Noting the Lunar Graveyard.

I've mentioned the waning crescent moon and its sickly aspect before on this blog. At the moment it's in the north-eastern sky when I go to bed at around 2.30, and it looks as though it's about to utter the death rattle. I regarded it through the bathroom window last night and a thought occurred to me. 

If I'd been the tribal wise person in a group of hunter/gatherers during less complicated times, I probably would have advised my flock not to walk in a north-easterly direction at night because that's where moons go to die.

The Brit Priority.

One of the YouTube channels I regularly watch is called Lauren the Mortician. It's run by a woman called Lauren who is a mortician. She's American - from somewhere in the Midwest, I think - and her channel covers the whole process of death from the effects of crashing on a motorbike to spirits haunting the corridors of the funeral home for a few hours after decease. It's all fairly light-hearted and even funny in parts.

But at the end of her videos she usually brings her French Bulldog (called Mango) into the act. Mango is very boisterous, squirms an awful lot, and licks the Lady Lauren furiously around the chin and mouth. Lauren refers to the whole process as 'mango kisses.' I would call it something else, which is why I dropped a comment on a recent post, praising her personality, humour, commentary skills, and storytelling, and finished with an opinion that when it comes to her turn to be laid out on the mortuary table, her embalmer will probably have difficulty washing all the dog spit off her chin. She hasn't replied.

Expletive Accepted.

Being a natural student of the English language, I often wonder where our expletives came from, and also how they've progressed in terms of strength and commonality of use down the years.

When I was a boy the expletive 'bloody' was considered reasonably serious, and any child using it would have been soundly reprimanded. But it became less serious over the following few years, and when my young nephew attended a wedding and exclaimed loudly about one of the guests: 'Look at that bloody hat!' everyone thought it was funny. The f-word is the current serious one, of course, but even that is now becoming very nearly acceptable and used at all levels of society.

What caused me to think about this was wondering how the word 'blasted' became a mild expletive - as in if he does that again I'll box his blasted ears or you're a blasted nuisance, boy. I wonder whether it came from Macbeth's question to the witches: Why do you stop our way upon this blasted heath? I don't suppose I'll ever know.

A Modern and Mathematical Issue.

Because I live in a rented house I had to submit to a four hour check on the whole electrical system recently. The electrician found one issue: my bathroom had a standard pendant light fitting on the ceiling – you know, the simple sort into which you screw a new bulb when the old one blows. Apparently, this is now frowned upon and deemed to be unsafe, so today I had to have a new light fitting mounted in its place.

I went to have a look at it after the electrician had finished because it was completely unfamiliar in design and I wanted to know how to change the bulb.

‘It doesn’t use a bulb,’ said the expert. ‘It has an LCD panel permanently fitted.’

‘So how do I change the panel when the old one blows?’

‘You don’t. You have to have a complete new unit.’

‘Sounds expensive.’

‘It is.’

‘In that case, how long should the LCD panel last?’

‘I believe it’s about 10,000 hours.’ he replied confidently.

Right, so now let’s do the sums:

I estimated that the light in the bathroom is on, year round, for about 20 minutes a day – less in the long days of summer and more in the short, dark days of winter. So 20 mins a day equals an hour every three days. That’s step #1. Now for the calculation.

How many periods of three days are there in a year? Let’s call it 120 for simplicity. So the light is on for 120 hours per year. Is that correct? (I think so. I used to find that kind of thing very easy but my brain is older than it used to be.) Now for the big one. Let’s get the calculator so my brain doesn’t melt.

10,000 ÷ 120 = 83 years.

That seems an awfully long time to me, but if it’s correct I needn’t worry too much because it will see me out by a long way. Then again, the electrician might have been guessing. And if my logic is faulty, please, please, somebody tell me.

But now for the real problem. All the bulbs in my house are Warm White in colour temperature. The one in the new fitting is Daylight and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. And what it means is this. Since my eyes are accustomed to Warm White, when I go into the bathroom and switch on the light, every white surface – and there are a lot of them – appears pale blue. To an ex-photographer who is very sensitive to colour, that’s irritating.

Wilding the Shire With Yellow.

We have a re-wilding programme in the UK through which farmers are paid a subsidy to give part of their cornfields over to the sowing of wild plants. Two of the fields in Church Lane, at the dip below the landlord's mansion, have been so treated. (That's where the huge Copper Beech tree stands, the one under which I've requested that my ashes be scattered when I'm gone. There's a very fond memory attached to that spot, you see, and it will be a pleasant place for my ghost to say 'boo' to unsuspecting passers by. I might even whisper their names if I happen to know them.) 

 

In previous years the predominant colour of the flowers growing there has been blue, and blue is beginning to show itself again this year. But this year we have a treat. Rising above the wild plants are a number of golden yellow sunflowers. I assume certain insects and birds must be partial to sunflower seeds, but to us mere mortals they simply provide a feast for the eyes.

A Brief Note on Defining Value.

I was thinking again this morning about the fact that money doesn't actually exist; it's just a theoretical exchange mechanism which relies solely on consensus and trust to establish its apparent validity. And then it occurred to me that a far more 'concrete' form of currency is gold because gold is at least solid. People covet gold because it's so valuable, but gold is only valuable because people covet it. An ingot of gold is actually just a lump of metal. Don't we humans have some very silly ways of doing things? (And then it occurred to me that the most valuable commodity on earth is clean water which falls freely from the sky. And some people accumulate monetary wealth by being in the business of supplying it. Capitalism disappearing up its own fundament?)

Adding to the Knowledge Base.

As a result of discovering a spider trapped in my kitchen sink this morning -- and being subsequently rescued by me, of course -- I discovered something interesting. Spider silk is remarkably resistant to water pressure.

Fancy getting to my age without discovering that little gem, so many thanks to the arachnid in my kitchen. (And does this go some way to vindicating the old maxim that your enemy is your greatest teacher?)

The Problem With Imagination.

I went into my bathroom tonight and was suddenly beset by a vivid flash of imagination. Something was in my house and approaching me – something which the most extremely speculative reasoning couldn’t possibly account for; something which clearly had no right to be there. It was surprisingly scary, especially since it allowed the possibility of a repeat encounter.

I considered whether I should write it down as a piece of fiction since it had a commendable hint of Murakami about it. But you see, all the scary stuff I wrote during my period of writing scary stuff never scared me. Why would it? My imagination was, after all, just having fun. This wasn’t fun, so I probably won’t.

Serving the Cruelty Gene.

My YouTube’s recommendations have suddenly started to include videos of people being ‘eaten alive’ by predatory animals. Needless to say I haven’t watched any of them, but it raises certain questions:

1. What kind of human being wants to watch a video of anything, especially a fellow human, undergoing the horror of being eaten alive?

2. Are these videos real or AI-generated? If they’re real, who is filming them and how? I think AI generation is most likely.

3. Why is YouTube recommending these travesties of decency to me? The only animal videos I watch are the occasional animal rescue ones if they look genuine, and that doesn’t amount to very many. And I never watch videos of people being forced to suffer in any way, so what is going on with YouTube’s algorithms?

4. Have we reached the point at which a public and highly profitable platform is allowing the production of fake and extremely nasty material clearly aimed at perverted minds, and claiming that it’s real? If these things can be allowed to exist, shouldn’t they be restricted to the dark web which, apparently, thrives on the darkest side of human nature?

I suppose the opportunity to watch this kind of thing is the modern alternative for those who used to shake with excitement at the prospect of watching some poor soul being burned alive at the stake. Will the human race ever aspire to its potential, I wonder?

Re-Posting to Fill a Gap.

Yesterday I thought of two blog posts which I intended to write up on the morrow. But now the morrow is here I can’t remember what they were about, so I can’t.

Nil desperandum, however. Something I was musing on earlier reminded me of an old ditty I posted to this blog many years ago. Though short, it’s one of the very few I might almost grace with term ‘poem’ (but only just.) The muse, incidentally, centred around growing up in an industrial area surrounded by a hundred thousand chimneys belching soot into the air (day and night during the winter.) The ditty (almost poem) never had a title, so I’ll give it one now. It’s called On Seeing a Chinese Lady Looking Wan in February.

Should I compare thee to a smoggy day in old Beijing

Where ne’er a merry roundelay is heard

 

For not a bird will deign to sing

To woo his mate with lovelorn din

 

But coughs instead

(In Mandarin)

And now I’m in the mood I think I’ll re-post the other ditty-which-comes-close-to-being-called-a-poem. This one doesn’t have a title either because I was never able to think of one. I still can’t.

Is there something afoot Mistress Bella la Belle

Are you going away in the morning

Will you leave the home shore without saying farewell

While the dew is still sweet at the dawning

 

As I’m settled in sleep and the sun tolls a knell

Will I heed not the want of a warning

And whene’er you return will the spectre re-tell

Of the day you set sail in the morning

If I said that this is about Egypt you’d call me puddled, wouldn’t you? (At least you would if you came from my bit of industrial England.) In that case I won’t bother.

And it might be considered notable that the last time I made thirty or more posts in one month was 2½ half years ago. Make of it what you will.