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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.     |
| Choices Today, through Question of the Day, Lilli 🧿 ☕  asked about smelling the flowers, both literally and figuratively. The first was easily dealt with as I had in fact smelled some flowers quite recently. It wasn’t my fault that they turned out to be plastic.When it came to figuratively, however, I found that I had too many instances to mention. I realised that my days are full of stopping to smell the roses, whether they be the pattern of light created by a sunbeam through the branches of the tree outside the window to the floor of the corridor, the differing creatures to be found in abstract patterning of bathroom tiles, a cool breeze on my skin as I pass a partially open door to the outside, or a hundred other sudden glimpses of the infinite in the least and most humble moments of life. The very admonition to “stop and smell the roses” is intended to awaken us to these moments in the general hurly burly of modern existence, to tell us that there’s still time during our busy days to enjoy moments of insight and pleasure such as these. And yet it seems to me that I’ve spent my life enjoying such moments. Indeed, it may be that I have spent more time in enjoying the world than in pursuing the adult pastimes of having a career and “getting ahead.” I am forever the child caught dreaming on the view outside the schoolroom’s windows. When I wrote my answer to QOTD this morning, I thought everyone was like me, that I was merely expressing the experience of us all when I gave those few examples of distraction in the tiny dramas of life. Thinking about it afterwards, however, I realise that there must be many who are not seduced by the cascade of beautiful moments that constitute life. There would be no need of that wise saying about flowers were we all in the habit of smelling them anyway. No, it seems that many of us don’t have time for such diversions. These would be those who become rich or are too invested in the rat race or, by ill luck, forced to spend all their days in arduous labour merely to survive. Good advice to those able to listen, we might think, and yet is it not a choice that we all make, to remain as a child in our perception of such simple yet beautiful things, or to knuckle down to the hard business of making a living? Easy enough for the rich man to answer with his ability to buy as many roses as he might wish, so who is the winner now? I suppose it all depends on which race we decide to enter. Word count: 460 |
| What Now? I watched an episode today of The Cleaner (British TV comedy about a crime scene cleaner but not important to this post). It centered on the differences between life in the 1980s and the present, which reminded me of an old theory of mine. Everyone knows that scientific progress is accelerating all the time so that there is more change in our lives than ever before. There was a time in my life when computers were near-mythical constructions that took up whole rooms in office blocks and phones were anything but mobile and were limited to phone calls only. I was alive when the first practical television services came into being. My parents saw the movies get voices and their parents had the first experiences of moving picture shows. And before that, the generations saw little change apart from gas lighting becoming electrical and the invention of planes and the car. A couple of generations previous saw steam power begin the process of change. Other than that, there was very little that changed for hundreds of years. The industrial revolution started an accelerating pace of invention and change that transformed our lives in ways that our ancestors could not even dream of. And this continued until we became accustomed to change and the demands to adapt that it forced on us. Until the computer, that is. The computer was the last invention that seriously altered the way we live. We fool ourselves into thinking that things are still developing because we improve and tinker with the great inventions of the past, imagining that things like the internet, social media, driverless cars, GPS and robots on Mars are new inventions. But they’re not. They are merely refinements of ideas that were born over fifty years ago. The internet was not possible until the computer had been invented, mankind walked on the moon in the sixties. To develop a thing is not the same as having the initial idea. To continue the pace of development, we would need to have a very important and culture-changing invention very soon. And I don’t see that happening. To me, it seems that we’re entering a period of decreasing change, of refining what we have and coming to terms with the changes that previous inventions have made. So my theory is that it’s over. This grand advance into the future that we call progress is grinding to a halt as we run out of the fuel that is imagination. Not only do we find it impossible to think of some new breakthrough that will change civilisation beyond recognition, I see little evidence of a desire to venture beyond our present limits. Which may be a good thing. It is certainly time for a rest, a chance to sit back and ponder just how much of the change we have wrought is really needed. We cannot uninvent anything, of course, but it might be advisable to consider some of the changes we have made that were not beneficial to any of us. Not that it concerns me greatly these days. With a bit of luck, I’ll be long gone by the time progress turns out to be a monster that is out of control. Word count: 536 |
| 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 |
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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? 