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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Name That Tune There is a piece of music that I have heard many times in my life without knowing who wrote it or what it is named. It cropped up again in the funeral scene in a television show I was watching a day or two ago and I decided that I had to find out what it is. With Andrea’s detective skills to assist, I discovered that it is Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor. Now, thanks to YouTube, I can listen to it whenever I want. It is simple yet haunting, understated yet compelling. I’ll embed it below this piece so that you can hear it too. You’ll have heard it many times, I’m sure, but there will be those who, like me, never knew its source. What an excellent opportunity to turn to a friend when it comes on and say, “Ah yes, Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor!” Word count: 150 |
| Another YouTube Gem Chris Isaak introducing the band members at a gig: “Scott Plunkett on the piano…” |
| Passing the Mustard How exactly does one cut mustard? Or crack corn, for that matter. |
| Writing Fears The family that does things together, stays together, or so they say. That was certainly true of my little family last month, for December found us all (even a sister of my beloved wife) in the grip of the dreaded covid. We all survived it adequately enough, being still here, but it did prove a severe disruption to our plans for the end of the year. For me, the terrible thing was that I found myself unable to write. This passed in stages as January dawned and I have been back in the swing of poetry for a while now. Short stories proved more difficult, however. It was not just the greater amount of time and effort required by them. The small matter of inspiration was a major obstacle. The old brain stubbornly refused to come up with anything, even at the prodding of the most interesting of suggestions. I suspect that the real problem was not some imagined departure of a mythical muse. It was more likely that the mind, on finding itself on enforced vacation, began to enjoy the peace and quiet, refusing to go back to work when the nauseating symptoms lessened and drifted away. Yesterday I succeeded in forcing the brain back into harness and dashing off a story for SCREAMS!!! This was occasioned by a dream I had in the early hours that morning. It left me wide awake at four o’clock, thinking about the events in the dream. And then I realised it could easily form the basis for a story and that was the end of any possibility of further sleep. I rose and bashed out something with just enough time for a quick edit and prettification before the deadline. The thing is, I can’t count on having a dream every time I see a contest I want to enter. This apparent breakthrough is really just a flash in the pan until I manage another story. The whole thing may well have been the brain’s way of fobbing me off so I’ll stop nagging it. It remains to be seen whether I’ll ever be able to write anything longer than a few lines again. Ever. Such are the terrible fears of the writer in the low points of life. Word count: 376 |
| Digging around in the archives, I came upon this: Walpurgisnacht One of my favourite literary tricks (although frowned upon by the powers that be) is to seize the readers by the lapels and talk excitedly into their faces. So, if I, for instance, were to decide upon a chief character by the name of Chariadne, I might suddenly insist upon accurate pronunciation of the word, emphasising that the first two letters be spoken as a K, rather than the obvious options of CH or SH. Pointing out that each vowel is intended to have its day, none being silent, I would then have to maintain that the last two letters be sounded as NEE and not NAY or NUH. In similar fashion, when prompted to write a story about Walpurgis Night, I am immediately compelled to change it to Walpurgisnacht, the German being the way I first heard mention of the feast. It is, after all, a strange thing to English minds, the festival never having gained a foothold in Britain apart from a brief moment in the villages of Lincolnshire, amounting to no more than hanging a few cowslips to ward off evil. The Germans make much more of it and have built an atmosphere both dark and forbidding around what was once a Christian festival. In my memory, it is the inspiration for a scene in Goethe’s Faust that relies heavily upon witchy influences. Oh, those jolly Germans. Imagine my disappointment, then, on being advised by Wikipedia that the whole thing began as a feast day celebrating a Saint Walpurga. I suppose it’s mildly satisfying that, after centuries of being accused of stealing pagan festivals, Christianity can at last level the same accusation at the opposition. But the threads of meaning become too complex for me to bother with when in search of a short story and I think I need to consider instead the other prompt, “A test of courage.” All that remains it is to think of something horrifying in that context. And to stay well away from Wikipedia! Word count: 343 |
| Gripe of the Day There is no such thing as “very unique.” The word “unique” means “the only one of its kind.” Which means, of course, that it cannot have a competitor that is slightly more unique. That would be like saying, “Oh yes, this here stands alone above all else. Except that there’s one over there that is better.” You cannot grade uniqueness; if something is the sole example, nothing else can be. To say that something is “very unique” is to say that it’s the only, only one. There’s a word for that and the word is “redundant.” Let’s stop robbing words of their power. The word “unique” should be rarely used because it is extremely uncommon for anything to be so much better than its peers that it eclipses all of them. “Awesome” should also be almost extinct nowadays, since we are so jaded that nothing fills us with awe anymore. And may the phrase “way, shape or form” be made a criminal offence; any one of those three words means all that you’re trying to say. Word count: 176 |
| A Thank You A few days ago I received, through snail mail, a postcard from WdC. It was probably just a part of a mass mailing to all members or had been triggered by some unnoticed milestone on my WdC career, containing a snippet of wisdom suggesting that I create opportunity rather than wait for it. There is a faint chance that this was occasioned by my insistence that I am no longer interested in publication, but I doubt it. The Master and Mistress have better things to do than to concern themselves with my insignificant being, I’m sure. Nevertheless (go on, Northern, tell me I have no business using so obsolete a construction), this postcard has been extremely welcome to me in my present state. This is partly because I have been feeling rather ill and low of late (both of which prevented me from replying in correctly grateful manner until now) and also because it is an actual physical contact with another human being. Whether it was initiated by a machine or not, the fact remains that it has been addressed in a person’s handwriting, thereafter having a real postage stamp affixed to it by glue that may even have been moistened by the application of a lick from a human tongue. What a wonderful thing to receive out of the blue! It takes me back to the days before the internet and email, to a time when the mailman’s daily visit was something to be looked forward to, instead of the cue for the chore of sorting invoices from junk mail. Someone somewhere has taken the time and trouble to write a few words and post this postcard, not to some mysterious householder or occupant, but to me, even adding after my name my WdC handle, beholden (taking the extra care of using the lower case version of the initial letter, as I do). I am humbled by such dedication to the maintenance of a time-honoured tradition in this age of the immediate and fleeting. So this post is in the nature of a thank you, a registration of the gratitude I feel for being noticed for a passing moment at least. It may have been the physical nature of the postcard that elicits this response, rather than any great impression made by the encouragement to “Write on,” but the gratitude is real and heartfelt. The card does indeed reside by my computer now, to be noticed and recalled with affection from time to time. Thank you, WdC. Word count: 418 |
| Computer Language Computer: Please enter user name and current password. User: Edgewise Computer: Current password is incorrect. User: Incorrect Computer: Current password is incorrect. User: I know. That's why I entered it. Computer: Current password is incorrect. User: It can't be. Why do you keep insisting it's incorrect when clearly it isn't? Computer: Current password is incorrect. User. You're stuck, aren't you? Have you tried therapy? Computer: Current password is incorrect. User: Idiot Computer: Access granted. Word count: 75 |
| At some epic moment in the last few days, this blog passed the milestone of a thousand views. Not only does that surprise me, it also reminds me of a favourite moment in the television series, Detectorists. After a day's expedition detecting for metal in the fields, Lance admits to his detecting friend, Andy, that his haul that day had been nothing but pull tops from soda cans to add to his collection. When Andy asks him why he keeps such trash, Lance replies, "You can sell 'em on eBay. People buy this sh*t." Here's to the next thousand, oh, blog o' mine. |
| If I do nothing else, at least I can serve as a bad example. |
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