babbling

Two Out Of Three Ain’t* Bad

/ minor6th / Leave a comment

(* well, it might be actually)

I can’t say that I am fan of the phrase ‘bad luck comes in threes’. It brings a feeling of unease when you are on misfortune episode two, awaiting the final triplet of doom. Said triplet might be a little tardy in arriving, or the impact of unnecessary worry might result in a momentary lack of attention which brings about the final act of disaster.

Failing that, you could convince yourself that you only noticed two incidents, and if you really put your mind to it, you will find another example in the recent past, thereby condemning yourself to be an unfortunate at the hands of fate.

Recently, one of my closest relatives passed away unexpectedly. She was nearly ninety but in apparent good health, recovering from a second hip-replacement operation, and looking forward to returning to pastimes such as gardening and walking. She also craved being able to drive again. The surgeon who completed the first operation described her as “spritely“. It was a keen observation. She was also my mother’s closest companion, and seven years her junior. They lived close to each other and spoke at least twice a day. They also saw each other on average six times a week. They had very different views on how to organise a kitchen, or prune a hydrangea, but the sisterly love was there.

They were also a hilarious and/or frustrating double act. I used to call them “Can’t hear and won’t listen“. I’m not saying which was which (for now).

This sad family event has been closely followed by my husband’s illness getting worse, culminating in vomiting blood (I now know that this is measured in “mugs” by some members of the medical profession) and a fall in which he injured his back He is currently in hospital.

It might sound callous, but I am enjoying the brief break from home-nursing – well I would be if it wasn’t for banging my head against bureaucracy and poor admin whilst trying to arrange support for him after he is discharged and a timely discharge. I should point out that this is not an NHS issue (they have been wonderful despite the pressures on them). I believe that the problem lies the “social care system” (my opinions on this can wait for another day).

So, now I await the third ponyman of the semi-apocalypse. Or has he already visited? I did find water coming into the conservatory this morning; followed by a medium sized slug this evening. I hope that there’s not going be a plague of them.

Lord, is that the time? Better get some sleep and gather my strength for the coming days.

Nighty night.

Min6

x

The Joybringer and Lost Treasure

/ minor6th / Leave a comment

Ok. A slight cheat here, but yesterday was a bit chocka for even a quick blog.

The two prompts for days 4 and 5 are (respectively):

  • What is a TREASURE THAT’S BEEN LOST?
  • what brings you joy in life?

I intend to combine these two prompts in reverse order. Firstly, a couple of definitions:

Joy : a feeling of great pleasure and happiness

(Oxford languages)

Treasure : something of great worth or value

(Merriam-Webster)

The thing in life that can change my mood, almost in an instant, is music. It can evoke feelings of great sadness but also sheer happiness, or joy.

For as long as I can remember I have loved music. My initial exposure was through Ed “Stewpot” Stewart and his Saturday morning “Junior Choice” show on BBC Radio. There was a wide range of sounds from light pop (Bay City Rollers, The Osmonds, David Cassidy) to folk favourites (“All Around My Hat”, “Scarborough Fair”) and novelty offerings (“Sparky’s Magic Piano”, “My Boomerang Won’t Come Back”). Even the Goons made an appearance.

I soon learned to love rock and roll, glam rock, disco, pop. I wanted it all. When visiting a friend’s house, I started to play the piano. Just simple stuff, but it was clear that there was some aptitude. Between then and now I have had piano and singing lessons, been a member of several choirs (including at church), performed a charity events, taught myself bass guitar and played in a band.

In my youth, I was obsessed with listening to the chart run down on a Sunday evening. This obsession lasted for over 10 years, and has proved useful when trying to guess 80s and 70s Heardle clips in two seconds.

I cannot imagine a world without music, be it listening or performing. I am, however, a lover of silence. There have been times when I have craved it so much I have been close to tears. Interruptions to my peace and quiet have felt like personal attacks, even though they were not intended to harm. Being audio-sensitive, I can find it difficult to concentrate with even low levels of noise if there is a “hook”, be it speech, a car driving past, a television in the next room.

In the last few years I have also started to experience tinnitus. It would appear that my hearing is still extremely good, so it might not be relate to hearing loss. But it is always there in some form. Usually a high pitched whine at a low volume which increases if I am tired, stressed or dehydrated.

It’s initial appearance was as a low rumbling. For several months I could swear that there was a local “hum” that was louder in some parts of the house. This has morphed into the whine which I hear. Now. As I type.

As such, I no longer experience silence. I would love to be able to stand outside and hear nothing for a short while, but I don’t think that I ever will. I can lose the tinnitus in other noises, and when I’m really concentrating on something else it usually doesn’t bother me.

But the privilege of pure silence is a long lost treasure.

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary Day 3 : Earliest Childhood Memory

/ minor6th / Leave a comment
excerpt of photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

When I was a young child, probably about 6 or 7 years old, I used to head out “exploring” with a group of older children, including my brother. He would have been 8 or 9 at the time. If my memory serves me right, the others were between 8 and 12. The composition of the group would vary depending upon commitments (music lessons, sports events etc.), but there would usually be about half a dozen of us meeting up and riding out to various local haunts.

One favourite spot was disused piece of ground about 5 minutes away by bicycle. We would lift our bikes over the half-hearted attempt of a barrier (supposedly designed to keep trespassers out). Once we had stowed our transport out of sight of the road, we would explore the grounds of a demolished house.

I cannot remember a great deal about what remained there, apart from a long-disused driveway. The house itself had long since gone. All that remained was the curving driveway and a few broken bricks here and there. We had no idea why the house had been taken down, but created our own version of history:

“A sudden fire with the tragic loss of a child”

“The heart-broken parents left the area“

“No! They took their own lives”

“If you visit after dark…..“

(we never did, of course)

The recollection of one visit still bothers me.

It would have been a Saturday morning in early spring. We arrived and hid our bikes as usual. As we moved towards where the house had stood, I noticed that some small flowers had appeared in the broken driveway. I crouched down to take a look. They seemed too gentle to have pushed through, but somehow they had.

I remained there for a while, the others having gone ahead; then someone came back to me. Catherine, the eldest of our little gang, stood very close. It felt like she was towering over me as she asked. “What on earth are you looking at?”

“Um…. these flowers. They’re so pretty…. I don’t know what they are….. do you?”

“Nope.” And with that she wrenched the stems out of the ground and threw them down in front of me.

I wanted to ask her why she did it, but I was scared to. Scared, but sad and angry at the same time. Why do that?

In a blur of tears I picked up the flowers and ran. Out through the barrier, down the street and back home, crying most of the way. I didn’t even collect my bike, much to my brother’s annoyance as he had to walk it back with his. Looking back he was probably doubly annoyed because he was supposed to look out for me, and I had slipped the net.

This memory has stayed with me so vividly because of the sheer destructive nature of that action. It wasn’t much in the grand scale of things, but I felt pain witnessing it. Almost as if I’d been punched by Catherine. Whether it partly shaped my attitude towards wanton violence and innocent victims I don’t know, but almost fifty years later it still unnerves me.

I took a look on google maps to see what had become of the “scene of the crime”. I was expecting a development of townhouses or retirement apartments, but no. The abandoned patch is still there. The old perimeter wall has been replaced, and the gateway bricked up, but here it is, reclaimed somewhat by nature:

Don’t visit after dark!

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary Day 2 : Brave? Me?

/ minor6th / Leave a comment

Today’s prompt is

How are you brave?

brave (adjective)
“ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage”

“having or showing mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty“

“showing no fear of dangerous or difficult things”

Let’s just set some context here. I am a middle-aged woman, living in a pleasant part of North West England, with little call to stray into “rough” areas. I had a comfortable upbringing, loving parents and supportive teachers. I was a well behaved child and teenager. Opportunities to be brave did not present themselves on a regular basis. They still don’t. This is generally a good thing, but I often feel that this might have made me soft. Lacking grit. Stuck in the comfort zone.

I have previously sought situations that put me outside that comfort zone:

  • rock climbing in my twenties;
  • learning to play bass guitar and gigging with a band in my thirties;
  • changing career just before turning forty;
  • opting for early retirement (although I did not realise how uncomfortable this would be at the time).

I suppose that these required some degree of bravery, but how about now? Do I rationalise a less daring existence as self-preservation? These days I certainly wouldn’t jump at the chance to scale Derbyshire grit outcrops, or play to a paying audience.

Have I made my final big lifestyle leap? Will I tread water until I am no more?

It’s interesting to consider the paradox of life vs. death. Surely, it is only by knowing that we have a finite time on earth that makes us feel alive, and drives us to really live. And does that imply that we need to be brave to achieve our best life?

But I digress.

Of the definitions above, I favour the second. It is broader than the others, recognising that bravery requires inner strength, and that it is not necessary to be demonstrative to be brave.

Being brave can be a very private matter, with no need for a badge or t-shirt. And this probably encompasses my preferred approach to bravery these days. Quiet perseverance in difficult times, rather than shouting “Tally ho!” as I enter the lion’s den.

So, that’s how I am brave.

More later,

Min.

Secret Messages

/ minor6th / Leave a comment

I’ve been reading ‘Big Magic’ by Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s a book about living a creative life. Something that I have neglected over the past three years or so.

I could put it down to the pressure of a more senior role, additional responsibilities at home, low mood or just slowing down (I’m at a difficult age, but aren’t we all?). The truth is I haven’t recently enjoyed good creative pastimes. It’s been too long.

Gilbert writes about just doing what you can. And what you want to do. Right now I’m not sure, so I looked for the closest things to hand and found my tile set and colouring pencils.

For now I’m going to indulge myself with some low effort and basic art. I mean really basic. I was advised not to take art in my junior school and I can’t say that my drawing skills have improved since…

But what do I do with the finished article? Pin it on the wall? Give it to a friend or family member?

Remember, I’m doing what I want. I don’t feel the need to adorn my walls with my masterpieces. I don’t want to witness the disappointment on the face of a loved one at the thought of yet another hand-made card.

I want to pass this onto a stranger. They can keep it for fun for as long as they like. They can pass it on. They can throw it in the bin. But they will see it. However briefly.

With this in mind my first tile (and possibly many more) will be left within the pages of a book in a charity shop.

I had a song playing in head at the time.

And here it is. In all it’s childish glory:

“Ambition and love wearing boxing gloves and singing hearts and flowers” Somewhere In My Heart (Aztec Camera)

For now this will do. I can return to the dressmaking, silk painting, piano playing, song writing, etc soon enough.

I’ve added my wordpress page link since taking the photos. If you find it, please let me know.

MinG

Nice is a Four Letter Word

/ minor6th / 1 Comment

In an early English Language class we were told that marks would be deducted from our composition exercises if we used the word nice.

Nice wasn’t singled out for this dubious honour, other innocent assemblies of letters were also in the firing line. Lovely knew that its days were numbered.

It was made clear to us. Nice wasn’t nice. Nice was bad, and so was bad. Bad and nice should be put into a plastic bag and drowned. Happy should be pleased with that. Although I suspect that he, along with other the dwarf-adjectives could be next in line, except for Bashful and Doc, and possibly Sneezy.

I’m posting today because I haven’t had the words to complete posts relating to our recent holiday in the Lincolnshire Wolds. I became tired of describing the sky. It was getting ‘samey’  (not a friend of Snow White). I don’t like that word but it fits. I’m no great wordsmith. I have wit and I use puns well, but I shall not be appearing on ‘The Verb’ any time soon. I suppose that I am writing a journal which you are welcome to read and I appreciate your input, but it is, essentially it is for me.

I am reminded of a post from a blog that I follow where Quilt Musings searches for a wider vocabulary. Oh the dangers of reaching for the Thesaurus and stepping outside of your natural style.

Anyway, for the time being, I am lost for words for days six and seven.

More later

(I hope)

MinG

Counterpoint

/ minor6th / 2 Comments

We’re sat in his ground floor flat, listening to Dark Side Of The Moon.

“Words or music. Which is the greater part of a song?” he asks.

“Music. Definitely.”

“Really? So the story of the song is not important to you?”

“If I didn’t like the delivery of the words, I wouldn’t like the song. Besides the song is much more than the dialogue. Not all songs are dialogue, some convey feelings or moods. It’s the melody, chords and instrumentation that will catch my attention.”

“It’s the words that draw me to a song. Take Marillion’s ‘Warm Wet Circles’, there are so many clever meanings, it evokes so many scenes from a young man’s life.”

He quotes:

‘Like a mothers kiss on your first broken heart, a warm wet circle
Like a bullet hole in Central Park, a warm wet circle’.

“I’ll agree that’s clever, but I just can’t take to Fish’s delivery on this song, and the guitar solo is predictable….”

“But can’t you see the images?”

“I don’t give myself time to, because I don’t like the arrangement”.

I take a sip of wine. ‘The Great Gig In The Sky’ starts. A particular favourite of ours.

“What about this track?” I ask.

Ref: Writing101, Day 7 Prompt : Write a post based on the contrast between two things — whether people, objects, emotions, places, or something else.
Today’s twist: write your post in the form of a dialogue.

MinG

The Grass Is Definitely Greener…

/ minor6th / Leave a comment

Today’s Prompt: Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more.

A few years ago I wrote a song called “Take Me Away”. The lyrics reflected my weariness at being in a city where I felt deprived of the space to breathe.

I was dissatisfied with my job, tired of the bureaucracy of being a small cog in a very large corporate machine, and grimy from the constant dust thrown up by improvements to the centre of Liverpool, as it was prepared for being the City Of Culture in 2008. I was ready for a change.

One day I observed someone pushing their way past everyone so they could to get to the ticket barrier first. They were not alone, and one bad days, I joined that race. On this occasion, they almost knocked down the blind guy who I often saw on the way into Liverpool. Something in my mind said, “they show you no pity”, and soon after, the song was born.

Sad sad song coming up from the pavement,
every day just the same such frustration,
look of sheer desperation and dismay.
Sad sad face looking out from the window,
saying “where did my yesterdays go?” 
Hanging on for tomorrow, night and day.

So take me away from the sad lonely face of the city,
Take me away from the grey and the black and the blue.
I don’t want to stay in a place where they show you no pity.
So sorry babe, I got to say,
Take me away.

Lyrically, I was yearning for open countryside. Move forward two years and I made my escape. For the last few years I have been working in a rurally based company with an agricultural focus. Yes, there’s still bureaucracy – I suspect that I will always experience this in my line of work – but I am a larger cog in a smaller machine, and there is so much fresh air just outside the door.

Where I took my lunchtime walk on Wednesday

Where I took my lunchtime walk on Wednesday

Ironically, the thing I miss the most about not working in Liverpool is the train journey. Logistically I am forced to drive to and from work every day, which affords me the privacy that public transport cannot, but I am not able to read, or close my eyes and drift away, and write a song or two.

 MinG

Writing 101: Mind Unlocked

/ minor6th / Leave a comment

“Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.”

Well, having read the instructions for the course, I’m not sure if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve taken that plunge into the deep waters, without considering the middle depths that splits this place from the comforting pull of the shallow end.

I’ll confess right now that I am editing a little as I go along. Twenty minutes of heading off into Lord knows where without looking back over your shoulder isn’t my style. I’m used to rules, order, cross checks and validation. I’m typing this into word to upload later, but to be honest, I’m happier building something in excel.

So why write?

Well, I feel limited by my profession. It’s not that it isn’t satisfying within its own bounds, but I am more than its bounds allow. So I set up a “me” space on wordpress and I wrote. A little. Mainly when on holiday. In between the time when I sit in my own space and “do my thing” and the day job, there are flashes on inspiration. Some even when I am constructing the formula in cell C1. But how to turn those flashes into something readable? Something worthy. Not worthy, I don’t really like the word. It conjures up images of long full skirts with high elasticated-waistbands. And sensible shoes. Although I am a fan of the latter. I hope to produce something that someone out there will enjoy, and maybe be inspired by.

It isn’t helped by the lack of “life experience”. I was lucky enough to have a happy up-bringing with loving parents, a good education and I made the most of that. I have a husband who loves me and we live a simple but comfortable existence.

So am I saying that art has to be created from adversity? My favourite pieces are in a minor key.

But as I sit here typing my thoughts as they appear, with a backdrop of Eno’s Ambient 1 (track 1 – a good timer), I fear that I will experience what Kazuo Ishiguro recently related in an interview publicising his latest book. In his youth he attended a writing course run by Malcolm Bradbury. The students had given up a year of their life to develop their literary muscles. Many had self-funded. They knew that they had not been able to fulfil their dream of professional writing because of constraints. Constraints placed upon them by work, or family, lack of space. How heart breaking for them to discover that, when presented with the blank canvas and the time to fill it, they had nothing to say.

What if that is me?
Eno track 1 has completed which means that I must stop in two minutes. I will re-read. I’m not so brave to publish blind, yet…

MinG

60k On The Clock

/ minor6th / 1 Comment

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Ephemeral.”

60k

I make no apology for the quality of the image. This was taken when I was a passenger in my husband’s car, and the milometer had just done that magical thing and moved on from 59999 to 60000. Not everyone gets so excited about that moment but we did. We patted the dash and said something like “Good old Dave, 60k and still running well”. All our cars have had names. At least since I decided they should. Now that is a whole new thread….

Reading the title of the photo challenge, my mind was initially pulled towards clouds, sunsets, magical views glimpsed by chance. I then started to consider the definition:

 Lasting for a very short time

And I thought about our place on earth. We each last a very short time, relatively speaking. As I trawled through old photos, looking for a moody graveyard shot, I came across this, and I thought “Ahh, yes.”

It’s a pretty poor example of digital photography (I think that I used my then phone, the trusty HTC Radar), but it captured that moment. Actually, it didn’t. A single shot couldn’t capture the exact moment that 60k showed up. You would need two shots, before and after. Better still, a short video clip.

But why did I bother? Why were we so hung up on capturing that moment? It was meaningless. Just a number. Made less significant by the fact that we didn’t buy the car from new. So this didn’t mark 60,000 miles together. We were on our way back from a short holiday. It seemed appropriate at the time that our automotive buddy had hit the Big Six-O on a journey home. Why? I honestly have no idea.

On a related note, the break had been postponed because we had been caring for our sick cat when first planned. He wasn’t well enough to stay in a cattery, so the holiday company let us reschedule. Said cat died the following new year.  After a good innings, but relatively ephemeral existence. We are accustomed to marking significant anniversaries. Birthdays, weddings, important events in history. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is my need to sigh wistfully at about ten past six on a Sunday evening, and think about that cat.

I might raise a glass, or mug of tea, sometimes, “To our dear lost friend. Never forgotten”. The time varies, I can’t even get that right because at on the original Sunday evening, I was more consumed by the sadness of the situation to take note of the exact time of departure. Why the ritual?

I can only assume that I, like many others, do this to not forget. It’s a practice that was instilled in many of us at a young age. Remembrance Day, St George’s Day, Christmas. Each on their own set day of the year. Why should we be forced to feel grateful, patriotic or celebratory at these times? I can be paralysed with grief over the loss of the cat at the unlikeliest of moments. I can also be minded of his traits and I will smile. I won’t forget. The Sunday ritual only serves to keep the wound fresh and do I really need that?

As I write this post, it is the first Sunday of British Summer Time (yes it’s all ours folks!) The clocks have been moved forward.

What could more ephemeral than an hour taken before it has started.

I wonder at what time I should raise the glass?

MinG