Possibly

I only have myself to blame for my all too serious, brooding attitude.
No, I dislike the word brood and anything that stems from it. Too gloomy. Too stern or sad of face, not that during these moments I can actually see my face. There's not a mirror to hand, to check or widen my eyes at as if in surprise that this is what I look like; or that I exist, because sometimes I wonder at this: that I exist at all. That I'm still here. Though there's no reason why I shouldn't be, why I wouldn't be. It's just as the years roll on it seems more astonishing.
If I told you my years, how many I own, you'd laugh. For it's nothing. Almost but not quite four decades. And yet I seem to have reached a stage I don't think I ought to have reached. Even though it developed long ago and has long since reached its maturity. There's still some room for growth, but I think my nature is more or less set now.
I was warned of that. But I didn't take heed. Not really. And sometimes the course of life meant that I couldn't. How do you change the mind anyhow? When it's a case of being, and to be so different again, would be a compromise too far, possibly. Which is The Old Lady in the Van's favourite ending. Possibly. The risk doesn't seem worth it, though Alan Bennett's Miss Shepherd wouldn't have agreed with that. She was always taking them, though some of them might be thought small, too everyday. At least in the years Alan knew her (do I have the right to call him Alan? So presumptuous of me when I only know his writing and not his person). To me, Miss Shepherd's way of living was risky. And uncomfortable, though she appears to have liked (and thrived) on its many discomforts. It was independence, after all, of a sort always at odds with society. She needed to be free, I imagine, of ties. You grow used to what you know. And feel safe in it.
The risks I contemplate seem too endangering. And to contemplate them now also seems unwise, somehow. Others commit them or to them every day, with far less thought. Sometimes without any because they possess more certainty in which paths to follow and which to not, or have more faith that whichever they take will work out. And if it doesn't (and even brings sorrow with it) it's just one more adventure. Whenever I make comparisons with these others (which is something we all do, but should never do) I only ever perceive what they have and what I lack, such as decision-making prowess and action: acting on impulse rather than proceeding with caution and talking themselves out of it. They don't think, they do. Perhaps they don't have a choice; that is the only option. Whereas I would still contest it. Wrestle with it for a bit, and then more than likely do nothing.
If I suddenly chose to follow a more conventional (and more sociable) lifestyle, then I would still exist but on the brink of extinction, if you get my meaning. A front would be put up and the real person would be at the back. I think I do that to some extent anyway, to cope in some situations, but I wouldn't want to become locked-in. Trapped. Hammering on my eyeballs. I guess that's why I have so much sympathy for and with those that are, literally and physically, and who wish to die with dignity. But that's another matter entirely and not up for discussion. Not now. I just didn't want you to think I was using that metaphor lightly. I don't. I live in fear of that struggle, for myself and anyone else it might come to.
And yet, I suppress myself in so many regards. My impulses, when I have them, I don't think are like those had by others. They shouldn't for the most part be acted upon, and if I let them sit they will pass, despite sometimes driving me almost nuts in the process. But when they have naturally dissipated, I think: Thank God I didn't! Which is one of the only moments, if you discount saying grace, I thank God.
I know my regrets – I don't like the word regret either but there we are - and I know my obsessions, my funny ideas. I know my character. Not that I think it's fully formed, but it's more fixed than ever, possibly.
I was warned.

Picture credit: The Fan, c.1919, Marie Laurencin, Tate artworks

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Intensely Private

I don't like to obtrude on people because I don't like being obtruded upon. I don't know if that's all to the good. Because perhaps some people want you to, to intrude a little, not only for themselves but also so you show your vulnerabilities. So they know you feel you can (with them) because they feel unable to offer or ask.
The lines although unspoken of have at some point been drawn or sensed. There's a sensitivity there that would sometimes benefit from blunt force; a well-intentioned clumsiness almost if in-roads are to be made. If trust is to begin. The hand of friendship extended, or strengthened. Or even just change: a gradual shift in tolerance of what's okay, what's not. What is acceptable and what will be politely refused. Thanked, if on the odd occasion it helps them out, or was obviously kindly-meant though unasked for, but will be an irritation if that action becomes habitual, since it means it can't then be taken (and accepted) as a considerate thought. A circumstance that seemed to arise innocently, though it may not have, but which if repeated too often in that same guise or another begins to encroach on their personal space, fills it up or takes up a regular corner. Like the old men you occasionally still see in pubs, in their usual seat, huddled over and morosely staring into a pint.
Imagine feeling that way about a do-gooder, because the recipient of that behaviour wouldn't be able to help it. Neither would want to risk offence, yet inadvertently they've offending each other. And saying nothing about it, only showing it in facial expressions and body language 'No Fair!' as a child might say as if the game's been cheated at or the older sibling or adult's won.
Tread carefully because you tread on my feelings, to misquote Yeats' He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, because dreams in this instance don't enter into it. It's a mode of being. Which to both is foreign. Somewhat.
All of us, to some extent, have borders we don't like to be crossed, certainly not uninvited. The problem is sometimes hints are made that it would be okay and they're not picked up on. Or it goes completely the other way and the unsubtle hints that it's not, aren't. Yes, it's a conundrum that humans are poor at. And getting poorer at. Annually.
Some people are lonely; others like to be alone. Some are joiners; some are decidedly not. One rule doesn't fit the other. And then there's some who like company and privacy, just not to a timetable enforced by anyone other than themselves. That have-to, made-to, duty-like feeling is hard to mitigate and removes enjoyment from any social situation, as well as the ease in which you might enter into it. Although there are times it can't be avoided when someone unexpected descends on you. Grin and bear it is the maxim.
Grit your teeth, is how I refer to it, and it seems I do this, mildly, in sleep too, so maybe there is something to be said for dreams. That in mine there are still inhibitions that I haven't give voice to and won't. Ground, ground, ground...presumably because in waking life I've given some, grudgingly. And now, in sleep, I'm clawing it back.
Intensely private people find it difficult to lighten (and brighten) up where matters of overstepping are concerned. Yet at the same time we get so used to our private state we can't ask when we wish it, for a moment, otherwise. Especially because usually it needs to be of the 'Now', not next week or in a month's time, but NOW. Something that's built up needs to be relieved, almost like a pressure cooker except it's not explosive if ignored. It would just die, a balloon pricked by a pin, without the bang. A sad and sudden deflation in spirit, reflected on but almost as quickly forgotten about. That's my experience anyway.
Sometimes that pressure can wait till the morrow, be content simmering if there's a plan, an outing afoot. To talk, to share, to see people. On your (and their) terms. When it's not an ordeal as it's been arranged and agreed, even if on some small level you're tolerating some of it. Why do I always say tolerate when it should be seen as compromise?
No matter. Aha, maybe that's it – the scale slides. From person to person. From day to day.

Picture credit: Mrs C P Grant, 1921, Stanley Spencer.

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

To Be Abhorred

A hungry dog believes in nothing but meat.
A business man believes in nothing but money. A company CEO believes in nothing but profit and growth.
A risk-taker believes in nothing but risk.
An optimist believes in nothing but hope. A pessimist believes in nothing but warnings.
A nun or monk believes in nothing but faith and charity.
A rich man believes in nothing but sitting on top of the world. A poor man believes in nothing but sitting on the bottom, among the fishes.
A burglar believes in nothing but stealing. A murderer believes in nothing but killing. A judge believes in nothing but justice.
A photo journalist believes in nothing but pictures. A writer believes in nothing but words. Both believe in telling a story.

*

A simplistic, pared-down view of how some beings might see and respond to the world, and to their place in it, when it's been reduced as in a recipe: when all superfluous and miscellaneous facts have diminished so that only the very essence of what makes them them remains, e.g. their motivation or core belief, which was either given to them, from birth, or learned through experience or example.
And for some these may change. Depending on where they start out from or where they get to, but that motivation or belief must have always been there. Mustn't it? Lurking, if not immediately apparent. Waiting for the right opportunity to appear and make itself known. To its bearer and its potential audience.
Is it depressing? It could be seen that way
Is it true? It's a generalisation so no, and yes.
It's not anything. The above are just statements, not of fact, not of truth, that occurred having read that first line, a quote accorded to Anton Chekhov, that I built on.
Why? Who can say...I can't. Who can when a muse strikes...And I didn't even act directly upon it yet it wouldn't leave me alone, so that I then had to look it up because I was sure I'd come across it initially in a Michael Frayn translation of The Cherry Orchard, where the conversation revolved around money. That I didn't reaffirm, but I did find that line.
It's the image of a hungry dog that stayed. Outlived the play, and, if I'm wrong in my inference, equated that hunger for meat with money. To my mind, they're the same.
Some humans have been known to drool at the sight of bank notes. Or if really affluent bars of gold.
Money sustains everything as does 'meat' meaning in this context food, nourishment. Both hold things up. Dogs and small boys, for example. Here, I'm thinking of Goodbye Mr Chips, where Mr Chipping called a rissole (a fried cake of minced meat) served at Brookfield on Mondays 'abhorrendum', 'meat to be abhorred'. Money buys meat in which to feed dogs and small boys. How much secures the sale and quality.
And if meat can be described as an abomination so can money. Money makes the world go round, money talks, money opens doors. Money gets you the best education, the best homes, the more comfortable lifestyle. None of which is false, but can it also bring contentedness? Can it stop the getting of and the going after? Because when is enough enough, if you're of that mindset, unless of course you're also philanthropic. Although if the donor or the donation is found to be tainted then charity may not be accepted, and may even be returned.
Money, it is said, is amoral, which I take the sayers to mean money itself and not the possessor. Money is the bait, the cheese in the trap, the worm on the hook, It doesn't, nor can it, make questionable choices. However, that hunger, as in a fable, is as wily as a dog.

Picture credit: Allegory of Fortune, 1658, Louvre, Salvator Rosa (source: Wikipedia)

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Sea Change

I'm not against killing. Animals.
I could leave that there. Park it as some say. I don't need to justify it to anyone, least of all myself, but I guess for others an explanation or a reasoning could prove interesting, not that I expect many (or any) to be on my wavelength. Especially not when the trend is to 'Go Vegan!' and be militant with it, or if not aggressive in voice and action to at least put your views across in a style normally associated with a rebellious age. What I mean by that is doing so without listening, without respect, without tolerance.
Maybe such an approach, my approach, will seem soft, too soft, to the newly 'converted'. And let it be known I dislike that word: converted, but I can think of no better when a seed has been sown from which, with time, a root takes shape. I just hope the seed hasn't been planted by an opinion movement and has instead grown from the individual's own thoughts and ideas.
I tread the line between a vegetarian and a vegan, and I'm a veteran of some years – almost a quarter of a century if you must know – yet I feel there's a divide between those persuaded long ago and those persuaded now.
Maybe when you're young at it, you're much more passionate or zealous, although I don't remember being as such. Mine was a quiet conviction and mine alone. It still is. Frankly, I'm often appalled by the outspoken behaviour of newcomers; so ashamed there have been moments I've felt like turning away from all I've known and practised.
Would I? Certainly not! But there's definitely a generational divide – not of age as in years but as in what year, what decade that choice was made. And by whom i.e. was it you? was it peer pressure? was it a jumping on the band-wagon thing? Or was it for a reason more compelling than that – an image, a news story, a personal shift due to something you witnessed, an experience or health scare?
I'm not about to defend my lifestyle (or eating) habits as I don't expect others, any others, to do the same, in front of or around me. There's no eggshells here. Nobody needs to be apologetic or feel awkward. Eat what you want to, don't what you don't. I'm not offended. I don't want to lecture you and I don't want you to ask me to justify.
I care about the welfare of animals, but I'm not an extremist. Nor do I think it's logical to believe that there's a utopia of vegetarianism or veganism out there, at least not one which humans intentionally bring about. En masse. Through their decisions. No, if that paradise appears (and it is by some seen as that) it will have been brought on, or should I say forced upon us. The option to consume fish and meat taken away because it's not environmentally sound in a depleted world.
Science develops ways around all the time, so I really can't imagine a future where 'meat' is not engineered in some form. Animals made, rather than born in the natural method. Cells used and modified. A world where meat is not on the menu is not a vision I share, or want. Which, yes, might seem hypocritical or a contradiction of the rules I live by. But I hate suppression, of any sort. Which includes (forcefully) telling someone else to do as I do.
People are going to eat meat. A minority or a majority. It doesn't matter. I'm not going to preach or make out I'm better than you – a better vegetarian or better for abstaining altogether. Mine is not 'this is the path to Heaven' attitude. Because that notion, borrowed from, I imagine, historical religious influences, is unhealthy and unreasonable. And provokes clashes, rather than (and ahead of) peaceful co-existence.
Why does any decision pertaining to lifestyle have to be wrong? Abhorrent, even?
What I am saddened by is ignorance. Wilful ignorance. The 'we don't want to know' brigade which for me is hard to write about because I have friends and family who fall into this category, and it's just not possible or worthwhile to 'have it out'. To what purpose anyway?
I will not pass judgement. I will not expect, nor try to enforce, a sea change because of the personal choices I've made, because of the views I hold.

Picture credit: Beach at Scheveningen in Stormy Weather, 1881, Vincent van Gogh

All posts published this year were penned during the last.