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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.     |
| If You Think You’re Mad… I once consulted a psychiatrist because I felt I was not entirely sane. After some discussion, I admitted that I was not interested in changing because it might affect certain things about me that I wanted to keep. For instance, I had a certain ability in the visual arts arena that depended pretty much on my view of things. The same could be said of writing, of course. He told me that I was sane and to go away. Word count: 79 |
| Birdies The prompt for Lilli 🧿 ☕  ’s Promptly Poetry Challenge this week is the word “Birds.” It got me thinking and, eventually, I came up with a particular bird I could write about. On the way, however, I came across a thought that might stand considerable pondering for all of us.I’m sure we’re all familiar with the generally-accepted theory that birds evolved from dinosaurs and that they are, therefore, the survivors of that supposedly extinct line. The idea gives me no problems but I do wonder exactly when this happened. This is a fairly important question because of the Cretacious-tertiary mass extinction event of 65 million years ago. The currently popular theory is that a large meteor struck the Earth in the vicinity of Mexico, causing severe worldwide climate disruption and the demise of the dinosaurs. So any evolution from dinos to birdies must have taken place before the meteor arrived. There were no dinosaurs left after the event to evolve into anything after that, presumably. The problem then becomes the dearth of bird fossils found dating from before the meteor. To have given rise to the huge population of birds now evident on our planet, there must have been a few birds at least that witnessed the extinction of the dinosaurs. It seems strange, then, that, so far, we have found no fossils of such early birds. We do have good old archaeopteryx, of course, and a few other dinosaurs that seem on their way to becoming birds, but nothing that has made the giant step from dinosaur to tweety-bird. It strikes me that this is a bit of a problem when we consider the evolution of birds. Either not all the dinosaurs died in the mass extinction, or we just haven’t found the proto-bird fossils that the theory so desperately needs. There may be good reasons for this absence of fossils but I haven’t thought of them yet. As an example, it might be that the delicacy of bones needed to ensure lightness and therefore flight has mitigated against their preservation. But we have fossils of things as fragile and ephemeral as ferns and flowers. Can’t think why bird bones should be even more prone to decay before fossilisation. Understand, I’m not arguing against the theory. I’m as keen on the idea of little flying dinosaurs as anyone else. But I do wonder about how it worked. Such are the devious ways my brain employs to avoid serious writing work. Word count: 413 |
| Once a Little Dutch Boy I watched a video about an episode in the Netherlands Got Talent show (Nederland Heeft Talent) and they had this guy come on - in his late fifties I’d guess, greying hair, slightly paunchy but not fat, baggy and tired old jeans and a creased shirt. The judges start to ask him the usual questions but in Dutch, of course, so I didn’t understand a thing. Normally I can follow Dutch to a certain extent, thanks to my early education in Afrikaans, but this was high powered stuff, machine gun style. Anyway the guy answers them in the same fast delivery Dutch and the music begins. It’s Nessun Dorma and so what follows is not entirely unexpected. We’ve seen enough former competitors on these shows to know that nobody tackles that one unless they can make a pretty good showing of it. But this guy is special. He opens his middle-aged mouth with the irregular and slightly discoloured teeth and out of it comes this unbelievable voice, every note beautifully and professionally projected, a rendering as perfect as Pavarotti’s. The judges are astounded and then sit back just to listen, avid to see whether he can manage the final notes - the true test of any opera singer’s craft. He finishes an absolutely flawless performance and the crowd go wild. They know they’ve witnessed something extraordinary. As for me, I know, without a doubt, that this guy is even better than the cellphone salesman in Britain who wowed everyone with the same song a few years ago in their version of the show. This Dutch Mr Nobody is easily a professional grade opera singer without any training or instruction. Because he can’t have had any - here are his two daughters rushing on stage to congratulate him, clear evidence that this feller has a family and a job that has enabled him to bring them up to be these proud and loving, mature women. No time in all that for opera singing. So the guy is a natural and must have known that from an early age. Possession of a voice of that quality does not go unnoticed beyond adolescence. At some time that ordinary man has had to consider whether he wanted to go the whole opera bit with its attendant schooling, hard work and eventual fame and fortune, or to live a quiet and unexceptional life with the lady of his dreams and the family they produce together. And he has chosen the latter. How many of us would make the same decision? To know that one is gifted with a prodigious talent and yet to opt for a more peaceful and fulfilling life than to try for the stardom so obviously within reach. I suspect that this Dutchman with the golden voice has chosen the wiser path. Those beautiful daughters of his are clearly a preferable legacy to the ephemeral rewards of celebrity. I have no doubt that the man has achieved all he wanted to in life, his daughters are grown and he has decided, just this once, that he will let loose his voice in public. He is a credit to all the little people who have been satisfied with enough, who have not craved the attention and glory of fame or the big bucks of so-called success. In all probability, there is an element of this in all of us. The video is embedded below, if you’re interested. There’s a lot of Dutch chitter chatter in the beginning but the guy’s singing is worth it all, I assure you. Word count: 593 |
| Architecture One thing about ancient Greek and Roman architecture - they were really good at columns. I can imagine them thinking, "Hey, those are really nice columns. We should add some more." And the constant cry, "More columns!" |
| On Dragons Years ago I read a beautifully illustrated book on dragons. It went further than most, proposing a scientific hypothesis that explains the known attributes of the creature. The basic idea was that the dragon’s digestive system used anaerobic bacteria to produce copious amounts of marsh gas, essentially methane, the cause of the will o’ the wisp phenomenon in bogs and marshes. Spontaneous combustion of this gas gives rise to the spooky lights sometimes seen drifting above marshy areas. This could be the origin of the most unbelievable aspects of the dragon’s existence. If the gas were stored within the body of the fabled reptile, it might be the cause of its ability to fly. Methane is lighter than air and would certainly ease, if not completely negate, the weight of the dragon and so allow it to become airborne. The wings, even if unnecessary to lift the resultant gas-filled body, would at least give it a means of propulsion and navigation through the atmosphere. So the enormous size and bloated body of the dragon need not be an excuse for doubting the possibility of such small wings being able to lift it from the ground. Indeed, the very rotundity of the normal dragon body shape would prove to be an advantage, since it would require a large volume of gas to counteract its weight. They would, in fact, be living blimps floating around in the atmosphere of a time long gone. This would also explain the fact that it seemed to be so easily defeated by its arch enemy, the knight. Far from being outgunned by the size and fearsome appearance of the dragon, all the knight would have to do is get close enough to puncture the distended belly of the beast with some sharp instrument or other, and the problem would be solved. The resultant deflation would be the cause of the poor creature’s subsequent extinction. All that methane would have other uses as well. Since anaerobic fermentation also produces small amounts of fairly explosive gases (hydrogen sulphide, carbon dioxide and phosphine), the dragon would have a convenient access to a catalytic method of igniting some of its gaseous output. This could then be produced as its famous fiery breath. The theory is so attractive and beguiling in its feasibility that I think of it whenever dragons are mentioned. It is somehow comforting to know that the legends may have some basis in truth. And, before we all laugh and poohpooh the idea, we should remember the huge number of schoolboys who have proved the theory behind the lighting of farts. Word count: 436 |
| Just Do It The trouble with all this writing advice and wise sayings about how to write is that they make it sound like a formula. Just learn all these bits and pieces, fit ‘em together and you’ve got a book or short story or poetry. Leave out any of the ingredients or put extra ones in and you’ve ruined the whole thing. The truth is that writing’s not like that. You have a story to tell and the best way to tell it is to get on with it. Let your own taste and preferences and tendencies decide how to make it interesting and entertaining and go with the flow. If you’re a writer, it’ll happen. All you have to do is sit down and write. Tell your story in your way and that’s what you’ll end up with - a story. Wasn’t that the object of the exercise? Word count: 146 |
| Keep Your Pants On The wise ones on the hill say that we should write by planning carefully, begin with a draft and then rewrite endlessly until perfection is achieved. Those who don’t bother with such processes, merely bashing something out instead, are called “pantsers,” a name I don’t mind accepting as descriptive of my process. But it’s untrue, even so. The plain fact is I don’t write anything until it’s been thoroughly edited in my head. Which means I don’t have to rewrite. It also goes beyond the implication of the name, pantser. Doing anything by the seat of your pants may be a good description of writing (or driving or flying) as instinct directs, but it misses the target if applied to how I write. I just do it the other way around. There are some advantages to my method, apart from the obvious saving in pen pushing (“key pressing” for the pedants). Doing it my way means every sentence gets intense scrutiny before being written. Editing afterwards invariably leads to fatigue and some misconstructions and errors slipping through as a result. And, if we’re being honest, who genuinely enjoys rewrites anyway? I will admit to one thing that is advised, however. Reading (aloud, if possible) after completion is absolutely necessary, in my opinion. That will really discover any lumps or bumps in the writing, if they’re there. But it’s not why I read on completion. The terrible truth is that, generally, I like what I’ve written. There are some things that I read again and again until I hate the sight of them. Well, not “hate,” but “grow tired of,” shall we say? Equally, there are some things that I dislike from the start. And yet I let them loose on the world, just as I do the favourites. They’ve had as much, and sometimes more, work put into them as the rest, so they can serve as bad examples at least. And later readings do often reveal them as better than I had supposed. I know this because I don’t stop reading my stuff. The most recent work gets frequent rereading but even old stuff gets hauled out for a read on occasion. And that’s when I discover things I don’t remember writing. In some of my longer excursions into the past, I occasionally find myself reading something and thinking, “This is really good. Who wrote it? Oh wait, it must have been me. Funny, I don’t remember it at all.” That can be quite weird. Reading something that you know was written by yourself but you have no recollection of. I suppose it’s bound to happen that some pieces slip from the memory after a while, but to come upon them as a complete stranger is like looking in a mirror and seeing someone entirely unexpected looking back at you. It has its uses, however. Reading without a personal connection to the writing gives one insight into the actual quality of the piece. For the first time, we are able to gain an unbiased view of whether the thing’s any good at all. And the fortunate thing, for me at least, is that, so far, I haven’t found one of these “lost” works that I didn’t think was well written. That may sound conceited but I don’t care. At the very least I can say that I am reasonably content with my former self that wrote all that stuff. It’s better than going around, eternally weighed down with guilt and regret. I like myself. How’s that for a clanger? Word count: 590 |
| The Faithfulness of Inanimate Objects Every morning, at about 10:00am, I stop what I’m doing, open the shoebox on my desk and take out the pills I’m supposed to swallow each day. I arrange them in a vaguely constellation pattern (each time slightly different - it’s a memory aid) and then swallow them in threes with a glop of water from the bottle hiding behind the monitor. When that’s done, I grab my WDC calendar that they send us every year, extract my trusty Bic ballpoint pen from its place between laptop and keyboard, and check the day’s date on the calendar. Then everything goes back in its place (apart from the pills that are now doing what they do in the dark and unknown interior of my aged body) and I go back to whatever I was doing. This little ceremony is designed to assist me in remembering to take my medicines on time and to provide reassurance that the deed has been done if I become uncertain later in the day. But it also provides an excellent example of the enduring and reliable service of certain humble and self-effacing inanimate assistants we employ. Today’s ritual has suggested to me that I sing the praises of one of these, the ever present and always eager to serve Bic ballpoint pen. Bic pens are ubiquitous yet disregarded. They serve faithfully and without honour in probably every country in the world. I have never known one to run out of ink. Most, of course, never get anywhere near doing such a thing, being the item most commonly “borrowed” and lost in the vicissitudes of the day. Their numbers are so widespread and teeming that they are regularly replaced by another of their ilk and so their service continues, never remarked upon or praised. They are, indeed, a fine example of “cheapest being best.” I have no doubt that their initial success was a result of their simplicity, cheapness and reliability, but these have also resulted in their being taken for granted. They deserve better. This matter of the longevity of their ink supply, for instance, is something I am researching at the moment. The Bic mentioned in the above description of my daily medicinal ritual has not needed replacing in years. I have guarded it jealously and provided it with the special protection of having a stash of brand new Bics hidden away for doling out to those who come asking if I have a pen. They get one of the new ones and are told to keep it. It will only be a matter of days before they arrive in search of a pen again, but my test subject is protected from such a cavalier attitude to the matter of inanimate assistants. So this is in praise of Bic pens and, by association, of all those humble assistants that we take for granted in our daily lives. Mice and keyboards are other examples of excellence in spite of cheapness, although there does not seem to be a single marque responsible for their manufacture (unless “Generic” is a brand). If you want a mouse or keyboard that will serve you uncomplaining for years, just buy the cheapest on offer. Those fancy and expensive ones are just going to let you down in a month or two. All this and I have yet to mention the strangest and most unexpected facet of the Bic pen’s existence. The really weird thing is that they’re French. Being British, I have to scorn the French at every opportunity but, at the same time, I must admit that there are certain things that they do really well. And the Bic pen stands at the head of that list. Word count: 618 |
| Mortal Musings Another meeting with my pee doctor this morning (I will have to tell him we should stop meeting like this). Not for anything really - just for him to harangue me some more about all the tests he wants to conduct on me. We have an ongoing duel on this score. I keep explaining to him that I can’t afford even one of the tests, and he tries to find ways to make them more palatable to me. It’s a bit like a Martian trying to work things out with a Venusian. I speak a little Venusian and can understand the pressures on him to cover all possibilities. Not sure that he understands Martian very well, however. This is the guy who made the mistake of telling me that I don’t have to worry about prostate cancer (I wasn’t but he definitely didn’t understand that) because, if I get it now, I’ll be dead of old age long before it kills me. They give up being interested in PSA levels (whatever they are) when you reach the age of 69. So I don’t see a need to do the tests, even if I wanted them done (I don’t - I’ve had my fill of being prodded and inspected through natural and artificial orifices at every turn). The truth is I’ve exceeded the biblical allowance for age (three score years and ten) by four years now and that’s more than I ever expected to make. Anything further is a bonus (or maybe a curse). My pee doctor doesn’t believe me on that score, of course. He figures that I’ll get cold feet when the reality of death knocks on the door. I haven’t bothered to tell him that I’ve been there a few times already and yes, to some extent there’s a natural reaction of striving to hang on a bit longer, but one gets more weary as the years roll on. Rest gets more attractive with the passing days, especially when one considers the insane mess the world is becoming of late. Hopefully, I’ll last long enough to complete an entry to Schnujo’s Whatever Contest "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now"  , which should cover the matter of what happens to my portfolio in the ultimately inevitable occurrence of my death.No doubt my pee doctor will continue to arrange for more duels in the future. In fact, that is more or less guaranteed, now that he has established communication with my ordinary doctor (who is from Uzbekistan and possessed of a boundless optimism towards the world - although I’m not sure that one is the result of the other). I can look forward to increasingly complex and cunning arguments as they collaborate on their strategy. It’s almost a pity that they’re bound to lose in the end. Or should that be “my end?” Word count: 466 |
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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? 