Resuming Normal Service.

I said the blessings bestowed by the Angel in the Shoe Shop might be short-lived, didn’t I? Well, Dame Fortune came a-calling again today and demonstrated her ever-capricious nature by replacing her smile with a deep scowl which might have long term consequences.

Back down the rabbit hole.

Hello darkness, my old friend. (Copyright infringement intended.)

And the dream I had last night didn’t help. A very precious person gave me an affectionate hug while nobody was looking, by way of saying goodbye.

*  *  *

One of those self-styled YouTube gurus was giving me the lecture last night about how we create our own reality and can change it at will. I’ve heard it so many times before and I admit that it does have a whiff of the seemingly genuine about it, but they can’t know it, can they? They’re only saying it because somebody has said it to them or they’ve read it in a book, so I wish they’d stop telling me that all my difficulties are all my fault. Having switched it off and gone back to Home, I was suddenly inundated by a veritable horde of other self-styled gurus telling me that every time I see the numbers 11.11 I must not only take note, but take action. I assume I’m somehow attracting them to my reality (the self-styled gurus, that is, not the numbers.)

I’m mostly watching clips from the Lucy movie at the moment. The sight of a badass and highly attractive woman taking the bad guys down (and learning the secrets of life, the universe and everything in the process) is rather more tolerable than real people claiming to know the unknowable.

The Angel in a Shoe Shop.

Mel tells me that in the western Buddhist tradition, the one to which she subscribes, it is taught that the various realms of existence are not places but states of consciousness. Well, it would appear that for some time now my consciousness has been languishing in the Hell Realm, and it’s been getting worse. But something interesting happened today when I went into a shoe shop on a retail park to change some boots which I realised were a size too small.

The woman assistant, who I judged to be around 30, dealt with my request in an unusually friendly and efficient manner. You might assume that it was down to nothing but experience, but I know my people and I felt it was more than that. ‘You have an air about you,’ I said. ‘Do I?’ ‘Yes, an air of competence and control which suggests more than just experience. Have you been to university?’

‘Yes,’ she said. And then she told me how she had considered going back there to do her doctorate but had changed her mind because she was tired of the work and exams, and why she had chosen to work in a shoe emporium on a retail park because she thought it pointless spending her life being stressed.

Here was a woman talking my language, a woman of evidently substantial intelligence who had spurned the usual success imperative conditioned into us by the culture and gone her own way. I gave her my standard reply:

As I see it, a job is a job. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a brain surgeon or a bus driver. As long as the job pays sufficient for your needs and you’re comfortable doing it, it’s right for you.

I sensed an energy flow complimentary to my own, which is most unusual. In fact, it’s almost unheard of. It’s no exaggeration to say that I felt lifted out of the Hell Realm and placed back on the Human Realm. I went on my way much bolstered in spirit, and even the troublesome physical sensations which have been evident lately were greatly relieved.

Maybe it won’t last. We were, after all, merely ship passing in the night. I shall probably never see her again and I probably don’t need to, but I won’t forget the little splash of something magically uplifting which she threw my way without even realising it. And that, as I’ve mentioned before on this blog, is how dear old Rabbi Lionel Blue defined an angel. I’m content with that.

On a Life Less Noble.

I’m coming to the final part of Thérèse Raquin and I’m finding it so depressing that I’m reluctant to carry on.

The two lovers/murderers are now married – the freedom to enter such a union having been the reason for killing the husband in the first place – but they’re hideously unhappy. The weight of their murderous machinations has left them emotionally disfigured, and all the intense passion they once felt for one another has shrivelled to nothing.

This is uncomfortably close to a couple of episodes in my own life. I never killed anybody physically, but I might as well have done for all the scars I must have left on the lives of the innocent. And both resultant relationships failed miserably, crushed by the weight of remorse and neurosis.

So why am I admitting this on a public blog? It isn’t about some notion of cathartic confession; what’s done is done and cannot be undone. I suppose it’s because this blog is all about me, both the outer and the inner versions. And because reading about Thérèse and Laurent’s descent into the pit has left me with the uncomfortable perception that I have never done anything good during my time on this earth, only bad. It isn’t quite true, but it’s still left me with an awful sense that I am ashamed of my life. That’s an unpleasant feeling. And of course, there is too little time left now to wholly redress the balance.

Maybe this is all about learning lessons over a much longer timescale than a mere single life. For now, I expect I’ll get over it.

Shame About Russia.

I was brought up during the Cold War when all arms of the western Establishment steered us to the view that Russia was a dark and brutish place, and that Russians were mostly a dark and brutish people. And then Mikhail Gorbochev set about reforming the situation. The USSR released its captive states, the Berlin Wall came down, and gradually we got used to the idea that Russians were normal people like the rest of us and we could start regarding them as friends.

But then Mr Putin came along. Dissidents were imprisoned, abused, kidnapped from international flights, and even chased across the world to be dispatched with poisonous chemicals. Russia was barred from flying its flag at the Olympics because of the doping scandals, and now we have Ukraine filling the news and fuelling fear of the unthinkable: another European war.

Suddenly, Russia is our enemy again and we have to dig deep to maintain the notion that Russians can be our friends. And that’s a shame because it isn’t the Russian people who are generating the hostility, is it? Whatever spurious arguments Mr Putin might offer to justify Russia’s aggression, it’s basically about feeding his ego. A whole nation tarred with the stigma of one man’s egomania. Should I care? For some reason, it seems I do.

Genesis.

The row of benches which face the front of the Sainsbury’s store in Ashbourne are permanently in shadow during the dark days of late autumn and winter. I came out of there today to see them bathed in sunshine for the first time this year, and it was a welcome sight to see the first hint that spring was on its way. It seemed apposite that a woman was sitting on one of the benches, taking the sun and cradling a half grown puppy with long, floppy ears. It clambered up her chest and nestled its head into her neck, a young year and a young life in perfect harmony.

And when I walked across the town I passed another woman walking slowly, clasping the hand of a little boy of maybe fifteen months. I turned briefly as I passed to watch the stiff and slightly faltering steps of a fledgling human just setting out on the road of life, and I thought of all that future still to come. The dramas, the excitement, the fear, the disappointments, the laughter, the tears, the pains, the pleasures, the achievements, the setbacks, and all there will be to learn for as long as his life shall last.

And it all starts here while the burgeoning and benevolent sun shines on a wooden bench in a little English market town, just as the world beyond seems set for chaos.

Questioning the Motives.

I decided to brave the storm that was still raging this morning and took the old car to the big city for its annual test. While I was there somebody thrust five £10 notes into my hand by way of recompense for some work I did for him last summer. I’d quite forgotten the matter so I chose to regard the money as an unexpected windfall.

On the way back I called into Uttoxeter to get a few things I needed from one of the discount stores, and as I walked across the high street I saw a young man wrapped in a blanket with a sign which read: I am homeless and need your help. God bless you. Since I’d just received a windfall, I felt it would be a good thing to share it and so I gave him one of the £10 notes. My still, small voice went into inquisitorial mode and asked me three questions:

1. Did you give him that money entirely for his sake or to make yourself feel worthy? I answered: ‘Both.’

2. That man didn’t have the look of a beggar. Does it trouble you that he might be lying and is simply trying to cheat people into giving him money under false pretences? I considered the question at some length and eventually answered: ‘No. His motives are his responsibility; I can’t be held accountable for them. If I’m right in my suspicion that karma is a fact of life, then his dishonesty – if such it be – is for his karma to deal with. Mine is secure.’

3. If the money you had in your pocket was a windfall – something you didn’t expect to receive today – and you chose to accept his assertion that he was homeless, why didn’t you give him all of it? I struggled with that one, and eventually had to accept that I still retain a degree of selfishness.

The third was the real lesson because it demonstrated that I still have some way to go before I can truly be what I would like to be. And since I so dislike sanctimony, I chose to be content with the fact.

Seeking a Volunteer.

It occurred to me tonight that if I made a mug of strong coffee, laced it with a little rum and then topped it with a head of thick Cornish clotted cream, it would make an excellent, if slightly expensive, hot drink. I might even call it The Caribbean Cornish

I would be tempted to try it if only I didn’t have a vascular issue of the type exacerbated by cholesterol. It seems I need an honoured guest who doesn’t have any need to be wary of cholesterol. Somebody young and carefree, obviously. I wonder where I might find one.

A Change in Response.

I’m watching the animated version of The Last Airbender again, and tonight’s episode contained a line which I found amusing. Two young men are travelling in an airship and heading off to do something brave and honourable. They’re reminiscing about old loves:

‘My first girlfriend became the moon spirit,’ says one. (She did, too. She had to ‘die’ and become the moon spirit so as to maintain the balance between day and night. Typical anime stuff.)

‘Gee, buddy,’ says the other with a modicum of sympathy, ‘that’s rough.’

Well, I thought it was funny. I never noticed it the first time around, and I do admit to being odd.

*  *  *

I might also mention that I’m re-reading Emile Zola’s ‘classic’ Thérèse Raquin. I first read it in my twenties and thought it quite splendid. That was back in the day when I couldn’t write fictional prose to save my life, but now my response is very different. Now I’m being driven half mad by the sloppy and naïve writing style, especially when he attempts the lyrical stuff which is utterly lame. I do realise that this might be more the fault of the translator, but I can’t know that. All I can know is that it’s irritating me.

What I will say in its favour, however, is that the plot is excellent – two lovers so blinded by passion that they lose all their normal sense of decency, humanity and propriety, and proceed to drown the woman’s weak and sickly husband in the cold River Seine. And thereafter follow the difficulties: the grinding fear of discovery, the guilt, the mental torment of an imagined haunting, and ultimately the utter destruction of their relationship and hence the futility of the crime. Right up my street; I understand all aspects completely. I even sympathise with the guilty pair (up to a point.)

On Storms and My Oddness.

All my life I’ve been afflicted with a condition which, as far as I know, has no clinical name. It’s all to do with being keenly aware of every little nuance of my environment. It might be the look in a person’s eyes, or the shadows of moving clouds on a landscape, or a particular smell, or the grey skies of winter. It’s why I took to photography, and then writing, and achieved a modicum of success in both. I seem to see and feel nuances more than most people do. I’m aware that it makes me an odd one, but I assume I’m not entirely alone in my oddness.

But it comes with a problem: people so afflicted are bound to be subjected to a range of neuroses, some minor and some not so minor. I can attest to the fact, for example, that I’ve had something of a neurosis around loud noises since I was a child (nobody ever noticed because I always seemed to be alone when it manifested. And if they had noticed, I would probably have received a slap and been told to pull myself together. I was a boy after all, and that’s how boys were brought up back then.) And therein lies part of the problem with storms.

Storms are very noisy, and so they disturb my peace for that reason alone. But they’re also violent and uncontrollable, and as such might be said to be the epitome of mindless violence. (I find all non-consensual violence distressing, and the mindless sort particularly so.) There’s nothing you can do about storms except protect your interests as best you can, which often isn’t very much. You have to sit them out and wait for them to leave in their own time. You can’t banish them, and hiding from them is injurious to self-esteem. (And such is true of all destructive natural phenomena, of course, so thank heaven I don’t live in a place affected by hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, tsunamis or volcanic eruptions. I do so pity any highly aware person who lives in Japan, for example.)

So that, in a nutshell, is my difficulty with storms. They sharpen my nerve ends while turning my brain to sludge. There’s no relaxing or working out problems when there’s a storm raging. I sit it out and steel myself so as not to succumb to the psychological pressure. And I’m also aware of a different sort of pressure, a physical sensation in the region of my heart. (This is probably not a good thing since the clinicians tell me that my heart is not in prime condition, and I’ve declined the prescription for beta blockers because I don’t want to become an inveterate pill-taker. Maybe a storm will take me out of here one day, but I doubt it.) And yet here’s the mystery:

I once spent three days in a small Royal Navy frigate ploughing through a force 11 storm in mid-Atlantic and found the experience truly thrilling. No fear, no discomfort, just elation. So how do I explain that one? I don’t know, but maybe it was because storms are quieter at sea. There are no tree branches, you see, to give the wind its roaring voice.

A Climate Note.

Storm Eunice is currently roaring mightily and noisily through the Shire, and the order of the day is trying not to think about what might happen any moment. Everything standing in the garden is struggling to remain upright and several pieces of tree branch have already assaulted the living room window with the report of a shotgun. Fortunately, there’s no greenhouse to worry about now because that was destroyed by a similar storm five years ago this month. And also fortunately, the four stakes securing the top-heavy broom bush are holding so far. What I don’t understand is how the birds manage to fly to the feeding tables in conditions like this. They’re so small and fragile. Admittedly, they do seem to be choosing their moments carefully during a little lull in the blast, but it’s still pretty amazing.

The old equinoctial gales used to be a feature of March and October, but storms of this magnitude only happened once every few years. Now we’re getting four to six a year of them, and February seems to be their favourite time to visit.

Meanwhile, both the wild flowers and the garden flowers are nearly all about a month ahead of their normal schedule. Whatever next?

On Killers and Savers.

I had a communication from Avaaz this morning regarding the Tanzanian government’s intention to re-locate the Masai people and open up the land for ‘tourism and trophy hunting.’ I can’t deny that it probably makes economic sense.

But I also occasionally watch YouTube videos of people rescuing wild animals caught in dangerous or distressing situations. It seems that humans are broadly divided into those who kill for the sake of recreation, and those who rescue out of concern for fellow creatures. It raises the question: Which is the greater achievement? And I’ve noticed that those who rescue wild animals often show a level of courage rarely found among the well equipped killers.

A Pass Mark of Sorts.

I went for an appointment with the Heart Failure Nurse today. It was supposed to take an hour and consist of questions about my experiences, advice regarding the perils of heart disease, recommendations for relevant medications, a blood test and a blood pressure test. Before she got started, however, I decided to give her my half of the interview. I spent around twenty minutes explaining that I very much appreciated her efforts and those of the NHS which I think is wonderful, that I consider nursing to be the most honourable of professions, that I realised how much all this was intended to be for my benefit, and that I’m not entirely stupid. (‘I know,’ she replied convincingly.)

And then I went further and explained that I don’t particularly want to live to a seriously old age which might entail contracting a variety of degenerative conditions, requiring ever more clinical attention, taking so many medications that I’ll start rattling like a half empty tube of Smarties, and possibly winding up in some horrifically soulless care home trying unsuccessfully to ignore the mindless prattle oozing out of the TV set in the corner. What I want is to live my own little life in my own little world, doing my own thing in my own way unencumbered by the hook and line by which I keep being reeled in for more clinical attention.

(That was the brief version.)

She remained gracious throughout, said she fully accepted my right to live my life as I wished, gave me her name and phone number and invited me to call her if I had any questions, and then terminated the interview by handing me a couple of booklets. And then she said: ‘Well, that was refreshing’ without any apparent hint of sarcasm. So now I know that all I have to do to stay on the right side of my beloved nurses is to tell them how weird I am.

Ducking the Consequences.

When I was writing my fiction I began to notice that certain of the plots were being echoed by real life happenings in areas close to where I lived. One of them involved the murder of a woman by a man from my home town who had the same name as another unsavoury character in another story. I think I made a post about it in the early days of this blog.

It reminded me of the composer Gustav Mahler, a superstitious man who believed that the making of a creative work could bring appropriate consequences to bear on his own life. It worried him, apparently, when he wrote Kindertotenlieder (Dirges for Children), but he felt driven to complete it anyway out of a sense of duty to his art. His two daughters were drowned shortly afterwards, and I doubt he ever got over it. There’s a similar, though more complex, story around his last completed work, Das Lied von der Erde.

Last night I had an idea for another short story. I remember that it considered the question of how far a good man would be prepared to sacrifice his own interests in the cause of making good prevail. How horrific would the consequences have to be before he stepped aside and allowed evil to have its way? It was pretty scary and I chose not to write it.

Interestingly, I remember none of the plot points. Frankly, I’m glad I don’t.

A Note on the Heart Thing.

Anais Nin said something like: ‘Age cannot protect you from love, but love can, to some extent, protect you from age.’ I think I know what she meant, but I still have that lifelong problem of not being exactly sure what ‘love’ means. So let me substitute ‘matters of the heart’ (which covers a multitude of sins, sorrows, silliness and sundry sensibilities) and say something of my own on the subject.

Beware the pre-emptive strike. It’s a favourite weapon of the emotionally insecure (and I should know because I’ve used it a lot.) It has a habit of blowing back and forcing you to eat slugs, as those familiar with the Harry Potter film franchise might remember. I recall saying something similar in a blog post a very long time ago (a year is a long time in the blogosphere) so let me make it clearer:

If you choose to push somebody away, it helps to be certain that you can handle the emotional earthquake when they leave willingly and shut the door behind them. And this isn’t meant to refer to any person in particular, just in case anybody is wondering. I was reminded of it by a scene in the animated version of The Last Airbender. I’m watching it again because I’m bored, because I can, because I’m growing old, and because I like the characters (especially Toph and Uncle Iroh.)

A Thought of Unknown Provenance.

I was sitting around doing nothing in particular this evening when the word ‘cockatrice’ suddenly entered my mind. It surprised me because I had no idea what it meant; in fact I had no idea whether it was a real word or something I’d imagined. So I looked it up.

It turned out to be a mythical creature, the root of which is buried in the depths of history but which is mentioned in both the Old Testament and at least two works of Shakespeare. And it must have been reasonably familiar during the Middle Ages because it was occasionally, though rarely, used as a heraldic device. So what is it?

Well, it has several interpretations but all describe a form of reptile, ranging from a serpent-like creature to the most popular which is a kind of dragon but with a cockerel’s head. That’s the one that was used in heraldry. The theme which runs through all versions, however, is that it is capable of killing any living creature with its stare alone, apart from the lowly weasel which is impervious to its deadly charms. (Let’s hear it for the weasels, I say, especially now the Donald Trump jokes are redundant. And I decline to make reference to any of the women I've known.)

OK, so now I know what a cockatrice is (or was.) But what on earth made me think of it?

Disowning the Conquerors.

Lately I find myself troubled by the gravitas we humans afford the great conquerors: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan and the rest. These men carved illustrious careers from the business of causing death and all manner of suffering to countless numbers of mostly innocent people, and for what? Mostly, I would suggest, for the purpose of self-aggrandisement.

So what of those whose efforts were driven by and directed towards humanitarian principles – Ghandi, Mandela, Mother Theresa? They’re famous too, are they not? Yes they are. We laud them as people who made a difference for good and they have a page of honour in the history books. But the conquerors have much more than that. The conquerors become legends.

This appears to be a central feature of the human condition, and it disturbs me.

The Full Fridge Dilemma.

I made two portions of dinner tonight, one to have and one to save. (Don’t ask what it was. It was something I invented myself because I’m as intolerant of recipes as I am of TV cookery shows.) I ladled one portion onto my plate and the other into a plastic pot with a lid, and then made to put the pot into the fridge. It was a struggle because the fridge was almost completely stocked already. Now it’s bursting at the seams.

I don’t remember the last time that happened; in fact I suspect it never has. I’ve never been the sort to have a fully stocked fridge because I’ve never been the sort to have a fully stocked pocket. Suddenly I felt guilty because I thought of all those people struggling to feed their children. What right have I to a fully stocked fridge when there are children not being properly fed? It seemed an utterly reprehensible position to be in.

I asked myself the question: ‘Should I feel guilty?’ and the answer came back: ‘No, but you should feel privileged.’ It came as a minor shock to realise that I don’t know how to feel privileged. That’s the sad bit.

(It helps a little to remember that I always make a contribution to the food bank collection box at the supermarket every week, but it doesn’t seem close to being enough.)

Step Number Two.

I mentioned on this blog once that I saw a man in Ashbourne who was the spitting image of Gollum from Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings. Today I saw Gimli – very short, very stocky, heavy beard growth, about the right age, the lot. As soon as I see a lean, fresh faced young man with fine hair and pointed ears I’ll know I've got the full set, and then I'll be able to suspect that the big revelation is getting close. I hope I’m not seasick.

Being Reluctantly Negative.

I’m being pestered from several quarters at the moment. I hate being pestered, especially by the corporate world, the government, and even our dear old NHS for which I have so much respect.

But then I look at the news. Oh dear, oh dear: the news… What do I see there?

I see tidal waves of anger polluting the planet from one side to the other. I see deceit, lies, abuse, grotesque political machinations and rabid self-interest. I see stupidity at every turn and from top to bottom of the hierarchical scale. 

And then I look at myself and see a creature gradually fading both mentally and physically. I find myself hoping that there isn’t much longer to go, while struggling with an inner sense that such is the wrong way to perceive the business of living.

So here I am, taking refuge in grey, tedious, negative words. I don’t want to write this stuff, you know, really I don’t. I want to write silly ditties and make jokes about people who live in Tierra del Fuego, but they’re just not coming. I want the future to have sparkles in it like the future used to have.

While I was out clearing the mud and dead leaves off the road grids this afternoon, I told myself to think of something positive to say. I came up with two:

1. I have no cash flow difficulties at the moment.

2. I feel reasonably confident that the wholesome and natural concepts of motherliness and motherly love will survive the unnatural ravings of the gender-denial movement. (This one came about after noticing that the mothers driving away from the school gates with their precious little cargoes waved to me almost without exception. It’s interesting that the fathers hardly ever do.)

Questioning Empathy.

The latest subject to attract my musing habit is empathy. Does it really exist, or is it just another one of those qualities people like to believe in because it enables them to have faith in the human condition?

The reason this question has arisen is simply the fact that I feel a growing conviction that I’m becoming more empathic as I grow older. But am I, or am I simply exhibiting a greater awareness of human feelings because I’m a highly feeling individual myself, and the older I get the more personal experience of feeling I have. Am I simply learning to recognise strong feelings in others through a growing capacity to read body language and other signs, and then relate the results to my own nature? And that raises the further question of whether I’m really only becoming more sympathetic, not empathetic, and whether it’s all really grounded in nothing more than sentimentality. (So then I ask a related question: where does sentiment end and compassion begin? Is there a difference?)

I’ve read that expert opinion is divided on the issue. Some say that empathy resides purely in the imagination, while others say that it exists across the higher animal kingdom – including humans – and is part of our survival mechanism. Well, if the experts disagree, how can I be qualified to offer an answer? And so I don’t, at least not yet.

Maybe I’ll find out one day, probably after I’ve left this mortal realm and moved onto a different state of existence. But there might not be any other state of existence. Maybe death really is the end of cognisance, in which case there was never any point in my addressing this question or most of the others I ask about the deeper aspects of life. Not that it matters, I suppose. The need to understand the human condition has been one of my principal drives for most of my life, and I might as well be doing that as doing something else.

Becoming a Mayo Man.

I made an interesting discovery tonight. I’ve mentioned before that, although not incontrovertibly proven, there’s little room for doubt that my male ancestry came from Ireland, probably in the 19^th century. Further, that my birth name – Godwin – was almost certainly an Anglicisation of the Irish family name O’Goidín. I’ve also mentioned that as a child I was fascinated by the name of Connemara (a region in the north west of the Irish Republic.) The name felt warm, comfortable and homely to me, which I always thought a minor mystery because down at my level of English working class society, Ireland was rarely mentioned and nobody I knew had ever been there.

Tonight I discovered a website written by a clergyman – presumably Irish – who had researched old Irish family names and produced a minor opus on the subject. It included O’Goidín, and he said that the name still exists in County Mayo. The southern boundary of Mayo borders the region known as Connemara.

So there you have it: might I now be almost entitled to call myself a Mayo man? The only thing I now need to know is how O’Goidín is pronounced in Irish. Any assistance on this matter would be much appreciated. The question returns nothing in Google.