Sorting the Dross from the Fruit.

I had another of those clearing out sessions last night, this time concentrating on the detritus from my photography days. I’d decided after sorting much of it last Friday that most of it should go. I’ve always had a mild hoarder tendency, but I’ve come to feel that now is the time to reverse the trend.

I started with the piles of glossy magazines containing pictures I took when I was a minor sort of nationally-known name (but only to those few hardy individuals who were inclined or had reason to read the picture credits.) And then I turned my attention to other piles of old prints and clippings from articles I wrote, images and words which I once thought had merit, but which have failed the test of revised judgement consequent upon age and the application of more exacting standards. And finally I took out the dust-encrusted files of monochrome negatives which I’ve kept since the pre-commercial period when I was still in thrall to the delusion that I had artistic leanings. (I never was an artist, you know. I was a skilled illustrator, but never an artist. You might have noticed that I could write passable ditties on this blog, but I was never a poet. Oddly, I don’t think I would now welcome being either. Life does indeed move on, perceptions evolve albeit imperceptibly, and perception remains the whole of the life experience.)

They’re all bagged up and ready to go to the tip, but I’ve had a small change of mind. Most of this stuff has no value, but is simply flotsam floating on the wake of a passing phase. But not so the monochrome negatives. They represent – in concrete form – a valued part of a time when life was very much richer, more varied, and more active than it has latterly become. They are the fruits of late nights spent with my beloved dog in a red-lit room, developing countless rolls of film and making prints from selected examples, thrilling to the form and tonality of pictorial achievement, racking them up to dry, and all accompanied by a cassette player singing the mood of the moment quietly in the background. And then to bed.

They were magical hours, and the time to consign their fruit to obscurity is not yet to hand. They can stay bagged up, but the bag will remain with me for what remains of the foreseeable future.

BTO Blues.

The British Trust for Ornithology is a charitable organisation which studies bird behaviour and numbers as part of the conservation effort. Much of their communication with volunteers is done via Twitter, and so it was of much concern when their Twitter account was suspended recently with no reason given.

They tried to find out what the reason was, but could get no further than an automated response which said that the suspension would be investigated. They weren’t able to speak to a real person, which is what happens when the interface between supplier and user is left to the mercy of technology.

And so they reviewed their Twitter communications in order to attempt some explanation for themselves, but all they came up with was the fact that they’d recently mentioned a bird called the Woodcock. They thought it possible that Twitter’s algorithms had misinterpreted the word – presumably because their lexicon of bird species was inadequate – and been scandalised to the point of suffering hot flushes, the result being that the air was rent with much panic-stricken wailing and the sibilant whistle of the headsman’s axe. (This is what happens, of course, when the making of decisions is left to technology instead of human beings. Human beings are far from infallible, but at least they can be argued with.)

I gather the account has now been restored, although as far as I know they’re still in the dark regarding why it was suspended in the first place. And this is a worry because the whole saga is likely happen again as soon as they mention the Great Tit.

Just Wondering As Usual.

I was thinking tonight about an interesting little facet of human nature – how much it pleases us when somebody for whom we hold affectionate feelings gives us an indication that they’re thinking about us. (Like visiting our blog, for example, or saying ‘I was thinking about you only yesterday’ if we happen to bump into them by chance.)

Is it because we have an instinctive sense that thought is energy and therefore establishes a connection, or simply because having somebody think about us makes us feel that we matter? That’s something else I don’t know. (But maybe it’s both, and maybe it depends on the nature of the person being thought about.)

*  *  *

I was going to make quite a long post about why I’m so moved by the scene in the film Kirschblüten in which Rudi dances with his dead wife against the backdrop of Mount Fuji. I didn’t because I felt that there’s already been more than enough of my self-conscious rambling on the matter of relationships lately. I expect I’ll get back to it soon enough.

Rueing the Complex Road to Nowhere.

I remember once being embarrassingly candid on this blog by admitting that for as long as I can remember I've always had the instinct of a rake seeking to explore strange new worlds, the nature of a romantic who seeks the comfort of lifelong partnership, and the mind of an inveterate Romantic engaged in endless searching for perfection and whatever the ultimate consists of (even after having realised that when Romantics reach the mountain top they have to proceed to the sky, and when they reach the sky they have to aim for the stars, and once they’ve reached the stars all that’s left to achieve is oblivion. Mere enlightenment is not enough.)

So there I was tonight, falling in love with Gideon’s daughter (as any man of refinement would obviously do no matter his age or condition), and wondering whether my life had to be that way. Could not somebody have spotted the signs when I began to exhibit them at the age of twelve? Could they not have seen the complexities which would inevitably lead onto a circuitous path bringing nothing in its consummation but isolation and mediocrity?

There was nobody. My mother saw only the rake because she saw something of my father in me; my female co-habitees saw only the romantic until it was too late; and those few women who were friends and confidantes saw only the Romantic. And so I ended up here, falling in love with one woman and wondering how long it would be before I transferred my affections to another. And all having no point or purpose except to provide a few words for a journal entry.

So what else is there to say? I’ve no idea, except to hope that I’ll be better prepared next time. There will be a next time, won’t there?

On Conflict and Beings Called Emily.

I currently have a new issue topping up the tiresome stress bucket which never leaves my reluctant grip and never completely empties. It’s a resurgence of an old issue which troubled me greatly some years ago and generated much conflict, and I don’t want to go there again because I’m tired of conflict.

Conflict has been one of the primary leitmotifs of my life, usually because my hallowed ground was being trodden on, or matters of value such as justice or high principles, were being trashed by lesser mortals in positions of authority. I didn’t win them all because hardly anybody ever does, but I did achieve the odd notable result here and there along the way. But now I’m tired of it.

You’d think the universe would be lenient, wouldn’t you. You’d think it would allow you a period of peace as you take your final faltering steps towards the terminus. Well, it hasn’t happened so far and I doubt there is very much further to go. I imagine myself in my final minutes arguing with some clinician or the harridan running a nursing home, and my last words being ‘I’m not prepared to put up with…’ before the curtain falls and I wait to see what, if anything, lies beyond.

*  *  *

I’m currently watching a film made seventeen years ago called Gideon’s Daughter. The titular role is taken by Emily Blunt, and what a revelation she’s proving to be. In her later roles she became a paragon of gorgeousness to match the very best, but she was usually skilfully made up to look her prettiest. In this film her face has been left relatively untouched by the make-up artist’s paint brush, and the difference is startling (at least to somebody like me who has always been critically aware of such matters.)

The strength of her eyes is positively augmented by the lack of camouflage, such that her stare could reduce a man of refined taste to his knees at a distance of several yards. And her demeanour might be said to be handsome to the very highest level of the term.

And there’s that name again: Emily. Odd that so many creatures called Emily have been the most potent in my life. I wonder why.

On Taste and Temperament.

Further to last night’s post, tonight I decided to give Ghost Whisperer a second chance by watching the second episode. I didn’t make it. Same story, same formula, same grinding shallowness. Half way through I turned it off, and next week it can go back to the charity shop where I bought it. Maybe there’s somebody out there with a different temperament.

*  *  *

And then I sought out some files of work I did – both the ‘arty’ stuff and the commercial – from my days behind a camera. They were good days and I was reminded of the song In the Rare Old Times, so I looked out a Dubliners live version on YouTube and took a listen.

It struck me that much of my temperament – the resigned sentimentalism with a hard edge, the short temper, the love of words for their own sake, and the love of barley juice to soften the hard knocks – owes a lot to my Irish antecedents. I wonder whether the universe might arrange for me to die over there. Seems like it might be a good place to move on.

Yawning for the Wrong Reason.

The long dark evenings are proving difficult at the moment. It’s a curious fact about me that I find it impossible to drum up any enthusiasm for practical tasks, apart from the regular chores, after darkness has fallen. And reading is out of the question, partly because I have nothing I want to read, and partly because the effort of deciphering the ink blots on a page is too much for my tired eyes and brain. (I rarely sleep through the night, you see. If anxiety doesn’t wake me, bad dreams do the job instead.) And so I scour the charity shops for DVDs which I think might hold my interest without requiring effort on my part.

This week I found a boxed set of a series entitled Ghost Whisperer starring somebody called Jennifer Love Hewitt. The title was intriguing, and the star of the show held promise because I’d never heard of her. I often find that the best films and TV dramas have little known leading actors because they’re usually more believable. And so I bought it and tonight I watched the pilot episode.

I soon discovered that the title is the only notable quality it possesses. Everything about it is one-dimensional and predictable – the acting, the direction, the lighting, the script, everything. The one feature which keeps the eyes tirelessly rolling in disbelief is the constant drip of mawkish sentimentality. (Authentic sentimentality appeals to me a lot, but the drippy variety is a massive turn-off.) There’s no style, no subtlety, and no substance, and even the supposed creepiness would be unlikely to trouble a ten-year-old with a modicum of intelligence. The DVD case carries the instruction: ‘only suitable for those over the age of fifteen.’ I think that should be changed to ‘only suitable for those under the age of five.’ It was a massive disappointment. In short, pure primetime.

So will I trouble myself to watch the second episode? It all depends on how desperate I am to fill the long lonely hours. I might, but if you never hear more of me…

Admitting the Prejudice.

I just watched the first hour of the director’s cut of Amadeus. Everything about it so far is splendid, the only problem being that I have to keep reminding myself that there’s no earthly reason why actors speaking English while pretending to be German shouldn’t speak it with an American accent. It’s an old and unfortunate prejudice to which we British are prey in the matter of costume dramas. (And I have to say – but in parenthesis so as not to be seen to be overstating the point – that the acting so far is flawless.)

The music is excellent, too; and music is, thankfully, the great universal language which connects us all.

Being Cast Adrift.

I watched a video on YouTube last night showing several areas of the city centre in the place where I was born and grew up. It had a post-apocalyptic feel to it. Large areas which were demolished several years ago still haven’t been rejuvenated, presumably for lack of money and constructive ideas. There was one run of shops covering a hundred yards or more and consisting of businesses ranging from the big national department stores to the smaller, privately owned ones. Most of them were closed, boarded up, scrawled with graffiti, and hopelessly derelict. Only the rolling chunks of prairie grass were missing from the scene of desolation.

I’ve reported the fact that lately I’ve been having a lot of disturbing dreams, one category of which was precisely what I was seeing in the video. Can dreams be prophetic, or was it just coincidence? I tend to the latter view, but who knows?

What disturbed me most about this monument to dereliction was the fact that my life started here. The city centre was the hub of my world. I spent the first two months of my life living in my grandmother’s house on the edge of it, and it was where I went frequently throughout my childhood and teen years for shopping, entertainment, and erudition. And now I want never to go there again.

It feels as though the ever-growing and seemingly unbreakable cord which connected me with my roots has been severed, leaving me adrift in the cosmos with my roots floating away in the opposite direction. I wonder whether the city centre itself is being drawn into a black hole and heading for the ignominy of oblivion. I can’t know that of course, but it’s a sad feeling.

It might be said that I’m exaggerating all of this, and maybe I am. But this is more than idle imagination. This is the stuff of perception, and as I’ve often claimed on this blog, perception is the whole of the life experience.

On Being the Perfect Failure.

I was just watching a film starring Nicole Kidman. When I saw a close up of her face I realised that every feature of it was perfectly formed and in precisely the right place.

I asked myself the question: Does that make her the embodiment of female gorgeousness, or the equivalent of a finely modelled plaster mannequin? I didn’t know.

So then I considered an even more difficult and fundamental question: is perfection an expression of the ultimate, or is it a step too far and ultimately flawed?

I didn’t know that either, and sometimes it’s dispiriting to be the kind of person who doesn’t know anything.

Not a Prediction.

I read several articles today on the issue of plastic waste and the pollution it’s causing in so many ways and places. It struck me that future generations will probably look back on the 20^th and 21^st centuries as the age of destructive decadence. Benighted kids struggling through a difficult life might well ask who invented this stuff, and why they didn’t come up with a harmless alternative before it was too late. And they will look at all the other examples of blind decadence which threw the world onto a confused and dangerous path, stuff which needn’t be enumerated because it’s already blazingly obvious.

And then I remembered that in my one and only novel I speculated that the Atlantis myth was not historical at all, but predictive of the future. Or maybe it’s both because material life is cyclical in nature as attested by the yugas of Hinduism.

And then I put it all behind me and watched an episode of Doctor Who because I don’t claim to be a seer, just a tiny speck of humanity with an imaginative mind. But a deep sense of impending apocalypse still stirs, half awake, in the pit of my stomach.

The Vexpert on the Matter of Washing Dishes.

Being neither generally vexatious nor expert at anything, I’m not actually a vexpert. And yet I do have a little something to say about a seemingly minor domestic matter to which attaches an issue of deeper consequence. I speak not of the heady luxury of cake in the workplace (see earlier post), but of that ubiquitous little practical commodity which we Brits call washing up liquid.

It’s well known that supermarkets stock both branded lines which are more expensive, and their own versions which are cheaper. It’s also well known – or should be – that the dearer branded product is thicker than the in-house version and therefore does the same job with a smaller quantity. It’s reasonable to presume, therefore, that there’s little if anything to choose between them in the matter of value for money. But…

By using less of the dearer branded product we also consume fewer bottles, which means that, since the bottles are made of plastic, there’s less plastic to be disposed of either in the environment or in recycling facilities. And that matters these days, doesn’t it? It does. And yet I’ve never heard anybody mention the fact. But that’s why I am now resolved to buy Fairy Liquid instead of Sainbury’s own.

The Merits of Ms Medeea.

I went for my six-monthly visit to the dentist today and saw Ms Medeea as usual.

She didn’t do very much because there wasn’t very much that needed doing, but she said something she’s never said before: ‘But of course, I’m not your doctor.’ It was after she’d been talking about general medical matters and quizzing me about medications, prospective treatments and so on, and offering pertinent advice in an unobtrusive sort of way. She never stepped over the line and interfered, but it left me with the impression that she knows more about general medical matters than I would normally expect of a dentist. It’s an impression I’ve never had from any other dentist I’ve ever seen.

Now, I’ve waxed eloquent about Ms Medeea’s qualities of care, compassion, humanitarian values, and gentleness of demeanour before on this blog, but today she took another step up in my estimation. I realised that, even if she does little on the tooth care front, being in her presence and having her undivided attention for twenty minutes or so is a real delight. And that sort of experience is very rare for one such as me.

Facing the Face Issue.

I saw my face in several mirrors today, and in each one I looked uglier than I thought I was. Since they were shop mirrors I took refuge in the thought that they were probably cheap ones and prone to distorting the reflection a little. I didn’t really believe it, of course, because I’ve never had much regard for my face anyway. In my younger days I had to purchase my lady friends with personality because my face lacked the necessary currency. These days my jaded personality lacks the energy to get past my face and so all is lost.

Not that it matters. The old days are long gone, the body is all but worn out, and all I have to concentrate on now is not frightening dogs and little girls. They’re about the only two creatures still capable of drawing a naturally friendly response, and neither of them seem to be unduly concerned about wrinkled smiles.

On Vexperts and the Birthday Cake Issue.

The vexperts are at it again. You know, those lonely and presumably inadequate people working for organisations you’ve never heard of who spend their time sticking their meddling fingers into matters of no consequence so they can tell us what we must and must not do.

This time it’s all about cakes in the office. The sharing of cake is a time-honoured tradition in British offices on the occasion of it being somebody’s birthday, but the vexperts say it must stop. It encourages the consumption of an unhealthy comestible, say the all-knowing ones. It was even remarked that the sharing of cake in an office is no different than subjecting people to passive smoking (presumably missing the fact that smoke particles linger in the air in precisely the same way that cake crumbs don’t.)

This is nannyism at its silliest. Cake has been consumed for heaven knows how many centuries. It’s one of the sweet staples of developed cultures, and nearly everybody eats it either habitually or at least on special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas. We know it’s high in saturated fat but so are lots of things, and there’s no shortage of general advice that we should be circumspect in the matter of saturated fat. Having a piece of cake a few times a year when one of your colleagues has a birthday is hardly likely to result in catastrophic illness. And those who feel strongly averse to it can always politely decline.

This reminds me of that time a few summers ago when some half baked vexpert told us we should all paint our houses white when there were a few days of heat wave forecast (presumably missing the fact that while white walls reduce solar gain to some extent, they have no effect whatsoever on high ambient temperatures. And that’s apart from the obvious practical objections.) So let’s ask a few questions.

Who are these people?

Where do they come from?

How much do they get paid for delivering such spurious drivel?

Why do we tolerate them?

But what really concerns me is that there are probably people out there who take this nonsense to heart and deny themselves the simple, short-lived, and relatively harmless pleasure every 27^th September. And I take serious umbrage at the fact that the BBC has so little regard for my intelligence specifically, and common sense in general, that they treat such silliness as sound advice on their news website.

Sal and the Moving Finger.

Being so immersed in a state of depressed solitude at the moment, tonight I decided to read some old email correspondence with the Lady B from ten or eleven years ago. I found it an interesting experience because, having had so much more time to observe and learn about human nature, I felt I was able to understand who she was back then far better than I did at the time.

I also found it quite frustrating because if I’d been as perceptive then as I am now, I think I could have been so much more use to her. That seemed a shame, but I realise that it might have resulted in her life’s road being slightly different, and who can say whether it would have been better or worse.

She still occupies a significant place in my consciousness, you know, on an almost daily basis. Fortunately, I have no reason to believe that she still reads this blog so hopefully she’ll never read this post. It might embarrass the poor woman, and I would hate to do that.

Update # Whatever.

Since I haven’t posted for a week I thought it incumbent on me to inform those few rare and distant people who still read this blog that I remain in this world but not of it.

Too much waking at various hours of the night and morning wracked with a sense that something awful is happening, or has recently happened, or is about to happen. Too much feeling cold inside the house and outside it. Too much awareness of health issues ranging from the merely uncomfortable to the downright hazardous. Too many dark skies, and too many reasons to feel confined in a state of trepidation so insistent as to pollute the lighter and finer feelings which occasionally seek to present themselves. Result: a level of ennui sufficient to preclude the kind of rambling habit to which I’m normally attracted.

Nothing new here. This happens occasionally (especially in January, I’ve noticed.) It’s probably some sort of routine psychological condition to which sensitive people are prey and therefore nothing to worry about. I expect it will pass eventually because it usually does.

And one thing did occur to me today which might permit a brief ramble.

I’ve heard it said that both INFJs and those whose path is essentially spiritual in construction – both of which appear to apply to me – are driven by their natures to be routinely alone. This is because the kind of people with whom they can connect are very rare and therefore rarely found. Do you realise what that means?

It means that when we do form a connection with somebody, that connection is so precious that it becomes elevated to a monomania. And if the object of that connection chooses to leave our orbit, the resultant space in our psyche is profoundly bitter. It’s true. It happens.

I expect I’ll be back eventually because the empty evenings are becoming tedious. Buffy has gone now.

Tasty Tucker.

I’ve discovered a new and tasty snack to delight the taste buds: Potato salad and pickled beetroot sandwiches. I really don’t understand why people spend large amounts of money on fancy food when there’s so much to savour on a budget and close to home.

Copping Out.

I had two serious posts to make today but I didn’t make them because I’m tired of making serious posts about ultimately mundane matters. And besides, I did spend time this afternoon writing a letter to a national company berating them for joining forces with the dark side. That was quite enough serious effort for one day.

Instead, I’ll recount the two interesting things which happened over the past week.

For the first time in several years I saw a thrush standing on yon bush, but to those cognisant with the old Irish folk song, I’m sorry to report that she didn’t regale me with a rendition of The Jug o’ Punch. She simply stood her ground and watched me as I walked past and greeted her cordially.

I got called ‘sweetheart’ three times by the young(ish) woman manager in Uttoxeter Poundland yesterday. I assumed she was the manager because she had the air of somebody who is in charge and knows it – a sort of Buffy with a North Staffordshire accent and without the $1000 hairstyle. I suspect the familiar conviviality of her greeting might have had something to do with the fact that I was buying a pack of cranberries.

No doubt this post will appear as pointless and unintelligible as many of them are these days. I’m still waiting for my brain to stop languishing in bed because it can’t tolerate the thought of another day struggling to function in the world beyond the walls. While it’s in such a state of abject torpor, I prefer the term ‘idiosyncratic.’

And incidentally, on the subject of bed, my dream last night was about preparing to travel to America with a woman who died twenty two years ago. I had no idea why, but then I had to inform her that I needed to cancel the arrangement because my passport had expired (which it has), and because I doubted my heart would stand the rigours of flying (the last time I took a flight to America I almost passed out because the angle of ascent on takeoff was very nearly vertical.) The dream ended before she showed any discernable response.

Loathing the Preacher Man.

I’ve now reached the last few episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the final season has been desperately dark.

Buffy’s current antagonist is not a vampire, a demon, or some other supernatural denizen of the pit, but he is the worst kind of devil incarnate so far encountered. He’s a smartly dressed and not unattractive man wearing a dog collar and speaking with a Deep South accent, and he’s very nasty. So nasty, in fact, that his presence disturbs me more than I would have thought possible.

So why should I be so deeply disturbed by a mere fiction? The image, that’s why. It left me with a sense that of all the nastiest and most dangerous creatures on earth, a smartly dressed man wearing a dog collar and speaking with a Deep South accent is among the most frightful of all.

Smoked Toast and Simple Pleasure.

I wonder how many young people today have experienced the pleasure of toast made on a simple wire toasting fork over the embers of a coal fire. It was a common way of making it when I was a boy. Every home had a telescopic wire toasting fork because every home had a coal fire in the winter. The bread absorbs a little of the tar rising off the coals, you see, and gains an added level of flavour unattainable by any other means.

The last time I remember having such a treat was one winter morning when I was nineteen. A heavy blizzard had raged for much of the previous day and the snow was too deep to allow any prospect of going to work. A fire was burning in the living room of the little three-bedroom flat on the ground floor of a Victorian terraced house in which I was living with my partner. I knew that there was a small private bakery just around the corner, so I went out and fetched a newly baked loaf of bread. And then we cut several thick slices, toasted them over the embers, and spread them liberally with fresh butter.

I think of the large amounts of money people spend in search of largely manufactured and expensive pleasures. I think of the many different pleasures I’ve experienced in my own life. And I can honestly say that those thick slices of buttered toast made over a coal fire in a warm room on a cold morning are among the most memorable of all.

On Ghosts, Shadows, and Changing Tack.

I’m being haunted at the moment by the Lady B’s shadow. It happens occasionally.

For a long time a few years ago I was being haunted by the ghost of Emily Brontë, and I’ve discovered something interesting: ghosts are more substantial than shadows. Well they would be, wouldn’t they? Emily’s corporeal form is dead and gone, whereas the Lady B’s is alive and merely distant. That’s why ghosts can talk to you silently, whereas shadows can’t (although shadows can be remarkably persistent and even debilitating.)

I haven’t seen the Lady B’s corporeal form for more than two years. It must have been during the warmer months because she was wearing shorts, and I imagine she’s probably changed a lot because becoming a different person has a habit of doing that. It’s even possible that I wouldn’t recognise her now. I recognise her shadow though. That never changes.

Maybe you think I’m talking nonsense, and maybe I am. And maybe it’s about time I did because it makes a refreshing change from bad dreams in the night.

America's Dark Age.

Since America likes to promote itself as the world’s Top Nation, it’s not surprising that news from there is highly visible to the rest of us. Two items particularly caught my eye today.

The first was the strange, and near violent, goings on in the House of Representatives over the election for the Speaker. And when you look at the back story, it appears that most of the mayhem was being caused by ultra right conservatives who pine for the good old days of the Clanton gang and Klan rule. And if you go even further back down the line, you realise that these people were put there by a substantial section of the American electorate.

The second was the revelation that American primary school children are randomly scanned by metal detectors to guard against weapons being brought in. It seems the 6-year-old boy who shot a teacher in Virginia – deliberately according to the local police – missed being caught by the random nature of the scanning.

America, what on earth is happening to your definition of civilisation?

Still, I expect the leaders of Russia, China, and Iran are enjoying themselves. While America is busy painting this picture of itself, they don’t need to waste time devising pejorative propaganda.

Harry's Book.

I’m growing a little tired of people in the higher echelons of various fields wanting to crucify Prince Harry for telling what is probably the simple truth about communities like the Royal Family and the military. He should know, after all, because he has good experience of both, and I don’t see what he has to gain from lying. It reminds me again of how much the self-righteous doyens of the Establishment will stoop to any amount of puerile posturing when somebody disturbs the mud of the established order.

Not Wishing to Repeat Myself.

I feel ever conscious of the need to make posts to this blog because the blog is my journal and it’s all I have to offer to the world beyond my mortal form. Without it I wouldn’t see any point to my existence, but what to write about when there’s nothing to say that hasn’t been said before?

I feel weak and ill for some part of every day. Done that one. I feel chilled even when the temperature in the room doesn’t warrant it. Done that one, too. I’m reluctant to get up in the morning because I know the day will be uncomfortable. It always is and I’ve said so before. The low light levels of winter continue to depress me, as does the mournful wind, the cold air, and periods of persistent wetness. I dread the onset of snow for historical reasons, one of which I remember making a post about once. And then there are the disturbing dreams which trouble my sleep nearly every night. But I did realise something about them today which might be worth mentioning.

I realised that most of them involve roads. Sometimes they’re major highways which have unusually steep inclines and sudden tight curves to take them over viaducts. Sometimes they’re lonely lanes which I know I have to walk in order to get home which is a long way away. Sometimes they’re complex street layouts in large towns and cities which have been changed so I don’t know how to get from one point to another. Sometimes they’re simple streets in small towns devoid of people, bordered by crumbling buildings and littered with the wind-blown detritus of a lost population. I suppose they’re all interpretations of feeling lost and hampered in an alien environment. What else should I suppose?

It’s all very negative, isn’t it? Occasionally I reminisce about earlier times when the positive was in the ascendant – times of rich experiences, fun, and even high achievement. And then I encourage the presumption that it takes both light and dark to make a complete spirit.

This evening my mind was suddenly invaded by an image of a baby lying on its side with its eyes closed. I couldn’t tell whether it was dead or just sleeping.

An Odd Coincidence.

Now, here’s something interesting: after publishing the last post (which you’d need to read in order to make sense of this one) I checked my emails and there was one from a woman I’m not familiar with. It dropped into my inbox at just about precisely the same time as I made the post, but it was obviously a round robin and not intended for me alone. 

It began with a quotation from some evidently ancient and revered personage called Lie Tseu which read: The perfect traveller does not know their destination. And the first sentence of the following paragraph read: Winter is a time for dreaming.

So is the universe finally coming to understand that I’m not the brightest button in the box and is now sending me messages in simple, unencrypted English? The only question now is whether or not I choose to be advised.

On a Mind Spurning Sleep.

I’m beginning to think that when I go to bed at night I don’t actually go to sleep. I suspect I stay awake and pass from one form of reality into another.

Last night’s alternate reality was uncharacteristically in situ. Instead of finding myself in some unfamiliar landscape with unfamiliar people, or fearfully negotiating a slippery slope with a drop of unknown but considerable depth beneath me (which is the sort of thing I’ve become used to lately), I was in my dimly lit living room feeling a strong sense that there was something beneath the floor depleting my health, strength, and energy. It didn’t feel supernatural, merely malignant. It went on for a long time and I felt mightily alarmed, and when I returned to the here and now in the cold light of day it continued to feel real (as it would if it was, if you see what I mean.)

I’ve said here before that I’m reluctant to get up in the morning because I don’t want to face the mundane reality of that world out there. Now I’m becoming reluctant to go to bed – even though I’ve been yawning all evening and am desperate for rest – because the other places are either frightful or depressing. I have three theories:

1. Last night’s experience was simply a dream in which my subconscious was trying to work something out.

2. I’m developing some sort of psychosis.

3. There really is something beneath the floor of my living room which is depleting my health, strength, and energy.

I’m choosing to presume that it was number one, but that presents its own problem because it leaves the matter of interpretation to be dealt with. And it seems odd that the many and varied roads I’ve walked in my life should have ended up here. Maybe I turned left somewhere when I should have turned right.

Darwin Vindicated.

I just heard Philomena Cunk explain Darwin’s Theory of Evolution in its most succinct form ever. She said:

Darwin discovered that dead animals are less likely to reproduce than live ones.

Finding this to be probably the best joke I ever heard on YouTube, I considered contributing ‘LMAO’ in the comments section; only I didn’t because there’s no point in having standards if you’re not going to live up to them.

Then I considered a more constructive comment, but only briefly. It struck me that even if I had been able to explain the rationale of the humour, the majority of people who creep and grunt along the dark and foetid corridors of the YouTube comment section are not sufficiently evolved to understand the concept of evolution, much less grasp why its misguided elucidation is so funny.

I settled on continuing to smile for several minutes.

Misusing an Ugly Word.

There was a news report today about the crisis in the NHS which referred to people with ‘heart disease.’ I found it disturbing because I feel an abiding antipathy towards the word ‘disease.’

To my mind, disease is something visible, ugly, creeping, festering, possibly malodorous, and often contagious. Leprosy is a disease. Tuberculosis is a disease, especially when it becomes visible through blood in the sputum. When it comes to something which is merely malfunctioning, I prefer the word ‘condition.’

I have a heart condition and I readily admit it to anybody I think might be interested, but I would never say I have heart disease. It would make me feel dirty, disreputable, and undesirable. I would expect people to wrinkle their nose and take a step backwards. I would expect to be shunned and hidden away as my grandfather was when he caught TB. My grandmother locked him in the bedroom so he couldn’t infect the house and put the children at risk.

And that’s why I’m disturbed by the clinical convention of using the word in a generic sense. And why, if any cardiologist uses it in reference to my condition, I will arrest his speech and ask him to mind his language.

On Oligarchs and Ironies.

It appears the oligarchs of Ukraine and Russia are suffering disastrous side effects from the war. Many of the Ukrainian mega-rich are having their fortunes decimated by the damage inflicted by the conflict, but the Russian oligarchs are suffering a different fate. They’ve developed the habit of turning up dead in suspicious circumstances.

What’s odd is that Mr Zelensky is not in favour of oligarchs, but it can hardly be he who is stripping them of their wealth. I always had the impression, however, that Mr Putin was hand in glove with ultra-wealthy Russians, but I also have the impression that Mr Putin is behind everything nasty that happens in Russia. So is all this a mirage?

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On an unrelated note, I read today that the Palestinians are tearing their hair out with rage over the actions of a leading light of the new ultra-right wing government in Israel. It seems he has been tramping contemptuously over ground which the Muslim Palestinians hold sacred.

So let’s ask a question here: what was the biggest, most zealous right wing organisation the world has known over the past few centuries? Why, the German Nazi Party of course. And the Israelis are not supposed to be terribly keen on Nazis, are they? Ironic, isn’t it? And is this further evidence that when the chips are down, whether they be held by the far right or the far left, it all distils to the bigotry of psychopathic, power-obsessed human beings?

On the Matter of Chi.

I’ve done a lot of things today and had chance encounters with several people I haven’t seen since before lockdown. Tonight I spoke to Mel on Skype for nearly two hours, and then wrote a difficult email to my daughter. I’ve been almost constantly occupied and communicating with people the whole day – which is most unusual for me – and yet my mind is empty of anything to write to the blog. For all its activity, the day has seemed curiously flat as though the flow of chi has been sluggish.

Is that how life works, I wonder? Is that the river of energy on which we drift through life, with its eddies and currents and white water stretches and occasional cataracts? Is that the sea into which we eventually flow before rising to new clouds before starting the journey all over again? And is it all in the mind but still real? And do we ever get to find out?

The Mind's Little Word Trick.

It’s an odd fact that if you see a word often enough it changes its character, and so it is with the name ‘Janet’ which has been at the top of one of my inboxes for the past three months. It’s the name of a customer service adviser who emailed me in connection with a query which hasn’t yet come to full fruition. That’s why it’s still there and why it’s the first word I see every time I view that inbox.

I’m very familiar with the name Janet because I’ve lived with two of them, and yet now the first word I read looks unfamiliar, foreign even. I now see it as being maybe a French word, with the soft ‘j’ at the beginning and an open ending. I even find myself pronouncing it that way in my mind.

And thereby does the mind play tricks with our perceptions, and perception is the whole of the life experience, and so on and so forth… And I’m relieved to have something trivial to say for a change.

On Russia and the New Year Woes.

Vladimir Putin’s New Year address to the Russian people was pure theatre, liberally sprinkled with lies as all propaganda is. Western politicians and the media are no strangers to propaganda themselves, but not on this scale.

Russia is now widely recognised as one of the world’s leading terrorist organisations, and is in the process of forfeiting its right to belong in the international community. A little over a hundred years ago the Russian people found the courage, the strength and the will to depose the Romanovs, and now it’s Putin who needs to be deposed. I suspect it will take the military to do the job this time, although the mystery remains as to why the generals continue to follow the commands of a clever but not highly intelligent thug who persists in leading Russia into the darkness. As long as they do so, innocents will continue to die. The current estimate of the number of children killed in Russian air strikes against civilian targets stands at around 450. How many more will it take?

And if any Russian happens to read this, let me ask you a question: do you really believe that NATO ever posed any military threat to Russia except in a defensive sense? The people of the NATO countries know full well that a pre-emptive strike against Russia would lead to a conflagration massively detrimental to all parties. The western bloc wants economic influence certainly – and that raises an issue of desirability in itself – but the notion that such influence could be gained through military means is ludicrous.

That, in a nutshell, is my view of the situation. Take it or leave it.

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On a personal level, the start of 2023 began with an email bringing news of a death and the prospect of dissolution. I wish I had something lightweight and amusing to say, but these are difficult times. As soon as I find something, I’ll be glad to post it.