Content is Free - isnt't it?

 

To my intense lack of interest some county-named family has returned to the UK from the USA.  And the correct response is surely, “Who cares?”  Just like I don’t in a passionately concerned sort of way – if that makes any sense at all.

     As a life-long republican – as witness a rabble-rousing anti-monarchist essay written when I was seven for my Standard Three primary school teacher, and read at the time (I was told years later) by my father and my teacher with whoops of hilarious joy by both of them.

     Although stopping short of wanting to see the lot of them (the royal family, and not my parents and teachers) lined up against a wall and shot, I do want to see their status and position, titles and privileges abolished.  I want an elected head of state, and not an hereditary one.  I want The House of Lords abolished and replaced by an elected Senate or equivalent, and this is not what I wanted to talk about – important though it is.

     No, what interested me (via an informative article in The Guardian) was what That Family is going to do in Britain given that Everyone is a Creator Nowadays.

     Take this blog for example.  During the course of its existence, more than one and half million people have looked at something in it.  That is an astonishing figure, made even more astonishing by the choice of People over which blogs they find the most interesting.  A blog title called “Fish and Rain” has garnered more views than anything else and, while anyone reading anything that I write is gratifying, it is still mystifying why that particular blog has been singled out.  Strange indeed are the ways of the Blog Reading Public.

     However, the figures are astonishing for a retired English teacher living in Catalonia who does not make a determined effort to maximize his audience at every opportunity and relies solely on the written word to get his ‘message’ across - and someone who has been very lax in his posting over the last couple of years.

     Anyone and everyone can (and does) post.  Content is no longer limited to the professionals, indeed for some people the more amateur the efforts the better as long as they are in bite-sized bits and can be scrolled through with alacrity.  And AI is waiting in the wings, or is already centre stage, to help massage content to make it more clickable.

     Does this access suggest that Content production is becoming more democratic?  I would point to the Internet and the experience of researchers who try and use it for ‘real’ knowledge rather than personal opinion stuck together with AI help by some teenager (or younger) in Idaho which looks professional but lacks a basic integrity as far as the information is concerned.

     Money does make a difference, as witness the life of the vacuous documentary focussing on the illegal immigrant wife of a lying, corrupt, sex-pest in what remains (apt word) of The White House.  In spite of garnering a ZERO stars review in The Guardian and going on to become a total bomb, it did reach an audience of sorts, well outside its merits.

     Most content is not backed by such shameless sycophancy and blatant corruption, although that does bring us back to the County Family that I started with.  They have fame (or infamy) and public recognition, but their Content has to survive in a world awash with alternatives.  It will be interesting to see how they survive (and what means they adopt to do it) in a world jostling with Watch Me Read Me in superabundance.

     Though, it would be nice, if you could continue reading my blog!

 

 

Chore or Choice

 

 

  

Is it a sign of increasing age that one finds toothpaste boring?

     Don’t get me wrong, I do not mean that I have stopped brushing my teeth at least twice a day – the merest thought of skipping that chore is contrary to every fibre of my being.  Brushing one’s teeth is something that has been instilled in each and every one of us that, while other facets of civilization might drop off, teeth brushing is something that is so quasi-instinctive that it has to be done.

     On occasion, for various reasons, I have gone to bed without brushing my teeth, and have been unable to go to sleep.  I then realize that an essential rite of night has not been accomplished.  I get up, I brush my teeth, return to bed, and instantly fall asleep.  So I am not talking about skipping anything.  It is more the taste.

     When I was younger, we used Gibbs SR, a toothpaste I rather liked because it used my initials.  I have never, until a minute ago, known what the SR actually stood for.  I now know that is stands for Sodium Ricinoleate, a substance derived from castor oil and used to prevent gum disease and give the toothpaste its tingle.  Gibbs SR famously used the idea of the ‘tingle’ to inform the format of the first advert on commercial television in the UK when a tube of Gibbs SR being squeezed onto a toothbrush was shown encased in a block of ice to emphasise the effect.  The block of ice was not real, it was clear plastic, and so the first advert was also a visual lie.  Which seems somehow significant!

     Brushing one’s teeth was something that had to be done, not something there to be enjoyed, it was a duty.  Therefore, a toothpaste like Euthymol emphasised that by being bright pink and revolting.  It obviously worked on the “if it tastes disgusting it must be doing you some good,” the same principle used by the liquid antiseptics that were felt to be helping your cut knees because they stung when applied to the injury.

     My grandparents used a completely different toothpaste which in my memory was Ipana toothpaste, I only ever used that in Maesteg, though I suspect that we brought out own when we stayed there.

     My father used Eucryl tooth powder because he smoked a pipe and he used the abrasive qualities of the power to try and get rid of the nicotine stains.  I have never smoked, but I did use this powder on foreign holidays when sampling the local cuisine and wine as those seemed to leave evidence of their consumption more obviously than home food.

     I vividly remember when I was about 10 being allowed to choose Signal toothpaste – which had stripes!  And a higher price than the ordinary pastes, so that was a one off rather than a regular purchase.

     Nowadays there is a bewildering array of toothpaste not only branded but also own makes.  And the price is reasonable.

     Virtually the only thing you need to check is that the parts per million of fluoride must be from 1,350 to 1,500.  As far as I can tell, anything else is just cosmetic packaging.

     As I said at the beginning of this piece, I get utterly bored with the toothpaste by the time I (almost) get to the end of the tube, so my ‘dental hygiene’ drawer in the bathroom is full of (almost) exhausted tubes of past toothpaste – there is a part of me that cannot bring myself to throw away a tube of toothpaste that isn’t fully and exhaustively squeezed to extract the very last modicum of the preparation.  But I do deliberately buy a variety of pastes, usually own-make – while checking the back of the tube to ensure that the minimum ppm of fluoride so that I am not entirely wasting my money.

     The paste that I am using at the moment is a herbal concoction that seems to have something like aloe which actually numbs the lips!  It is also a light brown putty-like colour and tastes . . .  interesting.  As I bought this online as a sort of impulse buy, I did not do my customary check, and discovered when I had bought it, that it was fluoride free.  I therefore now add a morsel from one of the (almost) empty tubes and then put the new paste on top. 

     This is not an efficient use of either toothpaste or time, but the taste is marginally more interesting, and its doing the job, so I feel its justified. 

     And who else has a toothpaste cocktail in the mornings!

More Power Please!

    

 

 

When my parents bought their first semi-detached house together it was built on a green-field site in Rumney.  When we as a family went to visit, it was basically a field with Michaelmas daisies, a few poppies and lots of grass.  Eventually a rough road was cut into the site, and the outline of the proposed streets began to take shape.

     Foundations were laid and building work began.  But not on our plot!

     We were given various reasons for this delay, the most convincing one being that our plot was a sort of roundabout and roadway for the trucks and lorries serving the site and therefore could not be built on until much of the basic work on the site had been done.

     I had moved schools from Cathays to Llanrumney to accommodate our move into the new house.  Which wasn’t there and continued not to be there as I started Standard Three in Glan yr Avon Primary School.

     The great advantage of buying a new build is that you have some say (as far as the money stretches) to add extras, and so we were able to have double the allocation of power points in the kitchen and the living room.  And, as I recall a fancy tiled fireplace.  We could not stretch to a garage.  I love the way I say “we” as if my seven-year-old self could have contributed anything in the way of actual money to the enterprise!

     By the time that we were fully established in the new house it was the early 1960s and it was rapidly becoming clear that even with double the electrical outlets the power needs were outstripping the sockets available.  This was even more clearly the case in the kitchen where, in our previous home, the only regularly used electrical item (apart from the washing machine with mangle) was the toaster – whereas in the consumer driven 60s more and more electrical aids were deemed essential to the modern home.

     Nowadays so many of the devices, desires and gadgets of ordinary existence have batteries and need feeding on a daily basis that there are never enough outlets in which to plug to keep life going.

     I was going to continue by listing how many things I could see from where I am sitting that need power, but having seen two radios, three fans, a computer, a printer, three lights – I am disinclined to continue before people wonder what else is lurking in the morass of ‘stuff’ on my desk, and how the hell I manage to get anything done in said chaos (cf. earlier blogs!)

     This means, of course, in rooms that are studies, you will always find the ubiquitous trailing socket sprouting an unhealthy (and dangerous) accretion of plugs which, if all were utilized at the same time would probably short out most of the neighbourhood.

     I have to admit that I am guilty of trying to get around the dearth of sockets via the powered raft approach to electrical supply – but the offending articles are usually out of sight, under desks or behind furniture and therefore out of mind.

     Considering that I am surrounded by highly flammable paper in the form of books, magazines and my writing, I like to think that my word production is at least on a par with the danger inherent in moderate mountaineering.  I laugh to scorn electrical adversity!  Right up until the first spark.  And I don’t mean of imagination.

     The only thing that is running ‘hot’ on my desk is my Mac Mini which, with its base giving me more outlets looks as though it is powering a small city.  As a concession to safety I have taken out one of the power drains on it, where it was powering up a mini power bank!

     How many years do I have to regress before I can remember a time where I did not need extra electricity, where the power kept the light on and I needed nothing more? 

     I can still remember the birthday when I was about six, when I woke up to find my present had been placed in my bedroom when I was asleep, a wind-up record player with a very small collection of 78 rpm shellac records for me to play.  My parents were woken from their slumbers by the first of (many) playings of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (a tune and song they came to hate, as I never wearied of playing it) until the needle wore down and had to be replaced.

     I had no radio, or phone, or computer, or television, or ipad, or camera or anything that was electrical.  The most sophisticated thing that I owned was a Raleigh Star Rider bicycle that I was given for passing the 11+

     “The Good Old Days”?  I think not, it’s a meaningless question, there are far too many variables to consider for it to be useful.  But different certainly.  And something to think about.

An August Library

 

 

 

 

The fatal flaw in my approach to ‘tidying up’ is the inability to throw things out. 

     I hasten to add that I am not suffering from Diogenes Syndrome: rubbish I can throw out, that is not a problem.  The problem is defining what rubbish actually is.

     I am typing this bathed in perspiration (horses sweat, men perspire, women glow) after attempting to clear a passage from the door to the end of the first row of bookcases, in what I euphemistically refer to as my library.

     Even I (!) am prepared to admit that I have too many books. 

     I should rapidly qualify that statement.  It is not something that I actually believe.  The truth is that I do not have sufficient shelf space for the books that I have, and there is no more room into which bookcases can expand.  Some shelves are double stacked – and in one case triple stacked.  And they are not truly sorted, so trying to find something I know that I possess is sometimes more an act of faith than logic. 

     I keep telling myself that I delight in the serendipitous discovery of long neglected tomes, as I did when recently searching for ‘the other cache’ of Huxley novels that I knew that I owned.  It was an interesting and revealing process, but I would have preferred to have been able to put my hands on them immediately.  The situation was not tenable; Something Would Have to be Done.

     Let me say, straight away, that something was done.  I can now walk down almost the full length of the first aisle, but the second is blocked because, although I have technically ‘tidied up’, what I have actually done is move things about a bit.  As some of that movement involved pieces of winter clothing there is a buffer time zone of a few months before I have to start wearing long sleeves and move the stuff again so that it can be used.

     The temperature on the third floor in my ‘office’ is 32C and that is with two fans running full-time full-power.  The temperature in the ‘library’ would have given the Black Hole of Calcutta run for its money!  (Does that reference mean anything to anyone nowadays?  And isn’t Kolkata the modern preferred spelling?)  Anyway, it was hot, and what with my knees etc. there was only so much time I could allocate to tidying; more self defence than self-presentation!

     But, it is a start, and as part of the Family Wisdom states, “Anything is Better Than Nothing!”

     What the walkable vista has opened up is the amazingly cluttered nature of the shelves themselves.  They hold books of course, it is after all a library, but there is a bewilderingly various assortment of gadgets (and parts thereof), papers, pictures, folders, tools, clothing, leads, plugs and things that usually live in ‘that’ drawer in the kitchen because even though one does not know their functions, they look too serious and ‘useful’ to throw out.

     So my tidying is but a partial Level 1 clearance, allowing me access to Level 2, which will lead to Level 3 – and beyond.  At which point I will have lost the will to live, though I might (if I had any enthusiasm left) be able to find the books that I am now too tired to imagine, let alone look for.

     And the true horror, for me, is that tidying the Library is but a precursor to tidying The Third Floor and bringing order to my office and creating a space on my desk larger than a medium sized dinner plate for me to work!

     It is always good to have a goal in life.  No matter how unreachable it might be!

An ending of sorts

  

 

What to wear to a funeral is now a question of some import.  There used to be a time when the answer was obvious: black, black, and more black; with a white shirt for the men.  But now . . .

     The last funeral I attended was in Catalonia and was an event that followed hard upon the death itself.  In Catalonia you would expect the funeral to be celebrated on the next day after the death and the cremation on the day following.  Done and dusted in a few days.  The time between the death and funeral in Britain is mystifying to my Catalan family.  Some things really are different.

     But the funeral I am preparing myself for is in Britain, and it has been a couple of weeks since the death.  This period has allowed time for all the paperwork to be done.  In a positive sense, it does allow a sort of finality to inform the proceedings: the ceremony being the final step in the bureaucracy of death.

     My Catalan partner also does not understand the concept of the post-funeral refreshments, or ‘coming back to the house’ as the last social gathering associated with the death.

     But getting back to what to wear.  I am assuming that the old necessity for black as the dominant colour is a thing of the past – but I am not comfortable with a complete reversal of expectations in an explosion of colour.  I have opted for dark blue trousers and a paler blue short-sleeved shirt, and I have a suitable tie to go with the ensemble.  My assumption, however, is not fact, and I am waiting for more specific guidelines to inform my final appearance.

     In my opinion, I couldn’t care less what people wear as long as they are comfortable and ‘tidy’.  Presence is the important factor not sartorial elegance!

 

My cousin, Katy, has been reading through the book The Absent Artist which combines my poems with drawings from two old sketchbooks by Ceri Auckland Davies.  The book was a collaboration, which turned into a memorial when Ceri died in his sleep.  It is his funeral that I will be attending.

     My cousin asked if I had any paintings by Ceri and when I responded she asked if I could send her photographs of them when I had time.  I will do so, but I told her that signed prints of Ceris work are still available, for example here: 

 

https://www.albanygallery.com/artists/ceri---prints-auckland-davies

and I urged her to look through them.  I did so myself and I remembered seeing preparatory drawings for some of them; seeing one or two in a half-finished state; hearing about new departures in subject matter and admiring some of them before they were sent to the gallery for exhibition. 

 

     In other words, in looking through the range of Ceri’s work, I was drawn into remembering the painstaking preparation, the drawings, the charcoal studies, the photographs, the sketches, the sheer hard work that went into each and every one of his artworks.  And there they all were: beautifully produced signed prints, waiting to be bought and displayed.

 

https://www.redraggallery.co.uk/print-ceri-auckland-davies

 

     It is easy to say that Ceri’s art mocks death.  My house has a collection of his work; I see his art every day.  But I’m also conscious that what I see is as much as I am going to get.  Yes, Ceri has a substantial body of work, but now he is gone, that body of work is finite. 

     So, there is a strange sort of pleasure-pain in looking at Ceri’s work.  Ceri was a painter of the here-and-now, he aptured the momentary beauty of wild nature at particular moments in the day and night.  With painstaking layers of tempera, he was able to give depth and body to the curve of a wave, moisture on rippled sand, a tree in full bloom, the movement of dappled sun on a mountainside.  And the hand that painted all those things paints no more.  But the evidence of his work is hanging in houses and galleries and is living on.  And he will continue to be my daily companion on my walls and in my mind.

 

One thing leads to another

 

 

Why, I asked myself, was I half singing the words of a half-remembered kids’ song that I last sung on a seaside beach, possibly in Cornwall almost seventy years ago?  And the words of an evangelical song at that.  It was not, I hasten to add, that I had been struck by the theological import of the words that passed me by all those years ago:

 

Deep and wide,

Deep and wide,

There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide,

Plunge right in

Lose your sin

There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide.

 

No, it was not a surrendering to the enticing idea of redemption, especially through water – one of my favourite elements – with the addition of a fountain, for which I have a fascination almost as potent as my being irresistibly drawn to fireworks, making the image even more forceful.  No.  The reason the words (and the tune that I also remembered) was because I had said something with the dum-di-dum rhythm which triggered the memory of Deep and Wide.  A Proustian moment, conjured by sound rather than the taste of a madeleine.

     And with that, I am back on the sands of St Ives or somewhere similar as a very small child – well, not that small, I was ever tall for my age even when I was very young.  Going back, daily, to the little group of evangelical mission workers who encourage their young audience to sing along with them and learn a bible verse, to be recited the next day and if that learning and recitation was continued until the end of the week, then . . . something was promised.  The eventual gift (I even demanded a bible to refresh my memory on one day) I no longer recall – but the words and the tune have stayed with me, waiting to emerge as the ear-worm that will now stay with me all day.

     I suppose I should say something about the potency of memory, but as Marcel has taken over a million words on the subject anything I can add would seem merely meretricious at best or entirely redundant at worst.  Or possibly the other way round.

     I would merely say that the words and tune do not come alone in my memory, but it opens up a whole range of family holidays when the three of us would pack ourselves into the Ford Prefect and set off with sometimes only the haziest of ideas of where we would go and where we would end up, but always with the eventual objective of being by water.  Sea, lake or river, but water.

     At a time when close friends have died, and other friends and acquaintances are showing the signs of age, it is amazingly comforting to think back to the times when the concept of death was just that: a word, and idea, something in stories, but not an element in my life.  Not carefree, no child’s life is carefree.  Our childish cares may be just that, childish, but they are as real as anything in the adult world.

 

 

 

     In the late Tom Stopppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead one character asks

Whatever became of the moment
when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood, when it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet I can't remember it.

And it’s true.  I cannot remember the moment when I fully realized that we “don’t go on for ever” even though I ‘knew’ what death was.

     It took the death of my grandmother, my father’s mother, for Death quite literally to bring me to my knees.  And not in prayer.

 

I saw the corpses of each of my parents when they were prepared for the funeral service for cremation, and I was unmoved by the sight.  Not because I was numb with grief, or unfeeling, but more because what I was looking at were palpably not my parents.  Even when my parents were seriously and terminally ill, and comatose, they had more life in their features than those corpses.  The corpses were other.  Not my parents.

     But they live on in my memory.  And they live well.  And I welcome each and every unsolicited nudge that lets them walk though my mind again.

 

A Pill for Everything!

  

I have always found shame to be a great stimulus to writing.

     It was salutary to see that the last time that I wrote in my blog (that has been in existence since 2006) was in February of this year, and that 2022 was the last year in which entries for the whole year managed to stagger into double digits.

     It is not as if I have been leading a completely incident free life for the last few years: operations and publication have vied for my personal attention and, not one to waste an opportunity, I have allowed one to inform the other.

     As I have said before, if you are an English teacher and you want your class to talk, all you have to do is ask for them to relate their injury experiences.

     Hitherto taciturn students will suddenly blossom forth in expressive language in much the same way that blood did from their injuries.  Indeed, in some classes after listening to the vicissitudes that my students have suffered, I am amazed that they are still alive to recount the gory details.

     My eyes and knees have been sliced open and various (though different) artifacts have been inserted to improve my sight and my perambulation.  Both are better than they were, but by no means perfect – even though my eye surgeon keeps telling me that I have 20-20 vision.  I can read the small print on the eye chart, but the small print of the ingredients list on produce is not so easy to decipher.

     In the Old Days when I was short sighted, I could not see distance other than as a blur, but I could bring things close to my eyes and I could see incredibly small details.  That is no longer the case.  And, if I am truthful, that had not been the case for some time as my eyes managed to be short sighted and long sighted at the same time – but there was no real ‘sweet spot’ of perfect unglassed vision.

     The difference after the insertion of new lenses in my eyes (rather than in front of them) has been remarkable and generally I do not need glasses at all.  When I am reading there are times when my eyes are tired and I do feel the strain, but I usually can’t be bothered to find my so-called part-time reading glasses and so I adjust to a new normal.

     And that is what you do.  Each new improvement comes with a cost and limitation, and the trick to good health is working with those limitations and remembering What It Was Like Before.

     For me a key memory is walking to a restaurant in Sitges with my cousin.  I had parked in an underground car park ‘within walking distance’ of our destination, eschewing the usual distant parking space on the borders of the central district that we usually used.  

    It took me the best part of a week to recover from the exertion of simply getting there.  That is the memory to which I return if I think that the weather is making my knees a little factious and I am inclined to grumble.  That was then, now I can get by with a great deal more fluency, and I mean that word literally as I frequently bewail my miserable state as I remember that I used to play squash and badminton and jump down groups of stairs!

     All things being equal, the present-day discomfort has been caused by medication.  I have now reached the stage when I take medication to counter the effects of other medication – the Domino Pill Effect.

     Ever since I graduated from injections of Rat Poison (that’s what it is, look it up) to thin my blood to counteract the incipient thrombosis in my legs, to somewhat more sophisticated medication I have had tummy trouble.  The first pills I had lulled me into a false state of security as I suffered no after effects from them for a month or so, and then suddenly, the cumulated after effects came down on me like the proverbial Assyrian on the fold, and reduced me to a gibbering wreck, clutching fruitlessly at my middle.  I then turned to the ignored pills for the pills and gobbled a few in the hopes of immediate relief.  Which was not forthcoming.  But eventually (that comforting word!) calm was restored and I now take my pillsforpills religiously and reverently.

     And even those pills have been changed into a tiny bright red pills that are blister packed and look dangerous!

     It was with some degree of trepidation that I took the first of these Devil Pills last night and I have been waiting for the tremors to start.  So far, so good.

 

It is surely a sign of increasing age that I can type an A4 page of 12 point about the mechanics of a body and regard that as time well spent.  I used to say that it takes fewer than 5 milliseconds for the meeting of two teachers before they start talking about school.   

     Now that I am retired, it takes the same amount of time for my contemporaries and I to start talking medication and clinic visits!  And I, like Coriolanus, flaunt my scars, by wearing shorts above the knee, the better to display the incisions where two full knee replacements have happened.

     But, as the old philosopher said, “Such talk is better than the alternative!”  And since when has silence, either in speech or writing suited me!