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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Stories While it is true that the day of the novelist may be nearing its end, the computer and internet having made the reading experience something that grows inexorably more rare, I don’t think the story teller will ever become extinct. Just as the bards who preserved in song the tales of long ago, to be replaced by the man with a pen in his hand, the writer of today will learn to adjust to the new media and find a place to continue the story. Word count: 85 |
| A Solitary Reflection There's no passing of the buck in a one-man band. |
| Medicines As I line up my pills and tablets for morning consumption, I wonder (not for the first time) what would happen if I ceased to take these little miracle workers of the modern age. Popular wisdom would state that I’d be long dead without them, but there’s really no proof of that. Judging by the pharmaceutical adverts on television, each of these tiny wonder workers have their unwanted side effects, which would indicate that many of them do as much harm as good. My recent adventures in the land of medical interventions has changed my daily intake of pills slightly, one or two disappearing, only to be replaced by newcomers. And my list of bodily weaknesses and crumblings has extended into areas I knew nothing of until now. It seems that old age will get you whatever you choose to swallow. So I toy with the idea of going without all these medicines but I doubt I’ll ever give them up. It’s a minor inconvenience after all, and I am constrained by responsibilities to take care of my health. Doesn’t stop it from being mildly annoying, however. Word count: 187 |
| Tuesday Ah, Chewsday, the real gristle of the week! |
| A Painting Post I am beginning to suspect that our assessment of American art is incomplete. The first hint that this might be so came when I discovered the work of Zane Grey. Yes, the Western writer. That seems to sum up his reputation, for he is usually credited with having invented the Western genre with its tales of derring-do between cowboys and injuns. No-one seems to have noticed that he is also a very capable and fine writer; indeed, his short stories in particular are gems of the highest quality and he deserves to be placed alongside such greats as Mark Twain and John Steinbeck in the list of American authors. His powers of description and characterization are almost magical. Have a look at Tappan's Burro and Yaqui and you'll see what I mean. So I'm saying that Zane Grey is one who has been overlooked by the literary establishment, no doubt because of the genre in which he writes. And I think I may have discovered another American who has been passed over by the arbiters of taste. In Vicksburg, one of the few antebellum houses still standing is the Martha Vick House. This was built for the daughter of the founder of the town and it is now open for public inspection, even though it is privately owned. The owners have several paintings displayed on the walls, a few portraits, and many landscapes by a French artist named Ragot. I admit that I've never heard of him, but he may have some reputation as his paintings are pointed out in each room by the tour guide. They are nothing special, in my humble opinion, being post-Impressionist but really having missed the point of that movement. They are more about slapping paint on canvas than any attempt to capture light. This would be hardly worth writing about were it not for the existence of The Painting in the last room visited. It is a portrait of a Victorian lady, seated and gazing out of the canvas at the visitors filing past. It is completely realistic, just as are all the other portraits in the house. There is nothing special about the pose or the colors used; they are the norm for the period. The technique is superb, far better than anything else on display, but that alone would not be sufficient to give the painting its incredible power. I have seen paintings created with perfect technique that yet were empty of life. And that is what sets this portrait apart from the rest; it is overflowing with life. The lady's character and personality pour out upon the viewer so that one stands transfixed, fascinated by the communication of humanity wrought by this unknown artist. I could not look away. This is portraiture in the same class as Goya, the master of bringing to life the dissolute faces of the Spanish royal court of the early 19th Century. The subject is very different because the lady portrayed shines forth as a pure and joyful personality without the stupidity and pride so evident in Goya's subjects. Yet the genius is the same: that inexplicable ability to reveal the soul through pigment on canvas. In spite of its complete dominance of the room, the painting was not mentioned by the tour guide. When at last I was able to tear myself away, I asked the guide about the painting. She did not know. Apparently the picture was so little regarded that the owners felt no need to advise her of the artist or even the name of the subject. They would rather we notice the inferior products of Ragot, presumably because he was French. I am guessing that the painting is American, partly because it is not pointed out and has to defer to the French painter, and also because of the simplicity and lack of ornament of the subject's dress. If I am correct, then this painting is an excellent example of how poorly American art has been served by the establishment. There is a snobbery at work that regards American art as inferior to the work of the Europeans that it "copies". This is utter nonsense, since all artists learn from each other; all that really matters is the quality of the finished product. And that painting in the Martha Vick House deserves to be recognized for what it is - a superb and wonderful example of great portraiture. Word count: 736 |
| In Praise of Apathy Not that I would recommend apathy as a way of life, but there are times when it would be a welcome addition to those furious arguments conducted by those who care passionately. Most fights of this type never produce anything of lasting value and a good dose of apathy would be just the thing to calm everything down to the point where a result might be achieved. And then all there is the variety of matters we could be interested in. How busy would we be if such obsessions were to multiply to the extent of commanding all our time? If you ask me (and I know you haven’t), we could all benefit from a helping of apathy on some subjects, at least. Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. Word count: 123 |
| Something Old Wandering through old files, looking for something to blog about, I came across this piece. Not really a story, it was a thing I liked at the time and still have a soft spot for. It kinda fits well with Jayne's Short Story Newsfeed post of yesterday, so I decided it could do the blogging for today. Thermopylae Come with me now as I drift with the wind through the winter city. Through the bleak and gray streets we tumble, stumbling with the dried leaves and yesterday's newspapers in haphazard dance of eddy and spin, down through the canyons of frozen concrete, the asphalt streams of crushed and dirtied snow, in and out and around the hunched and hurrying, heedless humanity. Around their shuffling feet we play, laughing with the wind at their cold discomfort, their hunted look and gritted intent, their multitude seething with meaningless destination, all silent in their grim haste, their various directions, their steeled faces alive with only one determination, their goal the escape from our harrying play. Onward we dance, our fate with the wind, onward and onward till caught by a hydrant, wrapped with a WalMart bag to that cold, silent sentinel. Here captive we stay for a time, pressed about that humble form, assuming its rounded shape and gripping its short, stumpy arms. Now we can see things differently, without the hustle of constant movement, the frozen images of instants lost, the blurred landscape of moving color, all drab and dark. Here our vision coalesces into order and meaning, a view of a street, in winter, a doorway, a huddled group, breath frosting in the bitter air. They stand, not still, feet pumping against the concrete earth, but immobile yet, going nowhere, just waiting. The world hurries by, no attention given. Outward they look, yet with unseeing eyes. Bundled and wrapped in overcoat, boot and hat, they stand their stolid ground. "Woohaah, it's cold." The large one, black coat and gloved hands, he breathes the words in pain and bitterness. The woman next to him, small and stamping, blue hat and coat, pinched white face, through thin dark lips: "Unnnh." As one, they take another drag. In another second the smoke clouds forth, hangs in the air, draws to one side and disappears down the wind. Gloved hands hold cigarettes awkwardly, clenching against the cold, yet dainty with the paper tube glowing at its end. Shuffling, the smokers move this way and that but always in the same spot; they exchange their places only in search of a little more warmth, perhaps a better chance to escape the wind. "I don't care. At least it gets me out the office." A brave young suit in buttoned coat, all brazen in defiance. A nod here, a grunt there, they stand with him in union. "Bastards." A woman this, proud to swear, bold to flaunt her independence. No shame in her opinion of the insane, unfair and ignorant rules. She stands undaunted by the flow. All mumble in sympathy. A man walks by, hat pulled down and face averted. They stare and glower. "Damn three weeks. Big deal, George." A voice speaks for all at the retreating figure. They return to their misery. "I gave up once. For a month." This is allowed, this admission of defeat. The pride is in the failure, the daring to return from near desertion. Solidarity resides in continuing, a slip or lapse is overlooked. Those who leave to become new acolytes, devotees of the unstained faith, these are the ones detested. And with good reason. All know the pain and guilt attendant upon the confrontation with a new convert; that haughty look, the heartless statement "I'm better than you", the lecture, the demonstration, how easy it is, see how much better I feel. This is pure betrayal. The bastard knows full well our incarceration, the steel trap that holds us fast. We know how he struggled at first, longing eyes staring as we marched from the room, hearts aglow with anticipation of that first puff, that joyous reunion with the smoke coursing through our starving bodies. Oh, he knew. No need now to throw it in our faces as though we were spoiled children, sent to him for correction and instruction. Bastard. A cigarette falls to the ground, a boot lifts and crushes it. He lights another, hands to his face, cupping the flame as it spotlights his features, the eyes narrowed in concentration, the skin yellow with reflection. "Not going in yet." He dares the fickle diktats of authority. Another shuffle, the group moves round. Three depart. "See you up there," the truncated farewell. "Later," the muttered reply. Two left, one the braggart rebel, the other, cigarette gone, but delaying the renewal of abstinence. "It's okay in the summer." The laggard, trying for sympathy from the undefeated one. But there is no answer, the vacant statement too trite to be heeded. The lingerer waits, uncertain. Then he departs, muttering excuses and cursing at the weather. The lone ranger, still unmoved, smoke drifting from his opened mouth, watches with disdain. He stands alone, the rock upon which the world breaks. Not for him the cowardly entrance, all in a group, safety in numbers, we're back again. No, he'll stroll in when he decides and not care for disapproving looks and disgusted asides. He smokes, what of it? This lonely band, this dwindling brotherhood, this secret sisterhood too, in doorways and back streets, in yards and garbage areas, throughout the city they stand and endure the weather. No matter the cold, the snow, the rain, the frost, they are there, breathing their final smokey statement to the air, huddling once more for mutual protection from the icy blast of storm and public disapproval. What noble heroes, their fate unheeded, careless of consequence, they brave the inconsiderate world. The wind catches us, jerks and pulls us free. With a bound we resume our vagrant career, up and over our friend in the doorway, over the parked cars, snowed to the hubcaps, back to freedom unfettered and the drift in our host, the north wind. Over by the water, the river, we catch a glimpse of the smokestacks of powerhouses, white with the gases of industry. Oh, towering emblems of our prosperity. Word Count: 995 |
| Struggling Towards a Future The days settle into a routine and the sudden change of the last few weeks begins to dissipate. It’s not a comfortable routine as yet, however. That will have to wait until I have more focus on where this all leads. |
| A Passing Thought Had the news yesterday of the passing of my younger sister back in England. That leaves me as the last surviving child of my parents. Which was not something I expected. The eldest of us died several years ago and, as the middle sibling, it was reasonable for me to presume that I’d be next. Certainly, I never deserved to live longest, presuming that it’s a good thing to be alive. Anyway, it leaves me feeling very alone today. And also aware of how selfish I am to dwell on my personal feelings on the matter, rather than mourning the passing of a sister. Unless this is what they mean by “mourning.” Word count: 112 |
| Lofty Observations Lying in a hospital bed, being wheeled in a gurney from scan to scan, one becomes an expert in hospital ceilings. |
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