Bryan Islip's Blog, page 44
May 9, 2011
Might be rare in Trafalgar Square
Serving our remote West Highlands community is a single bus that runs the single roadway in and out to Inverness each day except Sunday. Sundays here still are days of rest when only the more careless of incomers will hang out their washing or display any other sign, or any sound of domestic work. Sunday, you see, follows Genesis in that it is a day for the worship of the Almighty.
The bus leaves after eight in the morning and arrives back after seven in the evening following a two hour drive across some of the most beautiful, unbuiltover landscapes in all of these islands. On alternate days the bus is driven by a young man and an old(er) man, Highlanders both and with the natural good manners, intelligence and strength of character peculiar to those of that heritage. Sometimes in the winter they need all of those qualities if they are to bring their charges home safely in the face - the teeth indeed - of the most appalling weather. True, the younger man is said to drive with more, let us say, bravado than the older, but both almost always manage to depart and arrive on scheduled time.
Some years ago I was to take the bus to Inverness, there to catch a train for York where was to be the funeral of a dearly loved relative. Taking my seat I searched the pockets of my new coat - one of those multi-pocketted outdoor marvels - only to find no sign of my wallet. No money, no train tickets equals no way. I rushed in panic to the front as the bus pulled away. 'Stop, Dougie', I said. 'Let me off. I've left my wallet at home'. Dougie smiled his open, enigmatic, kindly smile, and with his usual quiet skill turned his bus around on the narrow road, just drove me home. Two and a half miles in the opposite direction up a single track road! And not a word of complaint from my fellow passengers, who were now sure to be late into Inverness!
I couldn't find the missing wallet at home even after much ransacking. More panic. 'Must have dropped it at the bus stop' I muttered. But in the safety and with the benefit of the years I can reveal that Delia is very, very good at finding things. She searched my coat. In a previously unsuspected pocket ... you can guess the rest. I think Dougie guessed at the time but I of course said nothing as I infomed him and the others that - well, let's just say I bent the facts.
Can't imagine anything like that in downtown New York city or London's Trafalgar Square. There's a lovely line I remember from an erotic poem familiar to most ex-servicemen (National Service in my own distantly remembered case). The multi-adventurous Dead eyed Dick and Mexican Pete had burst into Black Mike's saloon and demanded of the 'forty ladies of the night' therein that they at once divest themselves of their tops. I cannot repeat here the following two lines but the final line in that verse goes: It might be rare in Trafalgar Square but not on the Rio Grande'.
For Rio Grande read Wester-Ross in the case of my own incident on the bus.
.
The bus leaves after eight in the morning and arrives back after seven in the evening following a two hour drive across some of the most beautiful, unbuiltover landscapes in all of these islands. On alternate days the bus is driven by a young man and an old(er) man, Highlanders both and with the natural good manners, intelligence and strength of character peculiar to those of that heritage. Sometimes in the winter they need all of those qualities if they are to bring their charges home safely in the face - the teeth indeed - of the most appalling weather. True, the younger man is said to drive with more, let us say, bravado than the older, but both almost always manage to depart and arrive on scheduled time.
Some years ago I was to take the bus to Inverness, there to catch a train for York where was to be the funeral of a dearly loved relative. Taking my seat I searched the pockets of my new coat - one of those multi-pocketted outdoor marvels - only to find no sign of my wallet. No money, no train tickets equals no way. I rushed in panic to the front as the bus pulled away. 'Stop, Dougie', I said. 'Let me off. I've left my wallet at home'. Dougie smiled his open, enigmatic, kindly smile, and with his usual quiet skill turned his bus around on the narrow road, just drove me home. Two and a half miles in the opposite direction up a single track road! And not a word of complaint from my fellow passengers, who were now sure to be late into Inverness!
I couldn't find the missing wallet at home even after much ransacking. More panic. 'Must have dropped it at the bus stop' I muttered. But in the safety and with the benefit of the years I can reveal that Delia is very, very good at finding things. She searched my coat. In a previously unsuspected pocket ... you can guess the rest. I think Dougie guessed at the time but I of course said nothing as I infomed him and the others that - well, let's just say I bent the facts.
Can't imagine anything like that in downtown New York city or London's Trafalgar Square. There's a lovely line I remember from an erotic poem familiar to most ex-servicemen (National Service in my own distantly remembered case). The multi-adventurous Dead eyed Dick and Mexican Pete had burst into Black Mike's saloon and demanded of the 'forty ladies of the night' therein that they at once divest themselves of their tops. I cannot repeat here the following two lines but the final line in that verse goes: It might be rare in Trafalgar Square but not on the Rio Grande'.
For Rio Grande read Wester-Ross in the case of my own incident on the bus.
.
May 8, 2011
Hard guys on two wheels
We thought long and hard before deciding last year to open our home, Kirkhill House, to total B&B strangers. But one thing we had not reckoned with was the pleasure to be derived simply from talking with folk from far and wide. In all honesty we have had nobody here who we might have wished had gone someplace else! And that goes a long way towards making up for a lot of hard work.
We find the cyclists particularly interesting. To a man and woman they are hard-sinewed, fat-free individuals - as they need to be to tackle roads in Wester-Ross that are seldom if ever less than steep up or down, and in weather that is not always conducive to admiration of the passing scenery. The three guys alighting here last evening had actually cycled eighty odd miles of this - including an ascent of the famed Belach na Ba (the pass of the cattle in English) which is Great Britain's highest, and surely one of its steepest roadways. For once the word awesome does apply and in spades.
Even more impressive were the young couple from Lucerne. I asked them the ritual question as to where had they come from expecting to hear they'd flown themselves and bikes into Inverness. But they revealed in the most matter of fact (i.e. Swiss) way that they had 'come over the mountains' (Alps, that is!) and cycled up Europe to Calais before ferrying across to Dover and arriving here via Cornwall and John o' Groats. These two arrived in torrential wind and rain and departed the next day with a smile after a hearty breakfast in ditto!
Perhaps my theory that our species is on a downwards spiral is wrong, after all!
Have you read my short story of the month (May) as yet? If not it's free to you on www.bryanislipauthor.com
What's it about? It's about a boy's thirteenth birthday. Doesn't sound too interesting? Read it.
We find the cyclists particularly interesting. To a man and woman they are hard-sinewed, fat-free individuals - as they need to be to tackle roads in Wester-Ross that are seldom if ever less than steep up or down, and in weather that is not always conducive to admiration of the passing scenery. The three guys alighting here last evening had actually cycled eighty odd miles of this - including an ascent of the famed Belach na Ba (the pass of the cattle in English) which is Great Britain's highest, and surely one of its steepest roadways. For once the word awesome does apply and in spades.
Even more impressive were the young couple from Lucerne. I asked them the ritual question as to where had they come from expecting to hear they'd flown themselves and bikes into Inverness. But they revealed in the most matter of fact (i.e. Swiss) way that they had 'come over the mountains' (Alps, that is!) and cycled up Europe to Calais before ferrying across to Dover and arriving here via Cornwall and John o' Groats. These two arrived in torrential wind and rain and departed the next day with a smile after a hearty breakfast in ditto!
Perhaps my theory that our species is on a downwards spiral is wrong, after all!
Have you read my short story of the month (May) as yet? If not it's free to you on www.bryanislipauthor.com
What's it about? It's about a boy's thirteenth birthday. Doesn't sound too interesting? Read it.
May 7, 2011
In the beginning was the Word
My good friend the writer Michelle Frost keeps her ear very close to the ground (or rather, cyber space) and has often recommended something new to me. This time it is the embrionic web-site www.e-buffet.org and that was yesterday. Today I am a proud contributor to an e-magazine that I believe is going to break new ground in the fields of creative arts. Try it. See what you think.
This discovery reminded me of a little verse - part of my lengthy poem about one William Shakespeare - that I reproduce on the reverse side of all my Pictures and Poems bookmarks ...
The book lies open in my handand as when something flashedbrightly in a muddy fieldand you stooped to pick it upand you were lookinginto the bright sun-coloursof a diamond,it opened the door, switched on the lightsand there for me that wondrous treasuryto brighten all my days,to hold an explanation for my nights:and thus in the beginningand the endingare the words.
The last lines are with reference to the Holy Bible, John 1:1 'In the beginning was the Word, And the Word was with God, And the Word was God.' Although not overtly 'religious' I am quite sure that all great writing in this language of ours began with the King James Bible and its underlying Hebrew text. Quite apart from its content this book actually reads like the sound of music and that, for me, is why writing that aspires to be more than mere reportage must at least attempt a beautiful musicality. In its ultimate form an assemby of words is called poetry, and poetry without musicality is nothing.
This discovery reminded me of a little verse - part of my lengthy poem about one William Shakespeare - that I reproduce on the reverse side of all my Pictures and Poems bookmarks ...
The book lies open in my handand as when something flashedbrightly in a muddy fieldand you stooped to pick it upand you were lookinginto the bright sun-coloursof a diamond,it opened the door, switched on the lightsand there for me that wondrous treasuryto brighten all my days,to hold an explanation for my nights:and thus in the beginningand the endingare the words.
The last lines are with reference to the Holy Bible, John 1:1 'In the beginning was the Word, And the Word was with God, And the Word was God.' Although not overtly 'religious' I am quite sure that all great writing in this language of ours began with the King James Bible and its underlying Hebrew text. Quite apart from its content this book actually reads like the sound of music and that, for me, is why writing that aspires to be more than mere reportage must at least attempt a beautiful musicality. In its ultimate form an assemby of words is called poetry, and poetry without musicality is nothing.
May 6, 2011
It's not the economy, stupid!
If you've read my first novel, the thriller
More Deaths Than One
, you may remember the episode in which Sheikh Abdulrahman Al-Sottar forecasts the end of capitalism, 'overnight, just as with communism' he tells Thomas Thornton. This was in fact no more than a slightly slanted reiteration of what an Arab Sheikh said to me as we strolled together along an Al-Khobar beach back in 1998.
Today as I read the financial news of the world I can't help feeling that such a sweeping statement might indeed be coming true if, by 'overnight', is meant a couple of years or so. The bankers who apparently lit the blue touchpaper have turned out to be about the only ones not damaged in the explosion. They were and still are the big winners. Capitalism depends upon individuals being able to reap what they have sown. These people sow nothing but are somehow now able to harvest - usurp - steal - the crops sown by honest men, unhindered by law nor government.
Thus we have seen the high temples of capitalism badly damaged by their own high priests. Greed indeed is good if you are a banker.
Unwilling to see the bankers having all of it, yesterday I read about a few hundred non-bankers who expect to become millionaires / billionaires following the flotation of a very young, very private company. The name of the company is Glencore. The business of the company is 'dealing in commodities'. In other words these ladies and gentlemen toil not neither do they spin, but have made some spectacular monetary gains as their organisation corners certain commodity markets, prices of which commodities consequently are rising like crazy (surprise, surprise) to the further detriment of whole national economies.
'Everybody Hurts' according to R.E.M. True for the vast majority but not for bankers and not for those who can corner commodity markets. And not, it seems, for the governments that protect them all along the way.
Today as I read the financial news of the world I can't help feeling that such a sweeping statement might indeed be coming true if, by 'overnight', is meant a couple of years or so. The bankers who apparently lit the blue touchpaper have turned out to be about the only ones not damaged in the explosion. They were and still are the big winners. Capitalism depends upon individuals being able to reap what they have sown. These people sow nothing but are somehow now able to harvest - usurp - steal - the crops sown by honest men, unhindered by law nor government.
Thus we have seen the high temples of capitalism badly damaged by their own high priests. Greed indeed is good if you are a banker.
Unwilling to see the bankers having all of it, yesterday I read about a few hundred non-bankers who expect to become millionaires / billionaires following the flotation of a very young, very private company. The name of the company is Glencore. The business of the company is 'dealing in commodities'. In other words these ladies and gentlemen toil not neither do they spin, but have made some spectacular monetary gains as their organisation corners certain commodity markets, prices of which commodities consequently are rising like crazy (surprise, surprise) to the further detriment of whole national economies.
'Everybody Hurts' according to R.E.M. True for the vast majority but not for bankers and not for those who can corner commodity markets. And not, it seems, for the governments that protect them all along the way.
April 30, 2011
Walking, work and warfare
I do hope we are not using up all our summer in this last week of April and (forecast) the first week of May. It has been simply wonderful here, and much appreciated by our full house of B&B guests.
One man, a well known artist, arrived Thursday, on Friday took to the hills with substantial back pack and is expected back later today or tomorrow. He left us with detailed instructions on what to do should he fail to turn up by Sunday evening!
Another couple spent ten hours yesterday climbing the mighty, rugged An Teallach. Puts our little daily walks to shame, but then again we do have forty years seniority over them! To give you an idea of it, this pastel is called The Ruin by An Teallach ...
I asked all around the area, including the museums at Gairloch and Ullapool, as to the history of the ruined building in my painting. Nobody could tell me who or when or why someone had built a solitary two story house in a place known in Gaelic as 'The Fain' (means 'barren place'). County records indicate it was a ruin as far back as 1860.
No doubt the residents would have survived quite nicely on their black cattle, the local herbage and fish from the little river running by their door. The ladies would have looked after such essentials whilst the warrior men concentrated on the making and maintenance of weaponry and aggressive clan raids and defence against ditto. Somewhere up here would have been a carefully hidden still for the distilling of the water of life, uistha beatha.Whisky to most folk. It wouldn't all have been work and warfare and they must have been doing something right, for these Highland clansmen were as a matter of historical fact big and strong and extremely fierce. In fact, not content with local squabbles, they served for centuries with great if mercenary distinction in half the armies of Europe.
My 1st of May short story of the month flies out over cyber space via www.bryanislpauthor mid-morning tomorrow. It's called Thirteen. Sign up for it if you have not already done so.
One man, a well known artist, arrived Thursday, on Friday took to the hills with substantial back pack and is expected back later today or tomorrow. He left us with detailed instructions on what to do should he fail to turn up by Sunday evening!
Another couple spent ten hours yesterday climbing the mighty, rugged An Teallach. Puts our little daily walks to shame, but then again we do have forty years seniority over them! To give you an idea of it, this pastel is called The Ruin by An Teallach ...
I asked all around the area, including the museums at Gairloch and Ullapool, as to the history of the ruined building in my painting. Nobody could tell me who or when or why someone had built a solitary two story house in a place known in Gaelic as 'The Fain' (means 'barren place'). County records indicate it was a ruin as far back as 1860.No doubt the residents would have survived quite nicely on their black cattle, the local herbage and fish from the little river running by their door. The ladies would have looked after such essentials whilst the warrior men concentrated on the making and maintenance of weaponry and aggressive clan raids and defence against ditto. Somewhere up here would have been a carefully hidden still for the distilling of the water of life, uistha beatha.Whisky to most folk. It wouldn't all have been work and warfare and they must have been doing something right, for these Highland clansmen were as a matter of historical fact big and strong and extremely fierce. In fact, not content with local squabbles, they served for centuries with great if mercenary distinction in half the armies of Europe.
My 1st of May short story of the month flies out over cyber space via www.bryanislpauthor mid-morning tomorrow. It's called Thirteen. Sign up for it if you have not already done so.
April 29, 2011
Islip of Westminster
In answer to an enquiry about yesterday's blog content, and in view of the great events happening in Westminster Abbey this day, I though the Wikipedia content below would interest some ...
Islip was doubtless a member of the family which rose to ecclesiastical importance in the person of Archbishop Simon Islip. John entered the monastery of Westminster about 1480, and showed his administrative capacity in minor offices, till in 1498 he was elected prior, and on 27 October 1500 abbot of Westminster. .... Islip had next to advise Henry VII in his plan for removing the old lady chapel of the abbey church and the erection instead of the chapel which still bears Henry VII's name. The old building was pulled down, and on 24 January 1503 Islip laid the foundation-stone of the new structure. The indentures between the king and Abbot Islip relating to the foundation of Henry VII's chantry and the regulation of its services are in the Harleian MS. 1498. They are splendidly engrossed, and have two initial letters which represent the king giving the document to Islip and the monks who kneel before him. The face of Islip is so strongly marked that it seems to be a real portrait.[2]Islip seems to have discharged carefully the duties of his office.... His capacity for business led Henry VIII to appoint him a member of the privy council, probably on his departure to France in 1513 ... In 1527 Islip, as president of the English Benedictines, issued a commission to the Abbot of Gloucester for the visitation of the abbey of Malmesbury, where there had been a rebellion of the monks against their abbot.[2]
This peaceful discharge of ordinary duties was disturbed for Islip, as for most other Englishmen of high position, by the proceedings for the king's divorce. In July 1529 Islip was joined with Burbank and others for the purpose of searching among the royal papers for documents to present to the legatine court of Wolsey and Campeggio. In 1530 Islip was one of those who signed a letter to the pope in favour of the king's divorce, and in July 1531 Henry VIII suggested to the pope that Islip, whom he calls 'a good old father', should be joined as an assessor to Archbishop Warham for the purpose of trying the cause in England. ...
Islip died peaceably on 12 May 1532, and was buried in the abbey with extraordinary splendour.[2]
... But the chief reason why Islip's name is remembered is his buildings at Westminster Abbey. He raised the western tower as far as the level of the roof, repaired much of the church, especially the buttresses, filled the niches with statues, and designed a central tower, which he did not proceed with because he found the pillars too weak to bear the weight. He built many apartments in the abbot's house, and a gallery overlooking the nave on the south side. Moreover, he built for himself the little mortuary chapel which still bears his name, and is adorned by his rebus, a boy falling from a tree, with the legend 'I slip.' The paintings in the chapel have disappeared, and only the table of his tomb remains. Islip's fame as a custodian of the fabric of the abbey long remained, and his example was held as a model by Williams when he was dean of Westminster.[2]
My father once told me that his grandfather had 'wasted the family fortune' in trying to prove the direct lineage back to Abbott John Islip, who had left an even (very much) larger fortune unclaimed in the English Chancery. He also told me that his grandfather's endeavours had foundered on one simple fact; Roman Catholic Abbots were supposed to be (although by no means were always) celibate!
By the way, it seems that one of the Abbot's immediate descendants went to America not long after the Pilgrim Fathers, there to found the town and the river called Islip in New York State.
So that's the history lesson on this signal day. When you see inside that fabulous construction you'll know more than most about it.
Islip was doubtless a member of the family which rose to ecclesiastical importance in the person of Archbishop Simon Islip. John entered the monastery of Westminster about 1480, and showed his administrative capacity in minor offices, till in 1498 he was elected prior, and on 27 October 1500 abbot of Westminster. .... Islip had next to advise Henry VII in his plan for removing the old lady chapel of the abbey church and the erection instead of the chapel which still bears Henry VII's name. The old building was pulled down, and on 24 January 1503 Islip laid the foundation-stone of the new structure. The indentures between the king and Abbot Islip relating to the foundation of Henry VII's chantry and the regulation of its services are in the Harleian MS. 1498. They are splendidly engrossed, and have two initial letters which represent the king giving the document to Islip and the monks who kneel before him. The face of Islip is so strongly marked that it seems to be a real portrait.[2]Islip seems to have discharged carefully the duties of his office.... His capacity for business led Henry VIII to appoint him a member of the privy council, probably on his departure to France in 1513 ... In 1527 Islip, as president of the English Benedictines, issued a commission to the Abbot of Gloucester for the visitation of the abbey of Malmesbury, where there had been a rebellion of the monks against their abbot.[2]
This peaceful discharge of ordinary duties was disturbed for Islip, as for most other Englishmen of high position, by the proceedings for the king's divorce. In July 1529 Islip was joined with Burbank and others for the purpose of searching among the royal papers for documents to present to the legatine court of Wolsey and Campeggio. In 1530 Islip was one of those who signed a letter to the pope in favour of the king's divorce, and in July 1531 Henry VIII suggested to the pope that Islip, whom he calls 'a good old father', should be joined as an assessor to Archbishop Warham for the purpose of trying the cause in England. ...
Islip died peaceably on 12 May 1532, and was buried in the abbey with extraordinary splendour.[2]
... But the chief reason why Islip's name is remembered is his buildings at Westminster Abbey. He raised the western tower as far as the level of the roof, repaired much of the church, especially the buttresses, filled the niches with statues, and designed a central tower, which he did not proceed with because he found the pillars too weak to bear the weight. He built many apartments in the abbot's house, and a gallery overlooking the nave on the south side. Moreover, he built for himself the little mortuary chapel which still bears his name, and is adorned by his rebus, a boy falling from a tree, with the legend 'I slip.' The paintings in the chapel have disappeared, and only the table of his tomb remains. Islip's fame as a custodian of the fabric of the abbey long remained, and his example was held as a model by Williams when he was dean of Westminster.[2]
My father once told me that his grandfather had 'wasted the family fortune' in trying to prove the direct lineage back to Abbott John Islip, who had left an even (very much) larger fortune unclaimed in the English Chancery. He also told me that his grandfather's endeavours had foundered on one simple fact; Roman Catholic Abbots were supposed to be (although by no means were always) celibate!
By the way, it seems that one of the Abbot's immediate descendants went to America not long after the Pilgrim Fathers, there to found the town and the river called Islip in New York State.
So that's the history lesson on this signal day. When you see inside that fabulous construction you'll know more than most about it.
April 28, 2011
Links present and past
If there's anyone out there with a good website looking to exchange links (thereby increasing the chances of Mr Google finding us) have a look at www.bryanislipauthor.com and let me know.
Meantime my 1st of May short story, courtesy of Ms Jackie West is kicking the hell out of the starting stalls and rarin' to go. It's called simply 'Thirteen' and that's all you're getting 'til 10.00 on Sunday May 1st - should you already be a subscriber that is! If you haven't yet signed up please note that it costs you nothing and if you go to www.bryanislipauthor.com you'll receive the April story right now and Thirteen on Sunday and so on, first of each month for the rest of this year.
Hope you're having the best of Springs and don't get too, too cross eyed tomorrow. By the way, the bulk of Westminster Abbey was built whilst my ancestor John Islip was Abbot and under his supervision in the 15th century. There, I bet Princes W and H and our future Queen didn't know that! Although they might know of The Islip Chapel therein.
Meantime my 1st of May short story, courtesy of Ms Jackie West is kicking the hell out of the starting stalls and rarin' to go. It's called simply 'Thirteen' and that's all you're getting 'til 10.00 on Sunday May 1st - should you already be a subscriber that is! If you haven't yet signed up please note that it costs you nothing and if you go to www.bryanislipauthor.com you'll receive the April story right now and Thirteen on Sunday and so on, first of each month for the rest of this year.
Hope you're having the best of Springs and don't get too, too cross eyed tomorrow. By the way, the bulk of Westminster Abbey was built whilst my ancestor John Islip was Abbot and under his supervision in the 15th century. There, I bet Princes W and H and our future Queen didn't know that! Although they might know of The Islip Chapel therein.
April 27, 2011
Ups and Downs
Well my novel didn't make it to Amazon's Breakthrough Novel competition final. Still, to get into the last 250 out of the 5000 entries says something for
More Deaths Than One
. And I tell myself that a competition of this kind is not like an examination, where you either pass or fail according to the correctness or otherwise of your answers. It's all in the mind of one or two individual readers, who may or may not like the subject or the characters or ... etcetera, etcetera (or the idea of a septagenarian writer living in a remote place for that matter!). I cannot claim no problem or no disappointment but one thing about reaching my advanced years and with mind intact is that I learned long, long ago how to survive setbacks. And to learn from them.
By co-incidence I also found out yesterday that The Ullapool News published my complete March 1st short story of the month, 'There Was A Soldier' in last Friday's edition. Very pleased with that. Must write to thanks them.
By co-incidence I also found out yesterday that The Ullapool News published my complete March 1st short story of the month, 'There Was A Soldier' in last Friday's edition. Very pleased with that. Must write to thanks them.
April 3, 2011
Girl reading
I'm now producing all (four so far) of my short stories of the month in free of charge booklet form, initially for The Old Inn at Gairloch, where one of the stories is in each room, and also now for The Perfume Stidio / Amora Cafe, where the booklets are paired up on each table. Whilst one partner is browsing the rather wonderful Perfume Studioshop or the unique Image Studio (brilliant for all with an interest in landscape or photography) the other is welcome to spend ten minutes with a coffee and a cake, lost in a world of my fiction.The image here is the booklet's trademark I took it from my pen and ink drawing c 1970 and depicts my daughter Kairen Jane, now Dr Kairen Cullen, as a teenager. The composition, I seem to recall, was heavily influenced by one of Picasso's blue period paintings. 'Why a young girl reading, when many of your stories are distinctly 'adult'? I've been asked. Well, simply because I like this 'absorbed reader' image and because I'm a great believer in self selection at any age. Young or old, you will select your interests all by yourself, or should. Much as we all, right or wrong would like to, we cannot shield the young, at least not effectively, especially in these times of our gloriously unrestricted world wide web. As a matter of fact I won Abingdon School's Essay prize at about Kairen's then age. The prize took the form of Edgar Allan Poe's 'Tales of Mystery and Imagination'. If anything should have 'disturbed' a young boy it should have been this, but I was simply fascinated, transfixed by the power of Poe's stories and by the power of his writing. Still am, these sixty years later.
April 2, 2011
A time for mating
After the gales comes the sunshine. We walk our usual walk along the shoreline. Dee notices that the seabirds are mostly paired up now. Two pairs of oyster catchers (we'll keep a special watch out to try to avoid their eggs, which look just like stones camoflaged amongst streaked and spotted real ones on the seashore), several pairs of pinkfooted geese browsing the same short grass field as last year, a pair of exotoc looking ducks (mandarins?), etcetera, etcetera.
'Why', I asked, 'Do almost all creatures on earth mate once a year whereas humankind mates at all times of the year?' No answer other than, 'Why do you always ask such silly bloody questions?'
But I got to wondering how human life would be, were 'the urge' strike us for but a couple of weeks in the Spring. How much more would we achieve with our lives were it not for this overwhelming 24/7/52 interest in sex, said by Freud to rank as high as second in our range of thoughts and actions (behind self-preservation and well ahead of all else.) I remember well that, when I and all other 18 year olds, being signed in for something called National Service back in 1952, we were given great mugs of tea to drink. Several of my fellow enlistees poured it away - surrepitiously of course. 'I'll not damn well drink that', one of them told me. 'Don't tha' know its laced with fxxxxxx bromide to keep the old pecker down?'
Perhaps it was indeed thought by the brass that we junior fighting men could then concentrate more on the fighting and less of that other f word? If so I can confirm that, in those days, there were not too many opportunities for practice ... I can also confirm that it didn't work.
'Why', I asked, 'Do almost all creatures on earth mate once a year whereas humankind mates at all times of the year?' No answer other than, 'Why do you always ask such silly bloody questions?'
But I got to wondering how human life would be, were 'the urge' strike us for but a couple of weeks in the Spring. How much more would we achieve with our lives were it not for this overwhelming 24/7/52 interest in sex, said by Freud to rank as high as second in our range of thoughts and actions (behind self-preservation and well ahead of all else.) I remember well that, when I and all other 18 year olds, being signed in for something called National Service back in 1952, we were given great mugs of tea to drink. Several of my fellow enlistees poured it away - surrepitiously of course. 'I'll not damn well drink that', one of them told me. 'Don't tha' know its laced with fxxxxxx bromide to keep the old pecker down?'
Perhaps it was indeed thought by the brass that we junior fighting men could then concentrate more on the fighting and less of that other f word? If so I can confirm that, in those days, there were not too many opportunities for practice ... I can also confirm that it didn't work.
