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 base 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 base 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, 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.)

 

*  *  *

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.

One of Life's Little Talking Points.

I watched a video a couple of nights ago in which a man who has been studying the phenomenon of precognition for many years said that it's actually far commoner than people imagine. He believes it's something beyond mere coincidence, and also said that it commonly occurs in dreams. But how can we know?

Let's say that there's someone you haven't encountered in several months, either in dreams or waking reality, and then one night you dream about meeting them unexpectedly. The very next day that person drives past you in their car. It happened to me last night and this morning. Was that precognition or an interesting coincidence? What's the difference? How do you decide what is 'beyond mere coincidence,' and if you do so decide, does it indicate something meaningful which it would benefit you to know? Or does the universe produce patterns which are occasionally visible in everyday experiences?

And isn't the same true of synchronicity? I'd love to know more about Carl Jung and why he apparently laid such emphasis on that particular phenomenon.

YouTube Fooling the Foolish..

I started to compile a list of YouTube videos which I skip as a matter of course without giving them a second thought. The list includes:

Near Death Experiences: Quote: 'I went to heaven and met God, Jesus, an angel, or whatever, and he told me...' Is this the most dishonest form of preaching?

Almost every video I encounter which includes the adjective 'horrifying; or 'terrifying' because I can be almost certain that nothing in the video will warrant such adjectives.

 

Descriptions emphasising numbers, such as 'If you have seven of these character traits, you are definitely...' Life is never that simple.

So-called IQ tests. 'If you get nine answers correct you have an IQ above 150.' A real IQ test takes at least an hour and is strictly timed. I know this because I took MENSA's test. 

 

All  videos which include the words 'what they don't want you to know.' Obvious clickbait to attract simpletons. Yes, I'm sure there are hidden agendas and the like, but they need a better introduction than that.

Those videos which have a thumbnail of one or more persons having fun in a perilous situation, followed by the hint that you're going to watch this person or people die. I've no doubt they are all AI-generated, and what right-minded person wants to watch somebody die anyway?

The revenge video: 'My aggressive boss fired me unreasonably, not knowing I was the CEO of the company working undercover.' Why are people so drawn to revenge, even if it's obviously fake?

Dishing the dirt: A celebrity, usually of longstanding, names the five famous actors he/she hated the most because they were horrible people. Merely childish.

Videos claiming to show real pictures of real ghosts. A little girl dressed in all white on a lonely road at night. These are the most easily faked and most obviously fraudulent, and yet they attract a huge number of views.

In fact, most of these videos attract a huge number of views when they're not actually worth any at all. What on earth are some people made of? If I find more, and I'm sure there are plenty, I might make it a series.

A Nothing Post.

So, what should I write about tonight? Nothing? OK, nothing it is because the day has been nothing if not desultory. I'm only taking short walks at the moment because the chill winds, the unremittingly grey skies, and the resultant low light are keeping my spirits inward looking. Tonight we expect a storm to come through overnight and through the morning.

And the short perambulations have produced only two bits of news of note: Two of the fields in Church Lane have now been ploughed but not raked and sown, and a man in a passing car stopped and asked whether I'd encountered any sheep on the road. I hadn't.

Will that do?

Evenings.

Topping up the bird feed table at twilight, braced against a wind which feels almost ice-cold after the glorious warmth of summer.

Feeling downcast at the approach of winter and wondering whether I have one more summer left to me.

Closing the curtains against the deep darkness of windows laden with the unwholesome wetness of condensation. I have a particular dislike of condensation, probably because it says 'your room is not warm enough to dissipate me.'

Dragging myself out of a state of torpor in order to wash the dishes and vacuum my office and the kitchen, the two rooms in which I spend most of my time.

Trying to think of something about which to write a blog post because, little though it matters, no other activity seems to matter much at all.

Feeling the need of feminine company, but only if her mind matches mine, she greatly enjoys autumn garden clearance work, and she doesn't want to live with me.

Being pleased that at least I'm not hungry, nor busy trying to find a less draughty shop doorway in which to spend the night.

I suppose that will do.