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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.     |
| Opinions As the man with a wooden leg said, it's a matter of opinion. And I've been thinking about opinions. Reading blogs makes one very aware that it's true what they say: everyone has an opinion. What is less often noticed, however, is that some people have more opinions than others. I have known people who have an opinion on everything; you mention a subject, any subject, and they will be able to grace you with their opinion on it. Such people are rich in the currency of opinion and are always very generous in sharing their wealth. Others, however, seem to have been at the end of the line when opinions were handed out; they have few and compound the fact by hoarding those that remain to them. Which brings to mind the parable of the talents, although I am not convinced that it applies in this instance. Both money and talents have a value, after all, whereas opinions are so common that they have become almost worthless. A penny for your thoughts, say you? Hah, a hundred years ago that might have been the going rate; these days you can't give them away. I know there are a few who manage to squeeze a living out of their opinions; newspaper editors and television talking heads, for instance. But these are not really selling their opinions. To a large extent they are preaching to the converted, sharing their opinion amongst those who already have that opinion anyway. There is little real trading that goes on, just mutual bolstering and encouragement. So we tend to collect in groups, sharing our opinions with those of like mind and applauding one another as we do so. If someone from another group intrudes, the immediate result is a fight, with opinions thrown in anger and scorn exchanged in copious quantities. The problem is that we all think our opinions are based on the facts and must be correct, therefore. It does not seem to occur to us that facts are so numerous that we must pick and choose which ones to take and which to leave. Being human, we will accept those facts that we like and ignore those that make us uncomfortable. Then off we go with our chosen collection of facts and we construct our opinions around them. Small wonder that we emerge with so many different opinions. The ideal would be to wait until we have all the facts before forming our opinions. Like most ideals, however, this is impossible, so great is the weight of facts with which we are confronted. Some people, a very few, will reserve judgement, knowing that they do not have all the facts. The great majority of us will shrug and enter the fray with whatever we have managed to glean. It is tempting to see those who are slow to form opinions as the wise amongst us. And, if that is so, surely the man who has no opinion at all is the wisest. Since he is staying silent while he adds to the facts at his command, he must be gaining a far wider view of things than those who go out to battle with only a selection of their favored facts at hand. I wonder whether it is possible to have no opinion on anything. Being a dreamer, I ponder on this and try to imagine how an opinion-less person would function. How would such a person be received in society? A philosopher and thinker of the past, Desiderius Erasmus (1466 - 1536), said this: "In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king." It seems a good saying until one thinks hard about it. To refute it, H.G. Wells wrote a short story entitled The Country of the Blind, in which he shows that the blind would regard someone with sight as a madman. In point of fact, Mr Wells need not have bothered with his story for we already have a perfect example of what he wanted to say. Jesus Christ had better vision than any of us and remember what we did to Him. Which all leads me to think (yes, it's my opinion) that our hypothetical opinion-less person would receive rough treatment in our world. In fact, I suspect that we have already prepared our ammunition against such a phenomenon. We have all heard the saying that it is better to remain silent and be thought stupid, than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt… Word count: 750 |
| Archy and Mehitabel Many moons ago, when the earth was young and blogging even younger, I was a chameleon that posted fairly often in one of those dreaded weblogs. At times I would bemoan my fate but, if truth were known, other creatures struggled through far greater difficulties to communicate through the medium of writing. Which thought always brings to my mind the delightful Archy and Mehitabel. Archy was a free verse poet reborn in the form of a cockroach in the early twentieth century. Mehitabel was a cat of Archy’s acquaintance. They were the creation of Don Marquis, a journalist of genius, and the best way to explain how he met Archy is by repeating his own recording of the occasion: We came into our room earlier than usual in the morning, and discovered a gigantic cockroach jumping about upon the keys. He did not see us and we watched him. He would climb painfully upon the framework of the machine and cast himself with all his force upon a key, head downward, and his weight and the impact of the blow were just sufficient to operate the machine, one slow letter after another. He could not work the capital letters, and he had a great deal of difficulty operating the mechanism that shifts the paper so that a fresh line may be started. We never saw a cockroach work so hard or perspire so freely in all our lives before. After about an hour of this frightfully difficult literary labor he fell to the floor exhausted, and we saw him creep feebly into a nest of the poems which are always there in profusion. Congratulating ourself that we had left a sheet of paper in the machine the night before so that all this work had not been in vain, we made an examination, and this is what we found: expression is the need of my soul I was once a vers libre bard but I died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach it has given me a new outlook upon life I see things from the under side now thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket but your paste is getting so stale i cant eat it there is a cat here at night i wish you would have removed she nearly ate me the other night why dont she catch rats that is what she is supposed to be for there is a rat here she should get without delay most of these rats here are just rats but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him he used to be a poet himself night after night i have written poetry for you on your typewriter and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet comes out of his hole when it is done and reads it and sniffs at it he is jealous of my poetry he used to make fun of it when we were both human he was a punk poet himself and after he has read it he sneers and then he eats it i wish you would have that cat kill that rat or get a cat that is onto her job and i will write you a series of poems showing how things look to a cockroach that rats name used to be freddy the next time freddy dies i hope he wont be a rat but something smaller i hope i will be the rat in the next transmigration and freddy the cockroach i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then dont you ever eat any sandwiches in your office i havent had a crumb of bread for i dont know how long or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings and paste leave a piece of paper in your machine every night you can call me archy After that, Archy published many of his poems through the medium of Don’s typewriter and they made the journalist an international celebrity. He is, perhaps, one of the greatest of American writers, yet I find that his fame is slipping away and few indeed are those who remember him now. This little post is made in the hope of stemming that progression at least a little. Here’s one of my favourites of Archy’s poems: Pete the Parrot and Shakespeare i got acquainted with a parrot named pete recently who is an interesting bird pete says he used to belong to the fellow that ran the mermaid tavern in london then i said you must have known shakespeare know him said pete poor mutt i knew him well he called me pete and i called him bill but why do you say poor mutt well said pete bill was a disappointed man and was always boring his friends about what he might have been and done if he only had a fair break two or three pints of sack and sherris and the tears would trickle down into his beard and his beard would get soppy and wilt his collar i remember one night when bill and ben johnson and frankie beaumont were sopping it up here i am ben says bill nothing but a lousy playwright and with anything like luck in the breaks i might have been a fairly decent sonnet writer i might have been a poet if i had kept away from the theatre yes says ben i ve often thought of that bill but one consolation is you are making pretty good money out of the theatre money money says bill what the hell is money what i want is to be a poet not a business man these damned cheap shows i turn out to keep the theatre running break my heart slap stick comedies and blood and thunder tragedies and melodramas say i wonder if that boy heard you order another bottle frankie the only compensation is that i get a chance now and then to stick in a little poetry when nobody is looking but hells bells that isn t what i want to do i want to write sonnets and songs and spenserian stanzas and i might have done it too if i hadn t got into this frightful show game business business business grind grind grind what a life for a man that might have been a poet well says frankie beaumont why don t you cut it bill i can t says bill i need the money i ve got a family to support down in the country well says frankie anyhow you write pretty good plays bill any mutt can write plays for this london public says bill if he puts enough murder in them what they want is kings talking like kings never had sense enough to talk and stabbings and stranglings and fat men making love and clowns basting each other with clubs and cheap puns and off color allusions to all the smut of the day oh i know what the low brows want and i give it to them well says ben johnson don t blubber into the drink brace up like a man and quit the rotten business i can t i can t says bill i ve been at it too long i ve got to the place now where i can t write anything else but this cheap stuff i m ashamed to look an honest young sonneteer in the face i live a hell of a life i do the manager hands me some mouldy old manuscript and says bill here s a plot for you this is the third of the month by the tenth i want a good script out this that we can start rehearsals on not too big a cast and not too much of your damned poetry either you know your old familiar line of hokum they eat up that falstaff stuff of yours ring him in again and give them a good ghost or two and remember we gotta have something dick burbage can get his teeth into and be sure and stick in a speech somewhere the queen will take for a personal compliment and if you get in a line or two somewhere about the honest english yeoman it s always good stuff and it s a pretty good stunt bill to have the heavy villain a moor or a dago or a jew or something like that and say i want another comic welshman in this but i don t need to tell you bill you know this game just some of your ordinary hokum and maybe you could kill a little kid or two a prince or something they like a little pathos along with the dirt now you better see burbage tonight and see what he wants in that part oh says bill to think i am debasing my talents with junk like that oh god what i wanted was to be a poet and write sonnet serials like a gentleman should well says i pete bill s plays are highly esteemed to this day is that so says pete poor mutt little he would care what poor bill wanted was to be a poet archy Absolutely delightful stuff (and a demonstration of how libre vers libre can be). But don’t stop there. Read more of Don’s wonderful invention at his site, http://donmarquis.com/ . Be a part of this great American’s continuing fame. Word count: 1,588 |
| Medicine This is an old one and I may have blogged it before, but I like it and feel that it deserves another outing: A few days ago I dropped one of my tablets and it rolled underneath my desk. A quick look failed to reveal its hiding place so I shrugged and took another from the bottle. The floor is a distant country for me nowadays and I knew the little escaped convict would turn up some other time, leaving us to wonder what it might be. Time heals all slips between cup and lip, they say. Well, this evening an M&M made a similar bid for freedom. The desk must be the most obvious hiding place in the vicinity for it, too, chose to roll under it. M&Ms are not quite as disposable as tablets, so I directed my gaze to the offending area and, to my amazement, spotted the miscreant immediately. The problem of distance was solved eventually by judicious use of the toe to maneuver the freedom-loving treat into a more convenient place - a place that was within my bending range, indeed. Imagine my surprise on discovering that the object was not the M&M at all - the tablet had returned to the fold, it seemed. I admit that my joy at its retrieval was somewhat less than I had prepared for the errant M&M, especially as the tablet has now presented me with a problem. Presuming that its few days outside the medicine bottle would not have had any effect on its efficacy, it remains a fact that it has offended against the five second rule. An M&M would be impervious to such caution, of course, provided with so hard and shiny a coat as it is. A quick brush up and it would be as good as new. But the tablet? Certainly more absorbent and welcoming to the vagaries of life on the floor, I would think. The tablet sits on the corner of my desk while I ponder this conundrum. Word count: 341 |
| Animations These animations on completing the 7-day badges each day are all very nice but I have a question about them. How does one return to the page one was looking at before watching the animation. Hitting the back arrow takes one to the page before starting point and closing the animation page closes the connection to WdC. So how do we get back? Okay, it’s a minor irritation to be brought back to the page before starting but it’s annoying even so. I just wondered if there were a trick to it. Word count: 92 |
| Homage to Ned Sometimes in my forays into the past I come across little gems that belong to others rather than my own. Here’s something that Ned wrote ages ago and I bet has forgotten it almost immediately: People are brittle and fealty is dead So write funny posts that keep 'em well fed Lull them to worship the things in your head Never let 'em suspect that you're actually Ned. |
| Canada 'Cheese-Smugglers' Busted I am reminded that, several years ago, Canada went on a drive to end cheese smuggling. This led to all sorts of strange ideas in my head and I wrote a little rant about the matter. Obviously, these would be the serious cheeses, the equivalent of hard drugs. Interestingly, when it comes to cheeses, the hard cheeses are actually soft and the soft cheeses are the nasty, hard ones. Things like Limburger, Roquefort, Brie and Stilton - these are the ones the Canadians are after, surely. Come to think of it, they are probably trying to make the country odour-free. No more sniffing those cheeses or, God forbid, lighting one up! I think it's worst when they push it on the kids with things like cheese straws and cheese puffs. Oh sure, it's "only" processed cheese or cheddar but this is the thin edge of the wedge. Before you know what's happened, your teenagers are sneaking off at night to indulge in Gorgonzola orgies and Camembert capers. None of this innocent "Oh, I'll just have a slice of mild Wensleydale, thanks" like we used to do. No wonder the Canadians are so vigilant! Come to think of it, cheese is legal in Holland, I hear. One can only imagine the dreadful effect that must be having on the populace. All that Gouda openly consumed in the streets, the red peel littering public places. Word count: 232 |
| As I Was Saying… Looking for something in the past, I noticed some longer posts that I'd written back in those days and I began to read them. That was fatal, of course. Reading one's own stuff at such a distance most often results in discovering them afresh, with no memory of ever having written such things. And some of them ain't bad. So I started copying a few into my trusty freeware Notepad. But now this terrible dilemma presents itself. Do I carry on digging, dusting off and recycling old thoughts as new? This would save a lot of hard work thinking in the present but therein lies the rub. This might be a devilish scheme by the brain to allow nostalgia to provide it with complete retirement. I might, indeed, stop thinking altogether. And that, of course, is the demon of old age. It might be better to avoid the past and keep slogging away into the future, as annoying as that may be. It's a conundrum that I shall have to contemplate for a while. In the meantime, however, I might just reprint a few of these old meanderings. Well, to be honest, I’ve already done a fair bit of that. But not too often, no, not too often… Word count: 208 |
| Education by Waiting Room Digging around in ancient history, I found this: The only thing worth reading in my doctor's waiting room is a collection of National Geographics. Unfortunately, he is also adept at timing his eventual arrival for the moment that I reach exactly halfway through any Nat Geo article. I have become an expert in knowing exactly half the interesting facts about anywhere in the world. Word count: 64 |
| What’s in a Name? Shakespeare opined that a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet. But was he right? Does it not matter at all what name describes a thing or person? Take people, for instance. Names tend to be descriptive of the person based probably on other people we have known with that name. And some names seem completely inappropriate for those who bear them. I should know - I have disliked my real name from the first and do not feel that it describes me in the slightest. Others may be entirely happy with their existing names and that may be a case of growing into the thing. I can’t imagine anyone being happy with the name Clarence, however. There are reasons names fall out of popularity and that is that they accumulate meanings during their existence. You don’t see many Adolfs around these days for obvious reasons. So names do not alter character but character can alter the meaning of names. And once a name has assumed character, it is unlikely to be rehabilitated. The net result is that caution should be applied when naming a new baby. Think not of previous generations or what happens to be flavour of the month. Consider instead how you would feel if saddled with the name you’re proposing. And remember that names that are cute for children may well be ridiculous if applied to adults. And vice versa, of course. Word count: 237 |
| On Being First I’m not stupid enough to believe that a phenomenon noticed by me in the course of a fairly long life is valid enough to be applied in general, but there is one observation that comes close to being accepted as an immutable law of the universe. This has nothing to do with the length of sentences but is rather about so unlikely a subject as the first born. It is my contention that the first born child is always the best one. The reason for this must be assumed to be the need for the parents of said child to be persuaded to have another one. And then, should the second child turn out to be awful, there is always the reasoning that it was probably an aberration and the third would indubitably be as good as the first. Fat chance of that, of course. The third is really the one that proves the theory - the first is always the best. I began life as an adult with no experience of children and a resulting wariness regarding them. The first one I came to know was the child of a good friend and she was positively angelic. Watching the perfect behaviour of this paragon, I was persuaded that it might not be so bad an idea to begin this process of procreation. My wife was not averse to the possibility anyway and, in due course, my son Matthew was born. He proved every bit as good as my friend’s daughter. At which point you are assuming that we ventured upon the experiment further by having more kids. I am not so gullible. The possibility raised by the existence of two well-behaved and likable first borns was that it could be the universe’s strategy to ensure the continuance of humanity in ever-increasing numbers. This was not lost on me and I decided that signing on for more experiments was not advisable. We should wait to see how this first one turned out. Nearly twenty years later, child number one was still remarkably sensible and balanced. He was not a paragon but seemed without serious flaws and drawbacks. In a moment of bravado, I agreed to go for an increase in the child area and two more came along after the usual waiting period. They were not awful. But did they attain the heights of that first one? Well, in some ways they excelled but, like all humans, they had their foibles. The theory was true in essence, apparently. And so we come to the point of this piece. That is the young child that has appeared in our household courtesy of Andrea’s daughter. We have functioned as baby sitters for at least half of this young feller’s life so far and have come to know him very well as a result. And he is phenomenal. Of all the first borns I have known, he is the best. Three years old and never a problem, unbelievably quick and intelligent, he has taught himself to read and regularly surprises us by announcing things that he could only have figured out if he understands writing. He is the final proof of my dubious theory and the reason I now mention it. There are plenty of caveats against accepting the theory, I know, and I must warn again about the trap it sets for the unwary. But it’s a harmless little thing if not acted upon. Just take it as a whimsical notion and you should be safe enough. Word count: 584 |
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now I have to unglaze my eyes 
