It is, in fact, called “Waiting for the Downbeat”.
I’m not going to sell many copies this way, am I?
It is, in fact, called “Waiting for the Downbeat”.
I’m not going to sell many copies this way, am I?
Oh, how everything just slips by, especially when you’re busy and not 100% committed to the social media thing.
Holidays to Greece have come and gone; so have writing deadlines. Elisabeth’s birthday came and went, and was appropriately celebrated in a number of tavernas. Our back garden has undergone massive deconstruction and reconstruction, and still the clock ticks. I had dental work done, and felt suitable self-pity, surely the ugliest of emotions.
I have been in hospital with an MS scare that seems to have settled down; I am now being investigated for possible prostate cancer – no results yet, but suddenly the tick of the clock got a lot louder.
Last week my beloved blue scooter just snapped in half. It had had enough of the way I treat it. It is now repaired and rebuilt, but I’m trying to treat it with more respect.
Book writing deadlines come and go. Mostly go. My time-memoir, The Casual Comedy, has been renamed The Curious Comedy, to forestall any possible legal run-in with the W.B.Yeats Estate. Messing and fiddling with it continues. However, today my revised edition of Joining the Dots has been published, under the title Watching for the Downbeat. It is available from Amazon at £7.00. It’s also on Amazon US and Amazon Europe. ISBN 13: 97-1546445722. Tell everyone in the world to go get it!
I hope this post finds all my readers in good spirits, despite what is happening in the world. What on earth will the historians of the future (if there is one) make of it all?
Following a conversation with a friend, I thought I would set down some thoughts about softness. These thoughts will no doubt be influenced by the thinking I have done while on my spring retreat, from which I’ve just returned.
Hard men are still out there, still riding fences, still checking their steely gazes in mirrors as they pass. The desperados, the slow-flowing deep waters, the silent watchful cops, the secret agents of fiction – they are still there. Though God knows what they find to do.
What’s the point of all that containment and tension?
When I was a teenager, I was worried I wasn’t hard enough. If I wasn’t Robert Redford I would never get a girlfriend. My eyes were not blue enough, my voice was too high, my chest too unmanly. I would always be the weed who got sand kicked in his face. I got stood up outside the cinema; girls at discos would go to the toilet and not come back. I was seen as a very good friend by them, but that was all.
It was the friend thing that saved me, really. I listened, I became softer. I discovered, eventually, that everyone – even a girl – was interesting.
It was then that things felt easy. Receptiveness is soft, and soft is so much more pleasurable. It takes the world into itself, like a hug, and doesn’t feel like it has to push it back. The world can just fill you up!
And now, as I get older, I seem to get softer. I have less and less hard impact on the world. I hit no targets, I seek no fame. I plant trees, I walk slowly, and when I sit I just sit. I am trying to become as small and as quiet as I can be.
I am aware that I’ve not posted on this blog for months, and think that maybe I need to offer an explanation.
It is always more difficult to motivate myself in the dark days of winter, but what motivation I have has had to be re-directed into my next book, The Casual Comedy. This is due to be published, just as soon as I get the final edits and corrections done, so all my writing efforts have gone into this.
I have missed my Easter deadline, so what kind of waster does that make me?
To satisfy your insatiable and impatient curiosity, here is the jacket blurb:
“This book, Steve Hobson’s third, is about Time, in a very special way. It is constructed in whorls, like the shell of a snail, or the stars of a galaxy.
The book is at times gentle and lyrical, and at other times political polemic. Superimposed on this are Steve’s memories of his unremarkable life, many of them remarkably accurate, all things considered.
There is humour and instruction here, and probably, following the modern fashion, some outright alternative facts. The names of characters, for example, have been changed, though they will probably know who they are.”
I’ll keep you updated on developments. If you wish to bid for the film rights, that’s fine by me!
Following the surprising and welcome news from that renowned climatologist, Donald Trump, that climate change is a hoax . . . news which is particularly welcome for those who live in the low-lying areas of Bangladesh . . . I thought perhaps I should re-examine other hoaxes that have been foisted on us.
Once you open your otherwise closed mind to the possibilities, the world becomes a different, and very much simpler, place. It is, for example, both obvious and reassuring to know that the world is flattish, and that the sun is moving around us. It will then not take you long to see that women and blacks are inferior, and that no problems come from the building of walls.
This latter point becomes crystal clear when you think of, for example, Troy, or Jerusalem, or Berlin!
Today, I have been pondering the hoax that is history and progress. The conventional view of historical time is of steady progress, whether it is a steady slope of improvement, or whether it is a two-steps forward-one-step-back progression as described by Hegel.
However, it’s possible to see it very differently.
Have you noticed that old people always tell you how much better everything was in the past? I say it myself, now I am as old as I am! So do all my friends!
It is dismissed and marginalised as being grumpy.
Interestingly, my father was the same. Everyone’s father was the same, going right back to Adam, who had no father to tell him how rubbish Eden was.
But what if it has always been true, and the old folk have been silenced by the next generation, because life would be unbearable if it was truly recognised to be as it is, an infinite process of entropy. Entropy is recognised by physicists as a universal law of disintegration, but no-one seems to question why we think it somehow only applies to the rest of the cosmos and not to human development.
Maybe the elders have always been right. After all, even after comprehensive indoctrination we can all see that the Garden of Eden was better than, for example, Stoke on Trent or modern Syria. (If you need any more examples, ask any old person.)
And it’s no good falling back on evolution, which is widely misunderstood to mean improvement. Evolution has no plan. All Evolution is doing is passing on its DNA. It has nothing to do with you. And nothing to do with quality of life. One of its most successful experiments is the chicken, which, as a whole species, has co-opted us into increasing its numbers. The quality of a chicken’s life is irrelevant to Evolution.
As is human quality of life. Just so long as we keep breeding.
This is why young people have to be brainwashed into thinking things are getting better, so they keep breeding. But when an individual gets past active breeding age, they can see it is all a hoax, a practical joke. It is then, and only then, that Evolution can allow them to see the truth. That things get worse, not better.
It was ever thus.
I am reminded of the old Chinese curse – “May you live in interesting times.”
It was difficult to leap out of bed this morning with my normal enthusiasm (sic), what with thinking about all these jolly interesting times we’re living through. One is tempted to list them, but what would be the point in doing that?
And you might disagree with something on my list, and, as a result, decide to hate me or despise me, or, worse than anything in the world, decide to unfriend me!
No, we shouldn’t fall out. We might need each other.
And I don’t really know you. You might be someone who sees it as a good thing, a reason to be cheerful, that a newly-resurgent Russia and a newly protectionist USA can now divide the world between them in order to put a stop to China. Or you might be a member of another species, any of which will see it as a cause for unbridled celebration that homo sapiens could soon become extinct.
Although the world now seems as though it is run by the crazy people, it has always been so, and I’m not so stupid as to wish I was an Ice Age hunter-gatherer, or a twelfth century Chinese labourer, or a 16th Century Russian serf, or a 19th Century English slum dweller.
If you catch me getting misty-eyed about the past, any past, just sidle up to me and whisper the magic word, “anaesthetic”.
But I can’t be really positive all the time. Some days it all seems too much.
The world situation, my health, the unstoppable and accelerating rush towards death, the impersonality of the universe, the dark afternoons of winter, all come crowding in on me. And, during my morning walk with Ruby, from the church in the village came the slow tolling of the bell.
Of couse. It’s Remembrance Sunday.
This morning, when I took Ruby for our walk along the river to Hey Green, the world had turned all watery. It was a bit of a shock for both of us, as we have had such a dry autumn.
Amazingly, rain doesn’t seem to affect my disability scooter, though I wouldn’t drive it in a swimming pool! The road was wet, which makes it easier for me to hear a car behind me, but, on the down side, makes it more difficult for the drivers to see me.
Deer Hill was invisible in cloud, and mist softened the valley. Everywhere is homogenous, brown, mottled green.
The alder carrs are full of water. They are no longer boggy bits where Ruby gets filthy; now they are black trees standing in a lake, and there are no rabbits to chase.
Alder is a bright orange when it is felled, bright against black winter. It must be good wood for building things like piers and jetties, for it seems quite happy to spend half the year standing in water.
The river has almost doubled its width, and is dark and fast-flowing, except for the places where it has burst its banks, where it lies still and cold.
The sound has changed overnight. What was a high, playful sound, has become a deep, steady rush. The slow erosive power of a relatively small stream like this carves whole valleys from the moor. All of the Colne Valley has been carved from ancient mountains, and when the river is full like this I can almost hear the remorseless wearing away, grain of soil by grain of soil, little stone by little stone.
The ditches are full. Everywhere is the sound of water with its head down, heading for the sea.