feeling physically wrecked for five days, or reading the news and experiencing severe disappointment in my fellow humans and their priorities.

For the Sake of Making it 10.

I briefly held the hand of a Filipina yesterday. There was a group of Filipinos shopping in Ashbourne Sainsbury’s and the hand contact happened by way of me welcoming them to our neat little town in our neat little country. (I doubt that a shopping trip to Ashbourne Sainsbury’s was the main purpose of their visit, but never mind.) The last time I held the hand of a young Filipina was in hospital 5½ years ago after I’d undergone a painful procedure. She was a nurse, and I have to say that it’s a delightful experience.

I had other encounters this week which might have been worth reporting, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they were so I’ll save us both the trouble.

And I’m only making this post because I like seeing double figures in the side bar.

I was also going to make a post around the question: ‘Do you ever miss anybody who is no longer in your life?’ It became horribly long and convoluted, so you may be pleased that I chickened out of that one too.

I might just mention that I spent the last four days doing the toughest of the spring jobs in the garden. In consequence, I’ve felt a wreck for the last four days.

Mounted Maidens.

Today I met a maiden come a-riding on a horse (of course.)

(A ditty beckons but my ditty muse has been absent for some time and I haven’t a clue where she is. She’s not the only woman to have given up on me in recent years, just the latest.)

Anyway, the fact is that I’ve been curiously attracted to maidens riding horses for as long as I can remember, and I don’t know why. It isn’t libidinous, strange as that might seem. I think it must have its origins somewhere in a past life or something buried deep in some aspect of universal mythology.

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I never knew any equine maidens when I was growing up. Coming as I did from an industrial area, all the maidens I knew occupied themselves with gainful employment in factories, shops, or offices where they sat typing all day or operated switchboards in those blessed years before automation took over and treated us to the joy of recorded announcements and menu options. (Deep breath) And they were all – or nearly all – impatient to arrive at the point when they could give up gainful employment and begin adding to the surplus population. None of them rode horses. I was in my late twenties before I met a maiden who even knew how to ride a horse, and she probably only did so because her father was a Tory.

The salient point is, however, that both maiden and horse of today’s encounter were supremely amicable and a good time was had by all. Hallelujah.

The Phantom Yucca.

There’s something slightly odd going on either in my bedroom, my mind, or my ocular faculty. When I go to bed at night I switch the light off, turn onto my right side, close my eyes, and go to sleep. Sleep usually comes very quickly, but not always. Occasionally I lie awake for a few minutes and feel constrained to open my eyes again, and that’s when I see it: the large yucca plant standing to the right of my bed, clearly, though dimly, visible in silhouette against the wall beyond. It stands exactly where my bedside table – on which there is an alarm clock, a lamp, and a few things I’ve taken out of my pockets – stands at all other times. The last time it happened I didn’t see a yucca, though. Instead I saw a large quantity of little black insects rising and falling like a swarm of midges backlit by the sun on a summers evening. 

Needless to say I find these sightings intriguing, and I put some thought into what the phenomena might be. I’ve come up with lots of possibilities ranging from the deeply mystical to the boringly mundane, and maybe there are other possibilities which I haven’t identified or are beyond the scope of my knowledge in such matters. And since there are so many of them I always decide on the simple solution: ignore them and go to sleep. So that’s what I do.

Noting a Hint of Duplicity.

One of the few sound bites I like is the one – paraphrased here after a song by Bob Dylan – which says: ‘steal a little and they throw you in jail, steal a lot and they make you King.’

It’s the same with killing, isn’t it? If somebody with a disordered brain goes on a spree and murders 3, 4, 5 people, we call that person a serial killer and regard them as the foremost of evil villains. If they’re caught they get locked up for life or executed by the state and everybody cries ‘Good riddance.’ And understandably so, obviously.

Yet Presidents and potentates the world over routinely kill hundreds of thousands of people – sometimes even millions – in furtherance of their political agendas and call it ‘collateral damage.’ They carry on sitting safely behind their big desks, wearing their expensive suits, getting up safely every morning to the approbation of their native supporters, being seen as important, and maybe even becoming major historical figures.

There’s something wrong with our sense of balance and justice, isn’t there? It’s one of several reasons why I have little liking for the human race and frequently question whether I really want to be a part of it.

The Ultimate in Good Karma.

When I was leaving Sainsbury’s earlier, weighed down by three heavy bags of shopping, my backpack, and a bundle of garden canes, I got stuck in a narrow part of the lane behind an old man walking very, very slowly with a walking frame. I had two options: ask him to move out of the way or walk very, very slowly behind him until the way was clear. I chose the latter.

And then I noticed several middle aged women watching him and smiling. And then they looked at me and smiled in my direction, presumably in appreciation of my patience. It’s interesting how humans function, isn’t it? I wasn’t feeling patient at all, I just didn’t look it. And the reward for my reticence was smiles from several middle aged women. Oh joy.

Upon Seeing Early Swallows.

This is one of my special days of the year, but not because it happens to be 12^th May. This special day has no regular date; rather it is the day on which I first see a flock of swallows hunting at speed over the fields, the lanes, and above the woodland canopy. Today was that day.

I saw them at the top of the lane on which I live, which is one of the two places where I usually get my first sighting. I’m told they always nest at the first farmhouse around the corner on the main road. Unfortunately their aerial habitat offered a grim aspect. There was rain falling and a cold north-westerly wind blowing, but the birds seemed undeterred.

And there was a certain poignancy involved because my first thought on seeing them was to wonder whether it would be the last time that I would be treated to the first sight of the early swallows. I am rather given to such thoughts these days – have been for a few years now – and this morning I’d been woken by a worrying pain that I’d never had before. (It’s gone now so maybe it was nothing to be concerned about.)

No doubt I would be accused of unnecessarily morbid musing if I were to say this to anybody face-to-face, but that’s unlikely because I hardly ever speak to anybody face-to-face. And it has to happen one day, doesn’t it, so why not wonder about it?

My New View.

For the first seventeen years of living in this house, the large field which covers the land to the back and side was used as summer pasture for a herd of beef cattle. And then the farmer effectively retired and the field was taken over by a smallholder who grazed a few sheep and Dexter cows there. For the past several months the Dexters have been absent and only five ewes have been grazing an area of land sufficient for ten times their number.

But now everything has changed. A much larger flock of sheep has been moved in, and they have lambs with them. Do you realise what that means? It means that if I want to watch the lambs playing and interacting with their mothers I no longer have to walk nearly a mile to the top of the lane; all I have to do now is look out of my bathroom or bedroom windows. (And four of the lambs are black, which is unusual and rather splendid.)

I don’t suppose anyone will be remotely interested in this news, but the sun is still up, the dinner dishes are washed, and I felt like writing something.

(Oh, and I had a vivid dream about the Lady B a couple of nights ago and it was quite unpleasant. She was constantly cross with me for some reason. I’m not entirely over it yet, but I will be eventually.)

Revery and Semantics.

Some years ago I jotted a blog post about one of my favourite reveries. Today I was walking up my lane in the sunshine when I was reminded of it, so I’m going to tell it again but with a little addition at the end.

*  *  *

I’m walking along a quiet country lane on a sunny day in June. The trees, hedgerows, and pastures are heavily dressed in the fresh bright green of early summer growth. No traffic passes me, the breeze is but a mild zephyr, and no place of habitation is evident.

And then I spy a lone cottage a little way ahead and hear the first hint of sound. As I come closer I make out the tinkling of a piano being played gently, and as I draw level with the cottage I note that one window on the ground floor is standing wide open. Beyond it sits a young woman evidently lost in her rendition of Debussy’s La fille aux cheveux de lin. I watch and listen until she finishes, at which point she turns to me and smiles demurely. I smile back and walk on.

And so it was that this morning it ran through my head again as I passed the small wood and approached the five old ash trees at the top of the lane. But as has become common these days, my mind didn’t stop there. It asked the question as it always does now: ‘Is this any more or less real than the woman, the piano, and one of the loveliest pieces of music I’ve ever heard? Is any of it, anywhere, real? Does any of it have any meaning?’ And then I came to the final question, the one that brings me to edge of that continental shelf beyond which I am not yet equipped to go:

‘What does “meaning” mean?’

On Maidens and the Middle Aged Man.

I said in the previous post that I was going to mention a brief thought on the subject of maidens and middle aged men, didn’t I? And I also said it was going to be short. OK then, here it is.

I’ve observed during my longish sojourn in this human body that maidens – by which I mean young women approximately in the 18-23 age group – are quite often romantically attracted to middle aged men in their forties. It happened to me, you know, when I was in my forties. It was a constant source of delight to get so much attention clearly beyond the bounds of mere friendship from young women half my age and even less.

I suppose it’s because men in their forties are, for the most part, still fit, strong, active, and possessed of a healthy libido, but with an overlay of experience not yet evident in callow youth. And they look lived in. Young women of that age are probably the most open and searching of the various age/gender demographics, and so the added benefit of experience matters I suppose.

How pleased I am – or at least should be – that I am now genuinely old and so none of the attributes listed above apply. Maidens, however delightful, can be a mightily mixed blessing, you see. They still smile at me, but it’s a very different smile than the one they used to bestow.

On a Dangerous Road.

I was on edge all day yesterday because of things I read in the news. Today has been the same for the same reason, so here are a few pointers:

Both the US and UK seem to be quietly abandoning democracy in favour of a move towards more autocratic control which might well grow naturally into fascism. Trump seems to think that the US military is his personal box of toy soldiers, there to keep him amused while he’s feeling tired between tantrums.

Over on this side of the pond, Starmer and the media are jumping about like a box of firecrackers over the fact that two Jewish men were attacked in London recently. Starmer’s response is to threaten the banning of protests against hard line Israeli brutality. He seems to be ignorant of the fact that the horse is supposed to be in front of the cart, not behind it.

Britain's Chief Rabbi is complaining that ‘anti-Semitism is growing and becoming normalised.’ Well, of course it is. It was obvious that such would happen when the carnage in Gaza began to unfold. But let’s not forget that there are two forms of anti-Semitism. The first is the bigoted kind and is simply a form of racism. Few people in the modern world fall into that category. The second arises from an instinctive sense of outrage when decent people read of IDF soldiers killing the innocent just because they can. (Or perhaps it’s all justified by that convenient American phrase, ‘collateral damage.’ Students of European history might consider what happened to the Cathars during the Albigensian Crusade, and consider why it happened, and see that there is a striking parallel at work.) In any event, maybe the Chief Rabbi has difficulty with the operation of cause and effect, and I still maintain that most of what is deemed ‘anti-Semitism’ is, in fact, anti-Zionism. I can explain the difference if you like, but should I need to?

(And yes, I do realise that there are good people in Israel. If only they could remove the brutes running their country the rest of the world could know it too, and Israel could cast off the shadow of being probably the world’s foremost pariah state.)

I think we’re at a crossroads again and still haven’t learned the lessons of history. It seems to me that the time is right for the military and the populace to come together and say ‘Oh no you don’t,’ but it’s unlikely to happen because a system created and run by powerful interests is very good at keeping somnambulists asleep.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, back at the Shire, the May blossom is now coming on strong but the weather is set to turn colder. Shame. And today is the 20^th anniversary of my moving to this house. My, how times have changed. And that reminds me of the post I have running through my head about Maidens and Middle Aged Men. I might even write it one day if my old man’s mind can settle sufficiently. It will be quite short.

Being Nobody.

I’ve just come in from having my Beltane Eve fire. It was a good one this year, fanned by a gentle wind and still smouldering as I write. I thought that maybe I should grace the old blog with one more post before spring bows out in a little over two hours time (according to my Celtic ancestors on my dad’s side, that is.)

So…

I was walking up The Hollow at lunchtime today, mesmerised almost by the vast swathes of wild white garlic flowers, when I was taken in hand by a strong fit of nostalgia for my teenage years. I remembered the fishing trips, and the rugby games, and the girlfriends, and the not-too-wild parties, and the building of a bonfire on Berry Hill on which to roast potatoes and discuss those matters which preoccupy the teenage mind. I remembered the school field study trip to Swaledale in Yorkshire, and the playing of the trombone (at which I excelled of course…) in the school orchestra on speech nights and Christmas carol concerts. And plenty more as well.

I knew who I was then, but I don’t any more because one day, some way beyond the teen years, I heard the hum of mother culture. And so began the first hints of profound musing. Life became more of a struggle when I began seriously to deliberate on, and search for answers to, the meaning of life and the nature of reality. I haven’t found a satisfactory answer to either yet, at least none on which I can definitely rely.

And now I think I’m really nobody at all, and maybe that’s a good thing. The one aspiration left to me is to engage in a long conversation with the Lady B before I die, but it’s not likely to happen because aspirations don’t usually bear fruit for people who are nobody. Do they? Probably not.

The Unsinkable Donald Trump.

It’s interesting to note, isn’t it, that American assassins of old made short work of the Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, while Trump escapes over and over again with nothing more serious than a scratched earlobe (allegedly.) No doubt his supporters are revelling in the certainty that divine intervention is at work. I expect the titular line of Dylan’s With God on Our Side is being played on a constant loop down in the darkness of conservative evangelical rat holes everywhere.

Well, maybe God is on Donald’s side. Or maybe American assassins ain’t what they used to be. Or maybe there’s something a bit rum going on.

I know nothing.

Musicians From Another Planet.

I've asked this question before but I'm going to ask it again: How do pianists play two different - and often disparate - strings of notes at the same time, one with the right hand and the other with the left? I'm led to the serious suspicion that they must have two brains, one for each hand. What other explanation could there be?

And then there's the other question that occurs to me when I hear a piano being played: How do they always contrive to have at least one finger free to play the next note no matter the speed and complexity of the ink blots? That's not as simple as it might sound on the surface, and I suspect there's something of the metaphysical going on.

So are pianists all undercover aliens walking furtively among us? If so, what is their purpose? Are pianists not what they seem (like owls), and what should we do about it?

The Room Behind the Rock Face.

During one of my return trips from Ashbourne in the community transport bus recently, we had an extra passenger – an elderly lady who lived in a village about seven miles from here. We dropped her off first, and the house she lived in was one of a run of stone-built terraces fronting onto the main road. Access to the house, however, was gained by way of a dark, narrow passage at the back, and on the other side of the passage was a rock face which I estimated to be around fifty feet high. Apart from the physical discomfort of feeling hemmed in, the house must have received very little light through the windows at the rear.

But it got better…

The rock face continued beyond the terraced houses to be in full view of the road, and what a forbidding aspect it presented: damp, dark brown sandstone which appeared to have water constantly running down the face from the land above. And then I noticed something extraordinary. It had a door and two windows in it. I wondered whether they might have been some kind of whimsical curio because surely there was nothing behind them, or so I thought.

The following week I asked a different driver whether he was familiar with this oddity. He was, he said, and told me that there is indeed a room behind the door, and that somebody once lived in it.

Lived? Lived how? Did this room have gas or electricity? Did it have running water (apart from what was running down the outside walls)? Did it have a fireplace to provide heat in the winter, and if so, was there a chimney driven up through fifty feet of rock to let the smoke out? He didn’t know, but in all my life I’ve never seen such a ‘dwelling’ and had no idea that such a thing might exist.

But then it’s a well attested fact that during the Middle Ages and a little beyond, there were people living in caves dotted around the various dales in this area. To people such as those, I expect having a room in a rock face complete with a door and two windows would have been quite the height of luxury.

Ups and Downs in England.

This morning I went for my customary Thursday walk which takes me up the tree-lined Hollow en route to the fairy glen above the village. As always at this time of year I was reminded of Robert Browning’s immortal and evocative line:

Oh to be in England now that April’s here.

The day matched the sentiment, being mild, calm, and sunny, and the whole Shire being awash with the whites, the yellows, the blues, and the pinks of wild spring flowers and well trained cherry trees in many a cottage garden. And on the way I met a comely young woman and her boisterously friendly young dog, and was the beneficiary of much enthusiastic fussing and evident delight in my company (by the dog, you understand, not the comely young woman. Heaven forbid at my age.)

Life in an English April felt worth having after all.

This afternoon I needed to contact Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs to get a simple answer to a simple question. After half an hour of frustration and primal inner screaming I was no nearer to reaching the object of my simple quest. And then the phone signal failed anyway, so I gave up.

And life returned to normal.

A Few Rare Notes.

The Shire is a picture at the moment, especially when the grey clouds move away and the wind stops taking the edge off the temperature. So much of the wild growth is not only precocious, but rampant as well. Such is true of the bluebells – my favourite wild flower – and the wild garlic, both of which are not only prolific but springing up in places where I’ve never seen them before. Most notable of all, though, has been the abundance of blossom on the blackthorn trees and bushes. Thick blocks of white everywhere in hedgerow, field, and at the margins of wood and copse. Hawthorn next, hopefully.

Elsewhere…

I answered a woman’s question recently with disarmingly simple honesty. She called me ‘a beautiful soul.’ Well now, fine opinions are very much a rarity these days so I chose to bask briefly in the light – lime or otherwise – and decline to mention the rust gnawing away at the chassis.

And a man said ‘nice to see you’ today. My immediate response to any man who says ‘nice to see you’ is suspicion, and the same would hold true for many women. There is, however, one woman from whom I would like to hear ‘nice to see you’, but the likelihood is exceedingly remote and so I choose not to dwell on the matter. Oddly enough I saw her today for all of around two seconds. She was driving a passing car, but she evidently didn’t see me. She hardly ever does. Maybe I’ve developed that skill which some spies and secret agents are said to have – the ability to remain invisible in plain sight.

On Sub-Standard Humans and Sudden Epiphanies.

On my way out yesterday I saw my neighbour and mentioned my suspicion that Donald Trump might be genuinely mentally ill. Her reply was unequivocal: ‘Of course he is. He’s got Alzheimers.’ I was in a hurry and therefore unable to ascertain whether she was expressing an opinion or stating a known fact, although all the current talk about the 25^th Amendment makes me wonder.

So should we now feel sorry for poor old Donald because he can’t help being an utter jerk? Well, a lot of his incomprehensible statements and behaviour found their expression in the most extreme egomania and nastiness, and I suspect I’m right in saying that those character traits must have existed long before any possible dementia took hold. Awaiting developments.

And this morning I saw a photograph of Itamar Ben-Gvir celebrating the new capital law relating to Palestinians, while no doubt cheering those Israeli settlers who commit murder the other way round. I wonder whether anybody has ever mentioned karma to him, or reminded him that even his own holy book mentions the whirlwind which awaits those sowing the wind.

*  *  *

Two entirely unrelated notes:

I was standing outside Sainsbury’s yesterday and saw a vision: a young woman in her late teens, around 5ft 8” tall, slim and perfectly formed, sporting long blonde hair, and skimpily dressed. I had an epiphany. I realised that my interest was no longer libidinous but merely aesthetic. It was a proud moment.

I also realised last night that Japanese culture is uncommonly awash with paranormal incidents and awareness, and that led to a theory that the less a culture is dominated by religion, the more attuned it is to spirituality. Am I right? You tell me.

Little and Late.

My little friend, Bear, has left the Shire and gone to live in another town in the Dales. He wrote me a letter in his child's hand to say he'd miss seeing me in the lane. It's a bit sad because I don't like many people, but I liked him. He had character. Tomorrow I'll get him a 'Good Luck' card.

Still awaiting that email which never comes. The years continue to turn.

Currently listening to old Enya tracks. A host of memories stare silently at me from a fading screen.

I haven't jotted a post like this in a long time. Here goes...

Trump and the Wacky Baccy.

I gather D Trump has promised to destroy a whole civilisation in one night if the Iranians don’t do as he tells them. Should we take that seriously, or should we remember his earlier claim to be able to end the war in Ukraine in one day? (And it’s interesting to also remember that Putin said he could ‘take Kyiv in one day’ at the start of those shenanigans.) Certain types of people just can’t help dribbling foolish babble, can they? Sometimes they don’t seem to be in control of their own mouths.

So here’s the point. Does Trump’s incessant blathering constitute evidence of mental instability? I’m no qualified psychologist but I do seriously wonder whether there’s any machinery in the US establishment or constitution which could force Trump to undergo psychiatric assessment. It strikes me as being an urgent imperative now.

(And wouldn’t it be a refreshing change to have sympathy for a poor ex-President when we see him strapped into a straightjacket and confined to a secure facility. Maybe Alcatraz could be reopened just for him and his acolytes. That would be nicely ironic.)

Failing that, we’re back to the military having the balls to say: ‘Democracy is to be temporarily suspended while we remove Mr Trump and his entourage to a small rock in the Atlantic approximately a thousand miles south of the Azores with no means of escape. Americans are advised to carry on as usual and normal service will be resumed in about six months.’

It’s unlikely though, isn’t it? As I understand it, Americans are brainwashed from the cradle to believe that patriotism – which includes unthinking and unstinting allegiance to the President – is the one absolute and inviolate requirement for claiming American citizenship. And so that might give the military personnel a bit of a dilemma:

‘If I remove my Commander-in-Chief from office – even if he is an utter loony about to set the hay barn on fire – wouldn’t that be unpatriotic and consign me to the centre of perdition’s flame for all eternity?’

‘That depends,’ I offer.

‘On what?’

‘On the single question: for whose benefit you are performing the act, yours or the American people. The latter, surely.’

‘Oh I see. In that case…’

Still not going to happen, though, is it?

And I’m concerned that this post might be guilty of trivialising what might turn out to be a very serious situation. It’s just that Trump has become such a comic book character now that it’s difficult to know how to react to statements and actions so absurd that they feel like drug-induced illusions.

American Cowardice and Middle Eastern Madness.

The BBC world news this morning was all about the rescue of the American airman in Iran. (As well as Trump’s childish invective about his intent to rain down – or even ‘reign down’ as the BBC journalist spelled it – the horrors of hell if the Iranians don’t do as they’re ordered immediately.) So let’s ask what this means:

The conflict in Iran is constantly being referred to as a ‘war.’ Clearly it isn’t. A war is a competition in which thousands, or even tens of thousands, of combatants on both sides are blown to pieces or at least simply killed, nearly every day. There is no place for a news headline on the rescue of one man in a real war.

This goes back to what I said at the start of it all; this is shooting fish in a barrel. This is the action of the big bully in the school yard beating up the little kid just because he can. And what do we say about bullies? We say they’re cowards. So where is America’s worldwide reputation going while trump bombs and blusters the hell out of a small nation? America is being seen as the world’s biggest bully and therefore its greatest coward. Do Americans, I wonder, revel in such a reputation? Somehow, I don’t think so. The bravest thing the America military could do at the moment is what gives rise to my current favourite, and hopelessly unrealistic, dream: It is to read the headline:

Military Coup in USA

Trump and Minions Arrested

Free Elections Promised in Six Months

*  *  *

So now let’s turn our attention to the bully’s sidekick, Mr Netanyahu and the Israelis:

It appears that antisemitism has been on the rise around the world ever since the terrible situation in Gaza. I predicted it would happen and so did plenty of other people. Antisemitism is a feature that’s been buried in the gene pool for many generations, just awaiting the trigger to bring it back to the surface. Gaza was that trigger, and excessively violent activity in Iran and Lebanon is feeding the trend. And so its rise is unsurprising.

But I doubt that most of the anti-Israeli sentiment is actually antisemitism, but rather anti-Zionism which is not the same thing. (And I’m constantly infuriated by supposedly intelligent people in establishments everywhere failing to see the difference despite it being plainly obvious to anybody with a measurable IQ.)

Zionism is the inviolable presumption that some mythical being called Yahweh, who was regarded as chief among gods, granted the descendents of Abraham all the land between the eastern Mediterranean and the River Jordan in perpetuity – theirs to take as a right no matter how much death, suffering, and destruction was caused in so doing.

(Let’s just add a rider here and question the very existence of Yahweh. Many see him as a mere myth. Some other religions claim that Yahweh exists but is actually a lower god at the base of a higher pantheon. Those of Gnostic persuasion call him the Demiurge and regard him as a flawed being, part good and part evil, and urge their congregation to bypass him in order to reach spiritual maturity. And let’s add another rider and point to those genealogists who claim that modern Jews are not actually the descendants of Abraham's people. These factors are all part of other arguments.)

OK, parenthesis over. I and most other reasonable people have no problem with the fact that Jews should have a homeland just like everybody else. Israel should exist and Israelis are welcome to be a member tribe of the human race just like all the other tribes. We don’t want another Holocaust, for heaven’s sake. We don’t even want another Diaspora, just some proper and reasonable balance. We want the whole of the human family to exist in peace and harmony. Instead we get tears, suffering, death, and wholesale destruction. And that’s why anti-Zionism is on the rise and often misconstrued as antisemitism.

And I suppose I’d better get off my rickety soap box now.

Just a Thought.

I see Donald is having a tantrum and sulking again with his ‘get your own oil.’  He’s showing yet again what a sociopathic, spoiled little brat he is. It would be quite amusing if it didn’t affect the rest of us, but it does.

You know, I really can’t imagine what some Americans have for brains when they put somebody like Trump into the White House. They did the same with Reagan and GW. Trump has no political experience, no diplomatic experience, no military experience… Being a businessman, I daresay he knows a little about low level math(s), but that’s hardly sufficient for running a powerful and complex country.

And I seem to recall that when he first started mouthing off about Iran, it was all to do with saving the poor Iranians from a cruel and dictatorial regime. Now he’s using his military might (and American taxpayer’s dollars) to kill thousands of them – along with his pal Benjamin, of course, who’s well practiced in killing innocents in large numbers.

But enough of the infamous Blood Brothers in DC and Jerusalem. We’ve had a fine day in the Shire and that was nice. And the new horses on Mill Lane came to say hello. It would be good to say ‘all’s well that ends well’, but heaven knows what this world might sink into before long.

The Footnote.

I made a post last night around the quandary over whether or not to get another car. After the decision was made I reasoned (if that be quite the right word) that choosing not to get one was a victory for instinct, and perhaps some deeper spiritual need, over logic, a practice which has gained some currency in recent decades. But then I had another thought and said I might add a footnote. This is it:

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m subject to a lot of depression. It’s been with me since I was a child and has grown worse with advancing age. And I’ve noticed a strange feature attaching to depression which I don’t suppose non-depressives realise.

Depression usually has no obvious trigger; it just happens. That’s part of the difference between being truly depressed and merely being in a bad mood. And our brains are wired in such a way as to function on the basis of cause and effect. So if there is no obvious cause, it makes a certain kind of perverse sense to seek or even create a cause for the depression. And so we tend to find the means to do ourselves down, to deny ourselves something we need in order to make life easier or more pleasurable. The depression is now vindicated and has a right to exist.

It follows a practice common in parental attitudes when I was a boy. If a child was crying for no apparent reason, a parent – usually the father for he was expected to be the disciplinarian – would utter the firm threat: ‘Stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.’ Whether it was common in British culture generally, or only in the grimy, industrial environment in which I was brought up (an environment in which the grim existence among factories, coal mines, steelworks, and slum habitation had instilled an essential mentality of stoicism) I wouldn’t know.

And whether that was the reason for my declining to buy the car, I also wouldn’t know. But maybe some of my odd ideas do, after all, have some basis in fact.

Walking the Wasteland.

I don’t understand why, according to Blogger stats, this blog has received over 14,000 page views in less than twenty four hours. They come, apparently, from more than twenty countries scattered around the world. And yet no one is speaking to me either to react, agree, disagree, or discuss. Nobody ever does, and frankly I’m glad they don’t because I know nothing. I’m no kind of influencer and wouldn’t want to be. That sort of thing is better left dangling from the pallid fingers of celebrities and presidents who delude themselves with the notion that fame and power endow them with the mind of a genius and the wisdom of the ancients. About the feeble minded who follow them no more need be said.

But I do have strong suspicions. I suspect that what we are conditioned to regard as the only true reality is actually just the final frigid 10ft at the summit of Everest, and that it’s enveloped in a dense mist hiding the variety of riches running rampant on the lower slopes. And that leads me to wonder on a daily basis whether the death of the body is not so much an ending as an awakening.

So how do I find out whether I’m right or not except by dying? I can read everything from the Bardo Thodol to the peevish pronouncements of the Catholic Church to the pointless and probably fraudulent NDE experiences presented as ‘proof’ on YouTube. Why believe any of it? How can they know? (And what is their motivation for making the claims?)

And I’m becoming ever more disenchanted with this mortal realm, this icy summit littered with the detritus of disinformation and general dishonesty. Fakery is everywhere, usually driven by pecuniary or bigoted self-interest. It’s a realm in which the hum of mother culture draws the Line of Axiom – an invisible but highly potent barrier between that which may be discussed and that which must be accepted without question because it’s set in extra-reinforced concrete. Such is a major mainstay of political, commercial, societal, religious, and media practice everywhere.

The result of these suspicions is that they leave me wandering under flat grey skies in a featureless no man’s land. I used to relate to the culture which reared me, and to the people who mostly occupy it, but I can’t do most of that any longer. The culture seems to have too much wrong with it and the people speak a different language from me. Daniel Quinn did warn that once you’ve heard the hum of mother culture you can’t un-hear it, and he was right. To me, the hum is growing louder and so there’s no way back. Equally, I can’t walk forward with confidence either because a landscape without reference points offers few satisfactory clues as to what direction I should be taking.

I mentioned recently that I’m currently without a car. Well, I was offered one – just an elderly but reliable runner – at a knock down price, and I’ve been agonising over the decision for a couple of weeks. One part of me recognised that the motor car is probably the most visible icon of modern, developed society. Indeed, some cultures – most notably the US – have gone so far as to build their infrastructure around it. Its identification with a culture from which I now feel largely remote was the reason for deciding against. On the other hand, I still have to operate within the culture to some extent for practical reasons, and a car would provide me with more opportunity, convenience, and freedom. That was appealing, and yet I still rejected the offer.

But I’m tired of typing now, so maybe I’ll make the post about the epiphany which this brought about (regarding its relevance to the depressive tendency) another time.

Minding Mini Damsels.

The first was a little lady of around 2-2½ standing alone and forlorn at the top of Sainsbury’s supermarket. She was breaking her heart, poor mite. The tears were flowing, the nose was running, and the chest was heaving pitifully. It was clear she was lost, but I couldn’t tell what she was trying to say because it was too garbled in her distressed state. I persuaded her to come with me in order to find whoever she was looking for.

And so she did. When we got to the far end of the aisle and turned the corner I spied a middle aged woman – presumably granny – hurrying along the bottom lane and evidently looking for something. Reconciliation was effected and all was well.

And then I noticed the interesting part. Granny’s first words to the now quieting victim were: ‘Let’s get that nose wiped first.’ I imagine the mother’s first action would have been to give the child a reassuring hug, so maybe mothers hug and grannies wipe noses. Is that how it works? The female of the species continues to delight and intrigue.

The second mini maiden to flatter me with her attention was a little older at around 4. I was standing outside enjoying a quick rolly and idly watching the comings and goings through the big front windows. I noticed the child sitting on a packing shelf while her mother was scanning her shopping through a self-service till, and then the child noticed me and did a double take followed by a smile and wave. Couldn’t resist that, could I, and so I smiled and waved back.

And thus began a game which lasted 5-7 minutes. She kept shifting her position, then smiling and waving, and I had to keep smiling and waving back. Eventually her mother finished the scanning and my right arm received the relief it was beginning to crave. ‘That was fun,’ I said when they came out of the shop and walked past me. ‘Thank you.’ The mother didn’t appear to notice me.

And then I was struck by a thought. Maybe little Miss Wavealot was rehearsing for the day in about fourteen years time when she will be consumed by the irresistible urge to entrap passing sailors on shore leave. Maybe I should make every effort to find a black velvet band in case I see her again. For who knows what state the world will be in by then, and black velvet bands will be the new gold dust. I’ll be dead of course, or at least too far gone to notice.

On Fairies, Firsts, and Football Coaches.

I painted part of a wall today, and when I was clearing up I found three drops of paint on my desk which is on the other side of the room. I examined the possible scenarios by which three errant drops of paint could have found their way to the other side of the room. None were entirely credible, and so I settled on the only available solution: I have a paint fairy.

These little varmints clearly take delight in transporting wet paint to parts of the room where they have no logical right to be. The same thing happened in my kitchen a week or two ago. So now I don’t know whether to speak harshly to them, plead with them to behave, or be glad of the company.

*  *  *

This week’s firsts:

The first butterfly – a Peacock.

The first ants – two outside and one in the kitchen

The first bumble bees.

The first dandelion flowers.

The first bluebells – that’s pretty unusual in March.

The first bat hunting around the house at twilight – great Hurrah for that.

The first hare I’ve ever seen dead on the road.

The last one gave me pause for thought. Apart from being a sad sight, it reminded me that seeing a hare is supposed to be an omen of misfortune. So what does it mean if the animal is dead? Does that magnify the misfortune or reverse it? I’ll try not to worry.

*  *  *

I was reading a football match report today which included an interview with the coach. Not for the first time I noticed that football coaches speak a very strange brand of English. It’s similar to the standard version but with enough differences as to be highly irritating, and the most notable feature is its complete misuse of tenses. I’m inclined to wonder whether football coaches learn this weirdly irrational habit in football coaching schools, or whether they’re not actually human.

17th March and All That.

Notwithstanding my lamentable lack of literary aspiration at the moment, it would be remiss of me not to mention that today is 17^th March. It matters to me, you see, and not because it happens to coincide with the feast day of a certain ancient Irish cleric. It matters to me because it’s the birthday of somebody else.

It sends my mind wandering casually back to a day nearly two decades ago, and the sight of a comely maiden walking her little dog along a little lane near her house. On the surface she was unprepossessing – rat’s nest hair, plain dress representing no sort of style, and a total lack of paint on lips, eyes, or anywhere else. And yet she was compelling in a way I found difficult to rationalise. Eventually she became the Queen Regnant of my consciousness and has remained so ever since.

And so today I wanted – as I do every 17^th March – to send her a birthday greeting. I can’t do so because I undertook nine years ago to remain silent unless approached, and approached I never am. (And I regard undertakings to be sacrosanct.) Yet send them I do, silently through the ether from what has become a somewhat impoverished consciousness, in the hope that it will be received at some deeper level. It carries with it my regret that I never explained to her that there was never any hint of the libidinous about my interest. I simply ached for her presence and her good opinion. Nothing more.

*  *  *

And an almost totally unconnected little curio: I discovered only last night that St Patrick’s Day was treated in Ireland until relatively recently – some time in the 1970s if I heard correctly – as a religious observance requiring pubs to remain closed. It appears that the message never made it to New York. Maybe the telegram rests still in what remains of the post box on the Titanic.

(I’m doing deconstructed communication again. I wonder why. Just be thankful I didn’t make the intended post on Trump’s latest attempt to convince the world of his inadequacy. It’s the one thing he’s very good at.)

Doubting Even a Reset.

I’ve had so many posts running through my head recently but lacked the will to type them up. There is, however, one subject that keeps prodding me insistently, so I’ll make it mercifully brief:

Let’s face it, Iran desperately needs a regime change. Not for the sake of America or Israel, or the rest of the world come to that, but for the sake of the Iranian people. They suffered when Iran was a monarchy, and they've continued to suffer ever since. Let’s also face the fact that the USA, Israel, and Russia are also desperately in need regime change, in that case mainly for the sake of the world in general.

That’s the start of the issue. It goes on from there, but I won’t presume on anyone’s patience by wading through individual factors, presumptions, and considerations. The final line in the argument is simple enough: the human genome is defective and needs excising from the human animal. From time immemorial humanity has allowed itself to be ruled by those with the will and determination to achieve power, wealth and (dare I say it?) greatness on the blood and suffering of the innocent.

And so getting rid of the likes of Trump, Putin, Netanyahu, and the Ayatollah won’t cut the ice. It will take a global nuclear war or environmental catastrophe on a scale greater than the Younger Dryas to do that. Or maybe even that won't do. There are those who believe – with some evidence that is not unconvincing – that it has happened before, and yet still the angels continue to be ruled by chimpanzees utterly lacking any ethical or humanitarian dimension.

So where do I go from here? I haven’t a clue.

Understanding Donald.

I saw this morning that Trump referred to Keir Starmer's intransigence with the statement ‘we’re not dealing with Winston Churchill here.’

Well now, have you noticed that whenever anybody disagrees with Donald Trump or declines to toe the Trumpian line, his immediate response is always to hurl a cheap insult at them and imply, at the very least, that they’re ‘losers’?

I should think the psychologists must love studying him. I’m not a psychologist, but I suspect I’m not too far from the truth in suspecting that he’s a prime case of arrested development as a result of defective potty training.

Meeting Mrs Lopsided.

I spent five minutes this morning renewing my fond acquaintance with a lovely lady collie dog in Mill Lane who I haven’t seen for several weeks. And then an elderly woman came walking uncertainly down the path holding a new-looking smart phone which appeared to be troubling her. She told me it wasn’t actually hers, and then said ‘A man keeps telling me the time. I don’t know why.’

For those unfamiliar with the appellation, Mrs Lopsided is the delightfully dotty MC of the 1955 Ealing comedy, The Ladykillers. It’s in the top half dozen of my favourite films. If the French have M Hulot, we have Mrs Wilberforce (AKA 'Mrs Lopsided'.)

Notes on the Iran Thing.

Last night I felt moved to write quite a long post about yesterday’s big event, but I ended up doing other things instead and today I’ve lost interest, so I’ll just offer a couple of brief notes instead.

As usual I’m intrigued to know what was buzzing around among the cobwebs in Trump’s head, and the best I could come up with went something like: ‘I know what I’ll do. I’ll send a bunch of brave American boys and some fine, expensive American ships to go shoot fish in a barrel. Then everybody will know how important I am and will stop laughing at me. They might even stop asking how close I was to Jeffrey Epstein and his kinky lifestyle.’

I doubt that too many people will mourn the loss of the tyrant Khameni, not even in Iran, but let’s not forget that there are tyrants on both sides. While considering this fact I imagined a comparable scenario. Let’s suppose the boys of the Chicago police department – fine, upstanding specimens to a man, no doubt – were complicit with Al Capone in the planning and prosecution of the St Valentine’s Day Massacre. It sounded about right.

I wonder whether Trump will be landed with one humdinger of a fatwa. (No fake blood this time – allegedly.)  But maybe not. I wonder whether fatwas can only be declared for blasphemy, not merely having a congenital dislike of Muslims, killing a head of state, and showing scant regard for what Donald likes to call ‘shithole countries.’ Must look it up.

I knew some Iranians once. They were all honest, honourable, and humorous men. I even had a fight with one of them which was entirely my fault, but he was the one who apologised. Nice guys. And maybe it’s worth bearing in mind that Persia is generally recognised as having been the cradle of civilisation, lacking only candyfloss and Disney to add gravitas. Does that count for anything? I don’t know.

Signing off now.

Overheard on the Grapevine of Imagination.

‘Caleb.’

‘Yes, Martha.’

‘Why do we Americans let them Russian and Chinese commies have nuclear weapons?’

‘Well now, they’re a bit too big for us to stop ’em. And besides, it establishes balance, ya see. If both sides have the same nuclear weapons, then neither side can start a war ’cos then they’d be blowed to kingdom come their selves. It’s a good system. It’s even got a name. It’s called Mutually Assured Destruction – keeps the world safe.’

‘Oh, ah see. So what about where them A-rab folks live?

‘Ya mean the Middle East?’

‘S’pose so. They don’t got nuclear weapons, do they? Only the white folks in Israel got ’em. Why aint there no balance there?’

‘Erm… it’s complicated, hun. But ya see, them A-rabs, they’re brown people and they aint responsible. They ain’t smart like we are. They’d be throwin’ ’em about like fire crackers on the 4^th July.’

‘That so?’

‘Yup.’

‘Shucks.’

The Good, the Bad, and the Disturbing.

The Good

Mother Nature is being even more precocious than usual this year. The snowdrops have been more numerous than ever, and now we’re seeing primroses, crocuses, hyacinths, daffodils, celandines, and even blossom on the blackthorn trees. And both the bluebells and wild garlic plants are more numerous and more advanced than is usual for February. Even the birds are behaving as though they think it’s April, and are starting to prepare for the production of this year’s next generation.

I was left feeling frustrated and annoyed last night when an arranged phone call from the pharmacist at the GP surgery failed to materialise. I called the surgery today expecting there to be some friction, but there wasn’t. The woman I spoke to was calm and apologetic, explaining that the problem had been due to a combination of sickness and the failure of modern technology to deal effectively with the requirements of modern times. This has become the way of things now, of course, and a new appointment was easily made. And all was well that ended well.

The Bad

I read this morning that Twitter co-founder, Jack Dorsey, says his technology firm Block is laying off almost half its workforce because artificial intelligence (AI) "fundamentally changes what it means to build and run a company." So is this stage 2 in a trend which began in the nineties when the banks were laying off up to 5,000 people a week as the internet removed the need for bank staff and even whole branches? Where is this going, I ask.

We in the west live in a world almost wholly dependant on consumption. Consumption is the bedrock of capitalism and the driver of economic growth, and economic growth is the tenuous means by which society as we know it hangs together. So I wonder what will happen when there is so much unemployment and concomitant poverty that the base of the capitalist system begins to diminish rather than grow.

Will the practice of wage slavery be replaced by a harsher and more transparent form of the same thing? Will there be riots on the streets and the imposition of marshal law? And is this the real reason behind (allegedly) the billionaires buying up properties and converting them into bunkers. Some assume it’s intended as protection from post nuclear excesses after WWIII, but maybe they’re intended as a shield to protect them from angry mobs who have finally woken up to the realisation of who has been causing the damage over the past century or two.

And how will that change the world order? Will the once-powerful USA be reduced to an archipelago of third world states? Will Russia and China become the new overlords, while Africa, South America, and probably Europe will be forced to bow the knee? Karl Marx was a highly intelligent man, however much Americans have been brainwashed into considering him no more than a ‘dirty commie.’ And Karl Marx did say that capitalism will one day destroy itself through its own greed. Can’t you see it beginning to happen?

The Disturbing

Earlier today I watched a collection of shuffle dance routines on YouTube (only because they were set to Lady Gaga’s Fine Romance, you understand. It’s one of my favourite pop songs.) I really shouldn’t, you know. I shouldn’t. While the spirit felt renewed, the flesh felt weaker than ever when faced with imagined prospects now become deader than a dodo’s granddad.

Emily and Me.

Firstly, I should say that I haven’t yet got back into the swim of blogging. But I want to say this because I consider it important.

Around sixteen years ago I was badly stricken by a severe case of the Brontë bug, especially with regard to Emily and her only novel Wuthering Heights. I made a number of notes covering significant dates, and also copied out some of Emily’s poetry. I came to believe that I understood Emily and her novel better than the countless creators of cinematic and other spin-offs ever did, and I wrote an essay on the subject which can be found at the other site. I particularly noted that many critics and academics accused dear Em of having had a ‘death wish’, which I didn’t entirely disagree with in general, but with which I deeply disagreed with regard to the reason for, and detail of, that wish. And I have to admit that I paid scant attention to the poetry, mostly because much of it went over my head.

Since then I’ve been consumed by metaphysical enquiry and have learned a lot about the more rarefied angles promoted by philosophical thought both ancient and modern. It was why I made yesterday’s post about modern science being seemingly on a converging path with ancient mysticism. And here’s the rub:

Tonight I had reason to go back to my Brontë notes, and while thus engaged I read Emily’s poetry again. Suddenly I understood it, and was highly surprised by just how spiritually sophisticated she was. This is quite remarkable when you consider that she was the fifth of six children born to a small town clergyman early in the nineteenth century, and who wanted nothing more than to write, tramp the lonely moors, and keep house. (Which is mostly all I want to do.) And she had great difficulty fitting in with societal expectations and connecting with the vast majority of people.

So have I finally met my match, my other half even, among the timeless enormity of the human throng? It’s widely conjectured by mainstream science that time is an illusion, and one of the favoured assertions is the concept of the ‘block theory.’ This promotes the idea that every fact of existence from the past to the future is permanently and immutably in place. (Although relating the theory to the future provides a possible stumbling bloc.)

It’s a fascinating idea, isn’t it? Fanciful maybe, but I still like it.

Science vs Spirituality

I watched a YouTube video last night which I found to be a most complete and yet simply expressed argument for why science and spirituality should not be in opposition. It’s here and it’s highly recommended viewing:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGDj1uPNQp8

It occurs to me to suggest that it makes sense for science and religion to be in opposition because religions tend to be mostly about power, control, rules, and restrictions – in other words somewhat akin to cults, although adherents are conditioned not to think of them that way – and less about the wider, deeper, and freer pursuit of spirituality.

I’ll leave the rest to the video for anyone who wants to listen. It's quite short.

Epstein: Sowing a Small Seed.

No, I’m not back yet (see previous post), but there’s something I feel the need to say now because now’s the right time. It concerns the lamentable case of Jeffrey Epstein.

What Jeffrey Epstein and his cohorts did was deplorable in the extreme, but it wasn’t exceptional. It’s been going on for thousands of years for one purpose or another, to feed perverted predilection or to promote the pursuit of power and influence or both. It’s one of the darker sides of human nature and has always found its most extensive expression among the world’s elite. And it will continue to go on as long as power and wealth continue to be the yardsticks by which a person’s value, importance, and even personal qualities continue to be judged. (I recall Trump saying during his first run at election something like ‘my wealth is what will make me a good President.’ That should have been a red flag, but it obviously wasn’t seen that way.)

The human race needs a radical reset in terms of its perceptions and priorities so that we judge our fellows by wholesome personal qualities, good values, and ethical profiles. We most certainly shouldn’t be judging them favourably by how much property they own, how much influence they have, and how many $100 dollar bills they use to light their cigars. I’m not claiming that all rich people are bad because it obviously wouldn’t be true, but I do countenance caution when judging those who brag about their wealth.

This could have been a much longer post, but I’m going to leave it at that. I just felt the need to cast one small seed to the ground, however infertile I know that ground to be.

Waving and Wondering.

I’m reprising the content of several old blog posts here by saying that I don’t know whether this blog will continue.

Several significant aspects of my nature seem to be disappearing, you see. Where has my need to write gone? Where has all the delight in the little things gone? Where has my fascination with the human condition gone? Where has my sense of humour gone? Why doesn’t my old friend the llama ever nudge me and start up a conversation these days? Where has my ability to shrug it all off and keep paddling down the rapids gone?

The fact is, I feel emptier now than I’ve ever done. And it feels different this time. My sense of self has assumed the appearance of a battery that has run out of charge.

I’ve been advised that this is a natural condition commonly experienced by the INFJ/HSP type. It’s normal, apparently, for such people to run out of fuel and submit themselves to the bench on the train station, there to wait quietly and invisibly for the last train out. It’s all to do with having a life of almost unremitting stress and sense of responsibility to others. It simply drains the emotional energy, or so they say. And then we feel guilty and ashamed. And being a loner doesn’t help. Loners don’t attract support because they don’t want it. The faculty of support is seen as a one way process – all outgoing. And so when they do need it, there’s none to lean on.

I’m wondering whether this is just the latest example of a lifelong phenomenon to which I’ve referred on this blog several times. I mean the habit of being driven by focuses which amounted to examples of monomania – the fishing focus, the classical music focus, the photography focus, and so on. Maybe the need to write was simply the latest, and maybe even the last. It is a fact that, at the moment, I seem to have lost the will to write. It’s been a predominant feature of my life for around twenty three years, and has therefore outlasted most of the others. For now, however, I do feel like a candle that has been finally extinguished by its own guttering.

Or maybe it will prove to be just a glitch when the weather warms, the sun shines, the garden calls for attention, and the new leaves whisper seductively from the trees. We never know what’s coming next, do we?

*  *  *

One aspect of the news which has kept my interest piqued lately, though, has been the case of Jeffrey Epstein. Two seemingly reliable sources have emerged to provide credible evidence that Mr Epstein didn’t go into that goodnight voluntarily. Is that just another conspiracy theory? Well, let’s take a step back and ask what would have happened if he had lived and been brought to trial.

Being the kind of person he obviously was, there seems to be little doubt that he would have succumbed to the obvious response: ‘If I’m going down, the rest are coming with me.’ And then names would have been named, heads would have rolled, and the issue of corruption in high places would have been even more evident than it already is. That being the case, I think Mr Epstein’s premature demise was all but inevitable. Maybe it was the ghost of Jack Ruby who strung him up.

And a final note: We can be fairly sure that corruption in high places happens everywhere, so maybe there’s one good thing to say about Trump’s presidency. Being in possession of an ego the size of a planet, a brain the size of a walnut, and an ethical sense that would be hard to find with an electron microscope, maybe Trump has done us a favour by clearing some of the fog between the people below and the corruption above. Unfortunately, I doubt anything will change.

No Choice in the Matter.

Water, water everywhere. Cold, dirty water, flanking the road on both sides and running like a mountain stream. Water falling constantly from a leaden sky through the whole of the dark day, leaving ugly pools on the land and making the earth too sodden to work. And the cold east wind continues to hold station as it has for the past two or three weeks, showing no sign of backing or veering for the foreseeable future. The east wind is the one which invades my house with impunity, making it even colder than usual.

They said this would happen – the climate scientists, that is. They forecast that climate change would likely result in UK winters being less cold but wetter. So which is preferable? Hard to say really. For my part, I’m becoming a wimp who would relish living in some area of the tropics which has no hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, tsunamis, or active volcanoes. Not much chance of that, and still I don’t envy people who live in California.

A Note on the Night Window.

I stand washing the dishes in the cold kitchen and look at the window facing me. It’s black against the deep darkness, and smeared with a sopping veil of unwanted condensation which hides the view to the embankment and its host of white snowdrops. Flecks of rain run mindlessly down the outside, driven there by a cold wind from the east. It deflates my mood to a degree I find surprising.

And then I think of the birds and animals trying to rest out there with no protection from unfriendly elements. I hurry to lower the blind to remove the view from reluctant perception. This is the curse of the HSP.

(The blind is white, by the way, chosen to reflect more of the artificial light back into the room. Small mercies are welcome.)