#LogBook 7: No hiatus, no letting this fade

 This is the most important blog I’ve written so far.  For substance? No.  For pithy wit? No.  For foresight? No.  It is the most important blog because I’ve written and posted something.  Do you remember the ‘shiny new’ thing?  You know, when the shiny and new passes away, that thing?  Well its happened.  Gone.  No more.  I have been beavering away, honestly.  One post isn’t finished, it needs a bit more work, another is finished, drafted four times, yes four times, but might be for somewhere else, so no post here.  Anyhow, my target today is 100 words, aiming high, just get something done, no hiatus, no letting this fade away! There, we’ve done it, a post, a blow against apathy, and way beyond the 100 words!

#LogBook 6: Chaos wrought - Chaos Got

 Tuesday 26 January 2021

I have written some poems; I cannot think of myself as a poet; therefore I am not a poet.  Is this the opposite of self-actualisation, or is it just the negative form.  That’s not a great way to start a written piece of work, but it is accurate, but what is better the well crafted or the accurate . . . I don’t know, let’s move on!  Do I have a mental block?  I cannot, or is it that I will not, or should not, think of myself in this way.  Did you spot that?  I didn’t use the word.  And if you’re really sharp you’ll notice I didn’t do it when I mentioned I didn’t do it.  Mr Pressfield is that resistance?  What is a poet?  Does qualification come through quality and quantity and longevity; that is competence.  I do not know what makes a poet.  But I am someone who has written poems, am writing poems, not at the minute because I’m writing this, and if I’m writing this, which is about what makes someone a poet, or not for that matter, I not doing what poets do, but that doesn’t mean I’m saying I’m a poet, okay.  I’ve read a couple of them on the radio, but I have published none of them, that would appear strange, but within the dyslexic paradigm, the cursed side of the blessing, it is the obvious, the natural flow.  It is the victory of the spoken word over the written word.  General literacy is recent, hand written copies last century, the printing press last year, the internet yesterday, the written word is modern, the spoken word ancient.  

 

So back to the poems, I couldn’t find them.  I know where they are online, but I had printed them out, and I wanted the A4 sheets; it wasn’t that I wanted them I needed them; I could easily print them out again, you know CTRL P, but the originals would have notes, highlights, little changes, it was these that I wanted, that I needed.  Eventually I got them, in heaps of paper, lying on the floor, amongst the rubbish awaiting disposal.  The poems, many of which are the embodiment of ideas, emotions, and feelings.  The ethereal, the idea, the thought found a voice and was transformed into the tangible.  They were warfare, a battle of words, some of the hardest, yet easiest writing I’ve ever done, the ease was time, they came quickly, the battle was the acceptance of the idea.  Had the time come for their birth, or had the bravery come to find them, either way they were the culmination, the articulation, the embodiment, the ultimate end of creativity; of life.  The ethereal had taken on a true form, it must be expressed, but why should it be?  Is the answer to the question a commentary upon the individual, or the means of expression, or the act of creation, or the outcome, or that which had existed within the intellect now existing on paper?  Must these ideas be expressed?  Must they be given a voice that others can hear?  Are they the cry of the soul?  Joy or sorrow, exuberance or melancholy?  Yet they lay on the floor, in a heap of rubbish, waiting to be thrown out. 

 

It is the chaos of thought and metaphor, it is the inadequacy of words, the battle to grasp them, structure them, release them, yet here for me, they lie on the ground (literally) and must be searched for.  Chaos must be constrained, not stopped, or limited, but made busy in a fruitful state of being.  Chaos formed the thoughts, yet chaos (almost) lost the expression.  We do everything we can to make our homes safe, and then what do we do?  We light fires in them.  Fires at the heart of the home!  Fire is heat, and survival, and life, and the future.  Fire is chaos, it is danger, it is death, it is destruction.  But which is it?  It is what it is, and we know what it is through experience and observation.  The chaos is contained within a metal box, which sits upon a slab of stone, and then watched over by a smoke alarm.  Chaos is not tamed, chaos is mitigated.  Chaos is not removed, chaos is utilised. 

 

What is fire?  It is the heat, and the fuel, and the oxygen.  What is fire?  It is three, it is all, and if any be removed it is none.  When the triangle is broken it is gone.  When the triangle is unformed it shall never come to pass.  The elements are not chaos, the unity is chaos.  Yet the chaos within the metal box is nothing to the chaos out with.  Food is not chaos.  Diet is chaos?  Uncontrolled chaos is destruction, it is danger, it is death; the chaos of control or the chaos of intemperance; they are unity within disparity.  Therefore mitigate the chaos.  I could search through the chaos of the rubbish to find what I sought, and what I sought was the precious chaos of the intellect.  What will we abandoned to the chaos?  What chaos will we abandoned ourselves to?  And when we have done so, what will we find?  The chaos of creation or the chaos of destruction. 

#LogBook 5: Snow, Moss, Pine & Coffee

Friday 22 January 2021

The snow fills the air, it's heavy, large flakes, slowly meandering down from the heights.  “The cloud men have been busy”¹.  A few flakes come through the trees, but nothing much.  Where I’m sitting smells more of moss than pine, it’s the wet kind of moss, very earthy, the dry kinds smells different, less heavy.  The stone is a perfect height, sitting down but legs still straight.  If you sit with your legs bended for too long it’s always hard to get going again, even on a short walk, this is short, only three or four miles.  I left to late.  The day slipped away.  Doing . . . something . . . which I’m sure must have been very important . . .whatever it was.  The coffee is good, but its instant coffee, made before I left and carried in a flask, I normally don’t like instant coffee, this is the good stuff, but it’s not beans, it’s not the process, the smell, the routine, but its good, it’s good especially in the snow, nothing to eat, I brought nothing to eat, I’m not hungry, for that matter I’m not thirsty, but it is snowing, and it is the hills, and it is a forest, and it is being away on my own, and it is a cup of coffee.  The cup is bright orange, if you set it down you will see it, very hard to lose, I can see the steam, the smell mixes with the moss and the pine, it is an outdoors smell.  I feel part of the forest, observing the scene, the snow, the trees, the transition from green to white.  But I’m not part of the forest, I’m passing through, leaving no trace, you should never leave a trace, walking, camping, at the sea.  This is very rural, few people, but there is rubbish, two kinds: things people drop and dog dirt.  It’s strange but dog dirt is worse in the short term, but better in the long, here the elements and nature will take care of it, in the short it is dreadful, you can’t clean it off and you need to watch your step, but there’s none here, below the trees, sitting on a stone, drinking coffee from a bright orange cup, watching the snow, smelling the moss and pine and coffee.  But the rubbish, the bottles and wrappers, they, in the short term are better, have you ever given a second thought to stepping on a crisp packet?  But it will still be there in a week, or a month, or a year, or a century, or a millennia.  The coffees good, it keeps me here, an excuse, lurking about in the trees for this long looks suspicious, however sitting on a stone drinking coffee from a bright orange cup doesn’t.  It actually looks strangely normal.  I didn’t eat anything, and if I had, I wouldn’t have remembered, but I remember the snow, the peace, the smell, the time, that moment.

1. This is how one of my children described the snow, it’s a reference to “James and the Giant Peach” and I can't steal such a good observation. 

#4 LogBook: the unseen perils of home schooling!

Friday 22 January 2021

We aren’t used to cold weather, but for that matter we aren’t used to warm weather either, however the latter doesn’t matter for this story.  What I mean by cold weather is snow and frost.  When I was young frost was frost, it was just there.  But with age you realise the idiosyncrasies of frost.  The frost can fall in the early evening, you expect the next morning to be terrible, but it lifts during the night, and you awake to nothing but great relief.  Or it freezes all night, then the next morning you get exactly what you were expecting, but, and this is important, you can see it, the whiteness and the sparkle.  The worst frost is one that comes quick and late.  You can’t see it, the ground is a sheet of ice, a white sparkly road says watch yourself, so you do, a normal looking road covered in ice gives no warning. 

On Friday morning there was a late frost, it was a bad one, I went to get the kids work from school, and the car park was a sheet of ice.  The first I knew about it was when I pulled in to park, I put my foot on the brake, as you do, but the nose of the car slid on, it only slid a few inches, I was going slow, nothing dangerous, a wee warning.  So I crossed the road and walked on the grass.  The tarmac in the school is old and rough, flat but not smooth, perfect for walking on, dreadful for tyres, but the kids don’t drive cars in the school grounds, so it’s perfect.  I must explain to you dear reader about the car park, the orientation is important for the story.  Looking up from the bottom, where the school is, the road is in the shape of a lowercase ‘b’, from the top looking down, it is in the shape of a lowercase ‘q’, there are parking spaces in the centre and along the curved bit, and there are houses on the straight line.  Looking from the bottom, where the curve joins the line, there is a pretty steep ascent all the way to the top.

A car was stuck right at the bottom, the odd rev, wheels spinning, getting nowhere, just glad it isn’t me.  I crossed the road to try and help but could hardly get across.  Someone literally had to give me a hand so I would not fall going the last bit.  Once they headed on I needed to get back across the road, I had to forget about helping anyone else, I didn’t want to fall on my backside, which was a genuine possibility.  A bookie would have given better odds for me falling that staying on my feet.  It was so bad I thought of sitting down and trying to slide across the road using my hands, but I didn’t, firstly because of pride, and secondly because I would slowly, and in the sight of many people, with one wrong move slide to the bottom of the car park.  Now I’d be way further from my car and still no help to the other person.  Someone would have to rescue both of us. 

Then I saw it, bright yellow and large, a grit box, it was below me, across the road and down the steep hill.  I needed to go back onto the foot path and then down, down is not good, you’re travelling with gravity.  Helpfully beside the footpath was a fence, you could hold on if needs be, and if disaster struck and I fell I could grab the grit box as I slid by!  Okay, fortune favours the brave, forward march, forward shuffle more like.  I made it, with great difficulty, the last time I did this, not the sliding about on the ice, the picking up the school work, it only took about two minutes, three kids were sitting in the car, waiting for Daddy-O.  All I could think was please don’t get out, their listening to an audio book, their happy, they don’t want me to come back quickly, they’ll stay where they're at, please don’t get out. 

Into the grit box, big handful of grit, I cross the road by throwing grit on the ground and then stepping on the gritted bit.  Safely at the car, I opened the boot and got a big strong plastic bag out, trunk if your American, I don’t know why I added that, and walked the narrow gritted way to the grit box and filled the bag.  Then I started gritting the road down the hill towards the stuck car, then I made my way up the hill, all the time walking where I’d gritted.  At the top of the hill was another grit box, so I filled the bag and went to help other cars.  Now it’s really important to point out that other people were doing this too, I just happened to have a bag, but I was being out done by someone with a bucket, which was good because we are all doing the same thing.  With the full bag I headed down the curve of the ‘b’ or ‘q’, whatever one you want, ‘q’ sounds better all James Bond and that.  Back to the car, up the hill, low gear, keep traction, don’t stop.

So I gritted most of the car park, why did I do it, why tell the story? Well it was to help other people, but I did more than I’d intended, or I needed to do to help myself.  The real reason I did, and this isn’t very magnanimous, is because I did it.  I did it because I started doing, then the natural and obvious action was to keep doing it, the unnatural action was to stop doing it.  When there’s something you need to do, doing something to do it is the best thing to do to get it done.

#3 LogBook: Do the boring stuff!

Friday 22 January 2021

Today was fine, three meals, a bit hungry.  I wonder will that hunger stop, or does it stop when you don’t think about it, like a nagging tooth, only sore when you notice the nag, not sore when you don’t?  Then you do nothing but think about it trying not to think about it, which is just scunnering¹!  I think I’m still excited, it’s all shiny and new.  No matter your age, you always get that feeling, yip that one, the shiny and new feeling when it’s still shiny and new.  But you can control yourself, well normally, you don’t show it, but still you’re excited, whatever makes you excited has made you excited, and you’re off after it!  Anyhow, I’m still close enough to the old, for the here and now not to be the present, it hasn’t become that yet, and once it does the shiny and new will have passed.  This is a big thing, honestly it is, perhaps the biggest thing.  

I hate structure, maybe structure isn’t the right word, so I hate whatever I think I mean by structure.  I can have a million ideas, exploding in the air like fireworks, scaring people, starting fires, a moments brilliance, the explosive energy people don’t want.  Creativity always finds its place, normally we think of art, but food is art, observed by eye and nose and palate.  I like cooking, I like to do something new, I like the tastes, and the smells, and the processes, and the preparation, and the research, and the perfecting, and most importantly the eating.  But this all has a limit.  It’s not that you can’t do this all the time, it’s that you mustn’t!  I need the mind numbingly dull during the day.  That’s where I’ve failed, doing the boring stuff, flashes of boredom punctuated by a bit of this, or a bit of that.  I’ve never really got anywhere (boo-hoo), this isn’t to illicit sympathy, unless you feel so inclined.  I need to be boring, to bridle the innovative, the imaginative, to stick with it, if you are hungry do ‘x’.  The creative gets the book written, the boringly monotonous gets it published.  

1. sickening / loathful

#2 LogBook: Sugar Crash

Thursday 21 January 2021

Boys oh, I was hungry all day, I ate big meals, three of them, nothing in between, but still there was the long slow linger of hunger.  When you’re hungry you know you’re hungry, but this was the Western kind of hunger, not being a pitiful glutton for two days straight.  As opposed to the kind of hunger that leads to starvation, that leads to death.  I didn’t have a sugar crash. Blessed be the small mercies. They are awful, have you ever had one?  If you haven’t you should try it out sometime, you know, just to see what it’s like!  The process is pretty simple, and as an added bonus pretty cheap, All you need to do is stuff lots of processed sugar down the auld cake hole: sugary drinks, sweets, processed food, full of sugar and salt, added bonus for the auld arteries, and cakes, it is a cake hole after all! Keep it up for a few weeks or months then just stop, that’s it, lurch back and enjoy.  On second thoughts it’s probably dangerous, so dear reader please refrain. 

The sugar crash, when it comes, and given our collective diet, when it comes, you will think something is wrong with you, like really wrong with you.  It is that odd feeling in your face, life draining downwards, a slight lightness of head, a little bit tingly, especially the face and hands, the bits more connected to the world, you try to shake them out, but it just makes the oddness odder.  I haven’t ate chocolate or lemonade (note the generic Ulster terminology) in years, while sweets or puddings are a rarity. But that was not always so, and the present visage would make thee doubt twas in the past.  I used to drink coke, lots of the stuff, a big bottle was really cheap, sometimes two two litre bottles bound together in a plastic blanket was the price of one! And jellies, you know jellied sweets, all sugar and chemicals and horses hooves, and for an added extra coated in sugar, delicious! I remember years ago, I was in my early twenties, I mustn’t have been eating properly, different days, another story, and was living on sugar. 

Dear reader, many human beings do not seem to understand this, but the human body demands energy to function, our consumption of food gives energy, this isn’t to insult your intelligence, unless it needs to be insulted, but the easiest way to get huge amounts of energy really quickly is sugar. 

So back to the glorious sugar crash, one day I stopped, more likely I didn’t keep it up.  I had no idea how much sugar I was eating, and this was because I never thought about eating sugar, how about you dear reader? Nor had I any idea of the joyous work processed sugar does within the environs of the human body.  I didn’t know because I didn’t care, or, I didn’t care because I didn’t know? Either way the same result. Nor had I any idea I was about to go cold turkey! Anyhow, sometimes you know what to expect from the after effects of excess, but no minerals (note the second piece of generic Ulster terminology for the same thing) and confectioneries, for a day or two shouldn’t cause the micro DTs. 

I felt distant, detached from everything around me, I felt unwell, I felt at least diabetic.  I felt as though I should phone the surgery, “What’s the problem sir?” “Oh it’s just that I got up this morning, and I’m probably going to tootle of the mortal coil by the forenoon.”  Instead the auld subconscious kicked in, and I craved, bought and consumed two half litre bottles of Lucozade, if I remember correctly.  The shakes went, the haze cleared, the hands stilled, hair of the dog, existence lumbered back to equilibrium.  So I’ve been hungry all day, but at least there’s no sugar crash, and fear of type 2 diabetes.  Really I should be thankful for small mercies.  It’s just that the auld tum tum is empty, and that’s because I’m not responding to the slightest craving.  I may be assing about a bit, but dear reader, high quantities of processed sugar ain’t good.  

 

#1 LogBook: Embrace the Suck

 

Wednesday 20 January 2021

Embrace it, there ain't nothin’ else to do. This is going to be some craic, one way or another.  Deep breaths “...in...oot...in...oot...” Grand, the mind is settled, embrace the suck, embrace the many things, okay, embrace the two things.  Let's pretend there are just two things, keep the reader with us, don’t burn them out with all the nonsense, well not at the start anyway.

I’ve always written from under a shadow, a mental shadow, not that kind, not the dark dog kind.  No the shadow, my shadow is neurological, one that pulses through the brain's circuitry, I have dyslexia.  Or might I say, that the effects of the said brain circuitry have assumed the title dyslexia. It is a harsh word, it really is, perhaps too many strong consonants? The shadow is the clanger, and I’ve always got the capacity for a clanger.  It is the kind of thing, if printed, or if written down, the thing that is put into the public’s gaze, and then actually noticed, it is the thing you’ll never live down.  It looks okay when I write it, it sounds okay when I read it, the good old grey matter rehashes the garbled gibberish into the exquisite, the problem is that the good old grey matter keeps the good stuff to itself, it doesn’t share it round the other folk, the reader, you good people just get the auld gibberish. I digress, there are two levels, the incomprehensible and the nearly.  The incomprehensible isn’t so bad, it just gets discounted out of hand, the nearly is the clanger, the nearly is the not at all, the nearly is you wish you hadn’t bothered.

The second bit is the auld tum-tum, the lock down hasn’t been kind. It is a paradox, in December I did 3.5k press ups, not at once just in case you thought that, you probably didn’t, it was a wee challenge spread over the month, you know the auld lockdown, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed it or not. I’m lifting more weights, more often, and more heavy than I’ve done in years.  But the auld tum-tum doesn’t lie, all 103cm of it, all 13st 13ld, this might be wishful thinking, but it should be lingering around 12 ½, okay below 12 ½, near 12-3 to be honest. The auld lock down hasn’t been kind, did I mention that? A bit to much time to cook to much, to eat to much, a bit to much time because your stuck inside, with the fields that you walked in the last lock down, feeling under foot like there have been 40 days and 40 nights of rain. So I need to go radical. Vegan...no. Veggie...no. Something...yes. 

This blog, so far as it is meant to be dear reader, is my blog about losing weight. That might be tempting fait, you know, three months done the line and success is not slipping into the 15s on the auld scales, even if you do you could just dial it back a couple of pounds. Anyhow I’ve started, and I just wanted to get my excuses in first, just in case the odd clanger slips through the text to speech.

****

Today went well, this is the evening, but tea was a sad experience.  I cooked butcher burgers for the others, and I cooked for myself meat free chile con carne with boiled rice. It was grand, if everyone ate it I wouldn’t have noticed. The battle is the grey stuff, the evidence is in the auld tum-tum. I’m a bit hungry, normally I’d eat a little something before bed, but I haven’t.

* "embrace the suck" isn't my saying, I looked it up on the net to try and find an original source but couldn't.