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.