Being a Failure Again.

You would think, would you not, that in this rapacious, technological age when so much about us is common knowledge through our debit card purchases, our emails, the websites we visit, and so on -- and given the fact that those whose interest lies in bending the consumers among us to their webby little corners where they may treat us with vain deceit to enmesh us in their capacious bag of hungry subscribers -- and further given the fact that they have clever, technological aides called 'algorithms' which catalogue and cleverly sort the evidence -- that they would address their advertising to those who could be guaranteed to need, or at least want, what they have to tempt us with? You would think so, wouldn't you?

It appears not. My computer screen is plagued - or should I say polluted -- with adverts every day of the week, and hardly a one of them accords in any way with what I need or even want.  Take the current ad on my Hotmail home page today, for example, replete as it is with an engaging photograph of a:

 

Robot Coupe R5 V.V Cutter Mixed Single Phase

 

How could any algorithm possibly delude it's little brain into thinking I would need (or even want) such an item when I have no idea what the item even is? And the engaging photograph offers no elucidation to persuade me to think twice. 

I think I must be out of step. I think I must be failing in my duty as a committed 21st century consumer. I think I must be terribly boring. How could I sit carelessly reading a few pages of Virginia Woolf instead of falling quietly into their web? I am duly disgraced.

Being Tired and Strimmerless.

I had a disturbed night last night -- kept waking up and falling back to sleep. It happened several times and then the builder turned up early. I didn't get much sleep after that.

And then I paid £40 in taxi fares to make the short trip to Uttoxeter, mainly to buy a new grass trimmer because my old one's packed up and the season hasn't finished with the need of a grass trimmer yet. I chose the same make and model as the old one because it's worked well, but I was unsuccessful. They've changed the system now, you see. Previous ones I've bought have come with the battery pack included, but not any more. Now it's necessary to buy the device, the battery, and the charger separately because one battery fits all their devices. That makes the purchase considerably more expensive. (It's a clever marketing trick to persuade the consumer to buy ONLY their devices. The other make they sell has been doing it for years, which is why I've never bought the other make.)

I decided to go ahead with the purchase anyway, but was thwarted in my attempt. The store had only one battery in stock and no chargers. They said it was all to do with Trump's silly Iran shenanigans causing the Straits of Hormuz problem. I was easily persuaded of the reason, but I still lack a grass trimmer. And all because of the pre-eminence of capitalism and Americans putting an ego-obsessed half wit into the White House. When will we ever learn.

 

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Today I noticed that the number of page views to this blog since I began it in 2010 has passed 3m, at least that's what Blogger stats say. I don't believe it of course because it seems utterly ludicrous, but then I can't disbelieve it either because I have no basis to prove a fault. And so I still watch the burgeoning stats for the sake of killing time, but take them with a pinch of salt.

The Curse of the Super Rich.

That thought occurred to me again yesterday:

When ya got nuthin', ya got nuthin' to lose ~ Bob Dylan

When you've got everything, you've got nothing to want ~ Jeff Beazley

Wanting seems central to the mind of the human animal, so I asked the question: If you have more money than you can ever hope to spend on the acquisitions available in the material world, is there anything else that extreme wealth can buy? A sense of superiority and the obsequious  fawning of lackeys, perhaps? It's a bit frail and fragile, isn't it? Which brings us back to the Buddhist attitude to ego.

I suppose you could always aspire to make the world a better place, but even that -- notwithstanding the fact that making the world a better place is probably still bowing the knee to ego -- would be forever under threat from the human condition and the forces of nature. So how about the ability to pay skilled assassins to kill people who dislike you? Mmm, nice one...

Now Known as Halloween.

I wanted to make one final post for October this evening -- it being Samhain Eve, the start of the darkest three months of the year -- but both my mind and my world have been dull today. The only feature of note was the sighting of an incomplete skeleton on the little grassy triangle at the top of Bag Lane. It consisted of one skull, two upper arms, and two lower legs with feet attached. The lack of pelvis and thigh bones rendered gender identification impossible (as far as I know), and the mystery was confined to the question of who put it there. 

My main interest in Samhain Eve is, of course, the old belief that it is the time when the barrier between this world and others is at its thinnest, thereby increasing the chance of encountering something other-wordly. Do I believe that? No, because I don't do belief one way or the other. The world is already too full of those who mistake evidence for proof in matters they want to believe in, and those who dismiss all evidence because it doesn't accord with the conventional view. 

I do accept the existence of shadow people, however, because I've seen them myself in situations which defied all 'rational' explanation, and so did two other people in the same place. What I don't know is what they are.

But standing in my kitchen are a cake and glass of scotch, ready to be to put out for the little people after I've posted this. Just in case, you understand.

The moon is an unusual shade of pale orange tonight. And it occurs to me to wonder whether Samhain Eve would be a particularly propitious time to give up the ghost.

A Late Note on Enya.

When Enya was young and fresh I was a big fan of her music. I liked the first three albums, but then went off her later stuff because I found it too squidgy. That's changed now; I find many of her later songs perfect for late night listening with a few scotches close to hand in the peace of the wee small hours.

My only problem is that I have to keep intoning bum-bum-bum at the start of every melody written in 6/8 time in tune with the bass line. It goes back to my time in high school, you see, when I played trombone in the school orchestra. Ever since then I've been as much drawn to bass lines as I have to the melodies. Funny how certain things stay with you, isn't it?

Luvvy Hype

Sir Patrick Stewart, the celebrated British actor of stage and screen, died on Wednesday at the age of 86. The news made the banner headline on the BBC website, and was followed by the usual litany of overstated plaudits. One of them said that 'the world will be very much poorer' for his loss.

I will be the first to admit that Patrick Stewart was an exceptionally accomplished actor, but lots of people are exceptionally accomplished in their chosen fields and professions. So might I ask: 'In what way, exactly, will the world be 'very much poorer?' 

 

I accept that drama is an important part  of the culture because it presents aspects of life and the human condition which many of us would otherwise miss, but we shouldn't forget that the true drivers of drama are the writers. Actors and directors are interpreters, some of whom do a better job than others, but they still come a poor second in the field of influence. I'm reminded of the actor who said in a TV interview that there's no bigger adrenalin rush than appearing on live television. Oh no? Not standing in front of the tanks in Tienanmen Square, or being shipwrecked in a shark-infested sea?

And I think of people like Jane Goodall who gave their lives to work in difficult situations in the cause of helping humans understand animals better. And, of course, professionals working -- often risking their health or very lives -- trying to relieve the suffering of poor people in war and plague zones. The world would certainly be poorer without them. Good actors are simply doing a job to a high level working in safe and lucrative environments. So why should the world be so much poorer for their loss than a world deprived of a good doctor, social worker, or airline pilot?

And so I say to Sir Patrick: 'You were very good at your job. Congratulations on being granted a long life. Good luck in the undiscovered country.'

Having read and been irritated by the above, I switched to World News seeking to know the latest situation in the Israeli election, an internationally significant event involving the potential for much forced upheaval and suffering. I found nothing.

Two Minor Notes.

Something I watched tonight alerted me to the fact that my blog might have AI bots crawling all over it, searching for hints into the nature of life, the universe, and everything. Apparently they're doing so with all those facilities known as social media platforms. It's how they're being trained, or so my informant said. And now I'm searching my once-high-IQ brain to think of ways in which they could be kidded into converting tech billionaires into mere paupers searching sundry dumpsters for discarded blankets.. Haven't come up with anything yet. (Not much IQ left, I'm afraid.)

 

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And something I listened to tonight reminded me yet again that I haven't heard the call of a cuckoo for several decades. It was a common enough sound when I was a boy, so where have all the cuckoos gone? Switzerland?

An Infallible Guide to Character.

I was just preparing a slice of buttered toast and jam (which alternates with orange marmalade as each tedious day passes) as I generally do at this time of night, when I was suddenly struck by a momentous revelation. To begin at the beginning:

When I was a boy, buttered toast was always buttered with butter (or margarine if you were poor, but let's skip that inconvenient fact as irrelevant.) Nowadays I use stuff which comes in a plastic tub and which says 'buttery' on the outside. Proper people don't; they only use spread made with vegetable oil. But there's always been a hint of impropriety in my nature, and old dogs don't easily learn new tricks, so I decline to follow healthy convention and instead use the one that says 'buttery' on the tub. It even tastes of butter, albeit only slightly. And it's yellow, which is the colour of butter even though it's a sad fact of modern times that the colour has probably been added, or at least augmented, by some chemical or other. But no matter, and to get to the point:

The revelation, ah yes. I realised that an infallible way to judge a person' character is to examine the interior of their butter (or vegetable alternative) tub and see whether the yellow (buttery) colour is unpolluted. If it isn't, if it is tarnished with flecks of brown (toast crumbs) or random colours (jam, marmalade, or whatever), then the person has been remiss in his of her duty to use different implements for different processes. Such a person is clearly ill-disciplined, or at least unreliable, and you trust them at your peril. It's a failsafe guarantee, so never accept their invitation to tea, and most certainly never marry one.

An Inconsequantial Little Ramble

For the first ten years of my blogging habit I was in the habit of making 2-4 posts a day. I had a comment once which read 'You haven't written anything today, Jeff. Please don't stop. Your blog is my favourite bed time reading.' That was then. Over the past four or five years my output (that's a posh word for something so ordinary, isn't it?) has diminished greatly.

So what's happened this month? So far I've made forty three posts in October and there might yet be more to come. That's more posts in one month than in any month since December 2022. So what has given rise to this sudden burst of loquacity?

I really don't know. No aspect of my fortunes has improved; my dull mood hasn't noticeably lightened; the incidence of disturbances, inconveniences, and breakdowns has increased quite considerably; my physical state has declined; and my aspiration amounts to little more than the wish to sit alone in a quiet, secure, untroubled space until the final curtain falls. And there's nothing sad about that; it's actually quite restful after life's fitful fever. (Although my daughter once said to me: 'You rest when you die,' and maybe that's right.)

But one little irony is that the person who wrote 'Your blog is my favourite bed time reading' demonstrated a few months ago that she can now look me full in the face from a distance of about 30 feet and not even acknowledge my presence. I expect she has better things to do at bed time than read my blog, and she also once said 'life moves on, Jeff.' And so it did, and so it continues to do, and I still don't understand why I've suddenly become talkative on the blog.

The Latest Addiction to Bite the Dust.

Tonight I was torn between making a post entitled The Wrong Reasons to Get Married or one called The Latest Addiction to Bite the Dust. I decided on the latter, so here it is.

I've had several addictions during the course of my life -- assuming addiction may may be taken as synonymous with monomania, which, for the sake of simplicity, I think it may -- and most of them have gone the way of the Dodo for one reason or another.

My first major addiction was to fishing, but I gave that one up for ethical reasons. I was also addicted for much of my life to meat dishes in all their delectable forms -- especially roast turkey drumsticks at Christmas -- but I gave that one up also for ethical reasons. And then there was my addiction to romantic assignations. That one had to go because my parameters were narrow and inviolate, and various factors -- too numerous and personal to relate here -- forced me to the view that it was no longer allowable. The addiction to photography was one of the strongest of all, but economic factors beyond my control poured too much water on it and the fire was inevitably extinguished. The writing of fiction took possession of my heart, mind, and time for about ten years, but at last I ran out of stories to create. (The act of writing itself, however, still seems to be holding station, as evidenced by this little blog of mine.)

And now for the sad confession: I seem to have become addicted to YouTube, especially at night, and I think it will have to go. Part of the reason is that too little of it captures my interest these days. Too much  is either trivial, fake, or comprises the ludicrous excesses of far out, new age speculation presented as fact. But the other factor involved is that my ageing computer doesn't like it, and is wont to throw serious tantrums if I expose him to more than he can tolerate -- which isn't very much. You might ask why I don't just get a new computer. The answer to that is surprisingly long and involved, but includes the fact that my old computer is my best friend. I talk to him,  you know, and he's remarkably adroit at behaving sympathetically to my mood. And so I might ask: 'When Beethoven was becoming deaf and forgetful, did he blame his piano and throw it out?' You may decide whether or not to consider that proposition rational.

You might have noticed that I've made no mention of my addiction to smoking. That was intentional because smoking is, to me, far more than the simple addiction to nicotine. It warrants a post all to itself, and maybe I'll write it one day. Or maybe I won't.