Finding the Bright Spark

Today I was thinking about my almost manic need to live independently. I remembered my childhood and how I’d never had any sense of family. I was just one of three people who happened to live in the same house. I remembered how, by the age of around twelve, I couldn’t wait for my parents to go out occasionally so that I could have the house to myself. I remembered how, at around the same age, I went into hospital for an appendectomy and hadn’t wanted to go home afterwards. And when I did get home I sat by the open doorway in the sunshine feeling depressed. Now that I do live independently, I hate the thought of being in hospital.

I’m sure I’ve said all this before on the blog, but today it took me into a new realisation. I realised that the only time I felt comfortable and relaxed at home was when my parents were out. And that led me to think that I probably spent a large proportion of my childhood in a state of repressed and unrealised stress.

So where did it come from? Was it genetic, some abnormality of the brain, the general atmosphere of separation and tension in the house, or something I haven’t thought of yet? Maybe it was a combination of things, and I don’t suppose I shall ever know. Further, I don’t suppose it really matters.

But it was interesting to suddenly see the seminal roots of my lifelong tendency to be prone to both anxiety and depression, a tendency which is becoming more frequent and pronounced these days. And there is a little light to be found here. If my problem really is caused by some abnormality of the brain, it probably isn’t anything acute. It’s probably been there for most of my life.

The End of Mary and Oddments.

Seems I got it all wrong. The character I thought was John the Baptist is, in fact, Jesus. Well, that’s mumbling actors and modern movie sound production for you. Or maybe I’m deaf or stupid or both. Nevertheless, having got something so fundamental so wrong, I feel a complete fool and intend to say no more on the subject of Mary Magdalene (2018.) Except, perhaps, to remark that Jesus resembles a cult leader and Mary appears to be a victim of Guru Fetish Syndrome. She does, however, have an exceedingly pretty smile.

*  *  *

So should I write something about the relationship between health issues and heavy garden work? Can’t be bothered. Suffice it to say that I survived both today. 

*  *  *

I’m missing my oddball llama friend, and also the sunshine I used to occasionally encounter on my walks. Now I have to make do with the yellow thing which moves across the sky when there are no clouds in the way, as it did at lunchtime when I was in the churchyard eating my spinach sandwich and cheese roll. 

I noticed something odd while I was in there. I saw a headstone marking the grave of a man whose name is given, along with the year of his birth and the year of his death. That’s perfectly normal, but underneath was a second inscription which simply said And also his wife. She isn’t named, and that isn’t normal. I sensed a hint of either sexism or acrimony in the air. 

*  *  *

If they decide to bury me after I’m dead (and I do hope they wait that long), I should like my headstone to read:

  

Here lies the pupa case of 

JJ Beazley

It's of no consequence whatsoever

The butterfly has flown away

Sounds a bit pretentious, doesn’t it? OK, forget that one. 

*  *  *

 

I’m tired of hearing myself think. A piece of this would help:

An Unashamed Vege Post.

Something reminded me tonight that I need a new block of vegetable-based deep fat frying oil for my chip pan. (Do people other than the British have chip pans, by the way, or does the rest of the world rely on those soulless, microwaveable excuses-for-the-real-thing these days? And just in case there are any Americans who still don’t know, what we call chips are what you call fries.)

OK, I need vegetable-based deep fat frying oil… Problem is, the Sainsbury’s store in Ashbourne doesn’t sell it, and I haven’t found anywhere else in Ashbourne which sells it either. Ashbourne is still a lard town. Ashbourne people are, or so it would appear, lard people. They still insist on utilising the renderings of a dead animal rather than the healthier and more ethical alternative.

They still have hog roasts, too. Big notices are occasionally seen in the town centre proclaiming the fact that a whole pig is to be roasted on a spit, while people rub their hands with glee. ‘A whole pig! Lovely. Can’t miss that, can we Fiona? Better take the kids along, too. It will contribute to their education.’

Now, the odd thing is that Ashburnians generally dress normally, if a little conservatively. You’d think they’d be wearing loin cloths carefully crafted from the hides of woolly mammoths, wouldn’t you?

More on Mary M.

I just watched the second twenty minutes of Mary Magdalene (2018.) I’m breaking it up into short episodes because, frankly, I’m finding it a little troublesome. So far it’s all based on exoteric Christian mythology, when I was hoping for something different because I’ve long thought of Mary as an ambassador for the Divine Feminine – a concept which is largely at odds with exoteric Christianity (yes, I know the Catholics offer a nod in that direction with the ‘Mary, mother of God’ thing, but in practice they studiously support the pre-eminence of masculine superiority at every opportunity.)

So, tonight it was John the Baptist’s turn to hold forth. At least I think he’s John the Baptist because he has a disturbing habit of being a little histrionic and pushing people into the sea as a precursor to winning God’s favour. (And the actors in this film mumble so much that I’m missing a lot of the dialogue.)

But there was one piece of dialogue I did hear clearly. The actor playing John is American, you see, and most American accents close and elongate the ‘o’ phonetic when compared with UK English speech. And so when I heard him – in slightly histrionic fashion – proclaim:

This faith will surely lead you to the Kingdom of Gard…

… he reminded me very much of a Southern Baptist preacher. And since I have some considerable difficulty with the whole concept of faith anyway, I feel a sense of turn-off coming on.

But I will persevere. For a start I’m curious to see what the film makes of the character of Jesus. I’ve long had a suspicion – and I think I’ve said so before on the blog – that what Jesus was actually preaching was completely misunderstood by the Hebrew proletariat, steeped as they were in Judaic conditioning, who were his first followers, and was subsequently turned into an irrational folk tale which has persisted for 2,000 years. I can’t know that, of course, but I’m still interested to see what line the film takes.

Mostly, however, I want to see whether Mary is afforded the gravitas which I think is her due, and which is why bought the damn DVD in the first place.

More Confusion.

I keep coming across videos on YouTube which tell me that my current mental torment – both internal and in relation to the world around me – is a perfectly normal part of experiencing the dark night of the soul. What is actually happening, I’m told, is that I am awakening spiritually and therefore on the way to enlightenment.

Well, that’s encouraging I suppose. It might even be right. But what none of the videos are telling me is whether my persistent desire to experience baked Alaska is part of the process, or whether it indicates authentic insanity and I should check into a clinic.

Disappearing Dreams.

One of the problems of getting older is that it takes your dreams away. And I’m speaking, as you might already have surmised, of daydreams.

 I’ve always been the type inclined to daydream and make no apology for it. What was it Poe said?

 Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

Quite so. And there are different kinds of daydream. My own favourite is what might unkindly be characterised as the Walter Mitty type – fond imaginings of sometimes fantastical scenarios which might actually be gained if I were lucky enough or played my cards right. And some of them actually were, though most were simply too improbable and fell by the wayside.

Things are different now. Improbability has, for the most part, been elevated to impossibility, and all because of age. And that’s a shame because, as you become older and more reclusive, daydreams are usually about the only thing left capable of capturing your imagination and encouraging some level of enthusiasm.

A Whinge, a Worry, and a Werewolf on the Threshold.

It’s about time I had a whinge. It’s what I’m best at and lets me know I’m still functioning, so…

I’ve had the call for my next hospital procedure, and this one is even scarier than the last one. And it isn’t even just one procedure, it’s three. First there’s a trip for a pre-op because the last one has expired, and then another trip for a Covid swab test followed by three days of complete isolation, and finally the business itself. And if that all goes well (which is the scary part) I’ll be told that I mustn’t drive for four weeks. The nearest grocery store is seven miles away, there’s no public transport, I really don’t fancy taxis because coronavirus infections are shooting up at the moment, and I have no practical support. How can I not drive for four weeks?

And today the dear ol’ boys at Google decided to force their new blog interface on me. You know how much I like my stats, don’t you? I do like my stats. With the old interface the details were tidily placed and easily accessible with the minimum of navigation. Now they’re sloppily strewn all over the place and it’s a right bloody pain. I ask myself yet again why those who control our lives, and especially our technology, do so love to mend things which aren’t broken. Why do they insist on crowing about how much they’re improving my life when they’re actually making it more difficult? Why is it that the real glitches which do need mending get left un-addressed for months or even longer? I wish I knew. Or maybe I don’t.

 *  *  *

 Last night I was woken up by a very loud grunting noise which seemed to have come from outside my bedroom door. It was really quite spooky, so I considered what I should do about it. Being unable to think of a reasonably rational explanation, I decided to go back to sleep rather than open the door. It seemed the more sensible option.

A Note on Clickbait.

A message to all YouTubers out there:

Any video with an introduction claiming it will make me ‘laugh out loud’, or is ‘the funniest thing’ I’ve ever seen, or even claims to be ‘absolutely hilarious’ gets passed over immediately. Got it?

Such a claim presumes to know my sense of humour, and you don’t. I consider presumption an insult and therefore very irritating. It’s also intolerably juvenile. If you want me to watch your video, don’t presume to know me. I suspect I speak for a lot of people in so saying.

End of message.

In Defence of Knowing Nothing.

There was a podcast on the BBC News website tonight covering the fact that an anti-Covid vaccine might be ready for general use early in the New Year. I read the first dozen or so comments, and every one of them came from conspiracy theorists making claims ranging from the assertion that Covid doesn’t even exist, to the fact that any vaccine will be a scam to get us all pumped full of ‘nano technology’ (and that will be the end of us.)

It had me thinking about conspiracy theories again, and it occurred to me that conspiracy theory is virtually indistinguishable from religion. It serves a need within a section of the population to believe that there is something hidden below or beyond the surface reality. That’s fine as far as it goes. I, too, suspect that there is something beyond the surface reality, and my lifelong quest has been to find out what it is. The conspiracy theorists, however take a different road from me.

They take whatever real or imagined evidence they can find and use it as the foundation on which to build a more elaborate belief. And then they begin to see themselves as possessors of arcane knowledge, with the upshot that anyone who fails to agree with them is either naïve, deluded, or even complicit in the conspiracy. Furthermore, if we fail to act on their belief, we’re in for seriously deleterious consequences. Religions – especially the Judaic ones – generally do the same thing. Religion and conspiracy theory are both belief systems (as is atheism in my opinion, but in a slightly different way.)

The problem is, of course, that both belief systems have elements which might actually be true, but there’s no way of knowing which bits – if any – they are. The only way of knowing something is to prove it, and once something is proven it’s no longer a theory and soon becomes the very opposite of arcane.

And so when I hear conspiracy theory invective, I’m reminded of those fire-and-brimstone preachers who rail at us that hell awaits anyone who fails to take Jesus into their hearts precisely as they define the process. I’m also reminded of the old maxim: ‘knowledge is power’, and maybe that’s what it’s all about. Maybe even fake, or at best dubious, knowledge can evoke the sense of having received the gift of omnipotence in the mind of the believer.

On Being Under the Weather.

I’ve been feeling ill again today – extreme weariness, nausea, thick head, sore chest, pains in various places, and now my sinuses are beginning to get sore. It’s almost certainly due to the change in the weather. It’s turned suddenly warmer today, and sudden changes in temperature have that effect on me. So do sudden changes in barometric pressure, humidity, and even wind direction sometimes. And then there’s the matter of the usual depression, of course

I’m sure that if I went to a doctor and described my daily round of depression and anxiety, he would diagnose mental illness and bury me under half the contents of the pharmacy (which is one of several reasons why I don’t go to a doctor.)

But he would probably be right, you know. I probably do have some mental illness by the modern definition. It’s just that, where I was brought up, the term ‘mental illness’ was reserved for those given to truly mentally ill forms of behaviour, and I’m not. I don’t escape from the attic at dead of night and set fire to people’s bed linen. I don’t run naked along Ashbourne High Street shouting ‘I’ve just slept with a woman from Turkmenistan and this is me lunch break.’ (Lifted and paraphrased from a line in Spike Milligan’s Puckoon which can no longer be quoted verbatim.) I exhibit no psychotic symptoms whatsoever; I’m just scared to get up in the morning because I know it’s going to be another day of feeling anxious and depressed and I’m thoroughly fed up with it.

But at least I had an email from the priestess to excite my interest when I booted the computer up this morning. It seems the fine trade winds carrying her ship of contentment steadily through the sea of life have suddenly backed and driven her off course. Or maybe she threw the rudder hard over and re-set the sails herself. (I don’t know yet. She was economical with the details.) Maybe she’s even mentally ill, though I very much doubt it. Not the type. I expect I’ll find out sooner or later, assuming I make it through the intervening days.

*  *  *

Today I ordered the DVD of the 2018 movie Mary Magdalene without having been given any firm recommendation. It’s just that I’ve long had some interest in dear old MM, so I thought I’d see what the film made of her. It was a lot more expensive than the used DVDs I usually buy from charity shops, but I still regard charity shops as forbidden territory. All those possibly unwashed strangers milling about, browsing the shelves, picking things up and putting them down again. It doesn’t strike me as a particularly healthy pursuit, and I do so care about the state of my health.