Ten Thousand.

I gather the presumed death toll in the Philippines currently stands at 10,000.

Ten thousand people dead. Ten thousand. The figure bears repeating because it’s central to my point.

Each one of those ten thousand was an individual human being. Each one was a complex mass of loves and hates, joys and fears, predilections and priorities. Each one ate, slept, worked, argued and used the toilet. Each one was imbued with that mysterious thing we call life, and now each one is just part of a statistic.

Ten thousand. Five numbers. Three syllables. There’s something so mind-bogglingly incongruous about going from being a person to being part of a statistic that I can’t achieve full reconciliation. So when I hear the phrase ‘ten thousand’ in the news, I don’t see a number. I see lots and lots of individuals falling still and cold, and I see lots and lots of dispossessed life forces mingling in the ether, and I see lots and lots of other people weeping with grief. It all evokes a sense of horror.

But then I get confused because I know we all have to die some time, and when we do we become part of a statistic. So does it matter whether that statistic is one, ten thousand, or six million? Does scale have any relevance to the relentless ebb and flow of life and non-life? I don't know.

A Simple Little Narcotic.

The days are ever stressful at the moment, and will remain so until some fundamental changes happen one way or another. That’s why I’ve taken to listening to this little piece of music a couple of times every night.

It makes no claim to greatness or even musical significance, and yet it has an innocent charm that I’ve found soothing and mildly hypnotic all my life. When I listen to it now it reminds me of my childhood, or at least those aspects that I want to be reminded of – most especially the visceral tingle of carefree days when you can’t wait to get up in the morning because the sun is shining and there are games to play or fish to catch.

What’s odd, though, is that I felt the same way about it even when I heard it as a child. It somehow reminded me of an earlier, better time. It seems to have the capacity always to open the door on yesterday.

The one thing that bothers me slightly is that I only recently learned the name of the composer when I discovered the piece on YouTube. Fancy being called Ronald Binge. Back in more relaxed times, I’m sure a limerick would have ensued.

One for the Nerds.

According to Yahoo News, today is a really special day and we should all be celebrating. The date today is 9/11/13. That’s a run of three consecutive rising odd numbers, which is something that happens only five times a century. It won’t happen again for another ninety two years, so anybody who misses it will be crying into their beer for the rest of their lives. Yahoo even claims that a ‘cult of oddness’ exists, seemingly led by some bloke from California. Well, blow me.

The words ‘barrel’ ‘scraping’ ‘of’ ‘the’ and ‘bottom’ are beginning to re-arrange themselves here. Unless, that is, I’m just being a rare old misery guts, and all that incessant thumping of fireworks filling the air earlier had nothing to do with Guy Fawkes but was actually the local celebration of Oddness Day.

And what Yahoo failed to point out is that today’s auspicious aspect only applies to those places which use the same standard date format as we do in Britain. By a strange coincidence, they don’t include California.

Jenny and my Strangeness.

The wren is a shy, secretive and permanently busy little bird, usually glimpsed only briefly in the hedgerow, the wood store, or scuttling in and out of the gaps between the stones in old walls. The family name Troglodytidae basically means ‘cave dweller.’ In Britain the wren is commonly perceived as female, based on an old belief that it was the female of the robin species, which is why she is commonly known as Jenny Wren.

She’s a pretty, characterful little bird, and one of my personal favourites. There’s been one darting around the garden all summer, and I always got a bit of a lift on those days when I saw her. I saw her again today; she was lying dead on the path, a little mangled.

It’s hard to explain to normal people why such a find is of such consequence to me, especially since there are so many more substantive things to care about like clothes and cars, soaps and shopping malls. I suppose it’s because the energy, character and presence of a bird means more to me than relatively characterless things like clothes, cars, soaps and shopping malls. In the final analysis, the only place to lay the blame is on my own strangeness.

A Slightly Venerable Day.

It would be hard to imagine a more innocuous time than 5.05am on a day in late November, wouldn’t it?

Well, once upon a time, a baby was finally thrust reluctantly into the world of mortal man at just that time. Shortly afterwards, a blackbird took up position on the windowsill of the maternity ward and began to sing. It’s unusual for blackbirds to sing in November, and the baby grew up to love their song more than most things. He recognised that it was one of the pure, priceless treasures that come absolutely free in the corrupt, conniving world of mortal man.

On the other hand, he had very little time for shepherds and men in funny hats, all of whom were conspicuous by their absence.

Feeling the Decline.

To me, a greenhouse is one of the great icons of summer. It represents heat, light, vibrant growth and productivity. It’s an environment in which you’re tempted to stand simply for its own sake, and for what it represents.

At twilight on a cool, damp November day, however, it cuts a forlorn figure. It’s become a dark, cold place. The windows are clouded with unwholesome condensation, and the viscera of once vital growth stands mouldering into the damp earth. I find it almost insufferably bleak and dispiriting.

Yes, I know it’s about cycles. I know.

Keeping it in Proportion.

The BBC’s man in Manila began his OB on the typhoon that was in the process of devastating the Philippines:

‘Filipinos are in for a difficult night.’

Don’t you just love the traditional British penchant for understatement still being exhibited by BBC journalists? Nice to know there are some standards left, eh? It is.

(I’d been reading about the impending event earlier. The news report said that it was likely to be the worst typhoon ever to hit the Philippines, with forecast wind speeds of nearly 200mph. We in Britain start panicking when they reach 50mph.)

The journalist continued his report, focusing mainly on the fact that hundreds of thousands of homes had already been destroyed by high winds, floods and mudslides. He said the damage was ‘unprecedented.’ But then he let us off the hook:

‘Filipinos are quite used to these things,’ he said. ‘They’ve had ten of them this year already.’

Phew! That's a relief. Nothing to worry about, then.

Dream Women and the Mysterious Male.

‘It wasn’t real,’ they say. ‘It was only a dream.’

Well, maybe it isn’t quite as simple as that. The idea that dreams exist in what is actually a different form of reality than waking experience has long interested me. This, as I understand it, is akin to the principle of shamanism. That’s why last night’s dream was so intriguing.

It was set in the extensive garden of an old country house, with paths, stone walls and ancient shrubs. And in it I had two female companions. The first was a young woman who was so thin and weak that she couldn’t walk, and yet she seemed perfectly happy and healthy in all other respects. She was so light that I was able to carry her everywhere, and did so as I went about my business. I sat her on a wall or bench, for example, while I was gardening, and in one ‘scene’ I held her up to meet the king who was visiting. He looked like a mediaeval king.

The other wasn’t a flesh-and-blood woman at all, but a figurine so misty in aspect that its identity was unclear. In spite of the vague outline, however, I could see that it was dark blue in colour with a shiny surface. I guessed it was made of either metal, glass, or polished stone. This figure needed no carrying; it showed up of its own accord wherever I went, and I venerated it because I knew it was sentient and contained the essence of some very special woman.

It’s been filtering through my brain all morning, and the meaning is pretty clear now. All except for one thing. I don’t know who the king was or why he was there, and that was the sharpest scene of all.

Surviving and Wondering.

One thing at least is going well. I’m one small beer and a double scotch down, and I feel fine. Last night I would have thrown up at least, if not blacked out. It’s what happened the last time I took a dose of flu and a double scotch simultaneously. And then there was that strange affair in Winchester all those years ago… But no matter, what’s concerning me at the moment is this:

Lady Gaga – Stentorian Germanicus, or whatever her real name is. She writes excellent songs, insofar as the genre permits, and is a first rate dancer. She also has incredibly powerful eyes, an aggressive alto voice, and a more-than-passable intellect. So why does she have to go around town randomly revealing her private parts to unsuspecting taxi drivers? Is this an arty thing, a New York thing, an Italian thing, or a media thing?

I’m just thinking out loud here, you understand. I don’t really want an answer from anybody I’ve come to like.

On Being an Irritated Person.

My English is going down the Swannee lately. Tonight I wrote ‘…about to be converted to an artificial reef.’ Now, I know that ‘converted to’ applies to the general condition, whereas conversion to the specific should be ‘converted into.’ Hence, you convert to Catholicism but convert into a Catholic. I’ve edited the post.

I’m doing this more and more often lately. I’m becoming more of an editor than a writer, and it’s something else that’s irritating me.

Mind you, I did get some amusement from reading a forum on the origin of the phrase ‘going down the Swannee.’ I read all about the Suwannee River, the slave trade, various popular songs, and even the American manufacturer of toilet paper. But it went on, and on, and on. Talk about ad nauseum. I wanted to add my own comment along the lines of ‘get a life, James,’ but you’re not allowed to talk on the internet any more unless you jump through a load of irritating hoops and join their club. (See, there I go being irritated again.)

The fact is, I don’t have much of a life either, but I still know when to call a halt and have a cream cake.