EPISODE 67: MY LIFE AS A DARK LORD

Welcome to my blog which has just spent two long days with a ten year old grandson spent mostly discussing an imaginary siege conducted by the forces of the Sith against the temple of the Jedi. As my grandson is the Jedi, the Siths are not allowed to actually win a war and any strategies they come up with are immediately thwarted by some awesome power just developed by his imagination which is pretty limitless. Consequently I have been forced to delve into Sith history to come up with new versions of old weapons, such as the Amulet of Invisibility, with which to temporarily surprise my grandson. Yesterday when he set his Walkers on me, I was able to momentarily silence him with my knowledge of three ways in which the Walkers have been defeated before. By 3pm I was getting pretty desperate with the conversations and was delighted for once to say, ‘Why don’t we watch the Olympics? The BMX cycling is on.’  

Although immune to the delights of football and cricket, my grandson does know sports that I don’t, such as canoeing, kayaking, archery, and BMX cycling who’s World Championships he had been to see. In fact the tv coverage was fairly dull because once they’d dropped down the first ramp it was impossible to see the whole of the race. The two british riders were favourites to do well in the final but trailed in last. It seems that the excitement is in watching the crashes.

Meanwhile the Olympian newspeak continued apace in the UK. Or is it GB now? There is much talk of Olympic legacy and the british Olympic winners are being put forward as models of perfect citizens, dedicating their lives and bodies to winning a freak show once in four years. Hard work brings rewards, we are told. Tell that to the labourers of the earth, to the factory workers, to the women of the world, to all those who know it isn’t true. Britain won a gold in a martial art. I watched the final; two women trying to kick each other in the head. Sporting excellence for our children to be inspired by? Or is that the dancing horses?

I struggle spending the day in a ten year old’s world. I want my own thoughts and to get on with my Day of the Dead but by time his parents come home, I am brainless.

The other day I was contemplating a row of nearby bungalows when I suddenly remembered my grandparent’s bungalow in stunning clarity. And there they were; grandpa, grandma and auntie bobbie, all smiling at me. In my grandfather’s garage which smelled of polished leather, was kept the mangle and I loved to push the washing through the rollers and feel it come out squeezed of liquid. 

Of course when I began to recall those days, I felt the tears welling up. But what was I crying at? Maybe one day young Louis will be walking past the house where he now lives and he’ll remember some of these days with his granddad and maybe he’ll shed a tear too and not know why. And maybe, for all my resistance, those interminable hours spent with him are the best thing I could be doing with my time.

Having written the above, I switch on the radio. For once, not the Olympics but the sick sad story of a 12 year old girl murdered by her grandmother’s lover, the man she called grandfather.

Okay, enough, lets watch the sport.

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On Monday I wrote this:

Today I was knocking out my begging emails and feeling good about my gig when I got a reply from Copperpiece, the theatre group I had surreptitiously allocated £500 towards getting. With them in place, I felt I had an event to be proud of. What they want is £11,000! I felt instantly mortified. I could feel it deep in my body, shame, foolishness and embarrassment. Small and stupid. Overeached himself. Got carried away. A dreamer. Fucking hate this feeling. (And a part of my mind adds them to a Day of the Dead of the future, maybe in Bristol next year. Or should I just realize that me and the Southbank, never the twain shall meet.)

Of course the temptation is to avoid feelings of failure rather than allow and expand the feeling to experience and discreate it. I’ve always been aware of my pessimism and negative internal chatter so it is no real surprise to find the self-critical voice of the non-existent person whinging loudly in my head. It isn’t having all its own way, however, for on another front, the writing one, I’m still expecting to suddenly make a fortune. Who knows? The man I sent my novel to may decide to publish it as an ebook or I may win that short story prize in November. Both are highly unlikely - the first guy isn't even a publisher. In fact I've got myself into a superstitious hole because although I want to finish doing this blog, which has served its purpose, I dare not for if I don't have a twist of success in the tale I'll always think 'if only i had kept doing the blog until the end of the year, what might have happened?'

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 We are plagued by mosquitos on the Somerset levels. Occassionally we can see clouds of them drifting above the waters. At night we have to close the windows, cover up the wrists and ankles, and burn citronella. If only the sun would shine it'd be like living abroad.

But the sun doesn't shine and the rain continues to fall.

 

EPISODE 66: IN WHICH THE AUTHOR DOESN'T SHOPLIFT, DOES WORK, AND CONTINUES TO NOT ENJOY XENEPHOBIA.

Welcome to my blog which is sitting in the kitchen where I can see the back garden which is abundant in flowers and vegetation that has become triffid like in the rains. The garden is such a treat because I never know what is going to appear next. Because it has been so wet, some flowers come and go between the storms and may never be seen. For me it is a quiet morning after a trip up North yesterday which became quite tiring as a 3.5 hour journey stretched into 4.5 both ways owing to accidents closing the motorway. This type of closure now seems to happen once in every three journeys and always there is the mixture of relief at not having been in the accident and of a reluctant acknowledgment that such a catastrophe could happen at any time.

What did happen was that at 8.30 in the morning, I called into the services for a cup of tea and to buy a pint of milk for the friend I was visiting who lives in a boat faraway from a shop. When I paid for the milk, the woman behind the counter said, ‘And what about the tobacco?’ ‘What tobacco?’ I asked. ‘The Drum Gold tobacco that you asked for and that I put on the counter,’ she said. ‘I didn’t ask for tobacco,’ I said, ’and I didn’t see any on the counter’. She wasn’t satisfied with this. ‘I put it there,’ she reaffirmed. ‘You can check my pockets, if you like,’ I offered as I began to empty them, only to find that the first thing I took out was a packet of Drum Gold tobacco. ‘This can’t be the one you mean,’ I explained, ‘look, it is half empty.’ For a long five minutes we repeated ourselves until suddenly a look of horror appeared on her face and she said, ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I remember now, it was a different man. Really I’m too tired for this job, I’m no good at it, I’d rather work with animals.’

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Nearly every moment this week has been focussed on the Day of the Dead. (Obviously that isn’t actually true. It just feels like that. The places where my mind has actually spent its week neither of us want to know.) On Tuesday morning I was despondent as I envisaged an ill-attended financially mortifying event losing me the best part of £5,000. This was always the danger of budgeting realistically. Fortunately, my friend Ali is an unmathematical optimist and she spent the best part of Tuesday and Wednesday rejigging the figures more rosily. A plan to increase the possible income by transferring the hip-hop event from one venue to another was scuppered by the ‘straighter’ venue which refused to have the vomiting and non-spending youth on their premises. I asked if we called the genre rural grunge rather than hip-hop, would we be allowed in but only got a wry smile in return.

Although I’ve resisted budgeting, the panic I’ve been feeling, ‘not enough people will come’ and ‘I’ll lose a small fortune’, are clearly budgeting thoughts that needed to be examined and, hopefully, discreated. The numbers I need not to lose money are quite considerable but not, I suppose, unattainable. In the meantime I’ve sent begging letters to Nick Cage and Mike Eavis. Once Ali had misaddedup me into a loss of £500, I found myself justifying a further allocation of £500 to the much desired (by me) Copperdollar n the grounds that this is my sixtieth year and I deserve to give myself a present I want.

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The temporary but Olympian North Koreanization of Britain by the BBC and the Tory government continues apace. As I speak the commentators are congratulating themselves that ‘the country has never felt like this before.’ It is truly embarrassing and seriously worrying. The same media are stirring the crowds to scream and shout idiotically whenever a british competitor appears, even though they probably compete in sports that precious few know or care about. This adoration of freakish brawn is positively primitive. When I say that we should have bigger crowds to watch scientists think about the universe, I am treated like Victor Meldrew. I’m not anti-sport and I felt really thrilled to watch the Ethiopian woman 10,000 metres runner storming to the finish with a big smile on her face but the combination of narrow patriotism and heroic hyperbole is driving me nuts.

(Incidentally, just heard Michael Phelps called ‘hugely talented.’ No; he’s a swimmer with big feet.)

For the past hour or so, I have been perusing my copy of ‘Deep Socialism’ by Wilberg to find a pithy quote to explain my disquiet with this abuse of intelligence called the british propaganda Olympics. (Which, by the way, has hastened the end of the adverb. Blair began it when he said ‘we will do it right’ but the sports world has taken the adverb abolition by storm.) Unfortunately there isn’t an axiom that says it all but basically it is to do with the market commodification of value. The nauseating sponsor-driven identikit ‘Team GB’, (cynically paid for by coco-cola and a host of other multinationals) is part of this turning of real human value into the symbolic value of a brand – the very economic Nazism that has allowed the fraudster banksters to impoverish the 80%, the huge global underclass, the under-nourished, the under-valued, the under-paid, the under-employed and unemployed.

So it goes.

EPISODE 65: A STRANGE MIX OF THE OLYMPICS AND KETAMINE.

Welcome to my blog which has been loving the hot sun and loathing the Olympic hype which last night saw the opening ceremony that, from the few seconds I saw, was totally spectacular and as meaningless and transient as any show could be. This past week I’ve had to leave the radio off because of the intolerable jingoism of the BBC and the word ‘excitement’. How excited are you? asked the phone-ins before cutting to a crowd cheering stupidly at a fake torch or at some other technological trickery. I’m sure Shakespeare had some suitably cutting remark about ostentatious frippery and a populace so stupid as to put away their knowledge of their bondage and to take to the streets to wave their flags and admire the show that has been created for the single purpose of deluding them and ripping them off of their money, pride and sensibilities.

Well done the british. Thick as shit. Why can’t we be the ones not to turn-up to the governmental and corporate displays of largesse? So embarrassing. If you like to watch a race between a bunch of people you don’t know, as I do, then watch it but what the hell is all this nonsense about? Let’s face it, most of these athletes will end up injured and slightly crippled, obese, and redundant by time they’re 35. Don’t you aspire to that? Are these meant to be our heroes; muscle-bound morons being famous for running a hundredth of a second faster than anyone else? Words like ‘heroic’ and ‘unbelievable’ and ‘incredible’ will be used, all utterly inappropriately, unless perhaps we have a black power salute or some similar overturning of the consensus.

Meanwhile, does anyone know when the 10,000 metres is on? There’s a race I don’t want to miss.

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Narada, one of my oldest friends, came round this morning and we talked about the Olympic opening ceremony. I admitted to my curmudgeonly attitude and in his presence was willing to mellow. After he left, I switched on the radio and, sure enough, the first thing I heard was an interviewee earnestly explaining just how excited she was. Turning to the news, I discovered that according to the press the British people as a whole have bought into the ‘feel good factor’ of the Olympics and that they agree with the politicians that we shouldn’t think about the economy, or Syria, or our education or of anything except whether or not some young lady from Nottingham can swim/run/cycle faster than another young lady (depending on your definition) from outer Mongolia.

…As it turns out, the british girl came third. The two leaders dominated the race and fought to the last. ‘But we don’t care about them,’ said the commentator, ‘we care about the british girl, becky allington.’ This was followed by a chat with Becky Allington lookalikes from her home town who said, ‘We’re not disappointed, she did us proud,’ in such sad voices that we knew they were disgusted and will never feel quite the same about her again. (Before the race she was the gold medal holder.)

***

You may remember that I included here a first draft of a story that I subsequently called ‘Barmi. I showed it to a friend who showed it to a friend of his who gave it to his friend who wants to publish it in a short story collection. When I was told this I went into my own ‘excitement’ and immediately sent off an entire novel ‘in case they’d like to read that too’. Then when I went to bed I couldn’t sleep because my mind was getting two novels published and preparing an acceptance speech for some literary award.

That’s excitement for you; an adrenalin high, a sleepless night, difficulty in being still. Another drug; up then down.

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Which takes me to ketamine. This is a horse and baby tranquilizer/anaesthetic that is remarkably popular with a section of the local youth. Prompted by someone who wants to experiment with it, I read a book called ‘The Little Book of Ketamine’ by Kit Kelly which, bar being written before the connection between ketamine and bladder damage had been established, is as fine and impartial report as one could wish.

Like LSD, mushrooms, sometimes alcohol, ketamine is an entheogen, i.e. it can give you experiences of divinity. In my own single trip on it, I experienced myself as Dennis Potter. Or that’s what I tell people I experienced. In fact it so long ago, I’ve no real recall beyond feeling absolutely lovely shortly before the come-down began. When I realized I would come down I said quite clearly, ‘I don’t want to come down. I mustn’t take this drug again.’ I think it was just the sheer horror of having to rely on such extreme drug to feel happy that made me take that attitude but there might have been more to it.

What is most fascinating about K is that it has been used with alcoholics with extraordinary results, similar to those achieved only by LSD and with the same catalyst, an experience of death and rebirth. I asked the would-be imbiber what experience she wanted and she said, ‘I want to experience myself as not me.’

From what I read, even the keenest experimenters with K would finally give up on it as a tool of enquiry and experience. Ultimately, I suppose, it is entirely a matter of one’s inclination. If you want to trip around a few universes, go for it. If you want the alchemist’s stone, you won’t find it on K, or if you do, you won’t be able to bring it back.

***

On Thursday July 26th, my middle son's wife gave birth to a daughter; my first grand-daughter. She awaits a name. My ex-wife, the son's mother, was visiting me at the time the phone-call came. This seems nicely appropriate. Our son's birth was extremely easy but within a week he had pneumonia and may have died on us.

But didn't.

So it goes.

 

EPISODE 64: IN WHICH THE AUTHOR SPEAKS TO HIS MIND AND WATCHES SOME SPORT.

Welcome to my blog which would be churlish not to acknowledge the sun for shining, the clouds for lifting and the jet stream for shifting north. Long may this continue?

Near the beginning of this novel/blog, I introduced an alter ego called Jack Heston who was, for want of a better word, American in character. (This is because being British and being super positive just don’t seem to go well together.) His job was to demand action and to create results. Looking back over the episodes, one would see that Jack hasn’t had much of a say. Probably this is because I’d only dig him out when I was quite desperate with myself. Mostly I’ve managed to muddle on without too much desperation though this period, as I indicated at the end of last week’s entry, has now come to an end. What I have realized now, however, is that it is too late to indulge in an occasional alter ego and that Jack and John must become one if the goal is to be accomplished.

Surprisingly, I did pick ten useful affirmations and turn them into primaries. When I saw that the first one I had chosen was, ‘I love to work’, my initial reaction was to consider rearranging the list because I couldn’t recall choosing ‘I love to work’ to be on it. As soon as I spoke it out, the resistances began. It seemed impossible that I could straight-faced say ‘I love to work’ when it has been a constant mantra of mine, that work is what slaves do. 

The exercise takes persistence, so I persisted. For some twenty minutes I was stuck. Then my mind came up with a twist. Instead of conceptualising work as an effort you have to make when you don’t really want to, my mind decided to think of ‘I love to work’ as I love to function properly. In other words I don’t want to be broken, I want to work. Suddenly the primary was created. ‘I love to work’ became true.

Now, one might think that changing the meaning of the words in your mind is not the same as creating the primary you started off working with. In this case, there are two reasons why this is not a form of avoidance. First; the book I took the words from didn’t define ‘work’. Secondly; someone who knows me said ‘but you do work a lot, you’re always doing something.’ Which is more or less true? It is ‘going to work’ I don’t like. Thirdly; after creating the primary, I worked bloody hard (for me) during a lot of the rest of the week and even made myself do 95% of the things I was tempted to procrastinate over. 

The ten primaries included the one above, the four I mentioned last week and four others; viz

The quality of my work increases every day,

I am receiving right now.

My work is satisfying to me.

Any task that there is to do is worthy of my full attention.

These I swept through without initial resistance although looking at them now, I’m inclined to think that the quality of my work increased for one day then slipped back to seeming untrue. The same may apply to the satisfaction. The last one hasn’t been so much an affirmation as a reminder. An eleventh primary which I rejected because it just wasn’t me was this one: I am willing to know what I want; I am willing to ask for it; and I am willing to receive more than I ask for’. On Friday, however, I was worrying about money for my event and I noticed that on one of my many lists was the instruction to myself; Write begging letters. So far, I have backed off writing to people asking for money because it feels tacky but I’ve reached a point where I can’t afford to be proud and can’t rely on wishful thinking either. This week, therefore, I will take this eleventh commandment and make it true.

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I’ve been away for the weekend – hence an early Monday morning madly trying to find my 1,000 words for this. Saturday was the first sunny day of the year and it happened to be my brother’s fortieth wedding anniversary. He has had, maybe still has, cancer. Because of recent experiences of turning up to see dying people too late, my children have become a little paranoid about not visiting the sick in time to say (mentally) their goodbyes and, in the Indian sense of things, to have a final darshan (seeing).  I had been disinclined to go myself but on the promptings of my youngest, I did so. 

Being with two sisters and a brother, none of whom I’ve been particularly close to in my life, is quite a strange experience when we are all in our sixties. Three of us are grandparents and my brother would love to be. I like my kids to know their kids although when I’m gone I don’t suppose they’ll meet much. My brother is clearly not the man he was at this point. It reminded me that when we were kids, he used to beat me at games and outplay me at cricket till one day it dawned me that I’d reached a point where I could beat him. However, rather than this be satisfying, I felt mortified. Throughout our lives, my brother has done the sensible thing and I’ve done the opposite. I’ve never known what he felt about me but now whenever I look towards him I see that he is gazing fondly at me and I look away without catching his eye because I don’t know how to respond.

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Yesterday I went with my youngest son to watch the test cricket in London between England and South Africa.  It was the fourth day of the match. Last time I saw a test match in England was at the same ground against the same country in 1965. When you’ve paid £70, as we did yesterday, you want to see the best. And we did. Hashim Amla of South Africa scored over 300 runs and Kallis, one of the best players ever, scored 182. South Africa finished on 637 for 2 and then declared. Two hours later, England was on 100 for 4 and was all but beaten. My son and I got to see the great Kevin Peterson bat. In fact he didn’t do very well but I felt chuffed that I’d seen him live. Last year, again because of my youngest I saw Federer play tennis. I’ve been racking my brains but can’t think of any other sportsmen that I now feel the need to see. (Sorry Olympics but you just don’t float my boat.)

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I arrived back home from London at about one in the morning. It is a three hour journey so I planned a halfway cup of tea break at a roadside garage. But no. The cafes shut at 9.30pm. ‘Tiredness kills,’ say the signs above the motorway, ‘take a break’. 

At this time of year, the traffic usually forms a 15 mile jam of west country bound tourists just by Stonehenge where the road becomes single carriageway. At midnight however, the henge was quiet and a giant new moon hung over it casually. Quite awesome, even at 70 mph.

When I got home I was knackered but I was aware that my blog was unwritten and the challenge I had set myself to produce it on Mondays was in danger of being failed.

So I wrote the first sentence and ended up here. Maybe I do love to work.

EPISODE 63: RAIN

Welcome to my blog which really ought to be about rain because yet again it has rained every day and in every way for a week. The other night I drove back from London on the M3 at one in the morning. Large puddles sat on the lanes and the rain continued to pelt. I was reminded of a couple of years ago, on a similar night, aquaplaning off one of the side roads and landing in field. By time I got to Stonehenge, the road was empty; at least I think it was because in the few miles without rain there was instead a sudden and drifting fog which removed any chance of actually seeing the stones in the distance.

It is now five years since we had a whole week of warm sun. Two days ago, it was colder than on christmas day. For the first time ever I’ve had to put the heating on in June and July. Only once this year have I left the house without a jumper.  I guarantee, however, that if we do have five days of heat over 25 degrees, by the fourth I’ll hear people complaining about the heatwave and, that regardless of the weather for the rest of the summer, these people will remember the summer as having been good. It is too late to be good.

Not that I mind the rain when it is falling because I like the sound and the sight. This morning I watched a blue tit by my window, sitting bedraggled on a twig in a bush, its wings waterlogged and too heavy to move. It looked weary and bemused. Another bird landed in the bush, causing a shower of water to fall on the blue tit which fell, rather than flew, to the ground where it sat forlornly for a couple minutes more before, with evident reluctance, flying off somewhere else.

It continues to rain. I live on a housing estate on the top of a hill. In the gaps between the houses one can see out over the Somerset levels which are now fifty per cent covered with water. 

So beautiful.

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Over the next few days (weeks and months), I have to focus on the day of the dead creation.  I find this considerably harder than allowing a story to unfold. Each time I sit at the puter to write an email, or a begging later or to apply my mind to the website or whatever, I discover some two hours, six teas and four smokes later that I’ve made a few notes about a children’s novel, started thinking about the next blog, pondered forgetting chris wafe and making the ebook myself, reminded myself I’ve six tv plays and three filmscripts that I’ll probably never finish and written pointless emails to people that I don’t know in far away countries either to vicariously go where they are or because they attract me. This is how I ended up (briefly) funding a Ugandan single mother, correcting the English of a devilishly pretty Russian girl and randomly communicating with people in Iran, Pakistan and Libya to explain that while I considered them to hold fundamentally deranged beliefs, in this they are no exception, being human after all, and despite their manifest flaws I personally had no wish to bomb them into the next world, even if that’s where they want to be. I’d then explain that the british people are almost as stupid as them and that’s why they voted for people like david Cameron to demonstrate our own devotion to mediocrity and self-defeating behaviour.

The replies I get to these emails generally seem quite mystified.

So it goes.

Meanwhile, not a lot gets done.

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Once or twice day I’m sitting here and I hear a car draw up, a car door slam and the sound of a brass gate being unlocked. I stop and momentarily wait for the knock on the door and then my mind says, oh no, it can’t be yours, your lock broke off ten years ago. I guess that’s what my granny meant about my being a slow learner.

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Between the ages of 13 and 16, I wrote poetry when I was particularly moody – which was most of the time. Somehow, over the years these poems have mostly evaded my chucking out processes. Diaries, novels, and short stories have all found their way to the rubbish while those first emotive outpourings have slipped past the time censor and hidden in a file. This week I found them yet again and once more begun to read through them, still liking the lines I’ve always liked and still grimacing at the ones that don’t quite do it. Then, to my surprise and subsequent regret, I scrumpled them up and threw them away. Now I really wish I hadn’t done it. Why go to the bother of having them for 45 years and then do that?

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Probably one of the most dog-eared looked-at books I have is Rebirthing, the science of enjoying all your life, by Jim Leonard and Phil Laut. In fact, most of the pages have now become loose. It is a great book both for definitions and primaries/affirmations. Here are some random definitions.

Blame: Holding someone or something in a negative context because of the thought that the person or thing is the creator of something in one’s reality that one is making wrong.

Boredom: A pattern of energy that occurs in one’s body when one is avoiding the further activation of an emotion that is already partially activated, usually anger.

Drama: Acting out one’s emotions rather than taking responsibility for them.

Responsibility: A context in which one both acknowledges oneself as the source of the content and acknowledges the perfection of the content.

I sometimes turn to this book when I become aware of how limited my thinking is being. For example, when I sat down to meditate this morning, I couldn’t help noticing that when my thoughts turned to the day of the Dead creation, I felt dread, inadequacy and that horrible (!) feeling of vulnerability akin to being caught with your trousers down. Failure, mortification, self-hate, the lot; all packed into a nano moment. What to do?

Planning and following my plans are two of my favourite pleasures.

I am completely willing to obey the orders I give myself.

My strong sense of purpose attracts those people and situations necessary to accomplish my desired result.

Everything works out more exquisitely than I plan it.

People often misunderstand affirmations. It isn’t a matter of repeating the words continuously in self-hypnosis (although this does work in the very long run, as our everyday experience proves) Their first function is to reveal what you actually presently think and feel, i.e. your prior creation. The more you wince at the unlikeliness of the affirmation, the more opportunity to reveal, challenge and change the prior creations.

So, maybe this week this is what I will do. I’ll take ten or so affirmations/primaries that would help me create this day of the dead more enthusiastically and see what happens. Walk the talk as they say. (Sarcastic voice at back of mind says, yeah right.)

I’ve only just remembered that my topic of the day was going to be ‘how not to depress the young’. I suppose the answer is, be happy.

Enthusiasm: Grateful acceptance of ALL of the following: one’s purpose, one’s present reality, one’s goals, one’s plans, one’s structures, one present activity, and oneself.

Time for a lie down.

EPISODE 62: IN WHICH THE AUTHOR IS SHORT OF THINGS TO SAY

Welcome to my blog which begins with a parochial matter, i.e. occurrences in my back garden. 

I am not, by any means, a gardener although I do appreciate a nice garden. I’ve had mine since 1990, during which time it has been subject to a mixture of random and deliberate plantings by me, my friends and the occasional tenants. Unfortunately, perhaps, two of these friends tempted the gargantuan side of me and as a result I planted three entirely inappropriate trees, a pawlonia, a eucalyptus and a cherry tree which all quickly demonstrated their inappropriateness by growing to ridiculous heights that were unfriendly both to the neighbours and to any passing telephone or electric wires. Subsequently these all had to be brought down, causing devastation, sadness, removal and, ultimately, renovation. 

As it has been raining in record amounts for months, gardening has been unappetising, especially for those of me who don’t really enjoy finding themselves faced by, or jumped on by, larger than they should be slimy looking brown frogs. (I’m also more wary than I probably should be of suddenly coming across quite fast slowworms or rats nesting in the warmth of the compost bin.)

When I did go out into the green jungle a couple of weeks ago, I was surprised to notice a small hole in the lawn into and out of which bumble bees were flying. I learned that this was a nest and inside would be a fat old queen receiving gifts from her 50 or so devotees whom I’ve watched daily busying themselves in the permanent cloud and the flourishing flowers which, sadly, I can’t name.

The hole in the ground down which the bees went was approximately half an inch in diameter.

Until this morning. 

Now it is a foot deep and a foot in diameter. I stared at the hole, mystified. How could the bees have dug such a big hole? It looks like they must have used a spade. Earth and twigs are scattered everywhere. A quick phonecall to my partner educated me. A badger had been in. Unable, or too lazy, to locate earthworms, it smelt the honey and then destroyed the nest by eating it. Apparently this is happening so much in Devon and Somerset, that the bee is being driven to extinction. I’m assuming the queen has been killed though there are a few dozen bumbles buzzing about seeming at a loss as to what to do.

Nature, don’t you love her?

___

A mother I know is being challenged by her young adult daughter. Why did you have me so young, what kind of idiot were you at 19 to have a baby? As an equally young parent myself, all I can say is that at 19, you can’t know how ignorant you are. When I was 17, I believed that no one should have children because the world is such a fucked-up place; three years later I was a Dad. Fortunately for me, none of my children have complained to me about their creation. It’d be hard to take.

Just now I asked myself if I was glad I’d been born. Luckily, Nisarga Datta says only an ‘I’ takes birth and as I am not an I (sic!) then the question is redundant. What I do know is that like my grandpa, given the choice of another birth, I’d decline.

___

 My favourite story, the one about Sergeant Bombay, won the Caine African short story prize.

__

Last night, I was listening to the aforementioned young adult listing the drugs, medicinal and recreational, that she was taking. Quite honestly, it is wonder she has a brain left. One doctor, a psychiatrist, gave her an anti-depressant and told her not to take it with cocaine or alcohol which he knows she takes because she told him. How come he doesn’t know that telling someone they shouldn’t take these drugs is utterly pointless. She will agree with him. Most smokers will agree with you that they should give up and will tell you that they want to and will probably do so on Monday. But would you accept their word? 

I’m frightened for this girl.

I think of the wise men, sitting there with the knowledge of happiness, only too willing to share it. Along comes a sufferer; help me, please. Sure thing, would be delighted to. All you’ve got to do is believe that everything is alright, always, whatever the evidence. After that, it’s easy.

Another dissatisfied customer. It breaks the wise man’s heart. That’s alright, he says.

___

Last week I had to attend a Speed Awareness Course as a result of being snapped doing 39mph in a 30mph area. This is my fourth speeding offence in 20 years of driving. As I am someone who considers speed limits to be minimum speeds, it is quite amazing that I have been caught so few times. (Mind you the twice I was stopped after driving at excessive speeds, i.e. at more than 50mph over the limit, I was let go by the policemen, probably because they knew I’d lose my license.)

The four hour course was far better than I could have expected. The two lecturers were excellent at both being jolly and at being drivers who have learned the error of their ways. We offenders were divided into four groups of six and invited to mull over between various driving conundrums and lore. None of my group was good at knowing what speed we were meant to be doing on which roads, despite the fact we’d learned this at the beginning of our careers. Nor did we know our stopping distances or what many of the road signs meant. 

Of course I will continue to speed but I’d say that the chances of my hitting a child in an urban area while travelling above the speed limit will have diminished considerably. Well worth the £80 it cost me.

EPISODE 61: REFLECTIONS ON VOICES NOT HEARD AND AN ATTEMPT AT SHORT STORY REVIEWS

Welcome to my blog which this week begins with thinking about voices. I read in a book; ‘he could no longer remember his grandfather’s voice.’  Immediately I realized that this was true of me. My grandparents were a trinity; grandpa, grandma, and her sister, Auntie Bobbie. In my mind I can sort of see their faces and bodies: grandpa, slightly bent at the shoulders, white hair, glasses, maybe on his bike coming back from the allotment to his bungalow, grey trousers, sports type jacket. Grandma, even whiter hair, dressed in blue, sitting in an armchair sewing. Auntie Bobbie in brown, fiddling with her hearing aid, always up for a game of cards or a story. How I loved them. 

 I can almost hear them talking now. It is near bedtime and I’m having my supper of chocolate biscuit and ribena after a game of solo whist. Maybe grandpa has read something in his paper, the Daily Express, because he is grumbling about the stupidity of people. Grandma gently hushes him and smiles at me. Auntie Bobbie talks back to him and then he hurrumphs at her and she slyly grins at me while pretending to be reprimanded. 

Grandpa had lived through two world wars but the stories he told were of playing cricket, hockey and football with the Maharajas of old India. He used to play cricket with me, bowling overstiffarm with a good spin on the ball. As I think of him now, patiently indulging me, I find I’m rent with sobbing, sorrow and guilt. I was such a wretchedly ungrateful child, always in a temper about something, never realising how graced I was. Too late now, too late now.

My parents too, where have their voices gone? I fear that if they and my grandparents were talking in the next room I wouldn’t know it was them. Those voices that soothed my nights, that led me through my days, that taught me and cared for me, that gave me safety – where are they now? 

***

Last night I went to a watch a band play in a muddy field, less than a mile away. June 30^th turned into July 1^st as the rain fell. No doubt when the organisers planned the gig, they were imagining a summer’s night revelry beneath the filling moon. No such luck. Instead, wellies and jumpers were required; such is England in the summertime. Fortunately the band was very very good – on the other hand I would think that because two of them are my children. As usual, I was a bit embarrassed to dance, not only in front of my kids but in front of the youth of my town, but their music is so bouncy and uninhibited it would be churlish not to respond. There are times when I find myself dancing next to a beautiful woman who is smiling at me and for a moment I think is she flirting with me but then I recall I’m almost 60 years ago and I move away.

***

Short Stories Review.

 

Unlike my daughter, I find writing book/story reviews very difficult. She recently asked me to review with her the five entrants for an African short story competition. Although I write the occasional short story, I rarely read them, partly I think because I hate getting engrossed in a tale that suddenly finishes on me. When I wrote my most recent story, now called ‘Barmi’, I noticed that while relating one small incident, a story can, almost accidentally it would seem, embrace a much larger theme.

 La sale de Depart

The first time I read this story, I realised that I had lost interest half-way through because there are so many small incidental details that I failed to gather  the main plot which was about a man who been sent away from Senegal to America as a young child to better himself. When I reread the story, I saw it was both universal and particular; universal in that it made me think of Irish emigrants returning to Ireland from America, Indians returning to India from the UK and even Chinese workers returning to the country from the city; and particular because the distance between the two main characters, Ubou and Fatima, is so painfully unbridgeable. It was strange because although I didn’t find the story gripping or emotionally involving, by the end of it I felt I had learned something about the human condition.

Love on Trial by S. Kenani

This is an excellent story, written lightly but saying so much about Malawi, homophobia, Christian hypocrisy and the ironies of life. It begins with an old man who likes his drink stumbling into a toilet where he witnesses a homosexual act.  At first it seems a parochial matter of none but prurient local interest but as the old man keeps repeating the story to whoever will buy him a drink, the tale spreads and becomes a national, and international, issue.

The first victim of the old man’s gossip is the young man, Christopher. He acts with an extraordinary dignity that almost turns the tide in his favour. In fact he becomes a martyr, not by aggressively promoting his point of view but by simply telling his truth. From the perspective of 2012 Britain, it is quite difficult to have any sympathy at all for the narrow-minded bigots who ultimately cause all the trouble and suffering, and yet that battle isn’t over here either.

Urban Zoning by Billy Kahora.

I hated this story both times that I read it and yet it certainly isn’t a bad story. From the beginning I didn’t like either the main character or his milieu. He is a drunkard who uses alcohol to get into ‘the zone’. The description of the zone, and how it gets into it and maintains it, will be familiar to many drug addicts. The zone he gets into, however, is an unpleasant and uncaring, as he seems is be. 

I think what disturbed me most was the language of disrespect that runs through the culture of Ken and his friends. I don’t know why but it feels like the language and attitudes are copied from America, and this jars. On the other hand, the writer is Kenyan and knows better than me how his people talk to one another.

 Having described Ken’s habits and lifestyle, the author then tells us of an incident of abuse that Ken suffered as a boy and that is enough to explain his subsequent behaviour and lack of feeling. Whether Ken is meant to represent Kenya and the abuse that country suffered from the whites, I’m not sure, nor was I clear on the corruption that was going on at the bank where he worked which may have been obvious to a knowing reader but not to me.

The story finishes: ‘They both laughed from deep within their bellies, that laughter of Kenyan men that comes from a special knowledge. The laughter was a language in itself, used to climb from a quiet national desperation’. I guess I didn’t understand what they were laughing at.

Bombay’s Republic by Rotimi Babatunde

I loved this story. I read it first and then last, both times swept up in its matter-of-fact telling of a most amazing tale in which Colour Sergeant Bombay, who went to war ‘as a man and came back as a spotted leopard’, discovered that everything and anything was possible and that his ‘discoveries of the possible would come faster than the leeches in Burma’s crepuscular jungles.’

The language of the story is perfect, the sentences rounded, the rhythm consistent, the vocabulary extensive but not showy, the similes and metaphors delicate and penetrating, the mood both ironic and poignantly tragic.  Bombay witnesses man at his most desperate; he observes, learns, is amazed and ultimately changed.

From this story, I learned nothing in particular about Africa or Africans but everything about the human experience of war.