I do love Rick Stein. As does Teresa. She watches his stuff daily! Ought I be worried? She’s cooking in the kitchen now (smells delicious), and Rick’s on in the background.
One of the things I love about him, is his love of culture. He often talks about art, music poetry, and suchlike. And just a moment ago, he slipped in a short poetic extract – ‘A sweet disorder in the dress / kindles in clothes a wantonness’ – I just had to immediately look it up.
Turns out it’s an old’un:
A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness; A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribands to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.
By a certain Mr Robert Herrick. A new name to me. Or so I thought. But everyone know the phrase ‘Gather ye rosebuds’, surely?
Having just learned who Herrick is, or was. I’m beginning to like him a lot! His poem, The Vine, essentially a near psychedelic dream about his willy, is fabulous.
And the ending of To His Muse are an entire compendium of a philosophy of life in just two lines:
That man's unwise will search for ill, And may prevent it, sitting still.
My great and longest standing buddy, Dan Ellis, has been battling thymic cancer for several years now. It was discovered, alas, at what they call Stage Four.
He posted an update on his current status yesterday. On the one hand it sounds pretty awful: constant pain, lots of quite invasive and draining treatments.
On the other it’s quite positive: he has a loving family and devoted wife, and a well remunerated and supportive/understanding job; a very fine oncologist; and his treatments thus far have been very effective ; i.e. he’s still alive.
Not that long ago a stage four diagnosis meant imminent death.
When I first learned of his illness, I tried to go and see him weekly. Sadly since then my own life issues have intervened and made that much harder to do. And these days I hardly ever see him.
I posted a comment to his latest update, and a screenshot of Amy’s response is atop this post.
I was tempted to say Dan is ‘in our prayers daily‘. But I opted instead to say ‘in our thoughts daily.’ And that got me thinking about what prayer might actually be.
One definition of prayer is that we ask for intercession from a supernatural source – most popularly (‘though nowhere near as common as in former times), in our present culture, the ‘all powerful’ being called God – to alter the course of reality in our favour.
That’s quite obviously deluded poppycock. The recourse of desparate fools. At least in my opinion.
But another definition of prayer might simply be the speaking out of a thing ‘devoutly’ or keenly wished for. And I can see some value in that.
I forget now, it’s so long since I read it. Did Alain de Botton address this in his quite interesting book Religion For Atheists? He certainly should have. So he probably did.
Nowadays there’s a lot of wishy-washy New-Agey stuff, and worse, where you’ll hear talk of ‘manifesting’. I must confess, such stuff makes me bridle.
But, within both prayer and the desire to ‘manifest’, usually through such stuff as ‘affirmations’, I do see things of real genuine value.
We all need The Inner Mounting Flame.
Perhaps the most important of all is the merest glimmer of hope. One of the worst things about the energy and motivation sapping depressions I’ve experienced (and am currently experiencing) is their bleakness. The absence of hope, or ‘faith’, call it what you will.
A crushing sense that things will only get worse is not conducive to any kind of improvement. Perhaps prayer, or affirmations, or whatever, can be a part of a practicing of hope?
And if these vocalisations of one’s hopes are repeated, as is the very core of practice, then maybe they become gradually more tangible, or plausible?
It certainly seems true that constantly repeating negative stuff has the opposite effect: one’s vistas shrink; less and less is possible or plausible.
I’ve certainly already discovered, through using my cue-cards, for example, the power of repeated recourse to positive ideas.
Having just read a Tolkienian re-imagining of Breton folklore, I give myself license to take on – oh, the hubris! – the trad Christian verse, known as The Lord’s Prayer.
I found a Church of England website giving these two versions:
Modern
Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven. Give us today our daily bread. Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and for ever. Amen.
Trad
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.
So, here goes nuttin’…
Oh Life, whose art is heaven, Tho’ hollow seems the game Yet days do come; And nights, as one; on earth we are yet in heaven. We eat each day our daily bread. And forgive us our mistakes, As we forgive the mistakes of others. Let us forbear from evil; And avoid foolish council. For this is our world, Our hour, and our story, For this fleeting moment. Okay.
I like this, as a first attempt. It’s so much more humble and universal and real, than any religious prayer belonging to any tradition I’ve yet encountered.
I may ‘worrit it‘, as in come back and finesse it. This is a first attempt. But I think I am going to get it printed. And start saying it daily. See how it feels…
My great and longest standing buddy, Dan Ellis, has been battling thymic cancer for several years now. It was discovered, alas, at what they call, Stage 4.
He posted an update on his current status yesterday. On the one hand it sounds pretty awful: constant pain, lots of quite invasive and draining treatments.
On the other it’s quite positive: he has a loving family and devoted wife, and a well remunerated and supportive/understanding job; a very fine oncologist; and his treatments thus far have been very effective ; i.e. he’s still alive.
Not that long ago a stage four diagnosis meant imminent death.
When I first learned of his illness, I tried to go and see him weekly. Sadly since then my own life issues have intervened and made that much harder to do. And these days I hardly ever see him.
I posted a comment to his latest update, and a screenshot of his wife Amy’s response is stop this post.
I was tempted to say Dan is ‘in our prayers daily‘. But I opted instead to say ‘in our thoughts daily.’ And that’s for me thinking about what prayer might actually be.
One definition of prayer is that we are asking for intercession from a supernatural source – most popularly in our present culture the ‘all powerful’ being called God – to alter the course of reality in our favour.
That’s quite obviously poppycock. And a fools’ recourse. At least in my opinion.
But another definition of prayer might be simply the speaking out of a thing ‘devoutly’ or keenly wished for.
Well, things got too much for me, and Monday evening I snapped, or let go, or whatever.
I wilfully ‘got fucked’. Partly as a response to constant work/money issues. Partly other stuff; which I’ll simply call general depression (arising from numerous causes; least said, soonest mended).
On this occasion it was just booze that I abused: a small-ish bottle of gin, and a standard bottle of red wine. The intended aim? Oblivion. Which I succeeded in. But not without dire consequence.
I smashed a picture frame, cutting my hand, and raged and raved, behaving pretty atrociously, by all accounts. The oblivion I sought was found, such that some of this sorry episode – perhaps I should be grateful? – is entirely lost to me.
I posted a message to FB – obviously both venting and a cry for help – which is, obviously, very embarrassing once the fit has passed.
Since this occurred I’ve confined myself to bed, and ‘recovery mode’. Near enough sleeping around the clock. Or just resting. Reading a bit, if I can muster the wherewithal.
Yesterday (Wednesday) I managed to do several hours of telephone based admin work, that desperately needed sorting. All of which revolved around sorting a working mobile phone (my latest iPhone SE not working has, it turns out, been part of the lack of work issue taking so long to resolve).
A new phone has been procured, via an insurance claim, costing me £55 (at a time when I’m totally broke), and should be arriving today. And all the documentation Amazon have requested – and which I was unable to successfully supply via the old/broken SE – has, via a secondary/backup iPhone 6S, now been sent.
So, hopefully, I’ll be back to delivering, fairly soon; could still take ‘up to five working days’! That’ll bring this current period of unemployment to a full month. Or £1200+ out of pocket.
I’m trying – tho’ barely managing (or more accurately not managing) to succeed in doing so – to sell some more drum stuff. I’ve got as far as getting it all down from the attic. But I have yet to place adverts, or whatever else I might do to sell the stuff.
Not as easy as one might think…
I’ve had – as I always do, when things go south – a constant loop of self-destructive thoughts playing in my mind. One reason I’m confined to bed is that if I did get up and go out, it might be in search of rope and a tree.
Not a method available to me.
Teresa remains my rock. She stayed home on Tuesday, to keep an eye on me. Which I think was very necessary. That got me through the worst post-meltdown period. I called Samaritans several times that day. Probably spent a total of about two hours talking to them. Thank goodness they are there!
Having just got and read Tolkien’s Lay of Aotrou & Itroun, I think it’s (fairly?) safe to say that it touched a raw nerve, for me, re our childlessness. Whilst Tolkien’s doomed Lord takes a potion to bring forth issue, my ‘potion’ merely seeks oblivion. But both have dire results.
I don’t want to go into this aspect of my current struggles. But the Tex Avery pics, and Tolkien’s tale, I think, will convey something of the issue.
Rather tragically, for me, at least as I see it, my fate must needs be more that of an ascetic monk than a princess-rescuing dragon-slaying adventurer.
It seems that I’m a hyper-sensitive endorphin junkie. And that to manage my ‘condition’, if I want to survive (never mind ‘prosper’, which seems an outcome that remains totally beyond reach) I must abstain from everything my pleasure-seeking self longs to indulge in.
I’m currently bed-bound, after a mini-breakdown. I think it was Monday evening, I kind of, erm… snapped?
Anyway, I’d ordered the book that is the subject of this post a few days ago (see this earlier post). And it’s now arrived.
It seems eerily apt, for me/us, as it’s the sad story of a childless couple.
Cove near The Lizard, Tolkien.
The above is the artwork that’s also used on the cover. A beautiful thing. As is so much of Tolkien’s creative work, be it art or literature.
The book is only a little over 100 pages. And easily read in a single day. I love it. It’s fascinating to see how Tolkien evolves his ideas.
The book comprises the titular ‘lay’, two shorter Corrigan poems, and lots of other material, directly related to the lay and it’s evolution.
As well as Tolkien’s own writing there’s quite a lot of commentary, describing how the linked ideas that form these pieces arose; their sources, and evolution.
If you love Tolkien, and I certainly do, it’s very absorbing and fascinating. It’s often repeated herein that these works – the lay especially – are from the ‘darker side’ of Tolkien’s creative oeuvre.
Well, yes. But at the same time I think they also underscore a deep vein of melancholy that characterises pretty much his entire output.
I think I also love Tom Waits and Jack Kerouac a great deal because there’s so much wistful nostalgia for vanishing worlds in their work. And Tolkien, whilst ostensibly operating in a different milieu, I feel partakes of a very similar ‘rear-view mirror blues’ aesthetic.
Whether it’s the loss of the innocence of one’s own youth, or the changing of whole cultures, there’s very often a deep sadness underlying a lot of Tolkien’s work.
His work as a philologist in itself situated him in the citadel of academia, as the chill winds of history blew through the bones of the dead languages he studied.
We often pass through Wilburton. Which means we often pass St Peter’s. I’ve long meant to stop and have a look. Today I finally did so.
There were a couple of ladies inside, doing some cleaning. Presumably local volunteers?
Sadly my iPhone’s camera isn’t really up to zooming in on some of the details, such as the carved heads up in the roof.
There’s some unusually brightly coloured tiling in the floor, up around the altar. And what look like fossils, in some of the marble. I must find out what these odd artefacts are.
Yet another humbly beautiful and powerful building.
After the church, I found a little public footpath. And had a short ramble. So glad I did! It was very uplifting. When I rounded a corner and saw the view pictured immediately below, my spirits soared.
It’s always a surprise – although it really ought not to be – every time I take a moment out, to savour such places as these, how nourishing and enriching the experience is.
We woke up at 5.30 am, to be up and out, and at the Skylark car boot for 7 am. It was nice to see the ‘rosy-fingered dawn’. Fortunately, it’s still £7, just as it was years ago, last time I had a pitch there. Before Covid!
I’m chuffed that Teresa was with me. She enjoyed it. I got her a mini-hand-sewing-machine, for her troubles. And she scored three free (!?) ceramic knick-knacks. Always lovely to see her smiling.
A happy lass!
And Antonio got back from Spain today.
LATER ON…
Well, after a pretty tough spell of days turning to weeks, today’s car boot sale was something of a respite. We came home around midday. And both napped briefly, in the garden.
A few hands of rummy have been played, lunch and dinner eaten. And after a bit of an impromptu Wallace & Gromit binge, we finished off this evening with episode five of The Rings of Power.
Utterly delightful.
For some reason the latter started to ‘freak me out’. I suspect actually it’s just the underlying stress of lack of income resurfacing. So tomorrow’s first job is to pay in the car boot earnings.
And after that, I must sedulously seek further means of creating more income. Be that selling more stuff, alternative employment, benefits, or getting this whole ridiculous Amazon impasse cleared up.
But somehow, it’s absolutely imperative that I dial down stress levels.
To that end, I started listening to the above. I loved it so much, I decided to do a 30 day free trial with Audible (again!), and thereby get a free audiobook. I opted to get the unabridged version, read by the venerable Michael Hordern.
The current no-work scenario is proving to be a major downer. We’re trying to tidy the home a bit, and sift through stuff to take to a car boot sale tomorrow.
But even that is massively depressing, as I don’t have anything much of real value, at least that I want to part with, nor do we have the wherewithal to set up a stall at the car-boot.
Everything feels like such hard work. And not at all worth the effort. I’m at a very, very, very low ebb. And whilst I’m mostly tee-total these days, I just bought this:
Poss a bad idea whilst hyper-depressed?
But I’m in the fuck it all zone, to be honest.
Some time later…
Well, the plan remains to do Skylark car boot tomorrow. Which means an appallingly early start. And I don’t really have either the stuff to sell, or the means to display it. I’m actually a bit worried it might be a waste of time, energy, and poss’ even money… if I don’t recoup what it costs to get in as a ‘trader’!
I’ve got some books. Some DVDs. Some DIY type tools, and some model kits. That’s it! And not very much in any of those categories. But I’m getting desperate.
If work – as in Amazon Flex – doesn’t come good very soon, I’ll have to sign on, as unemployed.
And it’s soooo hard to do anything. And I literally mean anything, when you’re as depressed as I am. Motivation disappears. And is replaced by exhaustion, lethargy, torpor, etc.
Teresa has very stoically tried to help me rally my spirits. And I feel guilty towards her, on account of my implacable misery. She has even managed to lift them a little here and there. But the my mind goes back to the harsh fiscal reality of current circs, and I’m right back in the doldrums.
We stopped outside St Wendreda’s, earlier, after scavenging for cardboard boxes (for the boot sale), and it was beautifully sunny. But as pleasant as it was, it didn’t really make a dent in my depression.
Watching what is allegedly the very last Grand Tour instalment, One For The Road, distracted me from my blues a bit. We’ve had a bath and come to bed now. I’m going to watch the last 30 minutes of Jezza and co now. Hopefully help me to decompress a bit before snoozeville?
