The Quotidian Round

Why am I fond of Latinate locutions? I haven't written long enough, or simply enough. As long as I write something, somewhere, about anything at any time of day . . .
So what is this quotidian round, this day-to-day living which tends to wear me out? What are the essentials I have to take care of? Sleeping well, eating healthily, keeping clean, wearing clothes appropriate for the weather and wearing a good pair of comfortable shoes for the journey . . . sharp pencils, ink filled pens and clean paper, and reading which may spark ideas in my mind's eye . . . to be still.

I'm still here

"Procrastination . . . the thief of Time . . . " I'm not at home at the moment and of course as soon as I try write here all the ideas for themes, topics and trivia that I have not made note of are gone from my mind.

I have been browsing, and marking to follow, many blogs and I feel such an utter inchoate novice, if that isn't a tautology, with my little effort here which has no focus; and which I have left far too long. We are each the centre of the universe. I imagine myself as a signpost in a vast desert; the many arms of the signpost point to the horizon, to the sky, to my feet. Some of these blogs I follow publicly giving you the chance to explore them through the links in my profile . . .

Much time has been used playing country dance tunes on the dulcimer. Some time was rescued taking pictures of wildflowers; a project much mulled over for several years.

Any idiot can face a crisis.

It's this day-to-day living that wears you out. (Anton Chekov) Which is why I haven't been here lately to focus on what I am seeking. I have been dreaming. I have been bemoaning the heat. I have been watching gathering clouds each afternoon; wishing for more than a sprinkle; hoping we won't be deluged. I sleep, eat; stare at a computer screen wondering where the Muses hide . . . I talk to my sister on the 'phone; I raise my voice above the hum of fans, air-conditioner and humidifier to talk to Kathy across the room. I watch a little TV and finish reading A Plague of Doves; I continue dipping into Sailing Home; re-reading Blue Highways. I play a little music on the dulcimer and recorders; I listen to selected programmes on BBC Radio4 . . . I write very brief journal notes in the morning. I browse others' blogs. I receive a letter from a dear friend . . . he plans to visit this fall. I think of the things I am not going to mention here . . . I wait in hope of customers at the bookstore . . .

I read the Declaration of Independence once again and think of Thomas Paine sitting on my bookshelves . . . spent the Fourth in the mountains near Silver City, New Mexico . . .

Could do better

In 2002 Pocket Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, Published a little book subtitled School Reports of the Great and Good. Whilst I do not count myself among the Great I think I am fairly good. That first report at the top of the post shows that I still came top of a class of thirty-eight scoring only 73% overall when in the previous report I'd scored 81% overall. I don't think the standard of the class as a whole could have been very high. The report below is from a time when I was advanced a class early. Note that I am six months younger than the average in a class of forty-two. I'm an autumn baby and most of my class mates were born in the spring; the following year the situation is reversed. What has this to do with seeking episteme or finding myself or knowing who I am? The Jesuits said some thing like show me a boy of seven and I will show you the man. A series of documentary films was made beginning in 1964 with a group of seven years olds to illustrate the Jesuit idea. Subsequent films were made with the same children at 14, 21, 28, 35, 42 and finally I believe 49. Looking at my old reports several consistent traits are apparent: I'm easily distracted from my work; I'm interested in history and geography; I try hard but am often careless (especially with handwriting and spelling); I show great promise . . . but my self esteem received a severe blow when I did not achieve the 11+ result expected of me.  I'm still working on the shows promise bit.

Vanity, vanity

What's in a name? Just did a search, as I am sure everyone does, of my own name on Microsoft's new search engine Bing. (But it's not Google). Add a cricketer and an Austalian rules footballer to the list in the profile. I can not distinguish myself with a middle initial. Alan is all I am, not Al (though I'm not adamant about that).

Are we there yet?

Not quite done travelling. I went to meet Kathy in Socorro, New Mexico on the road from Colorado. This was Thursday when we set off along US 60 through Magdelena, passed the Very Large Array radio telescope, Datil; and stopped in Pie Town, New Mexico for . . . pie and coffee; Quemado, Red Hill and home to Arizona.

I've gone all quiet. Reading. Looking at photos. Just contemplate the grazing horses.

Blast from the more recent past

About 1990 that is. With my meanderings about the web and thinking of past interests I came upon some steam engine sites. Traction and railway. I have quite a few snaps of shots I took at the Weeting rally in about 1990. I have spent nearly all my spare time today scanning and labelling photos to upload to Flickr dot com. Steam engines fascinated me when I was little and I liked nothing more than to go down to the station to watch shunting work; or to go and sit with the level-crossing keeper and watch the signals and marvel at the new Britannia's pounding up from London hauling passenger trains to Norwich. At the library I would find all the railway books and look at the pictures of these powerful beasts snorting smoke and steam. Later, when I could read, I would read all the stories of railways in The Railway Lovers' Companion.

Mr. Button was one of the local council workers who looked after the steam roller at the local works. He built a working model. Mr Banyard was another engineer who build several working models of traction engines.

. . . to resume seeking . . .

. . . to rest my eyes on a far horizon, that ever receding edge of the world keeping me at the centre of the plain, on the plane, at the centre of space/time. Erehwon comes to mind; and Flatland. Julian of Norwich bricked up in her cell . . .
. . . the tide is out . . . but . . . Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
--Mahatma Gandhi

Six hundred and sixty miles

. . . home. Zoë knew what was coming and didn't make a fuss and snoozed on the back seat of the car except for pit stops the last of which was at the El Malpais National Monument in New Mexico. I had stopped here briefly on the way to Colorado last Friday morning. The road between Grants and Quemado is lonely and passes through the badlands formed from the lava flows from volcanos which last erupted only eight hundred years ago. La Ventana (the Window) is a natural arch just off highway 117 . . .
Place names which intrigue me because they are juxta -posed on one signpost along Interstate 25 in New Mexico:
Cimarron
Eagle Nest
Angel Fire

Post Factum

I managed to practice and play a little music; no writing; no inner musings; no mail; no money; time of little consequence . . .

This kite stayed aloft for most of the week-end; came to earth just three times.
All good things must come to an end. Two more shots of one Colorado sunset minutes apart

One More Day

The views of the distant, snow covered Rockies over Denver are spectacular, especially at sunset.
One more day in Colorado. Now I am finally relaxed and caught up with time. Kathy is thrilled with the trailer (caravan). Last night was the first opportunity we had of spending the night in the trailer together and trying to sort out the plumbing. Sassy, Kathy's cat, has taken over the bed as that is her safe place. I've been playing the dulcmer; and Steve has been entertaining us with lots of music. Zoë has been wandering about but staying well clear of the horses! Fred the llama stays aloof in his pasture. Am I any closer to finding myself? No, but . . . this sure is a beautiful place in which to lose oneself.

More Travelling

Colorado this time. A gathering of families and friends to celebrate Dale's earning the degree of Doctor of Veterinary Medicine from Colorado State University at Fort Collins.

Colchester Castle Redux

Jet Lag

I'd forgotten all about the effects of flying at great speed across many time zones; especially from east to west. I've been feeling very sorry for myself but now I've re-acquainted myself with the dulcimer and played some jolly jigs and rollicking reels I'm feeling a little better.
I took 337 pictures and eight brief video clips whilst in England. So what? Now I need the find the 3,370,000 words to describe the memories they evoke. Didn't I cite the 'one picture is worth ten thousand words' text?

Tempus fugit

My time in England is almost done; the rental car is due to be returned tomorrow; I have finally bought a book by Alain de Botton; I have just relished the greenery and noise and bustle of people about their daily business, walking and talking . . . the traffic and main roads I could do without.

England

My body is here . . . now the rest of me has to catch up. See pictures and read an account at This Sceptred Isle

Life on hold

Travelling, when not undertaken very much, I find a little nerve wracking. It's the preparation and ensuring all documentation is current and correct; the fear of arriving at the airport only to discover your passport is in the other coat pocket; the idea of sitting in an aircraft for ten hours or so . . .

. . . No, I enjoy travelling really . . . just so long as I have a window to stare out of, even if it is at 37 000 feet; even if it is dark; even if there is only the ocean below or prairie or tundra.

When I was little trains were the way to go, and the top of double decker 'busses the way to see the road ahead. Travelling in a motor car was a novel treat.

Life is often described as a journey. Something a little more involved than mere travelling. A journey means stopping and taking notice, taking detours, getting lost and finding one's way again.

I missed a day

Tax day is usually very stressful. Leaving everything to the last minute (we owe). E-filed but the paperwork still has to be sent; and the State taxes had to be done the old fashioned way.

Kathy's trailer is built. This was a want after buying a truck with a tow package . . . more about this in a month's time, after my trip to England and celebrating Dale (brother-in-law) graduating from veterinary school in Colorado.

How is this helping me find myself? The stresses of preparing for the trip to England; Kathy being super excited about the trailer; the logistics of caring for the cats and Zoë whilst we're gone . . . I become a fractious child. Stop it! Grow up! I tend to make things more difficullt and complicated than they are.

What a moaning-minnie. Normal service will be resumed when I've composed myself . . . tomorrow.

The day . . .

started at six o'clock this morning with coffee brewing. Aaah. Then walking Zoë our aging Siberian husky. Out to breakfast: one egg over-easy, wheat toast and more coffee. Home to make international 'phone call then played dulcimer: scales, arpeggios, a couple of dexterity exercises, Swallowtail, Jamie Allen, Winster Gallop, Liberty, Red Haired Boy, Blackthorn Stick . . .
Errands to bank and drug store. Formatted, printed and made up itinerary-cum-journal for the trip to England. Checked e-mails. Guitar class and home to BBC News America and Top Gear then caught up here (where-ever 'here' is) . . . .

Hearth and Home

Four o'clock on a winter's afternoon. A Wednesday, early closing day. Choral Evensong from some far away cathedral is on the wireless. Crumpets for tea. "What did you do at school today?" I'm going to walk Lynn home across the fields, only a mile or so. I am six years old.

Butterflies (a note to myself)

That's what fleeting thoughts are, butterflies. Very difficult to chase and capture. But with patience and a sweet scent and they will alight on the back of one's hand where one can study the pattern of the wings; see the antennae test the air; feel the tickle of insect feet . . .

. . . or catch 'em when they are caterpillars! And patiently nurture the chrysalis; no, don't help the butterfly emerge, the struggle fills the wings' capillaries . . . then once dry they're off.

So, thoughts come unbidden; they can't be caught. With patience insights will be born.

Why thrup'ny bits?

I just like them and just happened to have a couple to snap. Sorry the quality of the picture is so poor. The twelve-sided nickel-brass coin on the left was introduced in the 1930s.
Silver threepenny pieces remained in circulation but became much less common. 

I started a second blog (This Sceptred Isle . . .) to record my forthcoming trip to England. I last visited England in 1998 before my father died.

The primary purpose of this visit is to attend my niece Clare's wedding in Colchester on the 25th April . . . but I expect I'll ring a few bells and down a few pints of real ale; catch up with dear friends and do a bit of sight-seeing (play the tourist). Oh, and I'll be going to a matinée of Oliver!

Now I wonder if I'll be able to get to Upton-upon-Severn for the folk festival?

Started the second blog for the journey . . . and Colchester is one place I'll be sure to visit . . . 'cos that's where Clare's wedding is . . . at the town hall, not the castle. Just didn't want to miss a day's posting.

QUO VADIS?

Writing without using the first person singular is a good exercise. Very much more difficult when trying to write about one's self. The photo scanning project is on hold as there are just too many pictures to review; and quite a few are duplicates. Many are of places that would have to carry the caption, "Somewhere in . . . ?"

There was yet another dusting of snow this morning; quite beautiful under the reflected light of the sun from the full moon! There have been three falls of snow here in the past two weeks each preceded by very gusty winds. "But he lives in Arizona? How can this be?" It can be at seven-thousand feet altitude in the mountains. The plants are desperate for the moisture; the wild-life, too.

QUO VADIS?

Nostalgia

Memories come unbidden. Pictures evoke untold memories. "One picture is worth ten thousand words". This picture can not cause memories to come unbidden. My parents about twelve years before I came along. Early this morning I rummaged in a closet to find a particular photo. I found more pictures than I expected: two book boxes full. Why make them public? Of what interest could they be to a stranger?


The first picture of me (do you get the idea I'm a bit self absorbed?). Stangers would stop mum in the High to peer into the pram to see the baby, "Oh, isn't she lovely"; "Actually 'she' is a 'he'". I was born with a full head of hair!

Silence

Recherché

This was taken by Sam McClelland in November, 1978. Is that a smirk? I wonder what happened to that silver necklace? My hair would never grow much longer; not quite long enough to make a decent pony-tail. I liked tightly fitting Britannia jeans then, too; and no they weren't flared.

Fear of the unknown

    What am I doing here? Shyness expresses itself in the feeling that I am not supposed to be here. I can't let myself go. I used to be terrified of being under water. I used to be afraid of the dark. I used to fear that wild animals would tear me apart in my dreams. Still, deep black water unnerves me yet. The blank page. The unknown. Hardly an intrepid explorer, am I? Then what am I doing here?

Day two

    Just a personal note: played hammered dulcimer much of the day. Guitar class in the evening. I felt like myself today . . . whoever that is . . . I play some more with this tomorrow. And tomorrow I may have something to say . . .