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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.     |
| 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 |
| Spectrum If you invented an entirely new colour, would it be a pigment of your imagination? |
| A Weather Post! Yesterday we had temperatures in the eighties, today we’re back to the fifties. Spring is perhaps the most indecisive of seasons. Which makes it hard to write about. As fast as you get something written, the weather changes and makes a fool of you. |
| Incidental Resolution I am free. The last of my medical appointments for several months has been accomplished and time stretches before me into the distant (and therefore ignorable) future. At last I can say that the weight of the medical profession is lifted from my shoulders as much as it ever will be now. In celebration of my regained freedom, I have promised myself that I will give more attention to WdC than has been possible over the last few weeks. Consider yourself warned, oh gracious readers and colleagues! Word count: 87 |
| Casing the Joint Yesterday I had a look at the X-rays of my operation on the hip. I was expecting something like the surgeon’s description of the procedure - “You were lucky. Although it was fractured, the pieces didn’t move and it was just a matter of holding them together with a plate and a screw.” That sounded to me like a very minor thing indeed and the tiny wound resulting from their access point seemed to confirm it. So I was amazed at the size of the thing holding everything together. It was like a very sturdy chunk of metal in the shape of an L, one end drilled into the ball joint with a huge screw, the other connected by two smaller screws to the femur. How they managed to get that lot through the tiny access wound I can’t imagine. But the fact is, they did. And everything has healed up satisfactorily and the contraption works very well. They do indeed work wonders these days. All of which is to proclaim the realisation that came to me: I can never have another MRI with that thing inside me! Might as well look on the bright side. Word count: 195. |
| A Twenty Year Old Tale Today being the dreaded day of medical appointments, and having survived the same, I found myself too relieved to venture more than a token effort at a blog post. I resorted to digging around in past glories and came across the little tale below, almost an historic anomaly given the near extinction of the blogosphere these days. It seemed quite pertinent however as it was almost exactly twenty years old and I decided it could be a placeholder for my one remaining blog. And here it is in all its faded glory. The Phantom of the Blogosphere I remember well the first time the Phantom struck. It was a normal morning and I had risen before the sun, as is my wont, and was checking the blog for overnight comments. There are usually a few, sometimes the contributions of even earlier risers than myself, but more often the different time zone denizens from Europe and Australasia chiming in with their noble offerings. As I recall, there were three new comments that morning, two merely nodding in sage agreement, and I passed over them sleepily while taking those first sips of coffee that herald the new day. It was the third that jolted me awake. There it lay in all its impudence and bravado, posted by "Anonymous", but in that so distinctive style that was soon to be recognized throughout the blogosphere as the work of the Phantom. The exact words escape me now but I remember that it was a brief but devastating assault on what I had written the previous day. What hurt most and made sure that all vestiges of sleep were driven instantly from my mind was that it pinpointed the weakness of my argument precisely, exposing my thinking as the pompous nonsense that it was. Now, I try to be honest and open in accepting criticism of my blog, yet that day I was sorely tempted to remove the offending comment, in the hope that none other than myself had seen how utterly I had been deflated. I suppose that I should be proud of the fact that those base desires did not get the better of me and that, instead, I inserted a brief comment acknowledging myself beaten. But I wrote the next post hastily that morning and blogged it as soon as it was finished, hoping that covering the offending post and its comment might allow me to escape public ridicule. And it seemed that I succeeded in this attempt, for no mention was made of the comment in the next day or so. I breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into my usual routine, adding the occasional post and responding to comments, visiting the blogs on my rounds and commenting in turn. Three days later I came across the work of the Phantom again. It was a comment on a blog that I visited quite regularly and, once more, it was signed "Anonymous". With a few brief sentences and remarkable clarity of insight, it destroyed the reasoning in the post it referred to. There was no mistaking that economic style and the veiled sneer behind the words. This was the very same commenter who had so recently revealed a posting of mine to be the work of an idiot. I added no comment and passed on to the next blog, all my embarrassment and shame rising once more to the surface. I wanted only to return to the blissful state of forgetfulness that I had so carefully nurtured since my first encounter. But such a return was not to be allowed. In the next few days, more and more devastating comments were to appear throughout the blogosphere. It mattered not whether the blogger were accepted authority or novice freshly arrived from reality; all were subjected to the most dissecting and revealing attack through the comments of "Anonymous". Nothing and nobody was respected and it seemed that there was no subject or opinion that the Phantom feared. Very quickly, these comments became the hot subject of the blogosphere and it was then that the anonymous commenter was dubbed the "Phantom". Bloggers reacted to the attack in various ways. Some attempted to bluster their way through the criticism, only to be devastated again with a follow-up comment. Others accepted and admitted the flaws so heartlessly pointed out and these, for the most part, were spared a return visit. A few left blogging for good. The blogosphere was running scared and furtive conversations were held behind double-locked doors as the bloggers sought a solution to the problem. Someone suggested that we should lock down our comments systems and so prevent entry by the Phantom. This was voted out as it would end all comments, that lifeblood so essential to the health and vigor of the blogs. There was a brief move to registered comments only but the Phantom defeated this easily, registering under false names and with email addresses that appeared and disappeared like morning mist in the heat of the sun. The bloggers raged but were powerless to outwit their shadowy foe. A change in the blogosphere became noticeable then. No more were bloggers thoughtlessly casting their opinions and mockery upon all and any subject they fancied. A hesitancy crept into the blogs, an unwillingness to expose opinions to possible destruction and, for a time, posts became less frequent. It became rare to come across a blog espousing an opinion, most bloggers taking refuge in merely stating undisputed facts. Those who dared to venture beyond these safe shores were instantly castigated by the Phantom. He seemed to know instinctively when a post went up that offended even slightly against his ruthless logic. It has never been ascertained exactly when the Phantom left. There was a period of several days in which none of his comments showed up. The bloggers remained nervous, not daring to believe that their persecutor had disappeared. Everyone waited for someone else to send out a tentative opinion post to test the water. In the end, several of the most respected bloggers agreed to do it simultaneously. They posted and waited for the expected rebuttals. But there was none. All that day we waited, checking back on the offending blogs to see if the Phantom had visited. And silence reigned supreme. In the next few days the noise and hubbub of the blogosphere returned. Within a week the posts were going up with a rapidity that rivalled the old days. Opinions were stated and preferences trumpeted. The hurly burly of the blogosphere lived again. Not since then has the Phantom been heard from. It is as though he lived up to his name and melted away as a ghost in the morning light. But in one way his presence still looms over the blogosphere. Rare indeed are the posts that shout unsupported accusations and mere wishful thinking. Proof and solid evidence are expected now. Word count: 1,154 |
| Doom One of my family’s traits is that we all get feelings of doom - by which I mean moments when we feel as if doom looms enormously over us and there is no escape. These are short-lived but can be persistent if you don’t ignore them. Over the years I have become very good at ignoring. What gave me the notion to mention this is Solace’s Get the Picture activity for today. Take a look at it and you’ll understand exactly what doom feelings are all about. https://www.writing.com/main/forums/message_id/3726229 Word count: 86 |
| A Fleeting Thought Had this quote on my mind this morning: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Meaning “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” It’s from the Roman poet Horace’s writings (and perhaps becomes my thought of the Roman Empire for the day therefore) but is also a strange thing to think about in an age that doesn’t think like that anymore. The very fact that it has survived this long does seem to indicate that we still have a sneaking respect for such ideals even so. Patriotism is not entirely out of date, perhaps. Word count: 97 |
| 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 |
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