It Being January.

Warning: Downbeat.

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

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

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

*  *  *

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

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

Make sure you grab a basket or trolley

You’re going to need it!

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

Class at Last.

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

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

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

Late.

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

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

The Big Mystery and a Big Find.

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *

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

A Curious Piece of Perception.

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

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

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

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

On Einzelganger and Being Invisible.

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

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

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

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

On City Hall and Soaring Costs.

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

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

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

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

Inconsequential Oddments Vaguely Connected by Time.

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

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

*  *  *

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

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

*  *  *

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

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

On Yin, Yang, and Relics of Yore.

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

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

*  *  *

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

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

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

*  *  *

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

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

On Fools and Fine Ladies.

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

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

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

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

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