The Nights of No Reckoning

2.40am, and ten minutes after I'd been woken, I flung aside the curtain, its metal rings clinking on its pole, with a formidable glare ready for the perpetrators, who had stolen into my dreams like a thief and his accomplice to steal from me what could only be obtained at night: peace and quiet; rest and illusions, but the violent twitch of the curtain must have alerted them for the confab instantly stopped and instead I found myself glowering out at nothing and no one.
My annoyance lessening steadily with each bewildered scan of the all-too empty scene. Where had the duo, for I had assumed from the voices it was no more than a duo or at the very least a person talking into a mobile, scampered to so quickly? It wasn't possible that one or two persons could have exited so swiftly without sight or sound, not in the blaze of the on-all-night security lights that I'd had to procure a black-out blind for and yet still don a none too fetching eye mask to leave the land of living but which didn't protect against noise.
Noise that possibly only an overly sensitive person would become aware of, breaking into their light sleep or preventing a deeper layer. Noise of the sort that could be felt to be inconsiderate, which on other occasions had been tolerated to the extent they were awake but remained motionless, lying under the duvet, irritated but unwilling to leave its body-heated swaddling.
This, after four nights of similar and lying motionless with the occasional muttered or shouted swear word, was the night, as you will have gathered, an overly sensitive person (namely me) broke that passive pattern prepared to, if need be, be aggressive with a barely thought-out plan of attack: a blasted exchange or a washing up bowl of water.
That, as you already know, didn't come to pass (or has since) which sometimes I feel downhearted about for opportunities such as that are rare. I never get the chance or the justification to be 'nasty', although neither plan a or plan b would have given the result I desired, that of quiet, and would instead have further fuelled the flame of indignation.
But back to that night, another night of no reckoning, as my bewilderment turned to intrigue, stood there like a blundering Watson without a Sherlock simply marvelling at the lack of running footfalls and echoed hoots of laughter, and as if I expected the conjurer of this mysterious act to show his shaded face. To perhaps look up at me as Romeo might his Juliet, although all he'd probably see is a window framing a child in pyjamas.
A pale face pressed to the glass and a form silhouetted with light as if I'd been torn out of a comic strip or were a film poster, captured there for all time, at the same age, in the same unflinching pose.
That of course didn't transpire. Why is it so easy for me to put myself into another's position, even though to my knowledge that other or others that night didn't exist?
Here, a measured voice might interject to state the reasons why: She's highly imaginative, and believes too much of what she reads, in at least the possibility of it. She's not easily shocked or surprised, and believes that you can't, though others say it, be both. How can you both? she demands of whoever feeds that line to her, regardless of whether it's direct or via a more public radio mike or camera crew. It's her one impossibility. An oxymoron that cannot be, so it's pointless saying it....ha, ha, ha....fade like Michael Jackson's Thriller as the needle slips and scratches.
An ongoing commentary that you can't hear which explains you to others would at times I think be helpful. Was it? or was it just weird? The latter probably...I've lost control...this anecdotal account doesn't know what it wants to be. How can it? when it was a one-time, one-night only event, which unlike an LP or video that can be repeated hasn't been, though some of the same elements have reoccurred as surely as night follows day: after midnight conversations and curses sent up to the ceiling or in the direction of the bedroom window as sleep's been stolen from me, but never, to date, have I been tempted or that frustrated to pierce these talkers with a glare.

Picture credit: Girl by the Window, artist unknown

I See Sausages

Sometime last year I noticed a weird effect that I hadn't observed before, that when I wore contact lenses certain parts of my body seemed magnified, not to ridiculous proportions like that of a circus mirror, just somewhat bigger width-wise.
Toes and fingers instantly took on the form of cocktail sausages: fat and stubby, and not the elegant piano-playing hands and dancer's feet I was told I had, not that I can list those accomplishments amongst my better qualities, but having them was halfway to being convincing i.e. they looked the part., and well, sometimes assumptions even if they're wildly wrong are pleasing for the ego is stroked.
Anyhow, this alteration to my perception quite fascinated me, and as to the study of these shortened members well! I was absorbed, which sounds rather narcissistic doesn't it? as if I were a babe recognising myself for the first time in a mirror, except in this instance I wasn't using or looking in one; I guess eyes could be described as such if they weren't my very own and were reflecting other individuals like that of a window you walk by, but no, instead they were shamelessly navel-gazing. Actually, they tended to bypass the navel and focus entirely on the toes, seeing as usually when this occurred I was in a forward-bend or about to lunge or strike a Warrior pose, all the time experiencing Monkey Mind, trying to fathom out why? why? They didn't appear this way earlier or yesterday when my eyes were aided with my at-home spectacles. Can toes be fattened? I know fairy tales suggest they can, but where's the evidence? Am I it? And so on...which is very unhelpful for the mindful aspect of yoga.
Later my hands would be just as closely scrutinised as if I were admiring a ring on a finger: held out level with my face, slightly star-fished (the correct term, I think, is splayed, but I prefer star-fished but then we each have our oddities. You should hear some of the words I mispronounce or can't for some reason sound out), and turning them this way and that to conceive every nail and knuckle, and where as with the toes I'd see fat little sausages which would delight a butcher and instantly called up a counting song:

Ten fat sausages sizzling in a pan,

Ten fat sausages sizzling in a pan,
One went 'pop' and the other went 'bang',
Now there's eight fat sausages sizzling in a pan

and so on...until there's no fat sausages sizzling in pan since they've all gone 'bang', 'bang' bang', 'bang', and which in calling to mind made me question their swollen appearance, as well as why my eyes were lying to me for that was the only logical explanation, unless, of course, how I normally saw them (naked-eyed and through specs) was a grand illusion that no respectable scientist could replicate.

Perhaps this would have been a case for Oliver Sacks? But I know of nobody quite like him, that I would trust, as I did him, to go to for answers, though there are others who think they've plugged the gap, but what they're really doing is repeating and with less masterful skill too. Another I might have gone to would have been Levi, but it's not really his field of expertise. And when I say 'go to' and 'gone' I do mean in the way of reference; I'm not deranged, I know they're both deceased. Michael Mosley? Well, he's very much alive at least...he's affable...and his concern is with the body. I'll mark him down as a possible should these symptoms recur whenever I correct my sight with contact lenses.
An optometrist? No, they'd think I was mad, and only separate my thinking brain from my eyes. That's what most medicals professionals do whereas I'm of the view it's all connected. I don't buy into one problem, one appointment because the body is a network of readings, similar to a map of the underground, where a signal failure somewhere can cause disruption along the same line as well as that of others. Though that view has really very little to do with the sausage effect, because I'm already aware it's my eyes and brain in conjunction; that somehow the little discs I insert are tilting my vision.

Picture credit: Wallpaper design, 1889, C F A Voysey

Smallish View

Some of us, maybe it's most of us or relatively few, but let's start as I've begun, ambiguously with some because then nobody can be offended nor state a sweeping generalisation has been made by one who obviously doesn't know, and so, some of us, as I was about to say, take a smallish view.
Or should that be have? Hm that all depends doesn't it, on whether it's a picture they're taking, of say a current situation, or a view that's already formed, as in held and stood firmly by and not developing as the circumstances it applies to further develops.
Got that? Right, I'll continue...this notion of a smallish view is not the workings of my mind, but that of George Bernard Shaw, although I have to say I do agree, if not wholeheartedly then with at least three-quarters of my ponderous heart. The top right-hand chamber remains unconvinced, and is more confident that England as an island, as a people is less insular than it might have been in Shaw's days; that we do look outward though we still might not comprehend or react until a minor event, some ricochet from a bigger catastrophe, natural or man-made, has hit us. Square in the eyes, hard on the chin. Except that when it does our outrage and the action we demand is disproportionate to the actual happening that jolted us from sleep.
There were people dazed and confused during both World Wars too, or so I've read. Life, of a sort, carried on, even though 'their boys, their men' had gone to war. News items were read of and put aside, unless of course said catastrophe going on elsewhere, mostly on a continent across the sea, suddenly intruded upon and interrupted a man's breakfast, then all hell broke loose. Shaw wrote of this in a preface to Heartbreak House, which set my mind whirring: did that really happen? War, brought home, caused an almighty stir of the likes we see on social media, and gave the men in the trenches a good laugh, because of the over-reactions to what was to them (and can only be viewed in hindsight) a trivial consequence. A single bomb falling and upsetting a man's egg cup was an unworthy side-show to their own hardships.
The anecdote could however be a fiction used to good effect by Shaw, his point still clear to me years on: that like religion we cherry-pick our views of the world and how big or small we make it, or at least that's my understanding. Perhaps I've misunderstood (it wouldn't be the first time) or made of it what I wanted to make it, and we all do that don't we: align our steadfast opinions to any topic, and prior to the issue being raised in conversation – public or friendly – so when the instant comes our stance is fixed and nothing will sway us? Our view might get more entrenched, or there might, like a set jelly, be a couple of momentary wobbles until it returns to its fixed position: upright or slightly leaning to one side.
A good example of this, in practice, is the common-held view of those we consider wealthy (although our measure of wealth is subjective) which can include: those born to a life of seeming luxury, those who make everything they touch turn to hard cash and amass properties and other material goods, and those who suddenly have a burdensome life relieved through some sort of windfall, that a lot of money automatically solves every problem and makes all whom it benefits instantly happy and evermore contented.
It doesn't. It cannot. But that you cannot know until you've for some reason or another been in that wealthy category, and no, I've never been, to my knowledge, thus categorised, but then would people tell you outright if they'd made that assumption? Probably not. It's not an observation you draw attention to or discuss with whomever is the perceived demonstrator unless they care to admit it openly; no, you just observe quietly or mention it in passing to others, when, of course, the subject's out of hearing or not in the vicinity. The actual having of money, as in figures multiplying in an account somewhere, has the power to make life comfortable but also has the power to possess, and in turn make you want to possess: residences, items and people, evoking unappealing qualities as well as attracting them.
The point being that your view, whatever position you take as I've already stressed, depends on where you start from or where you've got to in age and experience.

Picture credit: Conversation Piece and Self-portrait, 1910, Spencer Gore

The Theatricality of it All

Sometimes you can't help but like the characters you shouldn't: they have the best lines, the best anecdotes, the right amount of sarcasm at a level that is acceptable and tolerated by those within their circle, as well as you, the reader, though you might think they're getting away with more than is just, but then this is a novel and you cannot be certain how much of this character is real or fictional, because if based on a real person he or she can be exaggerated, yet if true (but the real person is unknown to you) they can come across as so unbelievable as to make you assume their character has been exploited by the author simply for the act of appearing in their novel.
Maybe when reading (and enjoying) satirical personages, how they came to be and why shouldn't be contemplated, because it does if meditated on too deeply lessen their comedic effect, when their manner, although somewhat egotistical, is free and mocking and their chief attraction. Their utterances eloquent but abusive and delivered with smug smiles and curling lips and ridiculous flourishes. Their heads and hearts swelled with their own self-importance and pride as their opinion is sought, although unasked for it's often still given and listened to with the same awe, even if clumsily put or lacking in conviction. Snide comments are their bread and butter; truth is not necessary. Truth as in an accurate and true account of whatever they're relaying, truth as in their own held opinion. That's not their purpose as an addition to a house party, nor their aim.
Such characters are the entertainment: there to distort and to provoke; to be deliberately disagreeable and generally to amuse, if they're in (and as a host you hope they are) good humour because if they're not they can be either very dull or very cruel. Neither is what you the host or you the reader want, for what you want is for them to shock, to titillate, whereas if they refuse to engage or slump in a corner then the party, even if you're not actually there, is a ruined affair.
Their craft is this part they play: a role they made for themselves and perfected, and which is soon, if successful and popular, expected from them. A mask they have to wear which although it gets them invited everywhere can be tired of if for some reason they don't, won't or can't perform. An act such as this must not give way to normal human emotions or display them unless doing so furthers the farce. If they disappoint too often they'll soon be out of favour and forced to find it elsewhere.
Friends, in their proper sense, are rare, but then such characters, as they've made themselves, don't look for any, for if they did so the mask would have to slip, and then they fear they'd be found out, which as it happens many actors of different genres do, though for this type of whom we are speaking it's more related to their intelligence rather than their acting ability. They will be discovered to be merely pontificating and to, in actual fact, have very little to say for themselves. They have no opinions, but that of others. Any knowledge they have has been gleaned from reliable and unreliable sources and so they evade careful questioning, but are unafraid to turn a scrutinising eye on those who attempt to discover them. They are well-read, but only enough so that they can repeat verses and passages made fashionable; they know a little politics, just enough to get by; they know the intrigues of the social circle they happen to be in, enough to gossip or spread lies; and they know plenty of tales about people whom they profess to have met or heard tell of, though usually the persons and the circumstances are fabrications.
Their audience, however, is captivated, though not all wish to be and yet they find themselves nibbling like a greedy fish at what looks to be a most convenient wiggling snack to then find it's nothing of the sort but some man-made inedible resemblance on a concealed hook which is incidentally tied to a line. More than a couple of lines that in a very short time produce laughter, with and against the orator, and uncontrollable shaking; even on rare occasions silent shaking, as with their convulsions the sounds of laughter are swallowed or choked on, sometimes too with tears that make their eyes glisten like stars.

Picture credit: The New Spirit in Drama and Art, 1913, Spencer Gore

A Man at Ease

A man sits in shade with his eyes closed, not thinking and not doing anything, just sitting and enjoying the autumn sun and yet miles away. You might think if you chanced upon him he was resting from his labours – a spot of gardening maybe, a bit of weeding, a bit of hoeing, raking leaves and lawn mowing possibly – for he has the look of a gardener and his apparel hints that might be the case: lightweight shirt and trousers, both bit a bit creased and dirt-soiled, especially the elbows and knees, a sturdy pair of dusty brown loafers and a straw hat with a black band, but if any of these suppositions are true then they weren't done from pleasure, but duty.
That much I do know about this unnamed man. Though I don't know his character or him personally. I wouldn't be able, for instance, to recommend him as sound or wise or provide a reference as to his nature, nor an accurate account of his life.
No, but if I chanced across him as you did, I would be able to state with some firmness that he wasn't the type to undertake physical labour as a paid occupation. He doesn't mind doing it when it needs to be done but it wouldn't have been his life's work. His is the mind of order, and that extends to property – that he's the sole carer of and in possession of – although his frame doesn't often lend itself to these particular tasks. Still, he's not one to shirk and he'll give anything a go, knowing it's more satisfying to use the body rather than engage someone else's sweat and muscle.
Let the mind wander, could well be his motto at such times, and which he will have employed to good effect on many occasions. He might even think of himself as a leaner, better educated and not so discontented Mr Polly, who is whiling away his remaining years, which others, if he himself drew this comparison, would dispute because he seems the very opposite embodiment of Alfred Polly; and yet something in Polly's character appeals to him on some whimsical level.
But right now, as you've observed, he's sitting quite peacefully in front of a whitewashed wall and in the shade of some shrubbery and apparently not (as far as you can tell) thinking; you're close enough to see his brow is unlined, his eyelids aren't fluttering and his chest moves at a sedate and steady pace. Each rise and fall a long count of three as if in the role of seeker in a game of hide and seek before proclaiming 'Here I come, ready or not.' But as he's not (we've assumed) thinking I'll assume he won't be counting either, so that this is just a relaxed posture of well-being which to you, the beholder, presents itself as a delightful picture, because even though his left leg is crossed over his right and his arms are neatly folded suggesting tension in his wiry frame, he seems entirely at ease.
At enough ease to be spied upon at any rate, for I'm almost certain he feels your sweeping gaze. His is not the countenance of a man asleep; no, he is very much awake and present in his surroundings though his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, are fully closed. The shutters down as if the sun were too fierce, when the light has only a muted brightness and doesn't glare or shimmer as on a hot summer's day.
You, I think, have reached the same conclusion as I that he's listening – to the gentle wind rustling leaves and to the flutings of birds – and is sitting upright, rather than slouching, to appreciate its quality as if it were a recital by a symphony orchestra. Perhaps on other occasions he faintly hums along, but then nature has a vast repertoire of tunes so that the same notes heard are rarely in the same arrangement that he thought so sublime; it will be easily surpassed by another.
His position then, if we follow these presumptions through, is that of an participatory audience member for he has provided his own means - a chair from inside has been brought outside, and he has attempted to make himself comfortable by removing his jacket and casually draping it over its back – in order to, for a moment, feel at one with the world.

Picture credit: The Gardener Vallier, Paul Cezanne