Talent, Un-talent and a sense of relief.

 A new study confirms what we all knew here already: Writing is cognitively good for you. I won't go into the myriad reasons postulated for this, all of which are perfectly plausible, but I confess the lack of this form of exercise feels detrimental. It's a strange space this. Blogging is pretty antiquated now and my be looked upon in amusement or scorn by consumers of more modern forms of media. But this does not detract from its inherent value, at least for me. It is a space too, albeit not a physical one. But it can still get cluttered, even if it is virtual. Perhaps I'll clear out some of the muddles here at some point. Or perhaps they can remain as a testament to previous existences. It might be amusing, painful, enlightening to look back at words written an age ago, in another life: A life where an illusion of stability and respectability held sway. There was a family, a wife, a salary, a job title. Such definitions, though a prison, provided a kind of definition to life. There was a distinctness about obligations and expectations. And now it's all got a bit fuzzy. My life is a mostly-comfortable testament to entropy now.

 I am surprised at how easily these words come to me, how effortlessly they arise and are conveyed relatively lucidly on the page. I noted something recently, and there is a point to the ramble I am about to undertake.

I restrung my musical instruments in the hope it might motivate me to play them. Apparently learning musical pieces is also transformative for the brain. Once tuned, I picked up my guitar and played a few familiar chords. Yes, those are still there. A D comes easily, and E more-or-less, bar chords are still, as ever, problematic and uncomfortable. But the chords remain mostly available to my fingers. However, transitioning between chords feels clumsy and I reflected that actually,  it always had.

I picked up my banjo, put on my fingerpicks and played a few Scruggs rolls: Basic arpeggios which link together to for a syncopated tune with the melody contained within it. Again, I noted that it was no harder than it had ever been. It was ok, the right kind of sound.  But it felt inarticulate and quite effortful. Again, I noted that this never really achieved fluidity. 

I started playing the guitar at 18, the bluegrass banjo at 19, forty-mumble years ago. I played and played, practised and jammed. And always it was unnatural. I observed the fluidity with which friends and mentors could move their fingers up and down the fretboard. Some of them had been playing a fraction of the time I had and yet, their hands flew and wonderful melodic sounds came out. Me, I felt always like my hands were two Cornish crabs at the end of my wrists, chitinous fingers rebelling against my instructions to play this or that note, to assume the correct configuration of strings on frets without dull thinks or buzzes. It never got easy. Despite thousands of hours of practise. The conclusion is unavoidable: I have no talent for this. I bash out a tune in opposition to my natural tendency towards digital coordination. It's just no something I have any natural ability to do well, though I can bash out a tune and enjoy it.

In contrast, I went to a dance where I fell into conversation with someone who I have observed from afar for many years but frankly found her evident ability too intimidating for me to consider asking her to dance. She is very skilled and has a controlled physicality which I thought I could not match adequately to do her justice as a partner. 

She asked me to dance as the event was sparsely attended and I could not hide. And it was wonderful. Tentatively she asked if she could perform some moves she had seen but not found anyone adequately strong to perform and we went through some quite scary drops together. They were pretty cool moves and i learned them eagerly and could perform them well with only a few attempts. Dance is like this for me. I see a move, my brain assimilates the movements and trajectories, I try it and quite soon I can do it. easy peasy. This after much less time and practise than I had devoted to music.

Here we have a natural inclination, I hesitate to use the word talent, but it's that kind of thing, We also have an interesting contrast: Something I really want to be able to do (play music) eludes me even after decades of diligent practise. It just won't happen. 

Conversely, dance moves, even quite complex configurations of limbs and partner, are taken on board with, in general, a minimum of effort. There is a conclusion here, therefore, which must be acknowledge: There are things we, as individuals, are able to do well with little practise and there are things we will never excel at, or even be competent at, despite lengthy assiduous training. And, you know, I think that that's ok! I am fine with this now. The admission that music is not a talent I have takes the pressure off. I can stop trying so hard.

And so, back to the words. Self-expression clearly varies amongst the population as a normal distribution curve. Ok, most people can speak and the majority can write. But the translation of inner world to interpersonal communication varies immensely. For me, it is easy. I was shown how to write and once I escaped the bonds of having to use a pen, the words go straight from mind to page. Which I confess feels wonderful, cathartic, exhilarating. I am told that writing manually (i.e. paper and pen) is better but, to riff off an earlier theme, I was shown how to use a pen at about five years old and despite writing millions of words, the majority criticised brutally and painfully by educators along the way for their lack of legibility, I can still not make a pen go where I want to. And I've done a hell of a lot of writing for exams and qualifications. Practise did not make perfect. It's difficult for me. I just can't do it. And that too is ok. The admission is a tremendous relief.

But words, they just happen. There are thoughts. there is a vocabulary and grammar, and here they are, saying exactly what I intended and imparting a satisfaction which reduces my frustration with the world. The guitars, however, are going back under the bed. No more flogging dead horses. 

As always, I have no idea if this will be read. The thought that it might encourages rigour. It's nice if it is and someone recognises a concept they perhaps had yet to articulate to themselves, but I do this as a service to myself and because the flow feels good. So, here I am again. Unstructured, chaotic but less burdened by formless thought.

Escape to the city

Well, it didn't really happen, did it? It seems that particular muse has departed, taking with her any pretension or even desire to do anything with this big pile of words that I keep stepping over in my everyday thoughts. I suppose really, I just don't have time, especially with the longer evenings this time of year. I don't have my computer so I am forced to write on this tiny, unhelpful phone screen, which I really dislike.

Also, there is the issue of location. I mostly spend my leisure time in Bristol now. There is so much going on here. Cities are such vibrant places. Recently I have taken to wandering round the city during the day, photographing the excellent street art. I would add some but I am trying to write this on my phone and the mobile version seems not to make adding pictures particularly easy 

Nature is very beautiful in many cases and can inspire awe or reverie. But it seems to me that one can have too much of it. And I do. It is a privilege to work on a sunny day in a woodland or garden and probably very good for whatever neurological functions we interpret as a soul. But after a while the whispering grasses and the different murmurings of individual trees in the wind becomes a little too familiar. 

In the city there are many people. This really is a self-evident fact that verges on tautology. There is evidence all around of the workings of humans, for all the variety of implications. There is art, there is litter, there is industry and there is convenience. But for all the commonality of the Human Condition, there is unpredictability. People do, along with predictable behaviors, many individually unique things. Even gait varies between individuals. From the confident stride of the man in the expensive linen suit, through the care worn weary trudge of the lady carrying heavy bags of shopping, to the girl slipping self-consciously out of the gym in her. Lycra attire, there are myriad ways of moving, each of which might, truthfully or deceptively, tell a personal story. There is much here to occupy the curious mind.

That the refuge of solitude remains is a comfort. But for the mind to light up like night time photos of interlinked cities seen from space requires the novelty and stimulus of other human beings, at least for me. 

The Tiniest of Foes

 Our bodies seem to be battle grounds. One one side we have our immune system and associated allies and on the other, organisms that are out to get us. I can't imagine there is any intent on their part to do us harm but harm they do. I suppose it's a fight for resources: We have substances we have garnered from our environment, using effort and biological processes and they, the pathogens, want some of that but we are are their environment and it's the easiest way to get what they want.

For four days now, something has been troubling my digestive system. I will spare you the unpleasant details but suffice to say it is not a pleasant way to lose three kilos. Any attempt at eating causes abdominal pain and the symphony of hydraulic special effects from my middle is quite a conversation piece. Whether it was the ill advised fast-food "Louisiana-style" Chicken Sandwich I had in Oxford at the weekend, some detritus flung from the undergrowth by my strimmer into my face or merely a transmissible virus I picked up at a dance I really couldn't say. But I feel bloody awful and the probability is that this is caused by some organism I almost certainly couldn't even see with the naked eye. A number of them, even combined into some kind of community large enough to pass the threshold of infection in my seemingly poorly-defended constitution would still be too small to see without a microscope. Is this not humbling? Our hubris would have us think ourselves so adept at mastery of our environment but, as recent years show, some agent so tiny it requires optical instruments only readily available in a laboratory in order to see it can evade our control and render us miserable or even dead if we are unlucky.

I am not that unfortunate (at least, I hope I won't be. It's been four days and my recovery is open to interpretation). I suspect in a day or two I will be right as rain - an oddly topical and puzzling simile given recent weather where the rain has been decidedly not right by dint of its extraordinary abundance. 

So, thanks to Mr Van Leeuwenhoek and his marvelous invention, we are now able to know the nature of our adversaries when previously we blamed our physical ailments on "bad air", evils spirits, imbalances of the humours or witches. And now we know: In cases such as this, check the hygiene rating before you buy. Or wear a full-face visor when you strim. Tiny enemies lurk unseen everywhere.

Whoosh! goes the feather Duster!

It's an itchy-scratchy kind of feeling; A sense that some of those mental rooms that haven't been visited for a while need the doors and windows thrown open and the cobwebs brushing from the ceiling. It's always strange to me that spiders collude with dust to create those grey, insubstantial threads. These wraithlike strings hang down sometimes almost to your head if a feather duster or vacuum cleaner is not regularly applied. The shame of noticing a ceiling-spanning filament becoming an almost diaphanous grey fabric across to corners of your rooms is almost painful. It's enough to prompt imagined excuses to judgmental observers who, looking up from the coffee I might have made them, frown in disapproval at the neglect this house is subject to. How does this happen in such an unobserved way? I didn't see any spiders? And if they were there, how did particles of what, presumably, used to be myself and my clothing, end up becoming so ubiquitously incorporated, even in regularly frequented rooms?

And so it is with the mind. Why write? Well, it's the entry into the unused space; The visiting of a forgotten spare room, the brandishing of the wand of the Dyson. It's the waving of a cane coated with chicken feathers across an expanse of magnolia emulsion paint to reveal the feelings of immense relief and virtue. Well, I hope the rooms of the mind are a little more flamboyant than Pantone 7499C. I think I'd like to imagine my mental environment with a bit more vibrancy than that. Purples perhaps, or on an sunny day, primrose walls with eggshell-blue picture rails. Well, I don't have to look at it all the time, do I? It's a spare room, after all!

Alas, right now, the doors are shut and the curtains are drawn so the decor is all rather irrelevant. I have no requirement to enter. Other rooms require my attention more urgently, even if they are boring to occupy. Even so... As I type, I feel the light creeping in. The act of accessing this webpage was the tentative opening of the door. The first typed phrase became the throwing open of the curtains and, well, it's quite hard to see what colours the walls are under all this dust but I think I like the results. It's vaguely familiar and there are interesting objects in here I had completely forgotten about. The mundane can eat up so much of you.

Reaching up with a brush, it seems clear that the cobwebs are easily cleared. It's a trivial task in fact. A vague wave and order is restored. And so it is with the mind. It doesn't take much to banish the accumulations of quotidian grime and the layers of dust. It just has to occur to you to do it. And as with the physical chore of going around the house, just looking up and sweeping away the signs of neglect, so it is with the upkeep of the intellect. So many other commitments make demands upon our attention. The quote for Mrs. D's hedge-cutting, the seed order for my sessions at a local school for the learning disabled, paying the parking ticket I picked up last week. It all takes time and mental energy. Not to mention the actual physical fatigue a manual job produces. Carrying heavy pots and landscape sleepers up and down steps for hours and digging numerous holes for plants does rather take it out of you. Sitting writing is far less appealing than a crafty snooze in the armchair after a day's work.

But oh, how shiny the surfaces are when the detritus is banished! How light and airy and accessible it becomes! All I had to do was spend some time on it. It's not really an indulgence. It's actually essential maintenance.

Yes, this is something that needs to be regularly undertaken, even if triviality results. I feel better already!

Mortality and Hoarding

Today I am the same age to the day as my father was when he died. It's a sobering milestone and one which causes me great reflection. Whilst he was an alcoholic who hastened his end considerably through his illness and I am not, this strange mark upon the timeline of my life must by its very nature bring with it thoughts of mortality. Tomorrow, I will be older than he ever was. I'm not sure of the significance of this day.

Ok, I had my Memento mori eleven years ago when my brain went pop whilst dancing. But I was in my forties and this seemed like an unanticipated black swan event rather than part of the inexorable temporal process towards my natural end.

All of this is very depressing, I am sure. But I choose to eschew that view and instead examine a thought that springs naturally from a realisation of mortality: Where did all this stuff come from? And what should be done with it?

I don't own much. My car is elderly though still solidly functional. I have no jewels, no art, no baubles of any kind. My television is a cast off, probably state-of-the-art in 2008 and possibly the best I have ever owned or will ever own. I have a few tools which are good quality but worn out through many years of faithful service. Nobody wishing to rob my house would find much of value. I am, as far as lifestyle goes, not a materialist (though ironically, philosophically that is a close approximation to my view of existence).

But in the event of my death, what a mammoth task it would be to dispose of it all! The jars of assorted screws, bolts, small useful-looking squares of plywood and cedar planks. Boxes of springs, electrical wire of every gauge, old chair legs of exotic tropical hardwood. The list is endless. I may yet find a use for them, or perhaps they will languish, offering promise of a solution to an as-yet unencountered practical problem until my offspring tentatively enter my garage with a sigh and heads shaken in disbelief on some future day I will not see.

The inner debate rages: "You need to get rid of all this crap. You're never going to use it and one day, possibly soon, the kids are going to have to deal with this chaos!" and then "But only last week, I patched up my water butt with that piece of 9mm marine ply I have kept since I cut it off the bath panel in my first house thirty-mumble years ago!" 

So, I think it's going to have go. I may have thirty years. Or I may suffer another bleed in my overly fragile cerebral blood vessels and drop dead at the counter in Tesco. But opportunities for utilising a 4mm x 50mm strip of larch will probably diminish as time and inclination trickles away.

So, can I interest anyone in 120 pieces of fine sapele, 50mm x 30mm by assorted lengths from 120mm to 150mm? Or perhaps I'll glue them into a block and make another table. No you won't Pete. You know you won't. 

Perhaps, just these though. Yes, I'll keep them. Just in case. I blame you Dad. You young bastard.

I tried, I really did.

 It's too difficult. The news is too awful. There is too much tragedy and pain in the world. The awful weight of suffering renders any attempt at triviality, well, trivial. All the words that do come are just full of darkness. As the storm rages outside and the trees thrash in immobile torment, I am looking for some light and not really finding any. So, I am paralysed into mute submission.

This one weird trick will stop your brain turning to jelly

Where did all the words go? All the superlatives have been worn wafer thin with over use and full scale deflection has been repeatedly achieved. Current events send the needle whanging vigorously to the end stop of the meter, past the red and round the pin at the end of the scale. The world is in a state and no mistake. I choose to opt for understatement. Please refer to my second sentence above. It's all that is left. And we shall not fix it here, even were it fixable. No, we shall acknowledge the abundant awfulness and concede that further handwringing is unhelpful in the grand scheme of things. Elsewhere, we shall do what we can, but here, no solutions are to be attempted or even discussed.

And so what do we do here? We write words. Powerful things words. They can slap with stinging impact, jolt like a crash landing or caress like a lovers touch.

Or, as seems to be the case of late, I find they can elude, hiding behind the static and confusion that communication can often engender. Why, the other day, grasping for the phrase "tea towel" I resorted to "wipey thing for plates". How does one forget the phrase "tea towel"? But I did. Tragedy comes in many forms. Partly perhaps this is the result of my own particular cognitive challenges. There were bound to be some. But I don't have to accept them without a fight.

But this unreliability of our internal dictionaries should not deter us from trying  should it! Those neural paths across the landscape of our vocabulary if not regularly trodden become obscured by undergrowth. Our daily dialogues begin to be constructed clumsily from easily accessible but inaccurate nouns and adjectives; Words that merely suffice and yet do not accurately describe. The use of the exact word is a small triumph that leaves satisfaction in its wake. A cobbled-together approximation leaves a kind of existential unease even if meaning has been adequately conveyed

I have nothing to say but this really: Use it or lose it.  Really, it is as simple as that.

So, freely I fling words on to this page: Hyposthesis! Innate! Limpid! Picaresque! Ossified!

There! I feel better already.

Please note: There is no imperative to ready anything I write here. I am under no illusion any of it has significance beyond allowing the caged greyhound of my brain some escape to race unfettered upon the heathland of language. Significance or clarity of concept might occasionally emerge but it will have been largely accidental and incidental to the purpose of the exercise.

Well, that's  a start. I feel better already. Perhaps I'll try to do some more tomorrow. I think it's due to rain so I won't have much on. See you then maybe.