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 |   Maybe meandering, possibly peripatetic and indisputably irregular. |
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So here it is.. a blog. Repository of some of my present musings and interests. Sometimes things pop into my head that should probably stay there - it is possible I shall share at least some of them here. (Naturally I shall filter out the ones about my sordid obsession with the culinary dark arts, one has to protect the innocent!) Please feel free not to take this too seriously, much of it could wind up being snippets of things that amuse me. Yesterday I came up with this: Few politicians can be considered first class, but not a few are number twos. What can I do with it? Nothing springs to mind, except perhaps blog it. Perhaps in some other life I'm a failed stand-up comedian. I have the beginnings of an idea to introduce another player into the Mr Moonlight story, a nice visual has occurred to me, and a summoning gone wrong seems appropriate. When I finish up here I shall literally put pen to paper. I find writing at least initially longhand helps my ideas flow. When I type up what I've written, I give it a first revision at the same time, and as a bare minimum check my spellings and grammar . I do want to keep tabs on my current reading here. I usually have several books on the go at the same time. Currently I am working through 'Pyramids' by Terry Pratchett. I reread Pratchett's books over and over - usually at work where they provide much needed amusement whilst I eat breakfast. 'The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle', by Stuart Turton was loaned to me by a friend who shares a love of murder mysteries, (especially Agatha Christie's works). It is a new take on the genre and very very clever. The protagonist occupies different bodies - a selection of the guests at the house where Evelyn is murdered. Each day he spends in a different guest, and he has been tasked with discovering the murderer - or maybe saving Evelyn from actually being murdered, it is hard to tell. The book twists and turns and is quite intriguing. 'New Science - Principles of the new science concerning the common nature of nations' is an English translation by David Marsh of 'La Scienza Nuova' by Giambattista Vico, published in 1725. Not far into this yet, I had to find a copy of the frontispiece online, as it wasn't included in the Kindle edition. The first part of the book explains the idea - and uses a detailed description of the frontispiece to convey this. So being without it would have made things somewhat harder. 'The Complete Works of Michael De Montaigne' is again a translation, this time by Donald M. Frame. Montaigne's Essays are famous, I kept reading about them, so treated myself to a nice hardbound copy to dip into - usually just before bedtime. So there we have it - a blog entry - enjoy! (whispers almost inaudibly 'Bon Appétit). |
| Just a little while ago, whilst listening to Dylan's melody, I had it, or at least it's beginning. A conversation, I seem to write a lot of those, that's what comes of talking to myself, though sometimes I'm a repetitive so and so, and I bore myself, having heard it all before probably a few thousand times I should imagine. But this time it sounded grand in my head, and I went over it a few times as I worked, trying different phrases, enjoying the interplay of my two inner voices as they bickered. "You admire my integrity." said one. "I admire your self delusion." Came the withering reply. I wonder. I wonder if I were to write down those words that oft times reverberate in my mind, whether I could leave them cold and exposed, to shrivel and die? I've done something similar with bad memories, the sort that years later could make me wince with embarrassment over something long forgotten, except by me. Telling a friend and explaining that though the event was perhaps minor in his eyes it still held power over me, dispelled that power. Laid the memory to rest, never since to torment me. If I shared my inner ramblings, would that have the same effect? Is that I wonder, what confession is all about? Laying ghosts to rest? Flushing out the inner toxins, and creating tranquillity. Or if you have no confidence in religion, then a visit to a psychologist might serve a similar purpose. I tried that once, it wasn't remotely successful, though I was more open then than with a priest, probably because I cared less about what the psychologist would think of me. Can one confess to oneself? Self reflective, or is it introspective? Stirring the muddy waters, and weathering the long dark night of the soul. It sounds rather romantic doesn't it? 'Tisn't! Oh I've gathered scraps, some insights, made modifications. But. It is an iterative process, as I've stated elsewhere before. Repeated, periodically. It would be nice to think in some ongoing ascent. But. More often than not it is a case of three steps forwards and two to four steps back. It is hard work to be mindful. Harder still nowadays, with all the fun distractions available. Where will it end? When will it end? It doesn't. It won't. "And isn't life a terrible thing Thank God." |
| "Hello. Hello John? Are you there John?" "Wuugh! Who? Yes, yes it's me." "Ah good. Hi John, it's Dwayne." "Dwayne? My boss Dwayne?" "You got it Buddy, now listen I just need to go over the Marshall figures with you." "I'm, I'm dead Dwayne, how are you even talking to me like this?" "You know Joan Petrochelle in accounts?" "Kind of, small woman, Eastern European?" "That's the lady, well it turns out her Mum is a gifted medium and as I really need to just go over these figures with you..." "So much for having the afternoon off when I'm dead." "Yeah, sorry about that Buddy, now about these figures..." |
| Lest you think I take nothing seriously, I have just spent £110 on a second hand book about cosmogonical poetry to be sent from Australia. I did have an e-book of this, but when I changed computers it stopped working. This is probably the most I've ever paid for one book, but hey ho. I don't smoke, don't drink much. A man has to have some vices! |
| I sat up feeling much better than I had any right to, and even when I turned and looked down at my frankly rather ghastly expression, I merely thought how that would have turned my stomach, had I still been alive. I confess that I felt no surprise that I was dead. After all I had just killed myself. But, I was somewhat taken unawares to find myself still here. Or at least my soul seemed to be. Or was I a ghost now? How does one tell the difference? My speculations were interrupted by the entrance of my wife. "Oh!" She said, looking right through me to my corpse lying on the floor beneath me. 'Oh!' Oh!, is that all? Your husband is dead and all you can muster is 'Oh!'? "Hello. Well I'm not sure really. It's a bit too late for an ambulance, but I expect I'll need one, and probably the police as well. It's my husband. Yes. He's blown his brains out. Yes, I'm pretty sure that he's dead. There isn't a lot of his cranium left, that's why." I listened as she dutifully gave her details, name and address that sort of thing. Then she went to the kitchen and filled the kettle and switched it on. To say I was dumbfounded is an understatement, how could she be so calm? The police arrived, together with no less than three ambulances, which was overkill in my opinion, though no one was interested in my opinion. Probably because they couldn't hear it. Ponsonby came in and gave me a look. I remember reading somewhere that cats can see ghosts, and it did seem to be true. The strange thing is, I could have sworn his look said "Oh the can opener is broken, that's a shame." Then he meowed meaningfully at my wife, who'd just finished making everyone hot drinks. She patted him fondly and reached for a sachet of cat food. Ponsonby gave me rather a smug look and settled down to enjoy his dinner. |
| Memory. A stone thrown across the surface of the water, which is time. Skips across, it is an incomplete journey, for me at least, since my memory is not 100%. I remember a series of events, and have forgotten countless moments and details and faces and sounds. The splash of the stone as it skips, the memories I have are imperfect. I may remember the gist, but when pressed, there is detail missing. For example a conversation. Someone was so angry with me because I was always right. I watched in horror whilst they ranted about this, and did it wrong again. I know who the person is, and where we were. I don't remember what I always got right, or what she was getting wrong. It's frustrating. It might still be in there somewhere. Summoning old memories is an art perhaps. Focus helps. sometimes an instruction to myself to find it and throw it up works, (now think of the implications of that one). Does it have to be that way? I have read of photographic memory, but I don't experience that - locked in my own mind. Would I want to remember everything? Undoubtedly not. I am thankful that I cannot remember physical pain. Memory is largely word based for me, I remember - then I narrate what I recall, imperfectly. Memory is sequential. I can follow a route in my mind, seeing inwardly the landmarks I used to navigate that route. If I smell something again, I remember it, but I cannot smell violets from memory, without that scent being present to smell in the present. Sound is a bit easier, I can run through the words of a song (but that's partially narration of course), and hear some of the tune. I can hum or mmm-mmm-mmm the intro to Beethoven's Fifth. I can't do that for Vaughan William's Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, but when I hear it I know that I have heard it before (and like it immensely). My body remembers such things as how to ride a bicycle, or to drive a car with a gear stick. Wonder why scents are so elusive? I remember dying - last time. Does that sound strange? Perhaps I am deluding myself, but it does explain some very strange childhood nightmares. If you are interested, I was gassed. I was reading recently, probably on the BBC news pages, that research has shown how inaccurate our memories are. We edit them, to present ourselves in the best light. I am always a little wary of these pronouncements, though I am sure that we, i do edit to present myself to others and maybe myself in a better light, I wonder if there is a 'range of clarity' - by which I mean do some embroider more than others? Are those who are less bothered about how they are perceived edit their memories less? Colin Wilson - a British Author who thought and wrote a lot about how humanity 'ticks' wrote something to the effect that we are like gods who constantly forget that we are gods. I have no idea if he was correct, but our ability to retain a thought for any length of time does seem to be eroded by our distraction rich environments. Which is why monks seeking enlightenment are usually depicted cross legged on top of a mountain. Although hopefully not Everest, or they'd never get any peace. Meh, I'm rambling now. Lost the thread. Skipped to the next bit. One last thing. I re-read something in my portfolio last week, that I didn't remember writing. I'd stated that I was writing it to be able to enjoy it when i re-read it in the future. Do you know what? I did enjoy it. |
I thought about adding something to follow on from yesterday's entry, but decided it was more an essay than a blog entry.
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| December sees the release of a trailer for the latest version of Grannies Travel Around, the enormously popular video game where you take on the role of a sweet old lady who drives about the city, visiting her friends, having her hair done, eating at American Breakfast Buffet and generally cementing her position as the kindest, gentlest, most decent citizen ever. Outsold only by ItsMineNow, GTA has gone through no less than 5 previous incarnations, with its little old ladies just getting kinder and nicer with every release. What a world we live in, with such wonderful positive entertainments to enjoy. The Phoolish one was day dreaming again. Increasingly distressed by the realities of a world run for and by the greedy, the selfish and the self righteous he could see that change was needed. But revolutions always seem to result in yet another layer of scum rising to the top of the chum bucket. It isn't just the people that rule us who need to be changed. It is how we choose to run things and who and what for that matter. It is likely already too late, if even change could be initiated, but the lack of a blueprint for improvement is the major stumbling block to any future improvement. In a very short time we will have 'Black Friday Week'. I invite you to think about that. A 'sale' period , (or a period of encouraged needless expenditure), that has spread from a day, to a week. In the UK it makes even less sense, as the Friday in question is the one after Thanksgiving, which is not a UK holiday, no matter , a viable cutting from the Black Friday has been successfully transplanted, and extended. Whilst some of us are struggling, others will be fighting to get the largest most expensive screen with which to play GTA on, or consume yet more adverts, to buy yet more items, with built in obsolescence as standard. I don't believe that change is impossible. my own career has been quite varied, but the common denominator is that I have brought about positive change, real improvement in pretty much every role I've tackled. That blueprint needs writing, maybe a fool could have a go? |
| I'm afraid that I've hatched another of my diabolical plots. This time it is to bring my poetry to a new and unsuspecting audience. To this end I have purchased a webcam, haven't had one of these for years. I will need to work out how to record again, but I'm sure there are a wealth of videos telling me how to do that. Then I plan to record me reading my own poetry, and post it - probably on YouTube because I'm old, but maybe on Tik-Tok too? Anyway - I will no doubt announce it in the Newsfeed when the time comes. |
| I have successfully bound together a few pages of an article '"Towards a Science of Ideas" by Dr. Guido Enthoven in case anyone is interested, and set another article on it's way. This time I added some blank end sheets - getting fancy already! My wife is insisting I should now leap to making a book of my own poetry. The idea does appeal, though the techniques are advanced on what I've just tried. That said, about £20 would buy me the tools I would need to start. I think to be on the safe side I may try making a small blank book, to try out the stitching that a larger book would need, and the technique of making a hard cover. It looks fun, but I need to take my time and get used to what I'm doing. |
| I'm putting this here in case anyone imagines it is another of my strange little fantasies such as grace the Newsfeed from time to time. For a little while I have been thinking about finding a hobby for myself. Well, after watching a stray YouTube video, (yes I know this DOES sound like a wind up), I have decided to dabble my toes in the art of book binding. Actually my ambitions do stretch a little further and I may try my hand at paper making at some point. For now however, I have decided to try using a double fan to bind together some articles that I currently keep in a couple of folders. Here's the link in case you are interested: Even as I type this, my first attempt is lying under a purpose bought glass chopping board, and several weighty books as the glue dries. The Bullet Journaling mentioned in my previous post hasn't really blossomed yet, but there's time yet |
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). I mostly reject that. I'm eating rice with an egg this morning but Pannya just brought me chocolate milk from 7/11 (bless him; I really don't need it).
