Seb Palmer

Watch tennis
Rain drumming
On the roof

I came up with the above little mini-haiku earlier, whilst watching Alcaraz thrashing Chardy at Wimbledon.

I then thought I ought to look up what a real haiku is, form wise. Turns out it’s traditionally three lines: of five, seven and five syllables.

I wanted to change the name: a ‘hai’, or a ‘ku’? Or a haiku-ito (Jap-o-Spanglish?), or some such. But I couldn’t find any suitable Japanese diminutives!

Here’s the same poem, in the more trad form:

Watching the Tennis
The heavy rain falls drumming
Loud upon the roof

‘There is little or no magic about them, except the ordinary everyday sort…’ J.R.R. Tolkien, describing Hobbits (in The Hobbit).

You could say much the same about our pet cats and dogs, or even their ferile cousins. And yet we are so often besotted, bewitched and enchanted by our furry four-legged companions.

Equally, one could talk about studying literature, erudition, etc. Or one could speak of bibliomancy. Or just plain reading. Whatever way, words, images, thoughts, all have strange occult – as in unseen (yes, even images!) – powers.

Science may describe or unweave the rainbow. But reality is no less mind-blowing at the end of the day. And, truth be told, our pursuit of sciences actually makes the world ever more magical, considered from certain vantage points.

Anyway, this post touches on all these things, through the lens of Guardians of Being. Ordinarily I’m not that receptive to books in this line. Especially not when they’re imprints of Hay House. *

But yesterday, whilst tidying our blue room, with a view to letting it out, I re-discovered a book my mum gifted to me, back in 2015. I read it one sitting (30 minutes or less?). The text is very minimal.

And it was a good read for me at exactly that moment. And probably will be at many others. Perhaps I had to wait this long to get more from it? I had read it closer to the time I was first given it. And I enjoyed it back then.

But it spoke much more powerfully to me just now. Doubtless due to a much changed context.

In terms of reviewing this book, separate to what it’s meant to me in this particular moment (that experience was more ‘five star!), I’d give the imagery four stars and the text three. Hence three and a half overall.

I’m much more a cat than a dog person. Indeed, whilst dogs can be cute, their strong smell (cats have a divine subtle feline smell, which I adore), over intense attachment, and most especially their appalling barking, really put me off.

McDonnell’s style is not particularly to my aesthetic tastes. He’s clearly very good. And there are some excellent images. This is amongst my favourites, both visually and conceptually:

Perfect day pic

Eckhart Tolle I have more trouble with. I’m not big on new-age self-help gurus. They’re usually quacks and charlatans. Ulrich Leonard Tolle changing his name to Eckhart doesn’t lift his insights or pronouncements to any higher level. And some of what he says about animal consciousness here is open to scrutiny and debate.

Nevertheless, on a very basic level I’m totally in agreement with the core of what Tölle (which is apparently a German word naming ‘great’) is saying. One of my gripes with modern society is its failure to provide the space or means in which we can ‘just be’.

* Read more on this theme here…

I like feeling good. I like feeling better than ‘Not too bad, all things considered’.

And this morning, today, I feel good. Very good. I’ve been up and about since 6.30/7-ish, when Teresa leaves for work. For me that’s very unusual.

It doesn’t hurt that it’s a beautiful sunny day. Nor that I’m currently enjoying a brief if enforced (and unsustainable) sebbatical from day to day work.

And simple things, like noodles with fried egg and a cup of coffee, are best enjoyed simply. I can be momentarily present to just being.

We’ve been sleeping in the blue room recently. Test-driving it – a topical theme right now, with my quest for a new car – so to speak.

Plus I’m now sat at the table in that same room, by the open window. Pigeons are coo-ing, and passing traffic sounds a little like waves on the sea. Lace curtains waft in the slight breeze.

Hannah very kindly offered to have us or me around, this weekend. Teresa stayed home. I accepted the invite.

Hannah and the girls (Ali and Sofi) drove over to March, and collected me. We then went back, had a pizza supper, and I crashed out. I awoke about 9pm, and promptly went to bed.

I slept about 12-14 hours. This felt good at the time. After about a week of not sleeping pretty much at all at night. But mayhap I über-slept?

Anyway, back home, and I can’t fucking sleep, again. I’ve now drunk the last bit of alcohol – a small glass of red wine (a nice Rioja, as it happens) – not for pleasure, but in another failed attempt to knock myself out.

My only consolation is that I now have no more alcohol left in the home to abuse. But meanwhile, it’s 4.30am, on another sleepless night. I’m becoming one of those zombies I once encountered, working a night shift cleaning job in a shelter for the homeless.

And sleepless nights inevitably bring on my ‘get off the bus’ line of thought. Gaaarghhh!!!

Last night I slept not one wink. The preceding evening I slept for an hour or two, around 6-7pm. And this morning I got a couple of hours in, 8-10am ’ish. This already awful situation is getting worse!

And, tragically, my excellent little run of alcohol free-ness ended with three cans of Shipyard Ale, quaffed overnight. Out of desperation, frankly. I’d managed nine days off! Pretty pathetic, I suppose.

Anyway, there’s no alcohol in the fridge anymore. How I resisted those cans winking at me all that time, I really don’t know. But I did. Now I have to start over again. One day at a time. Resist! I just wish it felt worth the effort.

I’ve been cutting back on tea and coffee heavily as well. And trying to drink lots more plain ol’ wasser. And I – or rather we (Teresa as well) – are succeeding on that front. Of course water alone can be very boring. Hence the fruity milkshakes, like the one atop this post.

Even taking a zopiclone tablet, which I spent about 90 minutes getting, via a hellish call to 111, in the middle of another sleepless night (the night before this!), and which last time I took them knocked me out, is failing to help me sleep.

I don’t want to wake the neighbours. But I do want to scream. Ffffaaaarrrgggghhhin’ Hell! This insomnia shit is really getting quite f*cked up!

The percentage of my week that’s being affected by this keeps growing. About two weeks back it was once or twice a week. Then it escalated to three or four nights a week. Right now it’s every goddamn night!

There’s been a long break since I last took zopiclone. And even then I only took three. All individually, and all several days apart. That was several months back. So it ought not be that I’ve become accustomed to it.

This waking hell has caused a slight blip in my abstinence campaign. I’ve managed to stay of the booze. But I’ve slipped – only in a. very minor way – in a couple of other areas. It’s the sheer boredom and frustration of trying to make it through the night.

But any laxity – I love Oscar Wilde’s ‘I can resist everything but temptation’ – can either be very damaging to morale and/or resolve, in itself, or can be the start of a more complete collapse, or snowball effect. Using the words in a strictly secular sense, I devoutly pray that I remain strong!

Once again I’ve only been prescribed three zopiclone pills (same as last time). They look like this:

The temptation to pop another zop is very strong. I just want to sleep! At night. You know, when we’re supposed to. Otherwise a great deal of missed night time sleep winds up happening in the day. And that hampers my ability to function as a properly active and responsible adult.

I ordered an old single-volume paperback of The LOTR, via WOB (World of Books), prob via Amazon. It lists 17 previous similar single/volume paperback editions, the last being 1977. I don’t know if this means this is a 17th edition, or poss’ the 18th?

Anyway, I got this ‘cause, albeit perhaps not the exact same edition, this is very much in the style of – it looks and feels the same, basically – the one I first owned and read, as a child. Inside, very near the back of the book, I found a slip of paper (pictured below); perhaps used as a bookmark by the original owner/reader?

Rather happily/amazingly (like the oh so convenient clues in a Poirot or Holmes mystery) it’s dated very specifically, 16/4/82. Looks like it’s a strip torn from a photocopy of a technical drawing!?

I turned ten on January the 5th, 1982. With a rather beautiful synchronicity, at least to my mind, and although I didn’t know it back then, I share my birthday with the illustrious J.R.R. himself, no less! And it was around that age that, having already read The Hobbit, I first started reading The Lord of the Rings.

I’ve talked about that elsewhere, no doubt on several occasions. I was very proud to be a precocious or advanced reader. Is that a bit pathetic? Maybe. But I can’t help it now. I’m still a bit that way, i.e. conceited about my supposed ‘erudition’!

I had to collect this book from the local sorting/delivery branch of the PO. Twice they’d tried to deliver. And, to their credit (and with better professionalism than is often the case), they’d left those red attempted delivery slips, all properly filled. Most unusual (the latter part esp’)!

I was of course in, on both occasions. But quite possibly catatonic, having lain awake till around about 5am the previous night. This is quite regular and ‘normal’ for me, at present. And, not to put to fine a point on it, it’s f*cking awful!

Anyways, I collect the book, three Zopiclone tablets from the Boots pharmacy at Tesco (plus an English breakfast lunch and a few pizzas for our dinner), and dispose of a broken Breville sandwich-maker at the dump.

Back home there’s the endless Sisyphus style tasks of de-cluttering, cleaning, and re-arranging our home, with a view to letting a room. As exhausted as I always am, thanks both to severe chronic depression and my totally screwed sleep cycles, such tasks get harder and harder.

Just now, for instance, it felt like a Herculean task just emptying, cleaning and re-stocking (thinned down) our two cutlery drawers. So much so I’m now typing this on a break from said doings.

I’m still managing to avoid booze and other temptations. That must count for something, surely? And yet I feel no sense of joy or accomplishment, alas. Just a dead leaden depression.

When I’m teaching – only my Wednesday teaching really remains, and that’s severely depleted, I feel like – or rather I know – I’m losing my skills (both teaching and drumming itself), through lack of practise. And music as a whole area of my life seems like an oppressive weighty burden of failure.

So a few simple pleasures get leaned upon, for solace. I binged on snooker for a spell. Then I replaced that obsession with tennis (mostly but not only Wimbledon). And now, having just finished re-reading The Hobbit, I feel inclined to re-read The Lord of the Rings. Hence this nostalgic purchase.

I’ve actually got quite a few editions of the LOTR trilogy. Mostly in proper separate three-volume trilogy format. But I rather fancy the physical and aesthetic prospect of re-reading this old George Allen & Unwin single volume paperback version. My only concern is that it may well, just as my old copy did, simply fall to bits.

Hannah recently sent me the above image. How heartwarming it is just to look upon a kitten sleeping. Why is that, I wonder? Still, who cares!? That it is is enough.

Today I just got back from a counselling session with CGL, which stands for Change, Grow, Live. I’ve been seeing a guy called Mark there most weeks, Thursday mornings.

CGL specialise in supporting with people dealing with various addictions. I’m not going to go into the gory details of my own struggles publicly. And to the extent I do go into it, at all, I’ll try to keep it light and general (as opposed to heavy and specific!).

Today was a minor milestone of abstinence, and self-control. So a good day, really, I suppose. But my spirits are not feeling it yet. I’m as miserable – indeed more so, at times – as when I was deepest into any of my several addictive vices.

I’m hoping that better feelings will follow, and grow stronger. We shall see, I guess.

Anyway, after my session ‘in therapy’, I popped to Boyes, a down-market department store in March. I needed a belt, as my trews were literally fallun’ doon! I got a ein nice leder one for £10. Whilst there I also bought a light summer jacket, for £30.

The latter purchase made me feel both happy, but also complicated, and even a bit sh*tty (read guilty), as I’m stone cold broke. Mind, a single shift for Amazon Flex (once I have wheels again) will pay for it. So I’m not that bothered.

When I finally got home from CGL and the unplanned minor shopping spree, Chester greeted me with loudly plaintive meowing. He needs feeding.

But rather than that occasional ‘cupboard love‘, which sees the satiated moggy disappearing off through the cat flap, he frequently – and that includes today – follows up feeding with a clear request for companionship. Which is utterly adorable.

So as he waited expectantly at my feet, I scooped him up and we had a completely wonderful 15 or 20 minutes of cuddles, purring, head-rubbing/bumping, and all round good vibes. Chester, I love you!

After about 10 minutes of this bliss, he decided he needed to have a bit of a groom. So he starts washing himself, still in situ, ‘pon my chest. And ‘pon my word, if watching him ablute didn’t crack my face with a huge grin.

So I took a few pics of our boy, on my chest, living up to his name, and making me grin like the idiot I am. Another fab five minutes passed. And he finally decided that was enough; time to transfer himself to the more stable (in every conceivable sense!) support of our dining-table.

And now, about an hour later, I’m still sat in the easy-chair. And he’s still softly sleeping beside me. Sometimes his breathing is near enough silent. At others I can follow the rise and fall, the in-takes and out-breaths. And it’s mesmerisingly meditative.

From Pishy, and Domino, in childhood, to Tigger, and now Chester, in adult life, the cutely curmudgeonly company of cats has been a more or less constant part of ‘being’ for me (save only the barren interlude of college and after). And what a beautiful part.

Benedictions ‘pon ye furry critters, say I!

❤️ 🐾 🐈‍⬛ ❤️

Some time later…

Further furry fun: Chester is oscillating between cute lap-cat and frightening ball of teeth ‘n’ claws! I got a few pics of him in the former of the two modes just now, just before eating dinner in the evening sunshine, dans le jardin.

In the above photo, if you look carefully, you’ll see that his right fore-paw is actually gripping the first finger of my left hand (quite tightly!).

Economic woes mean we’re pretty much compelled to let out a room. I recently tidied and rearranged that room (thereby cluttering and devastating the rest of our home!).

But our home as a whole (as a hole?) isn’t fit to let out a room. The living areas, esp’ the kitchen and bathroom, are in an appalling way.

So over the weekend, and the last few days, I’ve been trying to make some in-roads. I’ve chiefly concentrated on the kitchen. And it’s slowly improving.

Tragically for me, I’m an eedjut. I always intend to take before and after shots. But I pretty much always forget to take any before pics. No matter, I’ve taken a load of photos, nonetheless. Sh*t as they are, hopefully they show some changes?

There’s still tons to do. I’ve also cleared everything that we formerly stored atop these shelving units. Everything was covered in an horribly greasy layer of icky stuff. It’s mostly gadgets we never ever use. They’re to be measured*, bubble-wrapped, boxed and put in the attic.

The kitchen units are sh*t. See, for example, how they don’t close properly (fourth pic), ‘cause they’re not deep enough to take standard sized dinner plates! So I want to totally rebuild our kitchen as soon as I can.

Then there’s the contents of the drawers, which also need tearing out and rebuilding. All the storage also needs either bespoke shaping, or a much greater degree of flexibility, in order to accommodate all our gadgets, gizmos, cutlery, crockery, food and other sundry sh*t!

* I need to measure everything so’s when I rebuild I build taking into account specific items.

Ever since the proverbial excreta obliterated the fan, around about six months ago, which brutally terminated a relatively long period of happiness – so odd and unusual for me (happiness, that is) I posted on here about it a few times – I’ve been struggling with depression in ways that, whilst very normal and familiar to me, are yet, by their degrees, esp’ sometimes – like right now – much worse.

Anyway, amongst the many ways I seek to ward off that ol’ black-eyed dog – which can include such humdrum therapies as watching tennis or snooker on TV or online – occasionally I’ll opt to read. Reading used to be a very frequent pleasure. But maybe I over-read? *

And so it is that now I sometimes don’t have the energy to even read! That said, at present I’m revisiting an old favourite, Tolkien’s The Hobbit. For anyone who doesn’t get Tolkien, I’m not going to make a case for him here, at least not beyond simply celebrating what it is I love about his writing.

Sadly I think the whole Jackson/Spielberg Hollywoodification of his works has debased the finest aspects of the Tolkienian universe. But again, I’m going to try not be distracted – aside from acknowledging this dimension – from my own personal encomiums!

As I’ve written elsewhere before, one or more editions of the LOTR had some dust jacket blurb describing Tolkien’s writing as ‘epic yet homely’. The best three word synopsis of his style ever penned.

Hi writings are filled with romanticism, lyricism, nostalgia, melancholy, all things that resonate deeply with my rather maudlin soul. And a love of nature, and beauty, and storytelling, and so on. I could go on!

Now to the second book. A book I have read, albeit not in the format that I’m posting about.

Whilst reading and enjoying the lovely 75th anniversary edition of The Hobbit I recalled that I’d read about some guy doing an illuminated manuscript of something by Tolkien. I couldn’t recall which work: was it also The Hobbit? Nope… ‘twasn’t. Turns out it was The Silmarillion.

A bit of Googling turned up this, an interview with Benjamin Harff, a German artist/illustrator, who chose to do an illuminated rendering of The Silmarillion for his ‘exam at the Art Academy’, as he puts it. We might call his project a thesis, or something similar, or ‘degree project’?

Apparently Harff has been tugging at the sleeves of the Tolkien estate, and all to no avail, so far. That’s sad. This looks like something at least as deserving of the backing of the official Tolkien ‘branding machine’ (as, one supposes, and sadly so, it’s become, in our hyper-crapitalist times), perhaps even more so, as the above mentioned films.

Anyway, for now all most of us can hope to enjoy, of this ambitious and impressive work, are the few snippets out there on’t interweb, such as this:

If ever it is properly finished and published, I want a copy!

In the meantime, it’s back to my 75th Anniversary edition of The Hobbit. Oh, but before I sign off, I believe the Tolkien Empire is shortly to publish yet another edition of Said Hobbit, which, like the 75th, is to be illustrated solely by Tolkien himself, only this time with even more of his archival artwork.

Read more about that or even order it here. I will definitely be getting this. By hook or by crook!

It’s now 1.11am, as I return to this post to add a rather pathetic and desperate coda: can Tolkien save my life? I’ve said the same of a number of things recently (though I can’t recall what right now?). And I mean it.

If the record that’s stuck in a groove in my head is constantly repeating ‘kill yourself, it’s the only way out’, as it is or has been just now, and so often does, can reading Tolkien’s The Hobbit help see me through another hopeless night?

Only time will tell, I guess?

* As a reviewer for both Amazon Vine and Pen & Sword reading/reviewing changed from hobby and passion to obligation and drudgery, as is so often the crapitalist way.