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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.     |
| Incidental Resolution I am free. The last of my medical appointments for several months has been accomplished and time stretches before me into the distant (and therefore ignorable) future. At last I can say that the weight of the medical profession is lifted from my shoulders as much as it ever will be now. In celebration of my regained freedom, I have promised myself that I will give more attention to WdC than has been possible over the last few weeks. Consider yourself warned, oh gracious readers and colleagues! Word count: 87 |
| Casing the Joint Yesterday I had a look at the X-rays of my operation on the hip. I was expecting something like the surgeon’s description of the procedure - “You were lucky. Although it was fractured, the pieces didn’t move and it was just a matter of holding them together with a plate and a screw.” That sounded to me like a very minor thing indeed and the tiny wound resulting from their access point seemed to confirm it. So I was amazed at the size of the thing holding everything together. It was like a very sturdy chunk of metal in the shape of an L, one end drilled into the ball joint with a huge screw, the other connected by two smaller screws to the femur. How they managed to get that lot through the tiny access wound I can’t imagine. But the fact is, they did. And everything has healed up satisfactorily and the contraption works very well. They do indeed work wonders these days. All of which is to proclaim the realisation that came to me: I can never have another MRI with that thing inside me! Might as well look on the bright side. Word count: 195. |
| A Twenty Year Old Tale Today being the dreaded day of medical appointments, and having survived the same, I found myself too relieved to venture more than a token effort at a blog post. I resorted to digging around in past glories and came across the little tale below, almost an historic anomaly given the near extinction of the blogosphere these days. It seemed quite pertinent however as it was almost exactly twenty years old and I decided it could be a placeholder for my one remaining blog. And here it is in all its faded glory. The Phantom of the Blogosphere I remember well the first time the Phantom struck. It was a normal morning and I had risen before the sun, as is my wont, and was checking the blog for overnight comments. There are usually a few, sometimes the contributions of even earlier risers than myself, but more often the different time zone denizens from Europe and Australasia chiming in with their noble offerings. As I recall, there were three new comments that morning, two merely nodding in sage agreement, and I passed over them sleepily while taking those first sips of coffee that herald the new day. It was the third that jolted me awake. There it lay in all its impudence and bravado, posted by "Anonymous", but in that so distinctive style that was soon to be recognized throughout the blogosphere as the work of the Phantom. The exact words escape me now but I remember that it was a brief but devastating assault on what I had written the previous day. What hurt most and made sure that all vestiges of sleep were driven instantly from my mind was that it pinpointed the weakness of my argument precisely, exposing my thinking as the pompous nonsense that it was. Now, I try to be honest and open in accepting criticism of my blog, yet that day I was sorely tempted to remove the offending comment, in the hope that none other than myself had seen how utterly I had been deflated. I suppose that I should be proud of the fact that those base desires did not get the better of me and that, instead, I inserted a brief comment acknowledging myself beaten. But I wrote the next post hastily that morning and blogged it as soon as it was finished, hoping that covering the offending post and its comment might allow me to escape public ridicule. And it seemed that I succeeded in this attempt, for no mention was made of the comment in the next day or so. I breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into my usual routine, adding the occasional post and responding to comments, visiting the blogs on my rounds and commenting in turn. Three days later I came across the work of the Phantom again. It was a comment on a blog that I visited quite regularly and, once more, it was signed "Anonymous". With a few brief sentences and remarkable clarity of insight, it destroyed the reasoning in the post it referred to. There was no mistaking that economic style and the veiled sneer behind the words. This was the very same commenter who had so recently revealed a posting of mine to be the work of an idiot. I added no comment and passed on to the next blog, all my embarrassment and shame rising once more to the surface. I wanted only to return to the blissful state of forgetfulness that I had so carefully nurtured since my first encounter. But such a return was not to be allowed. In the next few days, more and more devastating comments were to appear throughout the blogosphere. It mattered not whether the blogger were accepted authority or novice freshly arrived from reality; all were subjected to the most dissecting and revealing attack through the comments of "Anonymous". Nothing and nobody was respected and it seemed that there was no subject or opinion that the Phantom feared. Very quickly, these comments became the hot subject of the blogosphere and it was then that the anonymous commenter was dubbed the "Phantom". Bloggers reacted to the attack in various ways. Some attempted to bluster their way through the criticism, only to be devastated again with a follow-up comment. Others accepted and admitted the flaws so heartlessly pointed out and these, for the most part, were spared a return visit. A few left blogging for good. The blogosphere was running scared and furtive conversations were held behind double-locked doors as the bloggers sought a solution to the problem. Someone suggested that we should lock down our comments systems and so prevent entry by the Phantom. This was voted out as it would end all comments, that lifeblood so essential to the health and vigor of the blogs. There was a brief move to registered comments only but the Phantom defeated this easily, registering under false names and with email addresses that appeared and disappeared like morning mist in the heat of the sun. The bloggers raged but were powerless to outwit their shadowy foe. A change in the blogosphere became noticeable then. No more were bloggers thoughtlessly casting their opinions and mockery upon all and any subject they fancied. A hesitancy crept into the blogs, an unwillingness to expose opinions to possible destruction and, for a time, posts became less frequent. It became rare to come across a blog espousing an opinion, most bloggers taking refuge in merely stating undisputed facts. Those who dared to venture beyond these safe shores were instantly castigated by the Phantom. He seemed to know instinctively when a post went up that offended even slightly against his ruthless logic. It has never been ascertained exactly when the Phantom left. There was a period of several days in which none of his comments showed up. The bloggers remained nervous, not daring to believe that their persecutor had disappeared. Everyone waited for someone else to send out a tentative opinion post to test the water. In the end, several of the most respected bloggers agreed to do it simultaneously. They posted and waited for the expected rebuttals. But there was none. All that day we waited, checking back on the offending blogs to see if the Phantom had visited. And silence reigned supreme. In the next few days the noise and hubbub of the blogosphere returned. Within a week the posts were going up with a rapidity that rivalled the old days. Opinions were stated and preferences trumpeted. The hurly burly of the blogosphere lived again. Not since then has the Phantom been heard from. It is as though he lived up to his name and melted away as a ghost in the morning light. But in one way his presence still looms over the blogosphere. Rare indeed are the posts that shout unsupported accusations and mere wishful thinking. Proof and solid evidence are expected now. Word count: 1,154 |
| Doom One of my family’s traits is that we all get feelings of doom - by which I mean moments when we feel as if doom looms enormously over us and there is no escape. These are short-lived but can be persistent if you don’t ignore them. Over the years I have become very good at ignoring. What gave me the notion to mention this is Solace’s Get the Picture activity for today. Take a look at it and you’ll understand exactly what doom feelings are all about. https://www.writing.com/main/forums/message_id/3726229 Word count: 86 |
| A Fleeting Thought Had this quote on my mind this morning: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Meaning “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” It’s from the Roman poet Horace’s writings (and perhaps becomes my thought of the Roman Empire for the day therefore) but is also a strange thing to think about in an age that doesn’t think like that anymore. The very fact that it has survived this long does seem to indicate that we still have a sneaking respect for such ideals even so. Patriotism is not entirely out of date, perhaps. Word count: 97 |
| Stories While it is true that the day of the novelist may be nearing its end, the computer and internet having made the reading experience something that grows inexorably more rare, I don’t think the story teller will ever become extinct. Just as the bards who preserved in song the tales of long ago, to be replaced by the man with a pen in his hand, the writer of today will learn to adjust to the new media and find a place to continue the story. Word count: 85 |
| A Solitary Reflection There's no passing of the buck in a one-man band. |
| Medicines As I line up my pills and tablets for morning consumption, I wonder (not for the first time) what would happen if I ceased to take these little miracle workers of the modern age. Popular wisdom would state that I’d be long dead without them, but there’s really no proof of that. Judging by the pharmaceutical adverts on television, each of these tiny wonder workers have their unwanted side effects, which would indicate that many of them do as much harm as good. My recent adventure in the land of medical interventions has changed my daily intake of pills slightly, one or two disappearing, only to be replaced by newcomers. And my list of bodily weaknesses and crumblings has extended into areas I knew nothing of until now. It seems that old age will get you whatever you choose to swallow. So I toy with the idea of going without all these medicines but I doubt I’ll ever give them up. It’s a minor inconvenience after all, and I am constrained by responsibilities to take care of my health. Doesn’t stop it from being mildly annoying, however. Word count: 187 |
| Tuesday Ah, Chewsday, the real gristle of the week! |
| A Painting Post I am beginning to suspect that our assessment of American art is incomplete. The first hint that this might be so came when I discovered the work of Zane Grey. Yes, the Western writer. That seems to sum up his reputation, for he is usually credited with having invented the Western genre with its tales of derring-do between cowboys and injuns. No-one seems to have noticed that he is also a very capable and fine writer; indeed, his short stories in particular are gems of the highest quality and he deserves to be placed alongside such greats as Mark Twain and John Steinbeck in the list of American authors. His powers of description and characterization are almost magical. Have a look at Tappan's Burro and Yaqui and you'll see what I mean. So I'm saying that Zane Grey is one who has been overlooked by the literary establishment, no doubt because of the genre in which he writes. And I think I may have discovered another American who has been passed over by the arbiters of taste. In Vicksburg, one of the few antebellum houses still standing is the Martha Vick House. This was built for the daughter of the founder of the town and it is now open for public inspection, even though it is privately owned. The owners have several paintings displayed on the walls, a few portraits, and many landscapes by a French artist named Ragot. I admit that I've never heard of him, but he may have some reputation as his paintings are pointed out in each room by the tour guide. They are nothing special, in my humble opinion, being post-Impressionist but really having missed the point of that movement. They are more about slapping paint on canvas than any attempt to capture light. This would be hardly worth writing about were it not for the existence of The Painting in the last room visited. It is a portrait of a Victorian lady, seated and gazing out of the canvas at the visitors filing past. It is completely realistic, just as are all the other portraits in the house. There is nothing special about the pose or the colors used; they are the norm for the period. The technique is superb, far better than anything else on display, but that alone would not be sufficient to give the painting its incredible power. I have seen paintings created with perfect technique that yet were empty of life. And that is what sets this portrait apart from the rest; it is overflowing with life. The lady's character and personality pour out upon the viewer so that one stands transfixed, fascinated by the communication of humanity wrought by this unknown artist. I could not look away. This is portraiture in the same class as Goya, the master of bringing to life the dissolute faces of the Spanish royal court of the early 19th Century. The subject is very different because the lady portrayed shines forth as a pure and joyful personality without the stupidity and pride so evident in Goya's subjects. Yet the genius is the same: that inexplicable ability to reveal the soul through pigment on canvas. In spite of its complete dominance of the room, the painting was not mentioned by the tour guide. When at last I was able to tear myself away, I asked the guide about the painting. She did not know. Apparently the picture was so little regarded that the owners felt no need to advise her of the artist or even the name of the subject. They would rather we notice the inferior products of Ragot, presumably because he was French. I am guessing that the painting is American, partly because it is not pointed out and has to defer to the French painter, and also because of the simplicity and lack of ornament of the subject's dress. If I am correct, then this painting is an excellent example of how poorly American art has been served by the establishment. There is a snobbery at work that regards American art as inferior to the work of the Europeans that it "copies". This is utter nonsense, since all artists learn from each other; all that really matters is the quality of the finished product. And that painting in the Martha Vick House deserves to be recognized for what it is - a superb and wonderful example of great portraiture. Word count: 736 |
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