Another Late Muse.

August began with the ancient Celtic festival of Lughnasa, the nominal start of autumn. As I understand it, it’s all about the harvest.

I read recently that the harvest is all but ruined in Britain this year, courtesy of a record wet winter, an unusually dry, warm spring, and a changeable summer with lots of rain. The wheat crop has been unable to cope, millers have little to work with, the price of bread is going to rise, and the meteorologists say it’s the shape of things to come. When nature tells us that the world is changing, maybe we’d better believe it.

And what of the pandemic? Don’t you begin to sense that the ship of history is resetting its sails and steering a new course? My personal ship of history is nearing its destination, and if metempsychosis is truly a fact I suppose I must expect to wake into a different world. The young ones may have the turbulence.

Seeing the Lyrical Light.

For many years I’ve had an album of blues classics in my car which gets played on a rota basis with the others. One of the tracks is sung by a man with that particular variety of black, Deep South accent which is very distinctive, and for quite a long time I thought I was hearing ‘Well, I’m a canned bean.’

This was always problematic for two reasons: firstly, the state of being a canned bean seemed curiously at odds with the usual themes one expects of songs in the blues tradition, and secondly, the rest of the lyrics seemed quite incompatible with a man claiming to be a canned bean. And then one fine day, clarity asserted its almighty presence. What he’s actually singing is ‘Well, I’m a king bee, buzzin’ around your hive.’

The rest of the now-evidently raunchy lyrics suddenly made sense, and it occurred to me that the average vicar, or anyone who has lived a sheltered life for that matter, might not understand the metaphorical reference to a ‘hive.’ Fortunately (if one is to make of the poetry what it truly is), I’m not a vicar and my life has been generally devoid of shelter.

Trump and the Donkey Question.

I didn’t read the news report on Trump’s address to the Republican convention yesterday, all I read was the headline which quoted him as saying: ‘Biden will destroy America’s greatness.’ Well now, I once referred to Trump as ‘a braying donkey.’ It seems I should now apologise to all donkeys everywhere, and so I do.

It did occur to me to wonder what would happen if donkeys were allowed onto the presidential ballot (as long as they were born in the good ol’ US of A, of course…) How many people would vote for the donkey rather than Trump or Biden? Pity we shall never know.

And I did read a comment from an American woman on one of Sarah Cooper’s YouTube videos. She said ‘November will be a test of America’s IQ.’ Quite so, and I can truly say that I will sympathise with those Americans whose IQ exceeds around 50 if Trump wins.

Today's Scary Adventure.

I sat in the reception area at the hospital this morning cradling the papier maché tray containing my urine sample (in a sealed little bottle so you don’t spill it), when I noticed that the middle aged woman sitting in the next seat (suitably socially distanced, you understand) was doing the same. And then, much to my surprise, I further noticed that the colour of her sample was just about exactly the same as mine. I considered pointing out to her that I used to be a professional photographer and my colour vision is excellent, and that maybe the correspondence of hues indicated that we might be distant cousins or something. But I didn’t because she looked far too prim and I’ve discovered through the course of a somewhat fractured life that scandalising prim middle aged women can be rather dangerous.

As for the scary bit I mentioned last night, it turned out fine. I even got to have quite a long conversation with a dark haired nurse from Donegal (which ought to be a song title, but as far as I’m aware it isn’t.) When I mentioned that two of my abiding passions in life were always whisky and colleens, there was general agreement that such proclivities are very Irish, so that was OK.

And I saw the word ‘Shirley’ on a signpost. Twice. Which was nice.

In Lieu of Silence.

Sorry to reprise a tired old whinge, but part of the reason why I’m so down these days is because my life is empty. I feel like a consciousness rattling pointlessly around inside an empty shell.

‘Ah, but,’ you might brightly exclaim, ‘consciousness is ultimately what being alive is all about. As long as you’re conscious, you know you’re alive.’

‘I'm well aware of that,’ I might tiredly reply, ‘but consciousness is also the means by which you’re informed that your life is empty and you’re not very happy about it.’

And on that note, the priestess remarked recently that she found it perplexing that I seem to despise people so much. (She’s not entirely right, but close. It’s complicated.) She said that I should make the effort to allow more people into my life. I’m inclined to agree, but how should I go about it? Should I stand on the market square in Ashbourne wearing a sandwich board which proclaims:

Vacancy

Worthy companions required.

Must be on my wavelength and definitely not ordinary.

Please approach and declare your credentials if interested.

I somehow doubt it would work. If you’re going to meet people you need to go to places where people sympathetic to the prospect of being met are located, and there’s the problem. I don’t join clubs, you see, or forums or classes or any other activity contrived to cater for that shared interest, group dynamic thing which irritates the hell out of me. Furthermore, the distractions offered by the culture in which I live have long since lost their appeal, and there's no point trying to get out of an empty space by stepping into a vacuum. And then there’s the fact that the vast majority of people with whom I do occasionally find myself in conversation lead me to distraction because the effort of remaining polite and trying my damndest to look interested becomes an intolerable burden after about ten minutes, even though I’m quite used to the method and generally well practiced.

That’s why I live alone. That’s why I only ever want to do precisely what I want to do at any given moment. That’s why the close and consciously intrusive presence of people in my physical orbit feels like an unconscionable invasion of my private space. I’m told that I identify with the sigma male, so there’s no hope for me, is there?

(And incidentally, it’s hardly surprising that the priestess finds me difficult to comprehend sometimes. As well as being a priestess, well endowed with all the accoutrements necessary for such an elevated position and worthy of deep respect for being so endowed, she’s also a woman of the world. She does things like business trips, and dinner parties, and ten-day silent meditation retreats, and hiking trips in the north of Sweden. Having a life full to bursting point and the vigour to take it all in her stride would inevitably make a person like me seem a little odd.)

Other Notes:

The vicissitudes of life will insist on slapping me in the mouth on an almost daily basis, and it isn’t helping much.

Tomorrow is scheduled to be – based on reasonable projections – the scariest day of the week. The only saving grace is that I’m twice likely to be within a couple of miles of a certain special person’s familial abode. It isn’t much of a saving grace. I might report on the outcome tomorrow night, or I might not.

I watched the film Iris last night, a biopic of the writer and philosopher Iris Murdoch. I wish I hadn’t because the way she ended up is one of my greatest fears. I found myself earnestly hoping that the universe will be kind enough to take me to the terminus before I get to that stage.

Imagine the Shock!

I’m more than a little nervous at the moment because walking through next week will be a bit like paddling in a river when you don’t know where the crocodiles are. But I just remembered something I found amusing, so I thought I might as well post it just to demonstrate to myself and others that at least one small part of me is still functioning (these are difficult times, you understand.)

When we were having the electrical storms last week I was surprised to see regular flashes of lightning without any accompanying thunder. Being suitably intrigued, I googled ‘silent lightning’ and discovered that the phenomenon has something to do with the sound waves being refracted when they meet air of greatly differing density. It’s also called ‘heat lightning’ apparently. But that isn’t the funny bit.

The funny bit came when I was reading the list of questions posed by other enquirers, and found one which asked:

Is it safe to go to the toilet during a thunderstorm?

Well, I do realise that water and electricity are enthusiastic bedfellows, but nevertheless… I don’t suppose I need to describe the sort of scenarios which flashed into the sort of juvenile mind which still giggles at lavatorial humour.

A Sad Sight and the Question of America.

Today has been a day of sad happenings, the sort of things which stay with you all day and drive the low spirits even lower.

The first concerned a small herd of breeding cattle which has been living for some months in the big field which runs up the side and along the back of my house – fifteen mother cows and fifteen calves. All summer I’ve watched the calves frolicking and galloping and play fighting as they became used to this thing called life. The mothers were ever diligent, and the calves always returned to them for comfort and food.

I noticed this morning that the whole herd was being driven down to the bottom of the field where an adjoining lane gives access, and lost sight of them when they passed behind the cottage which stands there. And then they were gone and the farmer cleared his equipment away.

About an hour later I heard a plaintive bellow and looked out to see a single bull calf, about three months old, walking alone up the short incline until he reached a point close to the corner of my house. I changed my position and watched him walk along the bottom of the lea which climbs to a ridge, and then saw him disappear behind some trees way over to my left. He walked slowly and steadily without stopping or breaking his stride, and all the time the same quiet, plaintive bellows kept emanating from a head held low. I have no doubt he was crying for his mother and the companions he’s always known. I kept watch for him all day but never saw him again.

No doubt there was some justifiable reason for leaving this poor little guy alone in a world which, for him, has always been full of his mother and others of his kind. Cows are, after all, herd animals. They’re not used to being alone and aren’t suited to it, especially at three months old. I expect it had something to do with needing to be isolated following a bovine TB screening or some such. I really can’t say because I’m not privy to the farmer’s business. And yet I can’t help wondering why we humans permit ourselves to make an industry of other sentient beings so that we can have something we want but don’t need.

*  *  *

Later I read the story of Maya Moore’s professional sacrifice in her quest to have Jonathan Irons released from prison. How sad it was to lose even more faith in America and its so-called justice system, while being close to overcome by the courage, selflessness, humanity and tenacity of one American seeking justice. Is that ironic? I don’t know. Maybe those gurus who tell us that nothing at this level ultimately matters because it’s all just a game we play are right. I don’t know that either.

*  *  *

And on a vaguely related subject, but with no real sadness this time, what of Mr Biden and his convention? What of him? I think my faith in America might go some way to being improved if the presidential ticket were the other way round, but I doubt that America is mature enough yet to be offered a non-white woman as President. And I suppose it’s none of my business.

And that’s about it for today.

Thinking and Drinking.

Another reason why I’m writing very little to the blog these days is the fact that I’m too given to negative thoughts and perceptions. It isn’t that I’m not aware of positive things; it’s just that they all seem polluted by troublesome situations and prospects, examples of which seem to come along with grinding regularity like the 5.40 from Paddington.

Take today, for example. I was struck by the sight of several moths feeding on the fragrant phlox flowers at twilight. Such a sight has always given me a lift, but this evening it seemed as though a sudden – albeit imagined – foul smell hung in the air to obscure the pleasure of the perception. I seem to go through life constantly watching Peacock butterflies drowning in the birds’ water bowl.

Seeing the Lady B and her daughters last Wednesday was a rare exception. No pollution there, just sunshine as usual. But it’s five or six months since I last bumped into the Lady B and it will probably be another five or six months before I bump into her again. Five or six months is a long time to wait for a few minutes of relief from pollution.

Of course, things would be different if she knocked on my door and said: ‘My dearest Jeff, come ease your troubles by laying them at my feet. Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the deaths of kings.’

Only she wouldn’t say that because Lady Bs don’t. That’s the sort of thing people like me say because people like me have to think and observe and think some more until we get headaches and become guilty of overthinking. And overthinking doesn’t just make you depressed, it makes you pretentious as well. And then nobody you want to knock on your door does so because they don’t know what the hell you’re all about and what they should do with you. I should know: I get welcome people knocking on my door about as often as Donald Trump gets his misbegotten words in the right order.

I wish I could follow the Rinpoches’ advice and just let go, only I can’t because I was born to be an incredible pain to myself (and I’m not sure that it would necessarily be a good idea anyway.)

At this point I suppose I should explain why I think that all philosophy is essentially worthless, and all philosophers, therefore, essentially pointless. Only I’m not going to because I can’t be bothered. There’s whisky in the jar at this time of night.

This is Me.

I’ve been feeling a bit rough for the past couple of days. Nothing remarkable; a few bouts of nausea, some headaches, sore sinuses, listlessness… It could be due to the change in the weather. It could be the recurrence of an old infection I picked up a few years ago (the offending digit has become painful again.) It could be the enervating effect of stressful circumstances. It could be a second cancer declaring its presence. It could even be the fact that I’ve eaten half a pound of mushrooms over the course of two lunches (don’t ask.) They’re all credible, so how can I know?

*  *  *

Given what I consider to be a reasonable life expectancy, it saddens me slightly that I won’t see the Lady B’s little girls grow to the age their mother was when I first met her (I encountered them for the first time on Wednesday.) On the other hand, neither will I see their mother fade into middle age. That’s nice.

*  *  *

I started watching an old movie tonight and heard a particularly pleasing compliment offered by a particularly intelligent, oddball, and generally impressive young woman to a besotted, though likeable, young man:

I remember seeing you at my dad’s office. I thought you were… not boring.

And then we had to be treated to the kind of graphic sex scene so beloved of American film makers. I wonder why American film makers are so in thrall to the graphic nature of sex. Frankly, I wish they weren’t because I find such scenes worse than tedious. I don’t know why, I just do.

*  *  *

I do hope nobody found this post by searching for references to The Greatest Showman. Sorry to disappoint.

Getting It.

It would appear that my fortuitous encounter with a much-esteemed person on Wednesday has lifted my general state of being for rather longer than I would have expected. Here I am 36 hours later feeling the unfamiliar desire to write something to a blog which I had come to regard as bordering on the permanently defunct.

So what should I write about? Something interesting, I suppose. Let me see, what’s the most interesting thing that has happened to me recently? 

I had my hair cut yesterday for the first time since February. I regard that as being very interesting indeed because it has a welcome side and a dubious side.

The welcome side is that I no longer look like a second generation model for Wurzel Gummidge. The dubious side is that I no longer look like an aged Albert Einstein (or one of sundry nutty professors) either. Does that disturb me, you might ask. I don’t know. This is the point at which my ego becomes confused. Nothing new there, though. Being confused is happening a lot lately.

*  *  *

Currently watching the movie Cloud Atlas. I’ve got to the 1¾ hour point and think I might just be realising what the hell it’s all about. That’s not bad, apparently, since I’m reliably informed that some lesser beings require at least three watchings before they realise what the hell it’s all about, so maybe the nutty professor image suits me after all. Then again, I have to be honest and admit that the factor which is most aiding comprehension and greatly adding to my enjoyment is the fact that the black female lead is absolutely bloody gorgeous and the Chinese female lead has the most enchanting legs. And that remark is not as flippant as it might appear on first consideration. It gives me a vital clue as to what I should be looking for from the outset next time around.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, many thanks to the much esteemed person who unwittingly favoured me with the grace of her presence for a few short minutes on Wednesday. According to the old Radio 4 pundit, Rabbi Lionel Blue, the fact of it having been unwitting is what raised her persona to that of an angel. Not being religious by nature, I’m happy to concur.

An Encounter and a Change in Perception.

I saw and talked to somebody in Ashbourne today for the first time since lockdown began in March. (Actually there were three people, but one who mattered.) The occasion was sufficient to encourage another explanation for the last seven weeks’ hiatus.

I’ve been here before, several times over the blogging years. The blogging years have been troubled ones in the life of JJ. During that time, my soul – if such I possess – has probably grown quite a lot (which might or might not be important), but my spirit has been oft on the ropes and fighting to stay upright. You might recall that back in June I remarked that my life was about to change and probably not for the better. So it proved to be, and this time the poor old spirit was dealt a blow which sent it to the canvas. It kneels there still, trying to find the breath and strength to get up and carry on.

The result is a strange kind of torpidity with which I’m unfamiliar. I still care greatly about certain things, but mostly I try not to give a damn about the cocktail of troubles and worrying prospects. Unfortunately, the old urge to write and communicate has become a casualty of this torpid state and is laid low. Today’s rare encounter, however, was sufficient to pump a little energy back into the patient, and that’s why I’m offering this explanation.

Whether there will be more to come, I don’t know yet. Sometimes the spirit is capable of raising itself without assistance from the mind so time will tell. Present issues persist and there are more storms on the horizon, and all I feel able to do is go with whatever flow comes my way. Maybe I’m morphing into a Taoist.