Shirley and the Familial Prospect.

When I first discovered Shirley Jackson’s writing a year or two ago, I read all her novels except the first one (because the synopsis didn’t appeal to me) and an anthology of her short stories. And because I’m impatient to discover a hitherto unknown talent, I probably read them too quickly and missed a lot of the depth. But now that I’m reading Hangsaman again I’m taking more time over the process and discovering that depth.

Much of it has to do with her keen – and, it might be said, largely sarcastic – observation of the human condition, which suits me to a tee and helps to rein back some of my own sense of outrage. But what most appeals is her dry, laconic sense of humour, especially in the stream of consciousness asides which she often uses to describe her quirky main characters. I use the term ‘laconic’ because they’re mostly very brief and easily missed if you’re not reading with an appropriate degree of concentration.

(And I do so love quiet, quirky characters. I do. It always surprises me when I discover that most academics and reviewers seem to regard her as first and foremost a writer in the horror genre. There is an element of horror in much of her writing, but it’s always understated and readily subsumed in a highly developed awareness of oddness in a few special people.)

And so dear Shirley has become one of those people with whom I would like to become acquainted when I perambulate my wanderings through the undiscovered country. I should like to make her an offer: I’ll give of my odd thoughts freely if she’ll agree to be my favourite aunt in our next lives.

On a Fictional Twin and Frugality.

I’m reading Shirley Jackson’s Hangsaman again. I remember liking it the first time I read it, and since I have no DVDs to watch I decided to read it again. I don’t often do that.

When I finished this evening’s session I turned the book over and read the brief synopsis on the back. As usual, I disagreed. I nearly always do, you know. My understanding of what a novel is about rarely accords with the received view propounded by academics, reviewers, or publishers’ editors…

(Personal note: Please don’t tell Mr Kearin I said that, Nancy. He probably hasn’t forgiven me yet for the slug-on-the-Christmas-dinner joke.)

To continue:

… I sometimes think it’s because the aforesaid are just trying to sound clever by way of self-justification, and sometimes I assume it’s because I’m a complete dimbo who knows nothing about the correct interpretation of good quality literature. The truth is probably that I simply have a different world view than that held by academics, literary reviewers, publishers’ editors, and approximately 99% of the rest of the population. And that leads me neatly into the little mystery contained within Hangsaman.

The MC is a young woman called Natalie who is shortly to go off to college (or uni as we have it in the UK.) The early part of the book is set entirely in the domestic environment inhabited by Natalie, her parents, and her younger brother. It is at once both conventional and dysfunctional, and Natalie’s relationship with each member of the family is ambivalent. And that’s because the only environment in which she can feel truly at home is the one inside her own head.

So is it surprising that I should feel a complete sense of communion with young Mistress N? In one way it might appear to be a mystery since I’m not female, I’m not seventeen, I’m not American, and I don’t have long legs. But it makes perfect sense to me. She hasn’t started falling apart yet as I recall she does later in the story – and as I seem to be doing these days – but at the moment she’s as sane as any of us loner types can reasonably expect. Natalie and I are conjoined twins, which I suppose is why I like the book.

*  *  *

I’m experiencing a terrible attack of the munchies tonight. I keep reaching for things to eat, and they’re mostly not particularly healthy things. It’s probably because I had a Caesar salad for my dinner tonight, and Caesar salad is pleasant but unsubstantial.

I’d never heard of Caesar salad before I went to Toronto on a photographic assignment for a UK publisher. I saw it on the hotel menu and decided to give it a try. I liked it and it had the added advantage of being the cheapest option on the list. I was on a fixed rate contract, you see, so it made sense to use as little as possible of the agreed fee on things that didn’t matter very much. Accordingly, I had it nearly every might for 2½ weeks because I was brought up to be frugal in all things.

(I might just explain that both my parents had been poor kids from the back streets of a northern industrial town where frugality was life’s first principle. The rule was that you spent as little as possible on the necessities, and the rest on alcohol to keep you sane. It rubbed off on me.)

Three Questions and Three Notes.

Should I explain to those few hardy souls who read this blog why I’ve not been very forthcoming lately? Should I explain to the priestess why I’ve become distant towards her over the course of this year, being no more than polite in response to her infrequent emails? Should I berate myself for being so insufferably egocentric?

Answers:

1. I think it as near certain as makes no difference that nobody out there would have any use for an explanation, so no.

2. I think it unlikely that the priestess is unduly concerned about my distance. Unlike me, she counts among her attributes the inclination to be a party animal, a fact which must greatly dilute any value my presence in her life might convey. So no.

3. My egocentricity is not of the pathological variety exhibited by a narcissist, but rather owes its genesis to a complex set of circumstances and reactions. So no again.

*  *  *

On my twilight walk this evening I encountered two small gypsy-style caravans parked on the verge by the side of the road, and saw a sturdy piebald nag grazing in the un-gated field opposite. I exchanged a few polite words with the young man who appeared to be the custodian of the vehicles. The young woman engaged in some activity inside of one of them remained silent. And then I noticed a Jack Russell terrier tethered to the nearby hedge, rolling and twisting and squirming to such an alarming degree that I feared it might soon tie itself into a reef knot at least, if not something more complex. I had the impression that the little canine was eager to make my acquaintance. Naturally, I acquiesced.

After several minutes of pattings and scratchings and belly rubs I thanked the young man for the dog fix. ‘Do you have dogs of your own?’ he enquired. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I use other people’s. It’s cheaper.’

*  *  *

Having seen the headline concerning the plague of bed bugs currently creeping out the residents of Paris, I’ve begun to feel nervous about the prospect of going to bed. Paris is several hundred miles south of here, but the wind in these parts is currently southerly. And when I studied a map of north-west Europe I discovered that my house is substantially closer to Paris than Paris is to Marseille. Geography can be very strange sometimes, can’t it?

*  *  *

I saw a woman in a shop recently who dropped her debit card as she was about to pay for her purchases. As she picked it up she turned to the woman behind her and said ‘If I had a brain I’d be dangerous.’ I’d never heard that expression before, but I liked it. I assume it must be a Derbyshire expression. My origins are in the next county to the left.

Being Out of Step As Usual.

I looked out of my bathroom window at twilight tonight, and the first thing I saw was a bat flying around the house in search of airborne creatures to eat. And then I noticed something white and rather bigger flying across the back field behind the house, and soon realised that it was a Barn Owl in search of little ground dwellers to eat. It was an entertaining and stereotypically bucolic thing to witness, but it provided a hint of a problem:

I might be prepared to give credence to the likelihood that my consciousness is a tiny fragment of the phenomenon generally referred to as ‘God’, but I’m clearly not the whole deal. If I were, and if I’d been responsible for this more visible phenomenon generally referred to as ‘reality’, I would not have designed the whole system in such a way as to condemn lots of living things to eat other living things in order to remain alive. I’m much too sentimental to contemplate such a state of affairs.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, a video I saw on YouTube last night reminded me that there is a heated debate afoot over the question of whether the photograph posted below is a genuine record of the real Brontë sisters. My own reading of the evidence suggests that it is, and was probably made in 1847 which is the year in which their first three novels were published – Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, Emily’s Wuthering Heights, and Anne’s Agnes Grey. The Brontë Society disagrees, but I find their objection verging on the absurd in parts so I’m sticking with my suspicion for the time being at least.

On Synchronicities and Sarahs.

As I was driving back from a shopping trip yesterday I had something going through my mind involving numbers. At the precise moment that I got to the number 10, the song that was playing in the car said the word ‘ten.’ That sort of thing happens occasionally, but as much as you might wonder whether it’s an curious example of synchronicity, there’s nothing to do about it so you let it pass.

But then this evening I had a game show playing on the TV to accompany my dinner, and there was a woman taking part who reminded me very much of Sarah (aka the Lady B.) When she appeared in close up I saw from her name badge that she was called Sarah.

OK, just another curious coincidence you might argue (I would), but there are those – including Carl Jung, I gather – who claim that such coincidences are always meaningful and should be acted upon. But the problem ever remains that if they are examples of synchronicity, they always come encoded and there are no instructions to tell you how to crack the cipher. So you do nothing because there’s nothing to be done.

Earlier today, you see, I had the unusual experience of being stung by a bee (and felt sorrier for the bee than I did for myself because the poor little lady was only defending her hive and bees die after they sting.) Based on the only other time I was stung by a bee, the pain was unusually harsh and unusually long-lasting (it hasn’t completely gone yet, nine hours after it happened.) So should I add this to the catalogue of coincidences and assume the universe is being very insistent in trying to tell me something? We do, after all, have a bee, the Lady B, and as far as I recall it’s around ten years since the dear lady moved away from the Shire and out of my orbit

Well, I doubt it. Forasmuch as the Lady B was a much valued ray of sunshine in my life back then, a lot of water has passed under the bridge and her circumstances have undergone profound changes. I think it reasonable to presume, therefore, that she is no longer the same person as she was when she graced my life with her esteemed presence. In other words, Sarah might still exist but the Lady B has gone, and so she should be put away in a drawer like a childhood photograph and be viewed as nothing more than a fond memory. And that’s what I’ve done.

So what do I make of the apparent synchronicity going on? Nothing, as usual.

Currently Considering.

'The Princess and the Prince discuss what's real and what is not'

Bob Dylan ~ Gates of Eden

 

I’ve become a little fixated on the subject of reality again. (Don’t know why because I have far more pressing things to worry about, but I have.) So anyway…

I tried to define it tonight, you know. I did. But every time I thought I’d closed all the loopholes another one opened up and eventually I stopped bothering. So let’s leave aside the inconvenient leaks in the logic and accept, for the sake of brevity, that we all know what reality is. We humans are real, right? So are trees, bombs, oceans, porridge, and Donald Trump’s ego. (I made a tentative connection between the last two but decided it was too inconsequential to pursue.)

But are we right? That’s the question. There are some people – and many of them are much cleverer than me – who say that none of the things we consider real actually are because what we perceive as reality is nothing more than a computer simulation. The real version of ‘real’ lies out there somewhere. And then there are the wise old Buddhist lamas who tell us that our reality – as most of us perceive it – really is real, but it’s only the lowest example of progressive levels of reality (or maybe there’s one below it, but my understanding of the hungry ghost realm lacks sufficient erudition to know where it fits into the scheme of things.)

So this is where I’ve got to so far:

Anything the consciousness can perceive and/or is empirically demonstrable is real in a manner of speaking.

But then I’m led to the suspicion that the key to everything is consciousness (or maybe it isn’t because a question presents itself: if all conscious life became extinct, would the earth still exist? Quantum physics might be getting close to answering that one, but for the time being I’m sticking with my suspicion.)

So what is consciousness? Big revelation coming up…

God Exists! To paraphrase: ‘It’s God, Jim, but not as we know it.’ (You may pretend I never said that if you wish, or at least forgive me if the eye rolls become painful.)

I suspect it’s a bit silly to accept the version of God promoted in all exoteric versions of the Judaic tradition. I think it highly likely that such a view was engineered by misogynistic patriarchs to lead the lower orders into the unquestioned belief that men were created to lead and instruct, while women were created to follow and obey.

My own suspicion is that God is consciousness itself, and that all our notions of individuality are ultimately false – in the higher scheme of things, you understand – because we’re incapable of understanding that our individualised perception is a tiny fragment of the Universal Consciousness.

(Ah, but now we have a problem. What about the bad things inherent in individual consciousness – the greed, the selfishness, the cruelty, the willingness to abuse for both gain and pleasure? Does the Universal Consciousness possess the same flaws? In which case, does God have a bad side? Tricky.)

Incidentally, when I started this blog 13½ years ago I placed at the bottom of it a line which reads:

When Everything That is Illusion is Removed, All That Remains is Consciousness.

Haven’t come very far, have I?

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I have a sudden yen to meet Riva-Melissa Tez. A woman possessed of fine physical features, a compelling voice, and a laudable way of applying anarchy to cultural convention. I gather she adheres to transhumanism, which I’m not sure that I do, and I’m curious to know whether transcendentalism finds even a tiny niche in her psyche.

(Transcendentalism is, I suppose, what the whole of this pointless post is based on.)

If you should want to hear her voice, by the way, nip onto YouTube and search Everything’s a Scam. It’s accompanied by a short and eminently watchable animated video.

Discarding a Post and Being Dangerous to Damsels.

I had an interesting conversation this afternoon with a disembodied voice on the subject of reality. I was going to repeat it verbatim as a blog post until my attention was drawn to the fact my favourite ladies – the England women’s footie team – were playing a Nations League match against Scotland, so I sat in my cold living room and watched that on the TV instead. After I’d watched them labour to an unconvincing 2-1 win – and become uncomfortably chilled in the process – I’d lost all interest in what’s real and what isn’t, so the post didn’t get made.

But I did have a mildly interesting encounter this evening when I took my short twilight walk…

I decided to go down Bag Lane for a change. Bag Lane has received mention on these pages before, being a prime example of a sunken lane with sheer embankments rising to fifteen feet in places and topped by mature trees on both sides. The tree canopies overhang the lane and so it has a dark, grotto-like aspect even on bright sunny days in the summer. This evening was not bright and sunny. The twilight had fallen early on account of the heavy cloud cover, the mist, and the showers of rain that fell every few minutes. It was also quite cold.

As I started to walk down it I saw a group of indeterminate objects approaching from the opposite direction. I wouldn’t say I was nervous, but my curiosity did have a certain edge to it as the gap between us closed. All was soon revealed; the indeterminate objects were no more than a young blonde woman and four bonny, bouncing dogs. I looked at her face, intending to offer a greeting, and saw her throw a quick and mean-looking sideways glance at me. She said ‘hello’ in an undertone and hurried on. I’ve no idea who she was – never seen her before – and I was a little taken aback by the meanness of her look. Her four canine companions amounted to three Cocker Spaniels and a yellow Labrador. People who have spaniels and labs are not usually mean; they’re open, bright, affable people. If she’d had three Pit Bulls and a Rottweiler it wouldn’t have been surprising.

But then I realised that if my curiosity had been suffused with an edge, she – being a woman approaching a lone male figure in the gloom of a twilit Bag Lane with nobody else around – might well have felt nervous. She wouldn’t have known that I’d have difficulty attacking a housefly with a feather duster these days, would she? And so I assumed her mean look was nothing more than defensive caution. No harm done, and I suppose it was quite gratifying – although not exactly pleasing – that my presence can still strike caution in the heart of a fair young damsel walking alone. Smiley stuff, that.

I also saw a pure white pheasant today. Never seen one of those before. This has certainly been a most unusual year for firsts, and that was the latest.

And Then...

Yesterday was a singular sort of day full of minor but unusual happenstances.

When I was driving to Ashbourne on the main road I found it blocked off by traffic cones and a large vehicle parked sideways. There had been no prior warning and there were no diversion signs. (It was situated close to the end of a side road which leads to where the Lady B now lives, and I was tempted to wonder whether the dear old Universe was giving me another of those arcane messages it often prods me with. Don’t worry, Universe, I’ve got that message now.) Anyway, it forced me to take a detour down a narrow, winding lane with which I was entirely unfamiliar. I told myself to keep turning right at every opportunity and I was bound to end up in the right place. It worked.

And then when I got to Ashbourne I kept going into shops which I rarely go into and finding things I’d been wanting for a while. I ended up spending money in five of them, which is most unusual for me. I think two might be my previous record (or it might be three, but it’s certainly never amounted to five before.)

And then the heavens opened and Ashbourne took to resembling Mumbai for a short while, such was the monsoon-like deluge which engulfed it.

And then, after the rainstorm had abated, I saw a young woman walking along the street wearing shorts, and she had the most outstandingly perfect pair of legs I’ve ever seen. (And I’m not exaggerating here. They really were outstandingly perfect.) Not being one to avoid giving compliments where they’re due, I desperately wanted to approach her and offer my good opinion. I decided against it because it would be most improper for an elderly man – and a gentleman to boot – to approach a perfect stranger with ‘Excuse me miss, but I have to tell you that you have the most outstandingly perfect legs I’ve ever seen.’ I shudder to think what her response might have been, so I dragged myself reluctantly onward, rueing the business of ageing for at least the 1,000^th time this year.

And then when I’d finished my shopping and began the drive back, I discovered that the other half of the carriageway was blocked off in a different place, so I had to take a different detour to the one I’d taken to get there. Something else I’ve never known happen before. I expect there was a reason.

And when I did finally make it back here, the litre bottle of scotch which was in my back pack decided to leap out and commit suicide on the quarry-tile floor. Much mopping and clearing of broken glass ensued, but at least I just about avoided wailing verbally at the loss of £18.50. (I did, however, wail silently quite a lot.)

And when I finally sat down to eat the egg and cress sandwich I’d bought in Sainsbury’s and found it squashed by the weight and volume of things I’d been uncharacteristically buying, I looked out of the window and saw a sparrow hawk land on the birds’ feeding table looking mean. I think it’s only the second time I’ve seen that in the seventeen years I’ve lived here.

So what was I to make of all these minor but unusual happenstances? Were the stars in some confused alignment yesterday, or was I being especially favoured? Oddly, I had considered leaving my usual Wednesday shop until Thursday because the weather forecast was so bad, but the weather was fine enough in the morning so I decided to go out as usual. And who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t changed my mind, for we can never second guess fate, can we?

James and the Lightning Strike.

I had to have a visit from a telecoms engineer today to investigate internet woes on my computer. They had assumed a terminal nature, you see, and I was bit miffed. Said engineer (whose name was James, by the way, in case it should be of any significance) eventually tracked the fault to the final piece of extension cable which connects my computer to the phone line.

He pointed out a substantial degree of corrosion on the metallic bits in the socket at the end of the cable into which the micro filter is plugged. That wasn’t so surprising because this room enjoys a much higher level of humidity than a room in a domestic premises is supposed to enjoy. It does so every summer. What came next, however, was rather more dramatic.

He then pointed out that the connecting clip on the micro filter was warped and a little melted, a fact which, in the absence of any other possible explanation, he could only ascribe to a lightning strike.

‘You mean my house has been struck by lightning?’ I enquired.

‘Not necessarily,’ said James (who seemed to know what he was talking about.) It could have been anywhere on the network.’ He went on to explain that the electricity from a lightning strike follows any old route until it finds a place to rest and discharge its heat. In this case it was about six inches from my left foot when I’m using the computer.

So should I now feel victimised or honoured? Should I be concerned that the fire god chose me to be the recipient of its wanton mischief, or should I be pleased that such an elemental force of nature found in me a kindred spirit? (Of course, it might have been a rather dull case of meaningless coincidence, but I dislike that one.)

But back to basics…

I happened to have a few old micro filters lying about the place, and I also had the old extension cable from when I last renewed it. James took them both, changed everything around, and voila! The internet was back. So the engineer came, invested the situation with his knowledge, and solved the problem. How often does that happen these days when everything is awash with mysterious electronic components which either choose to work or not to work and nobody really knows why?

Nefertiti and a Dog Named Nell.

The last line of my last post read ‘Let’s see what September brings.’ Well, so far it’s brought yet more additions to the collection of woes filling up the backpack. Another one got added today and I can definitely feel the strands of the tether beginning to groan under the pressure.

But let’s have a little nothing to lighten the gloom just a little…

I was in one of my regular discount stores yesterday, and there’s a young woman working there who always seems unaccountably quiet and diffident. Being the sort of human being who sees other human beings not as fellow creatures but as dramatic characters to be studied and evaluated, she piqued my interest. I haven’t yet decided whether she’s introverted, shy, or maybe insecure, so occasionally I engage her in brief conversation to see what clues I can gather. (Maybe I shouldn’t be so presumptuous, but that’s how I’m made. And I do space out such occasions so she doesn’t feel overwhelmed by ageing – and possibly intrusive – masculine energy. Maybe I shouldn’t be so presumptuous, but that’s how I’m made.)

Yesterday I went through her till and noticed that she’d given her usually minimal eye make-up a bit of a makeover. They had little black lines sticking out at the sides, which I presume is a device to make them look wider. (Maybe I shouldn’t be so presumptuous, but that’s how I’m made.) I decided this could be one of those occasions.

‘What’s with the Nefertiti look?’ I asked her as she was dutifully scanning the cheese and onion pasties and solid vegetable frying oil through the till.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The new eye make-up. It makes you look Egyptian.’

‘Oh.’

It occurred to me that maybe the name was causing some difficulty. It does sound a little dubious, doesn’t it, if you’re unfamiliar with ancient Egypt and the monotheistic deity issue?

‘Nefertiti was a Queen of Egypt by the way, in case you didn’t know,’ I continued.

‘Oh.’

And then she handed me my 5p change which I put into the charity receptacle. She said ‘thank you.’ And then I left.

But that isn’t quite all…

Yesterday evening I met little Nell and one of her humans walking down the lane. She’s the cocker/springer spaniel cross who has received honourable mention before on this blog, and so much straining at the leash and subsequent cuddles naturally ensued. Nell, you see, is my very favourite dog fix now that dear Inca has left this earthly realm (at least I assume she has.)

And that’s all the light that has shone my way so far this September. It was just enough to lift the gloom sufficient to bother saying so.