A Pass Mark of Sorts.

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

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

(That was the brief version.)

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

Ducking the Consequences.

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

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

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

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

A Note on the Heart Thing.

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

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

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

A Thought of Unknown Provenance.

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

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

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

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

Disowning the Conquerors.

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

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

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

The Full Fridge Dilemma.

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

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

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

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

Step Number Two.

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

Being Reluctantly Negative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Questioning Empathy.

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

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

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

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

Becoming a Mayo Man.

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

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

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