Touching Base.

So, it’s been twelve days since I wrote a post to the blog. Same reason as usual: the heart was willing but the spirit was weak. There’s a post around the question of whether there is any intrinsic value in saving a life currently sitting half written in the file. When it became a little complicated I couldn’t be bothered to set the logic in order and translate it into well constructed ink blots. Maybe I will some time.

But I was reading through some old posts last night when I came upon a comment which directed me to the priestess’s Tumblr channel from ten years ago. Having nothing better to do, I took a peek at the first three or four of them and realised something. I realised that the apparent connection which we both appeared to believe in was at least a mystery, if not an illusion generated by a sense of something unfulfilled. The persona she projected through her activities and attitudes were such that we were about as ill-matched as two people could possibly be, and so I set to wondering why she had ever shown any interest in me.

Speculation led me to only one conclusion. I reasoned that there must have been an empty compartment somewhere in her consciousness which was rumbling like an empty stomach, and she needed something to occupy it and keep it quiet. That, presumably, was where I fitted in.

It occurred to me, you see, that I must have been the most boring person she’d ever encountered. So straight-laced, so highly principled, so perfectionist, and so much given to the idealistic tendency. I considered whether it bothered me that I must have been the most boring person she’d ever encountered. I decided it didn’t because, after all, being the most anything is some sort of position on some sort of podium, and I’ve stood on very few podiums in my life.

*  *  *

Off now to watch another episode of an old Brit TV sci-fi series called Primeval. I have to say that it’s not of the highest quality. Much of the acting is overcooked, some of the direction is lacking finesse, it’s littered with glaring plot holes, and the death scene of the main character which occurred in the last episode is hopelessly implausible. It struck me that it’s how Charles Dickens might have written the demise of Tiny Tim if he’d allowed an unrepentant E. Scrooge to oversee the event.

And yet it retains the capacity to entertain. (And it provides some ballast in an empty compartment of my currently jaundiced consciousness.)

My latest book, by the way, is Umberto Eco’s last – The Prague Cemetery. He takes an awfully long time to get anywhere, but I like his style.

Bemoaning My Ignorance.

Today is the Ides of March.

Today are the Ides of March.

‘Today’ is singular, ‘Ides’ at least appears to be plural. So should the verb be true to subject or object? There are times when I feel quite ashamed of my lack of extended erudition in the matter of language.

Simple Encounters and Questionable Considerations.

The highlights of today’s pre-lunch walk included:

Being passed on the lane by a jogging Lady B, and being afforded the sound of a squeak emanating from that direction. I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the complaining of knee caps under strain or an energy-saving version of ‘hi.’ I chose to assume the latter.

Offering my best regards to a grey-whiskered chocolate Labrador sitting at the side of his house in the village, and being welcomed most heartily with much squirming and general lolloping.

Noticing a ladybird trapped behind the glass of the village notice board, working out how to open the contraption, and releasing the benighted insect to enjoy freedom and the mild spring weather. I admit to having felt slightly noble.

*  *  *

In between the encounters with dogs, ladybirds, and the Lady B, I found myself ruminating on the fact that I seem to be moving towards the making of a difficult decision: either release most of what little savings I have and tread closer to the cultural tram lines, or move in the opposite direction and accept a life of simple survival. Such a prospect goes some way to showing you how far you’ve come in trying to make sense of being alive.

*  *  *

And of course, there was the ever-present habit of giving a little thought to the female of the species. I felt quite confident in concluding that they are at their prettiest as children, their most beguiling from late teens to early twenties, and their loveliest in their thirties. What I couldn’t decide was whether it’s rightly said that at forty they become invisible. I was content with the uncertainty because the matter no longer holds any relevance for me.

A Star in the Shire.

I was standing outside Sainsbury’s yesterday when somebody I recognised came out of the store. She’s a woman who lives in the Shire about half a mile from me in one of the old farmhouses. I’ve had a few brief, mostly perfunctory conversations with her down the years, but not enough to claim to know her.

What piqued my interest, however, was the fact that she looked at me but showed no sign of recognition. I’ve said often enough on the blog that I’m always surprised by the number of people who seem to know all about me even though I’ve never spoken to them. Yet here was somebody to whom I have spoken, but who clearly doesn’t remember me.

Is this a good thing, I wondered? Has she not heard of my reputation for being a bit strange at the very least, if not a denizen of some dark realm who luxuriates in the children of the night and the music they make? Is she the one person who will sit quietly at home while the assembled multitude drives me to the burning mill with pitchforks? To an incorrigible recluse like me, I suppose it is a good thing. And so I declined to be ignored and engaged her in conversation, a snippet of which revealed that she rescues animals.

‘What sort of animals?’ I enquired.

‘Dogs, cats, chickens, sheep, horses – we’ve got five of those.’

‘Must cost a fortune.’

‘It does.’

And then she told me of a few circumstances which gave rise to their rescue, such as the lamb which had been thrown over a hedge and couldn’t move because it was trapped among thorny brambles.

Well now, what does it take for someone to gain my approbation? A few things actually, but rescuing animals in distress would definitely vie for top spot. And so I will readily converse with her again if I should encounter her jogging around the Shire or taking a tribe of dogs for a walk. And maybe it will be less perfunctory next time. I like people who rescue animals.

It troubled me a little that she looked ill. She had grey patches under her eyes where most people develop bags as they age, and eyes are a good indicator of the state of a person’s physical or mental health. But maybe she’s just exhausted by the work of caring for numerous dogs, cats, chickens, sheep… and five horses.

(I couldn’t resist asking her whether she had a YouTube channel because YouTube is replete with animal rescue videos and I’m convinced a lot of them are fake. She said she didn’t. That helped, too.)

On Ashbourne Ladies, Smiles, and the Spaniel Phenomenon.

I seem to be becoming a connoisseur of smiles just lately. I made a list of some of the different types in a recent post, and today I collected another one for the album: the shining smile.

I was at the counter in the hardware store (it’s nicely old fashioned and locally owned, which is why it still has a counter), returning a faulty light bulb which I bought last week. I heard a woman’s voice behind me and turned to trace the source. She looked at me and smiled in a way I can only describe as the sort of smile you would expect of a little girl to whom you had just given the money to buy an ice cream. Bright, shining, almost playful. It was so bright that I hardly noticed the crooked front tooth thus revealed (or maybe the crooked front tooth contributed to the charm. How can one tell?)

And so as we walked to the door side by side – purely by accident, you understand – I couldn’t resist the urge to compliment her. ‘Excuse me,’ I began, ‘I hope you won’t mind a personal comment, but you do have the most engaging smile.’ She did it again, so I felt emboldened to continue: ‘It’s real, which isn’t as common as you might think.’ And then I luxuriated for several minutes at the thought that she might go home and tell her husband: ‘There was this really nice man in the hardware store, and do you know what he said?’ Or the alternative might have been: ‘There was this creepy old guy in David Neil’s today. Made me shiver, he did, dirty old scrote.’ I will never know of course, for such are the mysterious vicissitudes of life.

I might add, however, that I’d just come from Sainsbury’s where I’d engaged the deputy manageress, or whatever she was, in a discussion about my having been overcharged to the tune of £5 last week. She didn’t smile. Her manner was one of constant aggressive defensiveness to everything I said, as though she’d been trained by Catholic nuns, well versed in the corrective use of a whippy cane, scaring innocent young children with tales of the Devil coming to pull their fingernails out very slowly if they didn’t pay obeisance to gentle Jesus every night. ‘And the screams of agony will be so terrible that they might carry all the way to Tipperary if the wind is in the right direction.’ Or maybe I exaggerate a little (but not much.) Not being an innocent young child, however, I did come away with my £5.

And then a lady smiled brightly at me. Job done.

And I’ll tell you what was odd about Ashbourne today. I saw several people walking dogs, both driving there and walking around the town, and every single one of the dogs was a Cocker Spaniel. No other breeds or mongrels at all, just Cocker Spaniels. Was that a message from the universe, do you think? I did wonder.

Oh, nearly forgot the trolley girl outside Sainsbury’s. She was walking up from the car park and noticed an errant shopping trolley which had been lazily left on the paved walkway that leads to the town centre. She made a detour to collect the article and placed it neatly on the line of trolleys outside the wall of the store. That was impressive, and so I said ‘Congratulations. Not many people do that sort of thing.’ She didn’t smile either. She coloured up quite alarmingly and hurried past.

And then I noticed something interesting about her. Her lissom form, body language, hairstyle, and clarity of skin suggested a mid-to-late teenager, but her eyes carried the experience of a 30-year-old. I considered approaching her to suggest that she might be an old soul, but then I worried about the fairness and clarity of her apparently young cheeks. Maybe they wouldn’t take too kindly to the sanguinary experience to which she seemed inclined to subject them, so I didn’t.

And that was today in Ashbourne. The car behaved well today, bless her. She’s French, you know. Time for coffee and toast now (I’ve missed four hours sleep this week and the caffeine helps.)

The Dichotomy of Spring Markers.

The weather turned in Britain today. The chill winds relented and calmer, milder weather moved in preceded by yet more rain.

(It’s been a very wet winter and the land has been saturated for three months now. The cereal crops have suffered badly in some of the fields, and I fully expect to read that wheat and barley prices will be high later in the year. That means dearer bread, cakes, cereals, beer, and whisky to name but a few of the affected products.)

And the downside of this combination of warmth and wetness was that I was harassed by midges for the first time this year. Apart from wondering how many insects you’re breathing in during the onslaught, the real nuisance is the way they go for your eyes. I wonder whether anybody has thought of inventing a human version of those hoods with gauzy eye sockets which people put on horses during the summer midge season. Or maybe I could set a trend by wearing swim goggles on my morning walks. If the locals think I’m a fruitcake anyway, what difference would a pair of poncy swim goggles make?

In other firsts – the wood anemones are showing their first blooms in the little wood at the top of the lane, I saw the first bee of the year today, but I also saw the first ant in the garden. I’m sorry to say that I dislike ants quite a lot and my garden is overrun with them during the summer. That’s where the dichotomy comes in. Must make sure I’ve got plenty of white spirit to smear on the wellies I wear for digging. Ants are known to dislike white spirit and are generally reluctant to associate with it.

*  *  *

And here’s an odd thing: Why is there a region of London called Waterloo? Well, no doubt it was named after the area where the battle took place between the allies (mostly British) and the French in 1815. But it occurred to me today that the word ‘loo’ is the commonest colloquialism for toilet (previously lavatory, and WC – water closet – before that. Forget that they’re called ‘heads’ in the navy. There is a logical reason, and sailors are a strange bunch anyway.) And the term ‘loo’ is derived from ‘l’eau’, the French for water. So why would somebody combine the English for water with the anglicisation of the French for water, and name an area in Belgium after it? Never thought of that before.

*  *  *

I think that last paragraph is probably the most tedious I’ve ever written. Blame it on the fact that I got up three hours earlier than usual this morning in order to accommodate the young man from the land agent who had been sent to do a ‘property survey.’ So I’m tired. And I do wish they would leave me alone and stop sending young men to irritate me with their property surveys, especially when it means I only get five hours sleep the previous night. Dropping and signing off.

Sleeping With the Enemy.

It seems that Donald Trump and Viktor Orbán of Hungary are the very best of pals at the moment, each thinking that the twin suns of a glorious future shine brightly from their respective fundaments. Orbán says that if Trump wins the Presidency, all American military aid to Ukraine will cease. Trump agrees with him. And at their recent meeting they were wearing matching suits and ties – all blue (and dark blue is widely recognised as the colour of authority, which is why police uniforms are that colour.)

This is interesting because Orbán is also best mates with Putin, and it pleases Mr O to point out that if America stops funding Ukraine, the war will be over quickly. (That’s the slightly veiled way of saying that Russia will win, and the real reason for the ‘special military operation’ – to put an extra layer of battlements between Russia and the NATO alliance – will have been successful.) And there have been some pretty strong hints that Trump holds Putin in high regard, and that Putin wants Trump in the White House again.

So what comes next?

You see, it’s always seemed fairly evident to me that the taking of Ukraine is Putin’s attempt to lay the foundations for rebuilding the USSR, which raises the spectre of a new Cold War in which the relationship between America and Europe will not be as firmly cemented as it was during the last one, at least not as long as Trump has any say in the matter. So that has me wondering whether: 1.) We are headed for a very troubled future, and 2.) Supporters of Mr Dunderhead have any idea of the power shift they might be unleashing in November. (It also has me wondering whether there really is some shadowy but powerful third party pulling strings here.)

Fortunately, I’m no expert in foreign affairs, military matters, or the veracity of conspiracy theories, so maybe I’m wrong. But it still doesn’t smell too good.

On The Lay and the Lady's Day.

’Tis but a week to the Lady B’s birthday, but I can’t send a missive – real or digital – because I once said ‘no more words from me’ and my word is my bond. (I have communicated with her since then but only in response to an incoming message. I consider that to be not only allowed, but obligatory.) But I thought I’d mention it here anyway just in case she accidentally presses the wrong button on her stroke and poke machine and lands on this post. At least she’ll know that I have remembered the date and I do wish her a happy birthday.

So then I worked out what age she will become on the appointed day and set to wondering what I was doing on my own equivalent all those years ago. Where was I living? With whom? How was I making my way in the world and in what general conditions? It all came back very easily and led me to think of all the phases I’ve passed through since then – the people, the activities, the changes, the successes and failures, the gains and losses, the romances and separations, the house moves etc, etc. And they all seemed so very short.

There were several close ladies involved in this otherwise unremarkable odyssey, and I felt an urge to write something for posterity with the title:

The Lay of the Lost Ladies

Has a ring to it, doesn’t it? I like titles which have a ring to them. I won’t bother, of course. The Lay (or its archaic original ‘Lai’ from Norman French) is a form of poetry which has it’s origins in the 13^th century. I gather they were usually very long and required to be written in a prescribed form. I have enough difficulty writing a simple blog post these days, and I was never a poet anyway, so I think the Lay can be true to its name and join the other good ideas which will forever lie on stony ground.

*  *  *

It’s been a bad day today; depressingly inclement weather and one malfunction after another. I hate it when things don’t work as they should. It makes me feel rattled. To me, a malfunctioning machine or other appliance is akin to having a serious chest infection so that even the act of breathing is painful. It appears a lack of functional perfection is yet another neurosis to which I’m prey, and the more complex we make our functional artefacts, the more they seem prone to glitches and breakdowns.

Interesting note:

When I came to post this, my internet dropped out. Methinks the universe is being a little mischievous today.

A Seed Staying on Stony Ground.

I’ve mentioned on this blog that sometimes the black dog wakes up and goes into aggressive controlling mode. And one thing he does is take up a menacing position between me and the computer keyboard, thereby preventing the making of blog posts.

It’s an odd fact, however, that during such periods I often have ideas for posts, but I can’t make them because the will is too weak. And so they fall like seeds upon stony ground and rarely see the light of day thereafter. In retrospect, that can be a little irksome because I do so like to chatter, you know. I do.

And so I decided to adopt a simple procedure which any sensible person would adopt: keep a notebook handy and jot a quick trigger to remind me later when circumstances are more amenable to chattering. I did it last night when it was almost bed time, the old computer was being frustratingly cranky, and the two double scotches were making perception a tiny bit misty. I saw something on YouTube and had a light bulb moment, so I reached for the notebook and wrote Sofa. Today I took out the notebook.

‘Sofa? Sofa? What have sofas to do with anything worth making a blog post about?’ I thought. (Because I have a lazy mind which doesn’t give a tuppeny toss about ending a sentence on a preposition.) I thought and thought but wasn’t getting anywhere, not until I read a comment on an old post and the penny dropped. I began to compose the post in my head to make sure that I was going to get everything more or less in the right order and cover all the salient points.

It started to become far more complicated than I’d imagined. It threw up mutually contradictory statements. It had me wondering whether I really had a clue about the subject at hand. And what was worse, I realised that it might well cast me in rather a dim light to the minds of right-thinking people, a few of whom I care about. It began to assume the tone of a shameful confession, and I wasn’t in the mood for confessing. By the end of it, it seemed I had dug myself into a deep hole out of which there was no escaping.

I dislike being trapped in dark holes, so this post will have to serve as an alternative. With apologies.

On Chaos and a Special Smile.

I watched a video on YouTube last night which explained the principle of chaos theory (although presented not as a theory, but established fact.) I think I got the gist, or at least some of it, but I’m glad my life isn’t dependent on being able to explain it to a bunch of 15-year-olds in a high school science lab.

Part of the problem – along with my lack of intelligence, at least in the matter of far end physics – was that the video was only twenty minutes long and spoken at speed by a man with an American accent who seemed to presume that everybody’s non-tutored brain operates at the same speed as his highly tutored one. There was also a lot of fascinating and rather lovely visual imagery to illustrate the teaching, so how is a person like me, highly attuned as I am to visual imagery, supposed to listen to somebody rattling along like the bullet train to Tokyo instead of regarding the fascinating imagery with some degree of fascination?

One thing I did catch and understand was that Newtonian physics is entirely deterministic, and the move through Einstein and onto quantum enquiry now proves that determinism is accurate only up to a point. Having been a lifelong supporter of Determinist philosophy, that revelation was a bit of a disappointment. And of course, none of it takes into account the big question on which I’m currently a little fixated: does anything in the material universe objectively exist anyway?

Eventually I switched off and came back down to terra firma. I’m more or less resigned to the fact that as long as puppies and kittens continue to look cute, and as long as the Lady B continues to smile at me and her car smells of fresh flowers, and as long as I can dream that somewhere in the world is a person who might one day present me with a bowl of hot baked Alaska and a small pot of fresh cream, all is well. (Even though I know that Dr Pangloss was an idiot.)

And may I be permitted to add a brief note on the subject of the Lady B’s smile? I may? Here goes then:

I have observed that there are many widely differing varieties of smile. There’s the forced smile, the disingenuous or fake smile, the polite smile, the formal smile, the excited smile, the mischievous smile… I could probably go on if I could be bothered; I recognise them all instinctively. But the fact is that the Lady’s smile is none of these. It’s a simple, natural smile of projected warmth. When she smiles at you it’s like walking into a warm house after you’ve spent the past couple of hours freezing your butt off working in the frigid garden. And that’s why it’s so welcome.

Thank you for your indulgence.

Consciousness Unprovoked.

I’m aware that for some time now my perceptions have been concentrating on the bad side of life and the human condition. Heaven knows this blog has been full of it.

I think it should be self-evident, however, that I’m also aware of the good things in life, but now even they are giving cause for doubts and questions. I’m finding lately that every time my sense organs register something which raises my spirits – a selfless act of kindness or rescue, the sight of inquisitive young animals just discovering the experience of being here, the smell of honeysuckle and new-mown hay in early summer – my first response is to appreciate the glorious richness available to us sentient beings who are lucky to be at the top of the evolutionary scale. But then a voice somewhere deep inside me whispers with the certainty of an inner guru that none of it is real. It’s just a dream. And the voice seems to get louder each time it speaks. And so I ask myself the question:

All experience of pleasure and pain is simply my consciousness responding to some stimulus, so is it possible for consciousness to be self-contained – to experience pleasure or pain at will without there being anything to provoke it? And the answer comes back:

Probably.

And would that be the start of what the Buddhists call enlightenment?

Possibly.

So is my suspicion correct that the only thing which is ultimately real is consciousness?

Probably.

And so all manifestations of material existence – even to the vastness of the physical universe – are illusory?

Probably.

I go quiet for a while, but then I have a thought: What about people who suffer baseless fears around certain situations? We call that experience 'neurosis.' And what about people who suffer anxiety and depression when there’s no apparent cause? Are these examples of self-contained consciousness at work – and maybe even enlightenment beginning to take root – and not the mental malaise we think them to be?

I didn’t get an answer to that one. Thinking on.

There But For the Grace of God.

Tonight I started watching a film called The Book Thief. It’s set in Germany in 1938, and we all know what was going on in Germany in 1938. It scared and depressed me for two different but connected reasons:

Scared because I know that the darkness and depravity to which so many people – almost a whole nation – were persuaded by the application of charisma and finely chosen words was not a peculiarly German phenomenon. It’s a universal component of the human condition. It always has been and I’m sure it always will be. Kristallnacht could happen anywhere given the charisma, the words, and the circumstantial background. Indeed, versions of it have already happened since then in other parts of the world.

Depressed because there’s a question to which I don’t know the answer: If I’d been there, would I have joined in? I don’t think so, not because I’m too good or civilised or noble a person, but because I’m strongly and congenitally disinclined to join things or follow crowds. Would that be enough, I ask myself, and is it a good enough reason?

Musing on the Mystery of Three.

I was thinking again about the minor fixation I have with the three-women motif in literature, myth and legend. Let’s have a short list off the top of my head:

 

The three witches who stop Macbeth and Banquo on the blasted heath

The three queens who come to take Arthur to Avalon after he’s received his mortal wound at the hands of Mordred

The three Gorgons of Greek myth – Medussa, Stheno, and Euryale

The three Marys of the New Testament – mother, sister, and Mary Magdalene

The three Brontë sisters who grew to adulthood – Charlotte, Emily, and Anne

Even the nine muses amount to three groups of three

And for a few years following the genesis of this blog, three women became particularly prominent in my life. They shall, of course, be nameless.

And what about the much celebrated Lady B who, for some years after I first met her, lived in a family of three – herself, her mother, and her sister. And now she has three children of her own, all girls.

There has to be a bit of magic there somewhere, doesn’t there?

The Delights of Local Dialect.

For some reason last night I kept hearing the phrase ‘a lady on a milk white steed’ running through my head. It sounds poetic, doesn’t it? Sounds as though it should be at the heart of a new ditty. So did I construct a new ditty around it? No, instead I was reminded of the dialect that used to be spoken in my neck of the woods when I was a boy.

One of its oddities was the carrying of a consonant at the end of a word onto the start of a second word if it began with a vowel. So a white horse became ‘a way toss.’ And if you asked the question of a person steeped in the diction of the industrial Potteries what on earth a ‘way toss’ was, he or she would probably answer: ‘It’s the same as a bry noss, only wait.’

Unfortunately it’s mostly gone now. The modern speaker will call a white horse ‘a why torse,’ and a brown horse ‘a brow norse’ which makes communication a lot easier.

Railing Against the Robots.

I used the last cheque in my cheque book yesterday, and then went to pick up the new one from the drawer in which I always keep it. It wasn’t there. ‘Oh dear,’ I thought, ‘the bank mustn’t have sent me one. Better give them a ring.’ So rang them I did, and this is the early part of the conversation:

Thank you for calling Santander. I can see that you’re calling from a phone which is registered with us.

(Thinks: No you can’t. You’re a robot. What you should be saying is ‘our equipment indicates that you are calling…’)

But let’s not be pedantic. The voice of Ms Metal continued:

Now say ‘At Santander my voice is my password.’

(‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘voice recognition software. I wonder whether it will work. Let’s give it a go.’)

‘My voice is my password.’

Please say ‘At Santander my voice is my password.’

(Now who’s being pedantic? OK, OK. Resistance is useless…)

‘At Santander my voice is my password.’

Now tell me what you are calling about today.

‘I have not received my new cheque book.’

Could you try again and be more specific.

(In what way is my statement lacking in the matter of specifics? But OK, OK again, let’s try a positive instruction.)

‘Please send me a new cheque book.’

I see, so you want to know the balance on your account. The balance on your account is…

(This is becoming worse than silly. How can even the most dumbass algorithm or bloody robot translate ‘Please send a new cheque book’ as ‘I want to know the balance on my account’?)

I won’t go on, except to say that it got worse before it got better. Eventually I managed to speak to someone who took a few details and undertook to send me a new cheque book. It took half an hour of hair-tearing to get there.

Here’s what used to happen until a few short years ago:

You dialled the number and a voice answered with ‘For security purposes, please enter your 16-digit card number or security code if you have one.’ You entered it, and then an adviser picked up the phone. He or she asked a couple more security questions and then dealt with the enquiry. In the case of simply needing a new cheque book, the whole business was sorted in five minutes at most. So here’s my point:

I am not, as some might imagine, falling prey to unthinking reactionism in bemoaning the move to automation. I am perfectly happy with, and welcoming of, many of the technological enhancements to life over the past hundred years (telephones, fridges, automatic washing machines, sliced bread…) Perfectly content and even grateful because most of them benefited the generality of people. They made life easier.

But the current drive towards automation in nearly all maters pertaining to communication is not benefitting the generality of people. All too often it’s confusing, frustrating, time-consuming, and often dysfunctional. What it’s doing is increasing the generality of stress, and thereby contributing to mental health issues which appear to be reaching near-epidemic proportions. And we all know – or should do – that most of it is not intended to benefit the generality of people anyway. It’s there because it enables the users – banks and the corporate world mostly – to employ fewer people and thus make even bigger profits. It’s a demon given genesis by a greedy capitalist system becoming ever greedier. That’s why I’m not at all happy with it.

There's nothing any of us can do about it, of course. We're living in a machine age in which real people are becoming increasingly redundant and all the big money-making organisations are leading the way together. This problem has become one of the great talking points of the age, second only to the weather and growing by the year. Everybody has their own stock of stories to tell, stories of the frustrating inanities so routinely evident in a system to which we are all shackled. And don't we just love the ubiquitous fall-back: Did you know that you can find answers to most questions on our website? Go to wwwdot... No, no, no! When we have a problem we want to talk to somebody. It's how humans have always functioned best and how we want to continue functioning. But the system says 'no', and resistance really is useless.

And on that note I rest my case because it’s time to do my weekly blood pressure test. I can hear the little device trembling in the cupboard…

On Lost Commestibles and the Origin of Perceptions.

A few years ago I had a period of eighteen months when I couldn’t take my customary walks because of the pain in my left leg. It was diagnosed as atherosclerosis (furring up of the arteries) and the remedy was a trip to hospital for a two-day stay and a rather painful angioplasty procedure.

Having dealt with that, I decided to drastically reduce my intake of high fat foods. No more fresh cream (not even in my coffee), no more custard, no more pastries, no more cake even of the lighter variety, and very little of the full fat cheese to which I was virtually addicted. I was pleased with my discipline, but life became even more tedious.

And so last week I decided that I was due a treat, reasoning that a small amount taken in isolation would do little harm. I bought a pair of small fancies consisting of two ‘crowns’ of meringue sandwiching a thin layer of chocolate and a thicker layer of fresh cream.

Imagine the level of my expectation as I opened the package and took one of them out. I picked it up, opened my mouth (carefully judged to be just wide enough to accommodate the delectable comestible because I consider genteel eating habits to be one of the first requirements of a person claiming to be civilised) and lifted it in the direction of blissful consummation. Unfortunately, the meringue ‘crowns’ were rather less firm than meringue comestibles are supposed to be. They broke, and the floor became the recipient of numerous bits of white detritus punctuated with flecks of cream and fragments of chocolate, most of which disappeared into the vacuous maw of the vacuum cleaner.

Upon witnessing this unfortunate state of affairs, many people – those of naturally cheerful perception – would have laughed. I didn’t because my perceptions are rather less than cheerful these days, but I didn’t cry either because big boys don’t, at least not over spilled meringue comestibles. But I admit to having been less than happy and I was reminded of an incident in my childhood.

I was seven years old and on holiday in Devon. It was a warm, sunny day and my mother gave me the money to buy an ice cream, which I did with great glee because my life to that point had been lived at subsistence level and ice cream was a rare treat. Walking back, I tripped over something on the ground, and the ground was where my ice cream landed while my hands were occupied in breaking my fall. As far as I can remember, I didn’t cry on that occasion either. (Heaven knows why; little boys are allowed to, aren’t they?) And my mother took pity on me and gave me the money to buy a second ice cream, which I held onto very firmly before devouring it.

And now, all these years later, I wonder whether my experience of having lived at subsistence level during early childhood was responsible for the fact that I’ve never chased money. I even look down on those who do, although I suppose I probably shouldn’t. I don’t know the answer to that; you’d have to ask a psychologist.

On the Dreaded Dog and the Lady's Influence.

Well now, it's been thirteen days since I last made a post. The reason is simple enough: the old black dog has been making his presence felt most alarmingly for the past thirteen days, snarling and slavering and spreading darkness, decay, and the Red Death through waking and sleeping hours alike. Several times I thought of making a post on the two things currently bothering me about the decline of British culture – increasing state control over personal freedoms and the constant attempt to sanitise society beyond reasonable bounds – but the desire to communicate flies out of the window when the black dog wakes up.

But today was different; today, fate granted me another short interview with the Lady B and the littlest of the little princesses (who is utterly adorable, by the way.) And you know what the black dog did? He did what he always does when the Lady B is around – shuffled off and lay grovelling at her feet like a whimpering puppy who would be mortified at the merest thought of accidentally treading on a butterfly.

Or, to put it another way, the sun came out as it always did when the Lady B was within communicable distance. Or, just in case you haven’t got it yet, or have no truck with metaphors, my dolorous spirits always get a bit of a lift when fate grants me an audience with the said Lady.

So that’s why I wrote this. I might write something else tomorrow if the dog is either asleep or still whimpering. Then again…

The Bird That Thought It Was a Hedgehog.

So should I tell today’s story of the stricken bird? I don’t think so. It was one of those situations which seem terribly meaningful and interesting at the time, but when you go into detail you imagine that the reception would be nothing more than yawns and eye rolls. So I’ll just tell the beginning and the end.

I was going out for my daily walk this morning when I spotted what appeared to be a ball, about the size of a tennis ball, stuck to the side of the birds’ peanut feeder. Closer examination showed it to be a small bird gripping the holes in the feeder, but without any visible head or wings. It really had managed to tuck everything away so that it looked – quite literally – like a ball, brown on one side and buff on the other. Clearly it had learned the skill by watching hedgehogs, and that, in my experience, is very unusual.

That’s the start of the story. Now for the end.

An hour and a half later I saw it shoot away from the feeder and fly straight and fast to the big sycamore tree on the opposite side of the lane. I cheered silently.

(The interim, for what it’s worth, consisted of me cradling the little creature between my hands to bestow warmth, stroking it gently, and speaking words of encouragement in a quiet and gentle manner. It didn’t seem to mind.)

So that’s about it. Maybe I earned some positive karma or maybe I didn’t. Who can tell? Oh, and it was a nuthatch if anybody’s still reading.

On Stats and Synchronicity.

I looked at my Blogger stats page earlier today and it gave the number of page views up to that point as 777. When I looked again they had increased to 888. Later again, the total was 1111. And after I’d made the last post I took a look and the figure had increased to 1146. Next to it on the page was the total for yesterday which was also 1146.

So there we have 777, 888, 1111, and 1146:1146.

Just lately, YouTube keeps throwing videos at me explaining Carl Jung’s theory on synchronicity. Jung was adamant that these apparent coincidences are deeply meaningful in the prosecution of life. I’ve also read before that the coincidence of numbers, particularly in sequence, is especially noteworthy and shouldn’t be ignored.

Is this all nonsense? Was the great Carl Jung wrong? If not, what should I make of today’s coincidences? I wish I knew. And further, I wish I knew whether it matters or not.

The One Benefit of Growing Old.

I watched a YouTube video recently, of The Wailin Jennys performing a live set for CBC in Canada. I remembered having watched it before, around ten or eleven years ago before I became old and broken and a little worn around the edges, and I remembered I’d entered a comment in praise of their performance.

Now, one of the band – and the one I always found most ‘appealing’ – in those far off, halcyon days, was called Ruth Moody. She was an Australian who later went on to form a band of her own, and she was pretty dishy (to use a term sufficiently archaic as to be more amusing than offensive.) In this particular piece, each of the combo was both singing and also playing an instrument. Ruth was playing the bodhran, and doing so very well. I read the comment I’d left back in whatever year it was and it made particular reference to Ruth’s playing of the bodhran. I wrote:

If she can play the bodhran that well, imagine what she could do with a piece of wood and a pot of almond paste.

It confused me. I couldn’t imagine what I could possibly have meant by it, and yet somebody had replied with:

That’s one of the best comments I’ve ever read on YouTube. Love it! And I agree 100%.

So then I was even more confused because he had apparently understood what I meant, but I hadn’t a clue. What on earth did almond paste have to do with anything?

And then enlightenment began to appear dimly in the mist of my ageing mind. It seemed I had intended something lewd, but expressed it somewhat tangentially because that’s what passes for humour to us Brits.

Was that it? It’s the best I can come up with, and it led me to realise just how much my mindset has changed since then. Lewdness has seemingly gone the way of the dodo. And maybe that’s the one true advantage of ageing. The gaining of wisdom is just delusional baloney. Or maybe they're the same thing.

And Then There Was Light.

I just read an old post which reminded me that at one time I was much interested in the duality of light and dark.

And then I thought it a curious coincidence that both scientific and spiritual traditions aver that the universe was born out of darkness.

And then a little sound bite offering a connection dropped into my head: From the darkness of the womb I came, and to the darkness of the earth I shall return.

And then I remembered that one of my most abiding suspicions is that I was here before my body was, and will still be here after it’s ceased to be.

And then I thought again how clever women are in being able to make new human beings. (I imagined the likelihood that some fervent religionist will yell at me: ‘Women don’t make human beings, you stupid git. God does that. Women only carry them around.)

And then I ignored the objection and was further reminded that I want to start telling children: ‘Forget about the Presidents and pop stars, the sages and the scientists and the sports personalities. They’re not the most important people. The most important people in this life are the mothers.’

And maybe one day I will.

This is an off-the-top-of-my-head ramble, deliberately written in rambling form. Maybe it should be entitled ‘Lines Beginning with And Then’.

I get a little embarrassed sometimes when reading my old posts. Many of them contain some of the tendencies I find most repellent in people.

A Rare Gaza Reaction.

It seems that the mass of public opinion around the world – and even in some of the right wing media – now agrees that Mr Netanyahu has gone way too far in his response to the Hamas atrocity. It now has the unmistakeable stench of that old mediaeval and Nazi tyrants’ principle: For every one of ours you kill, we’ll kill ten of yours.    

So is this post to be primarily about the arch villain Netanyahu? Not really. He and his hard line cohorts are merely the latest example of the kind of dross running most of the world. If karma is a fact, they are building the weight of their debit side by the bucketload. And if the hungry ghost realm exists – as the Buddhists say it does – they are surely destined to suffer there before too long. Netanyahu’s day will come if there’s any justice in the universal consciousness.

What really bothers me is America’s reaction, and that of the UK, America’s persistent poodle. I don’t remember the exact words used by the likes of Biden and Cameron, but it may be accurately paraphrased as:

We think you’re overdoing it a bit, and we’d rather you were a little more careful.

Excruciatingly weak, isn’t it? A classic case of trying to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, of making a facile attempt to appear humanitarian while ensuring that they don’t risk offending a useful ally. I’m tempted to ask why America, if it really wants to appear humanitarian, doesn’t simply withdraw all military funding (which I gather is substantial) to Israel until Israel agrees to a long term cessation of hostilities and serious negotiation.

But of course, this is unthinkable, primarily I would suggest because it would deplete American influence in the Middle East. But then there’s also the case that it would leave Israel in a vulnerable position since the country is surrounded by hostile Arab states, and that would be unfair to those Israelis who disagree with the murderous policy of Netanyahu and his Orcs. (But would it or would it not be reasonable to consider that the Israeli people were the ones who put the hardliners in power? That’s a difficult one for various reasons.) Meanwhile, tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians – including children – are being killed or irrevocably maimed by the actions of the Israeli military under the instructions of a hard line government.

So where do I go from here? Should I embark on the rationale around the existence of terrorist organisations? Should I argue that terrorism is ultimately created by oppressors? Should I consider the similarities between apartheid in South Africa and the Jim Crowe laws in America, and ask how they compare with the treatment of the Palestinians by the Israeli state over the past seventy years?

No, I’m shutting up. Maybe it’s all just another example of the serious deficiencies in the human condition, or maybe there’s something I’m not being told. I still agree with whoever it was who said that revenge is the most abject of motives, and the whole business is depressing the life out of me. I dislike being depressed. Out.

An Old Ditty Promoted.

I just read a reply of mine in a comment thread from quite some years ago. It included a ditty which came easily off the top of my head and has been ignored ever since, so I thought I’d put it into a post so it can enter the Ditties file:

 In Tennessee

I met a flea

Who said ‘now, y’all come talk to me'

 

'But treat me right

Or else I’ll bite

And then you’ll itch from morn ’til night'

Fatigue and the Maiden.

I’m so tired these days. Every morning when I wake up I immediately fall back to sleep. And every evening when I’m sitting in front of the computer I fall asleep again.

It reminds me of those days ten or more years ago when I was suffering chronic fatigue syndrome, and the Lady B said on one occasion ‘Can’t you walk any faster, Jeff?’ She could have followed it with ‘You remind me of my grandmother,’ only she didn’t. She saved that one for later. Ever the one to hoard discursive currency for a rainy day, you see.

For all her general quietness and demure demeanour, she was a real Hermione Granger in the matter of put-downs and giving orders. ‘Come closer so I can hear you better’ was another one. And then there was the day when she took from me a hook and chain that I was fiddling with. She did so quietly but firmly and fastened the hook in one smooth movement, then turned and walked away without a word. Can you wonder why I grew to love her so much?

Such good memories, but memories are two-dimensional, and the question of whether they have value remains moot. No substance, you see. Shakespeare said of tomorrows that they ‘creep in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time.’ He could have said the same of yesterdays, since all our yesterdays led only to our tomorrows. What he actually said was ‘And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.’ The lady merely said ‘Life moves on, Jeff.’ And so it did, leaving one star less to adorn the bowl of night.

(Dear, oh dear. Shakespeare and Omar Khayyam in one post. Whatever is wrong with me today? Better get my feet back on the ground and wash the dishes.)

Just to add, however, that when I was posting this I realised that the word 'maid' is so prosaic, but 'maiden' has a distinct ring of both the poetic and ethereal about it.

Briefly...

No post to make today. Just filling a spare five minutes to mention that I spent and hour and a half tonight talking to somebody very close who is facing an imminent, close family bereavement. We covered the emotional and much of the practical issues, insofar as such matters can really be said to be ‘covered.’ That sort of thing can be a little draining. Hopefully back tomorrow.

Explaining the Name.

I have nothing to write about tonight because Uttoxeter was mostly grey and uneventful today. (Unless you count the vision of an attractive young woman wearing a most unusual dress. It was white and made of some lightweight fabric which clung to all parts of her body and gave the distinct impression that there was nothing underneath. The middle part of the front of the dress was missing – not just open, but missing, as though a panel had been removed, revealing her bare legs from ankle to upper thigh. I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything quite like it. She was wearing no coat, in spite of the February weather being dry but quite chilly, and her face suggested a hint of Middle Eastern antecedents. And because I’m becoming ever more of a gentleman as I grow older, I restricted my observation to an extended glance rather than a stare. Was that slightly interesting?)

So anyway, since I have nothing to write about tonight, I thought I’d re-post a picture which first appeared on this blog around twelve years ago:

 

This is the entrance to the Harry Potter wood, which has been mentioned several times down the years. The track which winds around to the left is deceptive because it only goes into a relatively recent – maybe 30-50 years old – conifer plantation. The main track goes straight on, and then bends right to run downhill. And in case you’re wondering why I call it the Harry Potter wood, here’s the explanation:

Unless you happen to be one of the three people in the world (two from Bhutan and one from Mongolia) who’ve never seen the Harry Potter franchise, you might have noticed an interesting feature about scenes set in woods. In those involving the gang or assembled multitude going into a wood for non-threatening purposes – such as to meet the beast which gives nasty little Draco a much-deserved injury – the walk through the wood is made on the level. But in sinister scenes – such as Voldermort sucking the unicorn dry of blood, or meeting the giant spider, or taking Dolores Umbridge to suffer the wrath of the centaurs – they’re always walking downhill into the trees. And so it is with this wood. The track continues downhill for about a quarter of a mile before opening onto farmland.

My own fondness for the wood, however, comes from walking in it on one occasion with a special lady and her special dog. I speak of no less than the Lady B and Inca, the cocker spaniel. And the gate which appears in the foreground of the photograph is the very spot where the Lady amused me with her most potent expression of Hermione nature. So there are two references to everybody’s favourite tale.

I really mustn’t end this post, though, without mentioning that dear little Inca came to the end of her days a few weeks ago (I think she was around fifteen.) That was this week’s sad news. But she had a good life in a safe home surrounded by much affection, and repaid the favour by giving just as much back.

I wrote a post in praise of Inca many years ago. It’s here if you want to read it. I sent a link to the Lady B in the hope that she might consider it a fitting obituary to her faithful companion and my valued little friend.

A Wish Granted and Walking Notes.

I wrote this in a recent post:

I must look at my inbox upwards of a hundred times a day, waiting for the email which will drop a spark into the tinder box. Sad, isn’t it?

This situation has pertained for a long time, but last night an unexpected email dropped a spark into the tinder box. How long the tinder will continue to smoulder remains to be seen, and it really, really doesn’t matter anyway. I insist upon that.

*  *  *

Today’s perambulatory encounters consisted entirely of women with dogs and women on horseback. I recognised precisely 20% of the combined mass of sentient creatures, and wished I weren’t the type who feels obliged to speak to random strangers in country lanes.

*  *  *

I found a brand new dog lead lying abandoned on Church Lane this morning. It was a choker type, which I don’t entirely approve of, but it was very smart and probably quite expensive. So who on earth drops such an article on the road and leaves it there?

*  *  *

The abandoned dog lead contained a certain circumstantial connection with the sadder part of last night’s email. Coincidentally, I watched a YouTube video two nights ago in which the narrator explained Jung’s theory on the phenomenon of synchronicity. He said that it’s simply the universal mind demonstrating the patterns which suffuse existence and the interconnectedness of everything. And maybe it is.

*  *  *

My friend Millie the Horse has developed the habit of watching me when I walk down the lane adjacent to her field. She looks expectant, so I always feel sad and guilty if I don’t have an apple in my pocket (which I usually don’t.)

*  *  *

The bluebottles are back, but only two so far.

Odd Weather and a Yellow Oddity.

The climate is being a bit odd over here at the moment. Yesterday was probably the most depressing day of the winter so far – the snow, the sleet, the rain, the roads running like rivers again, the cold, biting wind, the glowering sky… Today the temperature rose quite substantially and it felt almost like spring was on the rise. We had plenty more rain, but walking in it was far more tolerable than yesterday.

And while I was out doing just that, I encountered the Lady B out running (she’s planning to take part in the London Marathon this year. Mad, but there you are.)

What startled me about her, though, was her apparel. It was tight-fitting as running gear always is; I’ve seen her wearing that before. But the predominant colour was yellow, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wearing yellow before. I still associate the Lady B with pink and pale blue, with a change to black for the running. She must have come to within about twenty yards of me before I recognised her.

And the beanie hat didn’t help (I think that was yellow, too.) The only time I ever saw her wearing a hat was that day around ten years ago when I encountered her on the lane wearing a blue Paddington Bear hat. (The next time I manage to have a conversation with her, I must remember to ask whether she still has it. Then again, since the opportunity to speak with her happens about once every three years, I might never get to know. And that gives me a rather neat haunting plan – ransack the house, and if I discover the blue Paddington Bear hat, leave it on a work surface in the kitchen while everybody’s out. Next to the cooker. Yes indeed. Good plan. Only kidding. Or am I…)

So that was my bit of excitement for today. I expect my blood pressure was coming under severe duress.

A Poor Day in Appropriate Prose.

Today’s morning walk was taken entirely out of a sense of duty to my atherosclerosis rather than with any expectation of pleasure.

It was snowing when I set off, and then the snow turned first to sleet and then to rain. The road was slushy and slippery, and the first hint of it turning into a river again began as the rain took effect. The temperature was hovering around freezing and the stiff breeze was wet. I was constantly reminded that cold, wet winds feel so much colder than cold, dry ones. 

The problem for me now is that such conditions engender not only a sense of discomfort, but also make me feel physically ill. I expect it’s the eighteen degrees effect. I’ve read that 18°C is the tipping point at which the vascular system begins to narrow in order to conserve energy, and that’s not particularly helpful to cardiac function. So, since I have both a heart and a vascular condition, it’s bound to be inevitable that I should feel some discomfort if I will insist on taking hour-long walks in cold conditions.

But insist I do because the surgeon who performed my angioplasty procedure said to me: ‘Make sure you walk as much as possible. Doing so will force the deposits in your artery to remain at the periphery – to which position I have just relegated them at no insignificant amount of pain to your good self – rather than returning to where they were before I and my magic tool-with-the-little-balloon-at-the-end corrected the problem.’ (Or something along those lines.) So that’s what I do, come rain or shine, frosts or heat waves, hell or high water. Maybe his advice will finish me off with a heart attack one day. That would be ironic, wouldn’t it?

But now I’m off to read some more of The Thirteenth Tale in the sure and certain hope that Ms Setterfield’s prose style will be several leagues better than the one used to write this post. (I'm not really in the mood for writing posts at the moment, but I have faith in Ms Setterfield.)

The Llama Explains His Absence.

It might have been noted by regular visitors that my friend the llama has been absent from these pages for a long time. (Mel is particularly disappointed because she very much enjoys my conversations with the old boy. But llamas are their own people and I have no right to attempt any invocation of his company.) Well, today I saw him again.

I was standing at the entrance to the Harry Potter wood at the top of my lane, leaning on the gate and offering my respects to its inhabitants, when I saw him standing on the bend in the track which winds downhill. He was staring at me with an impassive impression, but said nothing.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘why have you been away so long? Have you been busy or something?’

He continued to stare for a few seconds, and then spoke. Although he was some distance away I heard his voice as clearly as ever.

‘Since you ask two questions with the same breath, reason will be best served if I choose to answer the first one first. Not only would that be arithmetically appropriate, it would also render the second redundant.’

‘You haven’t changed much, have you?’ I replied.

‘’Why should I change? What purpose would it serve? And neither have you, come to that. You are rather given to the habit of asking redundant questions.’

I smiled and continued:

‘Very well, so what’s the answer to the first?

‘In order to answer the first I must correct a misapprehension. I have visited you several times, but you didn’t see me because your mind was filled with two considerations which are vexatious to my spirit.’

‘Which were?’

‘The brevity of the human lifespan and the question of whether anything matters.’

‘They seem perfectly reasonable considerations to me. Why do they trouble you?’

‘They don’t exactly trouble me in the sense that the word is habitually used; what they do is irritate my indefatigable capacity for reason.’

‘But why?’

‘“But why?” he asks. “Why?” Very well: to take the first one first. All physical creatures in your world have a lifespan. What does it matter whether that span is ten years, a hundred years, or a thousand years? There is birth; there is a period of life; and there is death. You’ve known that for as long as you’ve been here, so why should it be of any more of concern now than it was when you were young? As for whether anything matters, the human animal is not equipped to know whether anything matters. You have books; you have religious traditions; you have teachers (I believe you call them gurus in the hope that it will somehow endow them with infallible credibility); you have philosophers. You can choose to take any one of them and believe what they tell you if you like. But none of them actually know whether anything matters, and neither do you, so why waste time wondering about the answer to the unanswerable?’

‘Because human beings are made to wonder, I suppose.’

‘I know they are. I consider it to be one of their worst – or at least most pointless and therefore irrational – failings.’

‘I see. Oh well, reason was ever your strong suit. So have you given up on me now?’

‘Not necessarily. I’m watching and waiting to see whether you change. I might be back, or I might not. Goodbye.’

With that he turned and walked away, around the bend and out of sight. Wishing to say a few last words, I unfastened the gate and hurried after him. When I reached the point on the bend where he’d been standing, I looked down the long straight track running through the wood and he was nowhere to be seen. Llamas are much in the habit of doing that sort of thing.

On Small Pleasures, Creepiness, and French Films.

The God of Small Things was feeling benevolent today (and I suspect the Lady Fu was showering me with a little Chinese fairy dust, too.)

It all started with the young woman assistant I occasionally talk to in one of Uttoxeter’s discount stores. She’s seemed a little distant lately and I’ve deliberately avoided her so as not gain a reputation for being the creepy old git who stalks the aisles every Sunday at around lunchtime trying to ingratiate himself with nubile young females. (Those who know me well could vigorously and honestly attest to the fact that I don’t have a creepy bone in my body, but not many people know me at all well so I’m in the habit of exercising discretion.)

Anyway, today she was full of vim and vigour and talked willingly and confidently about her current position and her aspirations and so on and so forth. In return she got lots of comments-born-of-experience and what passes for wisdom to young people who haven’t lived for very long yet. Is that what creepy old men do? How can I know?

So then it was off to Tesco where I finally defeated one of my little bêtes noir. I walked past the newspaper rack without looking at the tabloid headlines. I hate tabloid headlines because they’re so crass and bigoted, but I find it hard not to read them anyway. Maybe it’s my jaundiced view of the human condition trying to find something to be angry about, but I’m no more a psychologist than I am a creepy old git, so that’s something else on which I have to reserve judgement. Today I averted my gaze, breathed on my finger nails, polished the imaginary medal on my chest, and then walked off with head held high to seek the cheap porridge oats for the bird tables.

There was a young woman walking towards me with her coat open. She looked so sweet and wholesome, and she was wearing a sweater almost identical to mine. Instinct took over again. ‘Like the sweater,’ I said without a hint of a pause. Surprisingly, she smiled a lovely smile and said ‘thank you’, but I decided to play safe because I didn’t want to be thought a creepy old git. I pointed to my own sweater. She smiled again and I smiled back. Imagine that: me exchanging smiles with somebody, and on a Sunday, too. That’s the sort of thing better writers write in better novels and films; the little things which make life so much pleasanter even if only for a few seconds.

And talking of Sunday, tonight I started watching a French film called The Brand New Testament. (I expect the version they sold in France was called something in French, but that’s what my version is called. And the soundtrack is in French with subtitles, which I greatly prefer to dubbing.) It’s about God being a real person living in Brussels. He’s boorish, ignorant, selfish, cruel, and a bully. His young daughter dislikes him mightily and decides to go out into the world to make it better, just like big bro JC did.

I’ve only watched half an hour of it so far, but the time passed quickly. The style is similar to Amelie – the same Gallic quirkiness and deadpan humour which draws me to French cinema like wasps to an onion seller’s shirt. Looking forward to the rest. Still haven’t got a copy of Mon Oncle yet.

The bluebottle count reached 31, by the way, before I stopped counting

Being the Invisible Man.

In a recent post I referred to the einzelgänger – the sort of person often called a lone wolf, or who is simply a loner by nature. When I first heard about this it was pointed out that the einzelgänger has the unconscious attribute of being effectively invisible in a group of people, and that suits me.

I was washing the car yesterday, quite close to the gate that leads onto the lane, and walking up the lane were the Lady B’s Dear Mama, Honourable Sister, and Oscar the dog. I stopped what I was doing and waited for them to reach the gate so I could offer a greeting. This is something I rarely do, but I make an exception in the case of the Lady B’s family because I like them. Eventually they reached the gate and walked on. None of them noticed me, so maybe what they say about the einzelgänger being invisible is true. I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? And so I am.

Connecting With Ms S.

I’m finding myself becoming quite enthralled by the world contained within the covers of The Thirteenth Tale. It’s sufficiently far outside the box to be intriguing, but not so far as to be called fantastical. Diane Setterfield is a wonderful observer of the quirky little things which fill the minds and lives of slightly odd – and maybe even not so odd – people, and her use of metaphor is beguiling at times.

And you know what? After I’d read this evening’s ration of three chapters, I checked my blog and found that the mysterious visitor who comes here fairly regularly using Chrome browser on an Android phone – and whose location is never recorded by Blogger stats – had visited and read a particular post. And so I read the post, and was surprised to find that I was reading pretty much the same style as I’d just put back on the little bookcase in my office. It was a pleasant surprise. (I wonder whether Diane Setterfield and I would get on. That would be a rare thing indeed, but maybe not. They say opposites attract, don’t they?)

And here’s something else I find interesting. This book was recommended to Mel by a friend of hers who hasn’t quite finished it yet. Mel subsequently recommended it me when she was about half way through. And now I’m about a third of the way through. We’ve formed a Thirteenth Tale train, haven’t we? A locomotive, a carriage, and a guards van (caboose to Americans), all running happily on a track twisting this way and that through a sumptuous landscape en route to the terminus at the end of the book. I’m prepared to guess that Ms Setterfield would quite like that.

On Writers.

I have nothing to ramble on about tonight, so I thought I’d copy a few words from The Thirteenth Tale because they resonate with me on a personal level. Miss Winter, the world famous author who has engaged the book’s narrator to write her biography, is recalling her life as a writer.

I have closed my study door on the world and shut myself away with people of my imagination. I have eavesdropped with impunity on the lives of people who do not exist. I have peeped shamelessly into hearts and bathroom closets. I have leant over shoulders to follow the movements of quills as they write love letters, wills and confessions. I have watched as lovers love, murderers murder and children play their make believe. Prisons and brothels have opened their doors to me; galleons and camel trains have transported me across sea and sand; centuries and continents have fallen away at my bidding. I have spied upon the misdeeds of the mighty and witnessed the nobility of the meek. I have bent so low over sleepers in their beds that they might have felt my breath on their faces. I have seen their dreams. (© Diane Setterfield.)

It’s what writers do, of course. And yet, having engaged with the craft of writing a little myself over ten years of my life, I still have to consider the question I’ve posed before on this blog:

Given the possibility that reality is a rather more fluid concept than we are conditioned to believe, could it be that in writing characters we create an alternate reality in which they become somehow real? And if that is the case, do we owe them respect? Should we acknowledge a sense of obligation towards them? Should we take some form of responsibility for their pains and pleasures, their gains and losses? In other words, do writers assume the role of God in a sense that is somehow more than mere imagination?

Or am I just being fanciful because the sort of people who are driven to write fiction are inevitably fanciful by nature? I expect I probably am.

A Few of My Alternate Worlds.

You know that type of animal video on YouTube in which a faithful dog sits by the porch door every day come rain or shine or even perdition’s flame, waiting for its beloved human to come home from the war? I’m pretty much the same these days, only in my case the door is the computer and the porch is my email inbox. I must look at my inbox upwards of a hundred times a day, waiting for the email which will drop a spark into the tinder box. Sad, isn’t it?

*  *  *

I tried to watch the film The Piano tonight. I seem to recall that the priestess recommended it many moons ago. I lasted twenty minutes before switching it off, in spite of the fact that its much vaunted quality was already well in evidence (especially in the performance of Holly Hunter.) I think that was where the problem lay; it was too realistic. The human condition is so full of darkness to my eyes now that I can no longer tolerate seeing a woman being mentally tortured without having my own spirits pulled deeper into the mire. And why would I want to do that?

*  *  *

But the characters who are now beginning to populate The Thirteenth Tale are most compelling – some blunt, some sharp, and some exhibiting varying degrees of strangeness – and Ms Setterfield’s writing continues to enthral. This I can take by the bucketful.

*  *  *

If I might be permitted to enter territory wholly unrelated to the above, I might mention that I had an odd dream a few nights ago. I was in Canada. Why Canada? I have no idea, but being in Canada was no cause for concern. What I was anxious about was the fact that to return home I would have to fly back in a small, single seat plane on my own. I knew that I was still a novice pilot and was particularly concerned that I might get the angle of ascent on take-off wrong. But it had to be done, and so it was, and the end of the dream saw me climbing skyward with just about the right angle of ascent. I’m sure this must indicate something at least moderately profound, but what? I’ve no idea.

Seeking Late Night Peace.

At around midnight last night the bucolic silence was punctured by a loud and unfamiliar sound seemingly emanating from just outside my office. Being sudden and unexpected, it disturbed me and I tried to describe it to myself. That was difficult, so instead I tried to visualise what would make such a noise. That was easier; my first impression was of a grizzly bear clearing its throat – loud, deep, harsh, guttural. It lasted about a second.

Intrigued, I went to the window and looked out, but could see nothing in the darkness beyond the panes save for the old enamel sink which is now a repository for spring and summer flowers. And then it occurred to me that something ugly and not of this world might suddenly appear and look back at me through the fragile window glass. I didn’t relish the prospect, and so I went back to my computer and watched a YouTube video instead. It was about the perils which a person might encounter while engaged in the practice of raising their vibrational rate.

Some of that was a bit scary too, so I changed my mind again and listened to Sheila Chandra singing the Hindi version of Wings of Dawn. Peace and the prospect of pleasant dreams at last. I think I would quite like to go out to this song, and maybe then somebody will be able to tell me just what was impersonating a grizzly bear in my garden at precisely the start of Imbolc 2024.

The song is here if you’ve got four minutes to spare.

When YouTube Suits Me Nicely.

I watched a YouTube video a few nights ago in which a reputable scientist said that it has now been demonstrated that plants communicate with each other. He even showed a video to prove it, but a mystery still remains.

Although it can now be accepted that communication takes place, they don’t know why it takes place. What, for example, is the point of one plant saying to another: ‘My leaves are being eaten by caterpillars’? (That was the actual example he used.) And what he didn’t address at all was the big question: Is this the start of us accepting that plants possess a form of consciousness?

Well he wouldn’t, would he? How could he continue making YouTube videos if he were to be banished to a small rock a few miles to the north of Svalbard? Being no scientist myself, I can only have suspicions.

A Matter of Only Personal Interest.

We humans do so like to attach names to everything, and that includes the labels we give to periods of time.

Where time is concerned, we do it in one of two ways. For some we use events of cosmic significance – what we call a year is the time it takes the planet to make one orbit of the sun, and a day is how long it takes for it to make one revolution of its axis. The rest – seconds, minutes, hours, and even months, are merely artificial constructs to help us organise our activities and rationalise the progress of life. It’s why I’m of the opinion that New Year’s Day should be placed on either the winter or summer solstice when the sun is at its lowest or highest. January 1^st is meaningless.

So tonight, it being nearly 1^st February, I was wondering whether there is any point in recognising the Gaelic tradition of celebrating Imbolc (or Beltane, Lughnasa, or Samhain.) I asked myself why 1^st February, a mere artificial construct, should be worthy of a major seasonal celebration.

But of course, the first few days of February do have a connection of sorts with matters of cosmic significance because they occur at the halfway point between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. That’s why 1^st February is taken to represent the end of winter and the start of spring, even though February can sometimes be the harshest month of the year. And in these two temperate islands off the north-west coast of Europe, it’s also the time of year when the first of the spring wild flowers begin to bloom. (And incidentally, that precious little vanguard of winter flowering – the lonely snowdrop – has been late this year. I don’t know why.)

So now I’m content. Spring starts tomorrow whatever the weather.

And you know, this is the point at which people usually roll their eyes or switch off completely when I talk to them. They do the same if I talk about God, psychology, the persistence of consciousness, the possibility of there being an infinite number of parallel universes, or anything else which has nothing to do with wealth, soaps, or the performance of Premier League football teams. I’m used to it.

The bluebottle count, by the way, reached twenty six this morning, but I think the plague might now be over.

Two Woeful Tales and a Better One.

The advert shows an attractive young woman with the sort of eyes which tell you she knows what she’s about. Her torso is naked save for a sports bra. She’s in a gym, wearing boxing gloves and working out. The tag line reads: 

 What moves you

Makes you

As sound bites go, that’s not a bad one. It’s a simple philosophical statement which has merit. The only other words appear on a button below. They say:

Shop Now

Ah, I see. So the only things which move us and give validity to the dictum are things we can buy. Got it now.

*  *  *

I have a Hoover vacuum cleaner and need new bags for it. The only place I’ve ever found them in this area is the Argos store in Uttoxeter, but they’ve been out of stock for at least several weeks. I asked one of the assistants if he knew whether Hoover still supplied that type of bag. He didn’t, but he gave me the phone number for Hoover Customer Service. I called the number yesterday.

I was given no option to speak to a customer service assistant (I sat through the interminable recorded message twice just to be sure.) I was told to go to the Hoover website and select the option for live chat, so that’s what I did. I typed my enquiry into the dialogue box and an obvious robot repeated it back to me. Upon confirmation, I was told that I would be transferred to an assistant who would handle my query. What I actually got was a page informing me that I must take out a subscription before the matter could be progressed. The subscription fee was £1 and I would need to enter my card number.

Thinks: Hoover expects me to pay them money, even if it’s only £1, just to ask a simple question about a supply issue? This is pure Alice in Wonderland.

I went back to the offending page and read on. It told me that the £1 would be valid for only three days, after which I would be charged £30 a month to continue the subscription. I vowed never to buy another Hoover product as long as we both shall live. And I won’t.

*  *  *

This brings up the old question again: Was Karl Marx right when he asserted that capitalism will one day destroy itself through its own greed? Can you imagine what life will be like in the west if Big Capitalism does implode, at least for a considerable time until a better system is developed? It won’t be pleasant. Thankfully, I expect I’ll be dead by then.

*  *  *

Off to read more of The Thirteenth Tale now. The narrator has just arrived at the big old house located on remote moorland somewhere in Yorkshire, and the imposing figure of Vida Winter (the world-famous author who wants a biography written) has appeared silently behind her. I presume this where the description of the novel as ‘gothic’ begins. Tee hee. Can’t wait.

First Response to The Thirteenth Tale.

I said I might write a little something about Diane Setterfield’s novel The Thirteenth Tale, and I can’t think of anything else to write about so that will have to do for now.

I’m being premature in doing this because I’m only up to page 36 of a 400-page novel, but that’s enough to ‘feel’ the sense of a book and make a reasonable assessment of the author’s skill. On both counts, and to put it simply: I’m already hooked.

The physical environment is relatively mundane in terms of detail, and yet there’s a brooding sense of introspection about it. Such a statement suggests melancholy, but there is none. Everything is matter of fact, and yet loaded with nuance and keen observation. I love keen observation, especially of the small, subtle things, some of which are open to read, while others are there to be surmised with a reasonable degree of certainty. It’s like seeing an involuntary hand gesture or noticing a shift in the eyes. This writer knows how to draw you close with only a minimal shift in body language. In my experience, that’s a rare skill.

As for the writing style, it isn’t lyrical – which is what I usually prefer – but it is superbly crafted. It’s immaculately balanced and derives its strength from economy rather than extended description. A few words can say so much, as long as they’re the right words in the right order. If the first thirty six pages are an accurate guide, this book is an object lesson in the value of brevity. The sense of place is almost palpable.

I await the presentation of more characters. So far we have only three – the young woman narrator, her father who is a dealer in rare books, and her mother who is mostly in the background, being nervous, neurotic, and seemingly oppressed by the pressure of being alive. I have difficulty seeing clear pictures of them at the moment, and yet they’re no mere wraiths; they’re physical enough, just not yet clearly defined. Maybe that’s how they’re supposed to be. Already I bow to the writer’s judgement. And now I’m going to read some more.

On the Mail, the Monarch, and the Mangy Warrior.

King Charles has been in hospital for a couple of days, undergoing a standard and fairly minor procedure to treat a swollen prostate. Today’s Daily Mail, being ever in the tabloid vanguard, printed a huge picture on the front page of Queen Camilla (how strange that combination of title and name still sounds) smiling and waving regally (!) The caption read: Camilla’s Smile Tells Us That the King is Well.

I could hardly contain my joy, as you might imagine. I very nearly did a Rubiales on the nearest female shelf filler in Tesco. (Those of you unaware of the story of Rubiales and the kiss haven’t been reading the sports pages for the past six months.)

The other feature on the front page had a picture of that arch clown and ne’er-do-well Boris Johnson claiming that he is ‘prepared to fight for King and Country.’ (The military top brass in the UK are joining forces, you see, to warn us that we should be establishing a citizens' army to be ready for when the Russians start WWIII.) Seems to me that if Boris Johnson is typical of what we aspire to produce with such an army, the Russians should be well pleased. You have to laugh, don’t you?

The Good, the Bad, and the Excusable.

The good side of today came in the form of lady contacts (several humans and a dog which had sad eyes until I paid her some friendly attention.) The bad side was provided by the pestering of rats and bluebottles (current count is 21.) The worry came from the fact that Mel failed to call me on Skype at the appointed hour which she does every Sunday. I tried prompting her with a text message but that brought no response, so I tried calling her mobile. Voice mail; left message. Repeated the exercise two hours later. Same. This is very unusual.

It occurred to me that in the days before mobile phone use became effectively universal, a situation like that could be optimistically ascribed to the person involved being in a place where there was no private or public phone accessible. But now that everybody except the strange man who lives in a cave somewhere in the Grampians has a mobile phone, there’s more reason to worry. Odd, isn’t it, how we invent something really useful, but even that has its down side.

And by an odd coincidence, I received a text from Mel while I was typing this post. Seems she’d forgotten that it was Sunday, and has had her phone switched off all day in order to escape from the world. Sounds pretty acceptable to me.

(I’m well satisfied with Diane Setterfield’s novel The Thirteenth Tale so far, by the way. More on that tomorrow, maybe.)

The Problem of Roles and Some Tangents.

Something suddenly occurred to me tonight, and I don’t know why it’s never occurred to me before. I was sitting here, alone as usual and with the prospect of several long, dark, and mostly silent hours between nightfall and the early hours of the morning before me, when I realised that I’m not playing a role.

It seems to me, you see – and I’ve said pretty much the same thing before – that everybody spends their lives playing a role. It’s as though an infinite number of stereotypes are placed before us sometime early in our lives, and based on a deeply rooted sense of our natures and an appraisal of our environment, we unconsciously choose a role to play. And then we play it for the rest of our lives, or until the role has resulted in us becoming so incapacitated that all we can do is vegetate.

Such a suggestion is highly speculative, I know, and maybe I could offer other speculations, such as the notion – favoured by some – that we choose our roles even before we’re born. Well, I can’t know where and how the process begins, but I’m quite sure that play a role is what we all do.

So how does this relate to the loner, the recluse who never goes anywhere of any consequence, hardly ever talks to anyone of any consequence, hardly ever entertains visitors, and hardly ever gets invited to visit anybody’s weddings or other celebrations, but sits alone through the long, dark, and mostly silent hours until bedtime? If I were writing a book with the likelihood of publication, or writing this week’s feature article for the Sunday Times, or slaving over the end of year figures for my company’s accounts, or even watching my favourite soap on the TV, it would be different. But I’m not; I sit here through the long, dark, and mostly silent hours trying to think of something by which to be entertained. And that’s a problem because I’m so fussy about what sort of films I want to watch on DVD, so fussy about what sort of books I want to read, and I have no interest in porn whatsoever.

And that’s probably why my life feels so flat. And it probably contributes considerably to the depressive tendency. I’m lacking a role, so now I know.

But writing the above reminded me that one of these days – and if I ever get the opportunity, of course – I must ask the Lady B why she didn’t invite me to her wedding. It amuses me sometimes because I find myself speculating as to the reasons on offer. They include (off the top of my head):

It never occurred to me to invite you

I didn’t think you’d want to come

Would you have come? (To which I would reply ‘certainly not’)

My mother would have quizzed me on why I was inviting you

My future husband would have quizzed me on why I was inviting you

I thought you probably wouldn’t have had anything suitable to wear

Your tatty little old car would have stood out embarrassingly among the Land Rovers and Volvos

You might have laughed audibly at what the vicar was saying

I knew you’d hate the music at the reception

The caterers had no vegetarian options on their list

I didn’t want you there

That’s the first eleven off the top of my head. And I’m sure they’re all wrong because most of my speculations turn out to be wrong. And now it’s time for coffee and toast again (with marmalade, I think.)

I’ve started reading The Thirteenth Tale, by the way. And I must try to get the DVD of Mon Oncle. I think I’ll understand it better than I did when I first watched it a very long time ago. The bluebottle count in the house has risen to fifteen.