Losing the Barn Owl's Voice.

I was coming in from the garden at dusk as the air fell below freezing, when I spotted a movement above my head. I looked up to see a barn owl settling to perch on the telegraph pole just beyond my hedge. It folded its wings and began to stare at me intensely, occasionally moving its head from side to side in that curious manner which owls are wont to exhibit.

I stared back. I greeted it courteously. I wondered whether it was considering my size to determine whether I was too big to eat. It stayed there and continued to give me its undivided attention, while I almost forgot the cold because the stare of an owl at such close quarters – especially a ghost-white barn owl – is little short of hypnotic.

It’s rare to see a barn owl here. I’m sure they’ve always been about, but a sighting depends on the coincidence of a bird beginning its nightly hunt in this part of the Shire and in the few minutes before I disappear indoors.

I remember that time shortly after I moved here when I was shaken in the early hours by a terrifying shriek puncturing the silence of the night as one flew overhead. It was the shriek to which Shakespeare was referring when he had Macbeth say:

The time has been my senses would have cooled

To hear a night shriek…

I’ve never heard one since then, even though I’ve occasionally seen one. It makes me wonder whether that’s another of the changes brought on by changing times and changing practices. I wonder whether the barn owl has lost its shriek as most roses have lost their scent.

Words and Wondering.

Arthur Schopenhauer famously said:

To live alone is the fate of all great souls.

This is a generalisation, of course, as the vast majority of popular sound bites from the great and the good are. I like it, nonetheless, for obvious reasons (for those who don’t know, I’ve lived alone for the last fifteen years.) And what’s interesting is that shortly before I came across that pearl of generalised wisdom, I’d had the oddest feeling that there is something of substantial significance – maybe even grand – somewhere up ahead in my destiny. I’ve never had such a feeling in my life before and I have very little doubt that it derived from a fevered imagination. But you never know. Come to think of it, I’m glad I don’t know because knowing that there is something of substantial significance – and maybe even grand – in my destiny would scare the living daylights out of me. Look what happened to Joan of Arc.

Schopenhauer also said:

Life swings like a pendulum backwards and forwards between pain and boredom.

I disagree with that one, even though it’s generally true of me these days.

*  *  *

I watched a bird perching quietly on the branch of a tree today. Eventually it flew to a neighbouring tree and perched quietly on another branch. I wondered why.

Tedium.

Currently beset by the dreaded ennui. Nothing to do, nothing to write about, and nothing to look forward to save a growing catalogue of things to be anxious about. I made another virtuous attempt to come to terms with the writing of George Eliot but continued to find it tedious. When she’s observing the quirks of human nature she can be most readable, but the seemingly endless, sluggish flow of trivial conversation in dialect threatens to send me to a premature sleep every time. Trivial conversation is no less trivial for being 160 years old whatever the academics say.

The birthday passed off largely without incident. I received one card and a box of Taylor’s Hot Lava Java coffee bags. The weather was dull and wet as usual.

But I did discover a few interesting things about Karen Carpenter, like the fact that she was a highly rated drummer and that if she were still alive she would turn 70 next March. It occurred to me that there is a perverse blessing in dying young because it means that nobody will ever see any photographs of you looking old.

If this isn't a reason to get drunk I don't know what it is, but I have to be up with the alarm in the morning to face one of the things to be anxious about.

Irritants.

I occasionally see hand written signs in shop windows which say something like:

Sorry. Had to pop out. Back in fifteen minutes.

And they never, ever put the time on, so you don’t know when the fifteen minutes started. This goes some way towards vindicating my attitude to human beings.

*  *  *

Somebody who knew of my many dalliances and truncated relationships once called me a commitmentphobe. They were in error. A commitmentphobe is somebody who is capable of making a commitment but dislikes the idea and so fights shy. I never disliked the idea of making a commitment. The intention to commit was, ironically, an integral part of the romance game. The problem was that by the time I approached middle age I realised that I was simply incapable of doing so. I was born without the commitment gene. I suppose it’s a bit like colour blindness and equally blameless.

And then there were those people who told me: ‘You just haven’t met the right woman yet.’ They were so certain of the fact, but they were speaking from ignorance. Had they known me they would have realised that there was no such thing as the right woman. Foolish people are so damnably convinced of their simplistic certainties. And now I really am tired of talking about women.

*  *  *

I woke up in the dark early hours of this morning certain that there was some sort of discarnate entity in my bedroom which was not friendly. It was pretty spooky, and I’m not easily spooked. I convinced myself that it was best ignored and eventually went back to sleep. It's happened before.

On Birthdays, Bikes and Things.

It’s my birthday tomorrow, but please don’t even think of offering felicitations. What is a birthday anyway but another number to add to a list which is growing depressingly long?

My reason for mentioning it is that I realised only today (or it might have been yesterday – the numbers on birthday cards grow in indirect proportion to the number of brain cells capable of storing short term memory) that I don’t remember ever having had a birthday party at any time in my life. Is that unusual? I don’t know.

I went to one once, at around age 10. The recipient was Janice Turner who lived in Friar’s Road, and the only thing I remember about it was knocking something off the table and feeling feverishly embarrassed. I suppose the fact that it was the one and only birthday party I ever attended suggests that such celebrations were much less common then than they are now. Or maybe I was known as the kid who knocks things off tables and was therefore persona non grata. Or it could have been the fact that I was a fat slob in my pre-adolescent period and fat kids didn’t get invited to things. I never knew and I never shall.

And come to think of it, the only childhood birthday I remember at all was the one when I got home from school and was given a parcel sent by my older brother. That was at around the same age, and the parcel contained a set of lights for my bike. I remember feeling very proud of my acquisition because not every kid had lights for his or her bike. In fact, not every kid even had a bike. The fact that my bike had come second hand was of no consequence back then because I lived on the wrong side of the tracks and having a bike made you a bit special. I expect I’d get mugged for it these days, or maybe not since it was second hand.

I do vaguely remember one other birthday when I was much older. The woman I was living with offered to take me out for a meal to celebrate the occasion, but I declined and she became very cross. There were several reasons why I declined, but I don’t think I want to elucidate further because I’ve done quite enough confessing for one week. And I wouldn’t want people thinking ill of me on the eve of my birthday, would I?

Divided by the R.

One of the most noticeable differences between American and British RP pronunciation is the way we treat the letter ‘r.’ Americans mostly pronounce it wherever it appears in a word, whereas we Brits only pronounce it when it precedes a vowel. Anywhere else the ‘r’ merely extends the sound of the previous syllable. And that’s why the only time Gregory House’s accent grated with me was when he called a member of his team ‘thirteen.’ As a British actor expertly faking an American accent, his pronunciation of thirteen was the one time when I felt he overstated the difference.

Playing the Game of Romance.

The rant I engaged in earlier is now a distant memory, at least until tomorrow. I said I’d lighten up later, didn’t I? So maybe now I should permit reflection to replace the ranting and go back in time as I sometimes do anyway.

Somebody once suggested I write my memoirs, but the concept is far too grand for one such as me. Nevertheless, maybe a confession is in order, and maybe it can be taken as a memoir of sorts. I don’t expect anybody to be particularly interested, but it’s been running through my head since yesterday morning and I felt inclined to write it down for my own amusement.

*  *  *

The song playing in one of the charity shops yesterday took me back to the start of it all. The song had been a big hit when I was fourteen and taking my last holiday with my parents. We’d gone to Great Yarmouth in Norfolk and I was in the habit of going to the fairground every night on my own. Much of the reason for my regular visits to the bright lights and music was the group of teenage girls which I kept seeing there, and the one in particular who attracted my fancy to quite a considerable degree.

I’d already had a couple of regular girlfriends by then – one of whom had been three years older than me – but they’d both been girls I knew from the local youth club and we’d just drifted together. What I’d never done was approach a complete stranger and asked her to walk out with me (what a nice old fashioned phrase that is.) The problem I had at the tender age of fourteen, however, was that I hadn’t a clue how to go about it.

Now, it just happened that I’d got know an Irish lad of seventeen who was also on holiday with his parents and we’d become pals. It seemed to me that he would have a greater level of experience in the matter of pick up lines in consequence of his more advanced age, and so I asked him how he thought I should go about it.

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said. You just go up to her and say “are you coming, then?” and she’ll walk away with you no problem.’

Do bear in mind that he was Irish, and whatever else the Irish are or are not, they’re certainly the world’s best blarney merchants. It occurred to me later that he probably had no more idea of how to pick up strange girls than I had. At the time I simply wasn’t convinced that it would work, and I was also aware that such an approach would put my vanity at risk of being mangled. But I had nothing better to offer. I prevaricated until the last night before we were due to go home, and then desperation encouraged me to take the leap into unknown territory. I approached the group, singled out the gorgeous one, and said ‘Are you coming, then?’ Her eyes showed no evident response as they looked into mine for several pregnant seconds. ‘No,’ she said, and then walked away with her friends while I shuffled off in the opposite direction with a waddle and a quack and a very unhappy frown.

But that was the beginning of the great game of romance which became the abiding passion of my life (about equal with fishing but of greater longevity, and slightly ahead of playing rugby and partying.) For such it always was – a game of discovery and observation which I played compulsively for the next thirty years. And the benefit of experience made me far more adept at knowing the right moves in the right circumstances.

Sounds like a lot of innocent fun, doesn’t it? It wasn’t, actually. It was more of a bumpy rollercoaster ride than a soft sailing on sleepy tides. I’m a complex sort of bloke, you see, and the complexities played a game of their own with my sense of wellbeing on many occasions. The thrills were always followed by the ducking stool, and the feather beds were ever laden with sharp needles. It’s why I can say that thirty years of playing the game of romance caused me far more injuries than I received in twenty years of playing rugby.

And now it’s all over. The loner gene has finally achieved a position of unassailable ascendancy and I don’t need the mirror or my birth certificate to tell me that my body is no longer a vehicle fit for either of my favourite games. I’m washed up, worn out, and undecided whether to groan at the bitter taste of cold turkey or simply feel relieved at having acquired a safe spot on the sidelines. That’s where old men belong, isn’t it, however much the old instinct insists on whispering ‘I’m still here’?

So that’s about it – an inconsequential little anecdote which led to a life less sordid than you might imagine. Make of it what you will. Or don’t bother to make anything of it at all.

Trapped.

I’ve mentioned the TV series His Dark Materials a few times on this blog recently, and you might wonder why a mere fantasy TV programme should be important to me. I’ll tell you why: it’s because that sort of thing is becoming more real to me than the so-called real world outside my window. It comes with being a recluse, but there’s also another reason.

I’m currently being pestered by the agents and their contractors. Do this, do that, call us (at my expense) to arrange an appointment to do such and such. And their letter includes – in text coloured bright red so that it looks more impressive – a statement that this is most important for the sake of my health and safety. It’s nothing of the sort; there is no health and safety issue involved. I’ve had enough of being pestered by my real health issues over the past two years, and I don’t take kindly to being fraudulently pestered further over matters which are unimportant. It insults my mental faculty and it’s irritatingly patronising.

Occasionally I consider leaving all this behind and becoming homeless, but I’m intolerant of cold and I do so like to eat regularly. I’ve considered moving to a warmer country armed with a tent and a camp bed, but I would inevitably be arrested and repatriated. So what then? And when I try to explain this sense of alienation to people – which I rarely do because there’s rarely any point – they think I’m mad. I’m not mad, just cursed with an IQ (or so they tell me) only one less than Stephen Hawking. It doesn’t count for much in the general scheme of things and it’s nothing to be proud of, but it does mean that I’m capable of seeing through the pointless restrictions and absurdities which are increasingly evident in today’s so-called developed society.

And all this adds to the stress levels. It increases the intensity of anxiety and the inner constriction of depression. So while I’m still able to cope with the things I’m expected to cope with, it’s becoming ever more difficult to tolerate the kind of mindless nonsense which most people don’t appear to notice. At times it leaves me teetering on the edge of being unable to function because all I want is simply to be left alone.

I expect I’ll lighten up later, and the sun just came out after 2½ days of rain and relative darkness. Small mercies are most welcome.

The Bear Necessities.

I met Iorek Byrnison tonight. Iorek is the armoured bear in His Dark Materials. He’s one of my three favourite characters, along with Lyra Silvertongue and Serafina Pecula (Queen of the warlike witches.) I said I like bears and witches, didn’t I? There’s a good chance that I’ll be meeting Serafina next week. If I remember correctly from the book which I read eleven years ago, she and her clan come from somewhere in Eastern Europe – maybe Romania, maybe the Czech Republic, I don’t rightly remember – so I do hope she has the accent. Makes all the difference, you know. It does.

As for bears, I’ve been in awe of them since I was a kid. Of all the animals in all the world, the bear is the only one I revere. And for those who know the story of His Dark Materials, I do believe that if I had a daemon, it would be a bear – starting as a baby Himalayan Brown Bear and growing into a mighty grizzly as I found my feet in life (probably not a Polar Bear because I hate snow.)

Witches are more of a mystery to me. As far as I’m aware I only ever knew one, and she was neither warlike nor from Eastern Europe. But she did tell me a few interesting things before I moved house to a different part of the country and never saw her again.

Postscript

1. Lyra continued to evoke a sense of the Lady B in flashes tonight. I wonder whether she watches it.

2. I think I should add that bears also scare me witless.

3. I had an email from the priestess half an hour ago. She’s still threatening to come and visit me after Christmas. Pity the old roar is now reduced to a weakly grumble. Old bears have little to offer but stories.

Lunny and the Milkmaids.

This is the wrong time of both day and year to be publishing this little gem, but I only just found it.

It would be best heard on a summer's morning when the milkmaids are wending their way across the ley to the village after their morning's labour at home farm, relishing the fresh morning air, smiling in the face of the sun, and making ribald jokes about the foolishness of young men.

My imagination stopped surprising me a long time ago. What continues to surprise me is the soft spot I have for milkmaids. I wonder whether it stems from a past life memory of a time when milkmaids were the ones who didn't have pock marks. And I might just add, for those who don't know, that Donal Lunny is a legend among Irish folk musicians.