Redaction and Recovery.

I was just reading about Trump’s latest foray into absurdity with his attacks on the Smithsonian and other institutions. He says they’re giving a false view of American history, and what needs to be shouted from the rooftops is everything which can be presented as glorious or grandiose by those with a conservative mindset (or maybe that should be mind(less)set.) Oh, and run by white men of course. Everything dark or dubious must be airbrushed out so as to give a true picture.

You know, we British had a very big empire at one time, and some people still regard it as a glorious achievement. But we don’t pretend that the Amritsar massacre didn’t happen, or that the forced labour camps in India didn’t exist, or that the Croke Park massacre in Ireland is just an urban legend. If history is to be worth anything it must be on a warts-and-all basis, otherwise it isn’t worth a hill ’o beans.

I’m beginning to have a vague, so far unformed suspicion that there’s more to Donald Trump than appears on the surface. He’s too far out, too extreme, too volatile, too bird brained to be just another Republican President. He looks more like a conspiracy theory beginning to take shape, and it looks to me as though America – and maybe the world at large – could be heading for something bad and irreversible if he isn’t stopped sooner rather than later.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, a shout-out for Mark the technician at Plusnet (my ISP.) I spent an hour this afternoon wallowing in techno devices, many twisted and unruly yards of various cables, the litter of cardboard boxes, and much of it spent balancing awkward things on my lap or crouched uncomfortably under the desk where my computer lives. And at the end of it all the new device didn’t work. A further hour was then spent with Mark the technician on the phone. It was hard going but he got me there, and there was even an element of serendipity thrown in for good measure. That little story is a rare one these days.

On Judgment, Ventricles, and Wasted Days.

When I think of my earlier rant about Musk and Starmer I find myself feeling guilty, or at least feeling a sense of failure. It’s because I feel sure that I’m not here to judge; I’m here to observe. It’s a Buddhist teaching, you know – ‘non-judgemental observation’ they call it (unsurprisingly.) But cruelty, injustice, and disregarding the needs and rights of others make me angry. And then anger transposes into judgementalism and I feel it shouldn’t. I feel it lays down a barrier to the process of becoming closer to the universal consciousness, which I suspect is what we’re all supposed to be doing if only we weren’t so blinded by such a narrow perception of reality. And I might be wrong.

*  *  *

I feel nauseous and have a slight pounding in my chest tonight. It’s probably due to my gardening exertions today – digging and raking and sowing the mangetout and potatoes. I think it’s probably my underperforming left ventricle judging me and getting angry for subjecting it to the sort of exertions to which it is not kindly given these days. (I wonder whether a left ventricle can learn to be Buddhist.)

*  *  *

Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of my kidney operation and all the attendant fallout which followed. Doesn’t time fly when you’re getting closer to the terminus?

*  *  *

And I’m getting those inclinations of inevitable mortality again when I realise that my life as a human being called JJ is finite and has only so many days in it, and every evening it occurs to me that I’ve used up another one and ask whether I did anything worthwhile with it. Usually I haven’t.

America's Ebeneezer.

Did I read it right this morning? Did Elon Musk really say this week: ‘The biggest weakness in the western world is empathy’? If I did, I’m curious to know whether he has ever been known to utter Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses? or maybe let them die and reduce the surplus population. (I think he was also a little lacking in the matter of vocabulary. What I’m sure he probably meant was ‘sympathy’, not ‘empathy.’ They’re different. But that’s a minor point and his meaning is well taken. And if there’s one thing we don’t expect of people in the higher echelons of power in the US these days, it’s precise English. It’s even becoming almost a rarity in the UK.)

*  *  *

Meanwhile, back on home ground, Mr Starmer and his Chancellor are pushing forward with their war on welfare. The main victims are the sick and disabled, but Starmer continues to decline the option of taxing the very rich a bit more which I’m told could produce comparable pecuniary benefit. What he is considering is giving special tax breaks to American tech giants in order to appease Donald Trump in the hope that Mr President will be kind to Britain in the matter of trade tariffs. The word ‘blackmail’ springs easily to mind. And the concomitant phrase ‘giving in to blackmail’ follows close behind.

This is a strange affair. End of rant.

A Lesson to Suit a Loner.

Young Sarah passed me in Sainsbury’s today. She’s the young barista in the Costa coffee shop whose working style I so admire and to whom I recited one of my ditties recently.

I watched her as she walked by, intending to say nothing more than ‘hello Sarah’ but she sidled past without giving me so much as half a glance. In fact, her demeanour suggested a thought process along the lines of: ‘I know I’ve noticed you, but I don’t want you to know I’ve noticed you.’

I wonder whether she interprets my frank and forthright manner as indicating creepiness. Or maybe she’s just shy. Or maybe I really am creepy and never noticed.

I hardly ever talk to anybody, you know, but if I’m going to be thought creepy I think it would be better if I stopped talking to anybody at all. I have only so many breaths allotted to me for this lifetime so why not be greedy and keep them all to myself?

Leaving With the Dolphins.

The statements of certain senior political figures in the US have made one thing quite clear over the past few weeks: America is no longer interested in watching Europe’s back. It has to stop, they say, because it’s ‘pathetic.’ They’ve shifted now to describing Putin in glowing terms. He’s being described as a good man, honest and trustworthy. ‘I like Putin,’ said one senior member of Trump’s team ‘and the President was very moved by the portrait.’

(I’m all for politeness and even conviviality in matters diplomatic, but the relationship between the Putin and Trump teams is becoming a little too close, methinks. It’s more than strange, more even than creepy. It looks menacing for the cause of world peace.)

And so we have portraits and palliness, and all annotated with infantile language and emojis on official documents. So are we now heading for the biggest diplomatic divorce case in world history? Has the time come to say ‘So long, America, and thanks for all the candyfloss.’ In the case of the UK, is the ‘special relationship’ now dead and come to dust?

I can’t know the answer to that one because I don’t know the complexities of macro economics, and there are those will say ‘don’t worry, it’s only for anther 3½ years and then we can become adults again.’ But is it, or will Trump somehow contrive to change the system? He’s already reminding me of the little guy who runs North Korea, and in so doing suggesting a whiff of a third world dictatorship about the USA, so who knows?

Given the state of my body these days, I think there’s a good chance I’ll be watching with interest from the other side.

The Starting Gun.

The snowdrops which have proliferated in the Shire this year have faded into a well earned rest now. The narrow strip of woodland at the top of my lane, which played host to a regiment of snowdrops, is now being washed with the creamier white of the wood anemones. A forest of heavy bluebell growth promises to turn the woodland floor blue before very long. The blackthorn trees have donned their all-encompassing white cloaks, and the hawthorn bushes in the hedgerows are garlanded with the green of fresh new leaves. Yesterday I saw the first pink blossom on a cherry tree, and today it was the slightly darker pink on a flowering currant in my neighbour’s garden.

And so the race begins. We will now rush with indecent haste past the ever-changing exposition of nature’s colourful bounty of flowers and leaves and berries and fruit until the wool appears on the willowherb and it will all be over for another year. It all seems to happen so quickly.

Remaining Circumspect.

We were treated to the first of the summer-style sunsets this evening. A vast swathe of the western sky was awash with salmon pink mackerel clouds set among a background of pale grey and pale blue sky. Very summery, I thought, but then asked myself whether this was an example of nature smiling to deceive because that’s what I always think. Tomorrow is the vernal equinox.

On Nursing and Netanyahu.

I was thinking this morning about the rationale for not paying nurses high salaries. I think I might have said this before, but I don’t remember so I’ll say it again.

It seems to me that nursing is more than just a job; it’s a vocation. As such, the people who choose nursing must do so – as with any vocation – primarily because it’s what they want to do irrespective of the level of pecuniary reward. If nurses were paid high salaries it’s likely that the profession would attract those driven by the money imperative, and that would be likely to lead to a dilution of the general standard. It sounds unfair, I know, because in a perfectly reasonable sense it is unfair. But it’s a valid point of view nonetheless.

But let’s not kid ourselves regarding the real reason why nurses are not paid high salaries. The fact is that we in the west live under rampantly free market economic systems in which the value of everything is assessed according to its capacity to make money. Nurses are not there for that reason; they’re there to care for people in situations of ill health and distress, and caring for people will always come second best to the making of money in a rampantly free market economy.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I note that Benjamin Netanyahu is still racing through the field to challenge Genghis Khan for first position in the World’s Greatest Mass Murderer Stakes. Fortunately I’m not a betting man, but merely a compassionate one who feels greatly disturbed by the suffering of the innocent.

And my concern naturally extends to those Israelis who still have loved ones held hostage because the need of revenge is a highly potent force in the human condition. Further, it strikes me as ironic that, notwithstanding the original atrocity committed by Hamas in October, if they should leave the remaining hostages unharmed in spite of Mr Netanyahu’s latest descent into genocidal behaviour, the balance of the moral high ground would swing in favour of Hamas. The quality of reason does so like to spring surprises sometimes.

For my part, I try to fall back on the theory that if this world were perfect there would be no reason for it to exist.

On the Divine Right of Presidents and Other Notes.

There’s an interesting smell coming over the water from the USA. It’s a little rancid, but interesting nonetheless. Having read about the redactions on the Arlington Cemetery website, the crackdown on Voice of America, and the invoking of a historical wartime process in order to justify the expulsion of Venezuelans, it appears that Donald Trump is rapidly shifting his position from elected President to genuine, right wing dictator.

This is fascinating because it bears a vague echo of the spat between King Charles I and the English parliament in the 17^th century, and Charles eventually lost his head – literally. Remember me once saying that it might take a revolt by the military to get rid of Donald Trump? Bit of a long shot I admit, but you never know.

*  *  *

A psychiatrist on YouTube told me last night that social isolation can cause changes to the brain and is a bad thing. If anybody tells me that to my face, I have my answer ready.

*  *  *

And I’ve started watching the second series of the Norwegian cop drama Wisting. Did I say it was just as glum as the Swedish cop drama Wallander? It’s becoming glummer. Lovely.

*  *  *

Two or three years ago I sprained my left wrist and all I could get out of a physio was ‘I don’t know what that is.’ It passed off eventually and took to making intermittent but relatively minor reappearances. Last night it came back with a vengeance, just when I need my left wrist to contribute to spring work in the garden. Not lovely. (But possibly a side effect of changes to the brain as a result of social isolation.)

Decisions Easy and Hard.

I had a phone call from Mel this evening. ‘Something urgent has come up,’ she began. She went on to explain that her cat had developed a condition which she’d been advised could be fatal if not treated quickly, and could she borrow £250 to pay the vet’s bill. She had a taxi booked to take her to the surgery because her car’s in dock at the moment. And so I went online and paid the requisite amount into her bank account and felt relieved that I’d finally been able to do something useful for the first time in a long time. Louie is very precious, you see, and still young. This is a picture of him as a kitten – irresistible, don’t you think.

 

And then I decided to watch the final episode of Inside Number 9, which has been entertaining me at the rate of one episode a night for the past eight weeks. Half way through the programme I entered a dreamlike state in which I was standing on a balmy tropical shore with the waves of an azure sea lapping gently against the golden sand and the air suffused with the combined aroma of pineapples and camel dung. Standing in front of me side by side were Cary Mulligan and Amanda Abington. They looked imploringly into my eyes and spoke as one: ‘Please take one of us as your own,’ they began, ‘for without you we can no longer revel in the pleasure of being alive. Which one of us shall it be?’ And then I turned into the Buddhist goat – you know, the starving one faced with two paths, each of which has a pile of food at the far end; the one that stands there wracked with indecision until it dies of starvation.