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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.     |
| The Old Enemy I may joke about it but the fear is real. As the years roll on and the word you had decided to use is suddenly gone before you can type it, the prospect of senility creeps from the shadowed corners and I have to wonder. Is this how it starts? Is this increasing elusiveness of the exact word a foretaste of things to come? Will this slight annoyance develop until the mind is a babbling idiot and I a drooling vessel of half remembered episodes of long ago? Of course, I’ve always had moments when the necessary word plays hide and seek, leaving me with some substitute that doesn’t quite say what I mean. It’s almost a definition of life that this precisely timed forgetfulness strikes at unfortunate moments. But this is different now. It used to be occasional but now it’s almost every day. And yes, I have Andrea to help me in the hunt for the mischievous absconder. It’s true too that, if I just do something else for a bit, it’ll return and I’ll shout it out in triumph. Yet, if this acceleration continues, I’ll be spending all my time hunting or waiting for the return of the prodigal. In the meantime, whatever I was in the process of constructing will proceed to the great forgetory of my mind and be lost forever. I was always one to strike while the iron was hot. It’s like imagining what it’s like to become blind. So terrible as to not be countenanced. And I try not to think of it but it lurks in the background, a constant presence. I comfort myself with the thought that, if I keep using the mind, it’ll remain in basically usable shape. Use it or lose it, they say, and I’m sure there’s sense in that. It’s supposed to work for the kidneys, so I see no reason why it shouldn’t work for the brain as well. At the very least, I should be able to annoy these good folks in WdC for a few years yet. Word count: 347 |
| The Great Colour Question Today is Week 4 of the second year of Lilli 🧿 ☕  ’s Promptly Poetry Challenge. It’s all about favorite colours and a memory stirred in my brain as I read the prompt. I’ve done that a while back, I thought. And I remember it was about Green.The problem was that I couldn’t remember where I’d put the Green poem. Figuring it was most likely to be last year’s Promptly, I had a look there. Couldn’t find it. Looked in all the other likely places and then the unlikely. Wasn’t anywhere I searched. Andrea was also looking by then and she found it. Last year’s Promptly. I’d omitted turning back to the first page of my folder for those poems and that’s where it was. You’re guessing that I was considering cheating by using the poem again. But you’d be wrong. I just wanted to confirm that I wasn’t having some sort of phantom memory of a thing I’d never created. But finding it meant that I was going to have to choose another colour. That meant having a little think. While I was thinking, I wandered through my early years of Question of the Day, another Lilli offering (she’s exceptionally busy). It was where my increasingly desperate search had led me before Andrea had put me out of my misery. As I read some of my answers to those questions of long ago, it occurred to me that I had told an awful lot about myself in them. If Lilli ever decides to go on a Beholden hunt, she has an enormous store of ammunition in those answers. What on earth was I thinking? Especially when you consider how secretive I imagine myself to be. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself all along. It’s obviously possible that I’m really some open, honest and outgoing extravert who has somehow deluded himself into thinking he’s an introvert. Possible but unlikely, I think. The truth is, no doubt, that I’m just like everyone else and I can’t resist going on at length when asked to speak about myself. Which is why I really ought to shut up right now. Word Count: 356 |
| Floyd Interviews A couple of days ago I discovered on YouTube a series of interviews with the members of Pink Floyd. Much of my time since then has been devoted to listening to them and trying not to give in to my urges to interrupt them with points of my own. They have brought home to me just how much we are products of our generation, how we were all involved in the cultural shift initiated by the Beatles, contributing our own particular (if insignificant) understanding of what was happening to us. Now that we are old it seems that we have much time to reflect on those formative years of our lives, and it is somewhat of a surprise to find that our thoughts are pretty similar. Roger Waters especially is interesting to listen to. He is the most articulate and deep thinking of the four, something that makes sense when you remember that he was the band’s lyricist after the demise of Syd Barrett. Of course writers will have a greater ability to construct orderly thought patterns, while the musicians express themselves more easily through music. Still Waters run deep. I find it encouraging that the video of Floyd’s Pulse concert is the yardstick of the growing horde of “reactors” to music new to them. There are some pretty good actors amongst them but, when they listen to Floyd, the pretense falls away and they are visibly affected, many of them with tears. It is wonderful to watch the dawn of their understanding of the most powerful music of our now wrinkly generation. If you like Floyd, give these a listen. They explain so much. David Gilmour: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDxwuby7mpg Roger Waters: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hI0lFi1JFHQ Rick Wright: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crRtKHa94iQ Nick Mason: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhcHa7wDEWk Word count: 275 |
| Step Away From That Bread A while back, Andrea started on a diet that she has honed to her own requirements as the effects on her body become noticeable. All sorts of foods are now forbidden and some interesting concoctions take the place of things that we thought we couldn’t live without. There’s no doubt that this is working; she feels much better, wrinkles begin to disappear and we’re convinced that she has fewer grey hairs than a few weeks ago. One of the unexpected side effects, however, is that we now watch a lot of YouTube videos by self-styled nutritionists with an unimaginably wide range of theories. Although their ideas vary so much, the one thing they have in common is their agreement that the nutritional rules we have lived under for fifty years are now debunked. It is a pity that they then depart upon such divergent paths of experimentation. I confess to being totally confused and unsure of what I should eat as a result. For the moment, I stick with my traditional foods, secure in the knowledge that my health remains fairly balanced and unchanging. I must be doing something right. This plethora of contrasting theories works very well for Andrea, however, as she tries things, finds what works for her and discards the rest. At the moment, she is an interesting combination of carnivore with some keto elements. It’s called ketovore, I’m told. No doubt by this time next week, other things will have been added and others taken away. It’s all grist to the mill as long as it works. Observing these events, I have come to the conclusion that western civilisation is currently undergoing a clandestine invasion by rebellious nutritionists. In spite of their many differences, there is an army of them that is united by their willingness to make endless videos explaining their cause and expanding on their various theories. I have become used to the world growing ever weirder as it explores the borders of esoteric knowledge, but this is the strangest yet. In my day, nutritionists were the least likely to get together in guerilla gangs intending to change the world. Not so nowadays. They’ll be shoving people off the sidewalk next. Word count: 367 |
| Cartography I discovered something new today. Windows 10 was recently upgraded and the task bar now advises me of the local weather. It is somehow quite satisfying to be able to put a number to the temperature outside my window, instead of relying on the clichés of “really hot” or “freezing cold.” Today, I decided to investigate this new ability further. I clicked on the temperature and, after much clicking and searching, I arrived at a really detailed summary of the weather in my locale. There was even a number set to the quality of the air I was breathing. Hopefully, it is good enough to support life for a little longer. But my joy really overflowed when I realised that I could summon up a map of the area. How I have missed maps since losing my old school atlas in one of my moves. They are the vehicles of the imagination, the transport to places far away or even just down there in the street below. And this was a map that has several abilities beyond those I expected. It was a weather map and painted places having the same temperature in a particular colour so that the land had overlays of bands of colour merging into each other. At a glance I could see how hot it was out there at any given moment. And there were little arrows streaming across the map to indicate wind directions. All of this was animated, instantly updated as data came in, I guess. It was and is a truly beautiful map. I was hooked immediately. That was when I discovered that moving the mouse wheel would zoom in or out, almost infinitely. Suddenly I could hurtle inwards to examine my immediate environs in great detail. Even minor roads were supplied with names and I could (and did) find exactly where I lived. This isn’t Google Earth so I can’t see a photograph of the house but this is a map and therefore better than that. It gives me information rather than attempting to entertain with pretty gimmicks. I’ve fooled with Earth many times but always found it useless for serious map reading exercises. This Microsoft version is far better, understanding as it does what maps are for. Now I can zoom out and see where all those places are that Andrea has mentioned before. At last I begin to have some sense of where in the world I am. It is hard to explain but a geographer without maps is lost as no one else is. I need a mental map that I can unfold and follow as I travel around new territories. Only then can I truly understand when Andrea says something like, “Oh, that’s up in Andover, I think.” Already I begin to have a feel for where these place names are on the surface of the world. So it’s a momentous day for me. Perhaps I am found at last. Word count: 492 |
| Undefeated Occasionally I may mention in this blog the fact that I’m old. That may be a slight understatement. In fact, if I’m honest (and I try to be but no guarantees), it’s a subject that I return to again and again in my writing, be it blog, poetry, short story and, if I ever get around to it, novel. Age is a subject that has interested me for a long time. As long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be older. In my younger days this was probably motivated by my observation that it was always older people who had all the money, the freedom and the power to do as they wished. Little did I know that life was about to play a cruel trick on me. As I progressed from teenage years to my twenties, I found that the goalposts had moved. Instead of entering the sunny uplands of olderland, it seemed that things had moved on and it was now necessary to get even older before enjoying the benefits of maturity. This perception may have been influenced by the fact that I was still deciding what to do with my life. Instead of settling for a career with a clear path to the heights of a fat salary and respectability, I messed about with dreams of being an artist or a writer, while supporting myself with the miserable wages I received for whatever job that came my way. The solution seemed obvious - get older and the fruits will come. You may not have noticed, but getting older is one of the easiest life goals there is. I was entirely successful in my endeavour. And, true to form, someone moved the goalposts again. I was forty before I realised that I was no longer a desirable commodity on the job market. Oh, I could hold down a dead end job with ease but, when it came to the plum positions that paid a great deal for very little, they were looking for someone younger. It was my misfortune to live at a time when employers changed from wanting experience and skill to worshipping at the altar of youth. And now, of course, it was impossible for me to turn around and get younger every year. The future stretched ahead of me, a matter of only getting older and less wanted in the world. That was when I understood that I didn’t actually care. It had been so enjoyable doing what I wanted and watching the years trundle past, that I was happy enough. The fact that any ambition to have a career had long faded into the mists of time, allowed me to indulge my true interests. Writing was one of those and, surprisingly, so was the process of getting older. It was like a familiar and ongoing study, watching as the body began to slow down in so many ways, the hair begin to turn grey and then completely white (so distinguished looking!), and new aches and pains appear to extend my collection. Hitting seventy was a bit of a surprise, I’ll admit, but it turned out not to be very different from the years preceding it; just a few more craggy wrinkles in the face, the skin getting ever thinner so the veins become visible in my hands and arms, the flesh dropping off me so that I become ever smaller and more frail. It’s all so very interesting! And masses of material for poems and stories. So don’t feel sorry for me. I’m quite proud of my age and the weird creature I’ve become. It may look as though life has dealt me a poor hand but, dammit, I earned this age and I intend to enjoy it to the full. So there. Word count: 631 |
| Turning Up the Volume Many years ago I was struck by the different approach to volume inherent in different languages. It began to appear to me that the sunnier the clime in which a language developed, the louder it was going to be. A South African once wrote a play consisting of several sketches and it was one particular episode in this that gave my theory its start. In the sketch, two Africans meet on stage and greet each other with much politeness and wishes of good health, then continue on their way in opposite directions. But this does not halt the flow of their conversation. They continue to speak to each other as they disappear offstage and, as the distance between them grows, they merely turn up the volume a little. Their deep voices continue to exchange comments for several minutes across a completely empty stage. To an African audience, this is intensely funny because it illustrates a truth known by all who live in Africa: that Africans will converse with each other across immense distances. I have heard Africans talking quite happily between two hilltops separated by more than a mile. Two observations occurred to me as a result of this. It seemed that this explained why Africans have such deep and sonorous voices that can carry across such distances. And this is only possible in a landscape with few trees to absorb sound. This theory received added impetus when I came to England. Northern Europe was once covered in endless forest. Not only do forests absorb sound, making conversation over distance impossible, but they are also the home of sprites and demons, fairies and monsters. Take a look at the wealth of folk tales from countries in Northern Europe and you will see how the forest is regarded as a sinister place full of unseen threats and shadowy beings. So it is not a place to talk loudly. The people of the forest learned to keep their voices down so as not to disturb the spirits of the forest. If we turn to Southern Europe we find a land much more open and summery. And, surprise, surprise, here the people have a reputation for being talkative and fun-loving, unlike their dour compatriots farther North. Surely this must be landscape-related. It makes sense to me, at least. In America I find a similar principle at work. The New Englander, surrounded by deep and dark forests, is famous for being quiet and reserved, very much like my countrymen in Olde England. But the inhabitants of the open plains of the West and Southwest are known for their brash and confident approach to life. Coincidence? Or are we seeing how the landscape shapes us, molding our speech to suit our surroundings? So there you have one of my linguistic theories. It's meant to be fun and not taken too seriously. My other theories are all to do with English accents and dialects and are extremely boring and long-winded. So enjoy, at least, the fact that I'll not go into them here. Word count: 507 |
| Number Eleven Well, yesterday was my tenth post since starting the Blog with the Bard thing. So I've achieved the goal and now the question is: Do I carry on blogging or should I take this opportunity to escape? And the answer has to be that I carry on. After all, that's what I did last year and now the blog has displayed its usefulness as a place for sundry thoughts that don't fit elsewhere. But none of that Post a Day business, however. That was an artificial burden I placed on myself purely to get the Bard thing done quickly. From now on the pressure is off and, if there ain't nuthin' to say, I won't say it. Freedom beckons. Word count: 121 |
| Statistical Mysteries If you keep an eye on your stats, as I do, you’ll be aware that certain items in your portfolio get more than their fair share of visitors. Blogs, for instance, soon accumulate far higher totals of views than most other items. Guestbooks too receive plenty of hits, although not many sign them. I can understand the popularity of these two. They’re quick and easy solutions for those who are just nosing around, getting a feel for what you do. But why do some of the other items achieve higher numbers than the rest? You have the chance to display in the header three items that you really want people to read, but, otherwise, it seems a complete free-for-all to me. How do people choose what they’re going to read? What decides them on one and not another? I have some pieces that number their views in the hundreds, others that are still tiffling about (Midland English phrase for messing about) with the twenties and thirties. Is it the catchy title that hauls them in? As far as I can see, that might work with some but not with others. It’s a complete mystery to me. But the really strange thing is that my visitors seem to have impeccable taste. I know that writers are supposed to be the worst judges of their own work (we’re not - it’s just that everyone else doesn’t get it) but we can see when something we’ve written is below par, at least. And so can our visitors, apparently. They head in a crowd for the good stuff and leave the rubbish alone. With some exceptions, admittedly. How the heck do they know? If my work were published, I could put it down to the smell of the books, as I suggested a few posts ago. But they’re not. All my visitors have to go on is the title. Oh, and the odd awardicon (but I doubt that really sways them - at least, not enough to affect the stats). So what is going on? I would be prepared to believe that it’s all just chance but the emergence of viewers’ taste puts too much doubt on that theory. Something is guiding them to the better pieces and I’d love to know what it is. Then I might be able to lay trails to the ones I most want people to read. I flatter myself that I’m pretty good at titles but I’m quite ready to try even harder in that direction if that turns out to be the deciding factor. What do you think? Do you have any great wisdom in this matter that could help me to understand the mysterious ways of visitors? I’d love to know. Word count: 453 |
| The Future of Archaeology A good friend in South Africa, who enjoys the occasional joke, ended his most recent email with his thought: “Oh and by the way, a warning. If you’re buying a watch on Amazon and it says that you can swim with it, it only applies if you can already swim without it.” To which I could not resist replying: “I am taking swimming lessons in case I ever want to buy a watch on Amazon.” After a brief thought, I added the following: “Think how that will puzzle archaeologists if all they ever find is this email. Without the info contained in the final sentence of your last message, my statement is pure insanity. But there, we don't consider the sanity of future archaeologists when we're going about our normal lives so they can hardly expect us to make it easy for them. In fact, when you think about all the detritus of our civilisation we leave behind us, some of it deliberate as in the case of time capsules, one can hardly envy those archaeologists in their chosen profession, the study of ourselves. The profession today sometimes bemoans having to deduce so much from so little evidence, but in the future they'll be sifters of needles from mountains of hay. How they will curse our addiction to such imperishable stuff as plastics.” Which is the philosophical thought for the day, I guess. Word count: 233 |
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I've always remembered that episode and thought that was a fun idea.
Quite good is quite a good compliment 
As someone who just reviewed an item in your port, I can't help but wonder, Did I pick an item that you'd throw out? 