Catalogue of Shattered Dreams

When I was young I was designed to become a writer.   Of course in those days we knew nothing about DNA but in the sunshine of my bright ideal I saw myself:

Hunched over a typewriter,

in a dim room with a high window of nicotine-stained glass,

Chain-smoking myself into a coughing stupor,

Careless – utterly careless, of the greater world around me.  

Let the scripts pile up on the desk, on the floor, in the passageways and arbors; I would be oblivious to the chaos.  I would write.  Day, and night, write.

Why didn’t it work out like that?  Why didn’t it?   Well, to begin with, but also with annoying persistence, I could not perfect the art of typewriting.  Canute-like, I could not restrain the Tippex tide, nor the quasi-D’Artagnan-duelling clash of rival keys, the log flumes of paper jams, smudges, crumples, and mechanical accidents.   Who has not cried out in pain as they see their paper-carriage skip the return stop and fly across the room?  Why was the Japanese vase, the recuperating cat, the hapless hamster positioned there – just exactly there?

The day the Word Processor came into my life was like Richard III’s best bit:  ‘Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by these salesmen from Sharp’.  Differences between RIchard  and I are many – I for example, am unlikely to be exhumed from a car park, but I have to take his point:  I was liberated.

Life and Art, eh?

Unfortunately, there were storms in other seas.   Spouses unappreciative of piles of manuscripts in passageways or scattered upon disorderly desks, for whom creative chaos held no romance   The word ‘dust’ has been mentioned pretty frequently throughout my life, closely followed by the more nebulous  “Urgh – what’s that?!”   

Spouses are also prone to materialism.   ‘Putting bread on the table’ has dominated many a meaningful conversation, and rebuffs by taking the phrase literally treated with scorn.   I was compelled to accept that there had to be bacon, or beef, or vegetables lumped in.  As my self-addressed manuscripts to ‘1, The Garret’ cascaded back through my door and a wallpaper of rejection letters accumulated, I grudgingly accepted the need to do ‘work’.  

I had to find something that paid.  Writing was not the crock of gold it promised to be.  It was just a crock.

I won’t deny that I take pleasure in money; I am darkly suspicious of anyone who doesn’t, but to the bug of creativity it is pure insecticide.  Wherever you spray it, the Inspiration Aphids are consumed.   Why, after all, spend hours preparing a piece that will reward me with a pittance when I could be doing something more productive, more creative, more lucrative?  Except the ‘creative’ in this sentence refers only to creating money, and the productive in this sentence has to do with making more money, and the ‘lucrative’ in this sentence refers to the worship of MONEY.  Somehow, money always offers very good reasons to ignore the pleading noises Noble Poverty makes inside my head, where  Elizabeth Barrett argues strongly for distinguished starvation, and we even share a bad back, but no time for starving selflessly when there is always another conference to attend, a buying trip to make, a new range to review.  And when all those mundanities are finally overcome, home life has a catalogue of new ones, as in “When are you going to fix that drain?”

“I’m an artist, for God’s sake, my darling:  I DON’T DO DRAINS!”   

“Yes you do.”

You’re right.  This is the real world, and the real world has drainage.

To souls as torn and tortured as has been my own in my advancing years, retirement shone like a beacon.   In retirement I would find solace.   There would be nothing to fill my day!   I could sit in my corner, I could create magical images upon the page.  I WOULD HAVE NOTHING TO DO BUT WRITE!

Wrong!

It is an unwritten law, but it is ineluctably true:  if in life you were busy, in retirement you will be busier!  Once you make your diary aware the pressure is off it will fill itself with small, inconsequential things.   Your family will aid this process by demands for home improvements, shopping trips, ‘visits’ to nice country houses (the kind where your host will make you pay an entrance fee, then rebuke you for touching their furnishings or walking on their grass) and finally – the big one – Sitting.

In extreme cases Sitting may tie you up for several days:  

“Dad, can you take care of Bruce the Hellhound or Tibby the curtain-ripping cat while we go on a weekend break to Moscow?  Or a week in Bulgaria?  Or a round-the-world trip?”

More normally, it will be no more noxious a duty than care of The Precious for an evening, and no more exhausting than that ritual chase around the sofa you instituted last year and have been regretting ever since, with a bit of story-reading to initiate sleep.

If any diary spaces remain, there is always the National Health Service, and I’d like to conclude this blog with a personal message to them.

Dear NHS,

Yes, my body mass index figure is almost as far adrift as most of your overworked nursing staff,   You understand, as do I, that my body will inevitably deteriorate with the years, and I should be thrilled that you want to catalogue my demise and itemise each failing function so avidly…

But I’m not.    Okay?

Your obsession with type 2 diabetes drags me out to repeated Doctors’ Surgery and hospital visits to have my eye pupils stretched with painful chemicals, my blood sampled and my (forgive the word) piss taken with unnerving regularity.

Why unnerving?  Well, because the cleanliness of your premises is self-admittedly not always of the best, so each time I subject myself to them, with the health conditions you are so insistent I have, not to mention those that I ACTUALLY have and haven’t told you about, I run the very real risk that the infection I catch could be fatal.   Capiche?

Thank you, good readers, for tolerating my excess of bile this week: perhaps it’s because, to find a space to write this piece, I had to cancel an NHS appointment to ‘test my feet’.  Don’t worry girls, I have two; I tested them myself this morning by going for a walk.

A more normal posting, the latest episode of ‘Devil’s Rock’, follows shortly.

Image Credits for today:

Featured Image: Keyboard, by Alisonmiller1969 on Pixabay

Typerwriter Image: Devonath on Pixabay

The Swami on the Hill

This morning, as I prepared for a day filled with nothing in particular, I watched a nubile young person on the television demonstrating some torturous poses which she dubbed as ‘Yoga’.  Later, in the shower, I started thinking back – always a mistake when you’ve so many years to think back upon.  Bathrooms do that – it must be all the steam.  But I digress…

Do you recall those youthful ‘phases’ we all went through, when we sought ‘The True Path’?  I tried a lot of ‘paths’, I remember, including quite a few that required pharmaceutical help.     I also tried Yoga, mainly because at the time I was with a girlfriend who practised it.  And I learned the thing about Yoga is, yes, you’re always practising it.  You never get it absolutely right.  

My unimpeachable source impressed upon me that to qualify as a true Yogi and to draw the benefits that entails requires a life of dedication, that the poses are there to help you achieve complete breathing and the Elysium of meditation that lie beyond.  ‘The true Yogi drinks when he is thirsty, eats when he is hungry, sleeps when he is tired’  Incredible as it seems, I’m sure many of us can remember a time when we actually believed we could live life that way? I certainly did:  I was in love, I suppose.

Of course, the truth soon dawns.  Achieving a full lotus pose becomes impossible if your wife is impatient to be driven to the supermarket, or if your dog recognises that peculiar sitting position as a kind of game.  The next thing you learn about the lotus pose, as with a number of other yogic distortions, is just how long it takes to un-achieve it, as well as the surgical procedures that may follow.

In such a direction Elysium does not lie.  The attending physician in Accident and Emergency explains:  “If God had intended your hip to go that way he would have put it on the other way up.”  Doctors can be very cynical, at times.  And very unsympathetic.

Then there are the daily penalties of ‘working life’; the pints of beer quaffed for social gain, the ten-minute lunchtime visits to McDonalds, the protracted sessions on an acutely uncomfortable, orthopaedically unpardonable office chair, the sleepless nights slaving over a hot infant, the arguments, the rows, the assault charges…     ‘Sleep when you are tired’?  Alas, no more:  ‘Sleep no more, Macbeth (curious name for a child, you say? You haven’t met her) doth murder sleep’.  ‘Eat when you are hungry’ – a slogan KFC would no doubt adopt with enthusiasm, but terrible for your waistline if practised as freely as the doctrine would recommend.

Plunging at last into retirement I may have wished my days of limitless freedom would return, that I might grab one of those vile bedroom curtains, fashion it into a dhoti, and take my true place as the Swami on the Hill.  My years at the beck and call of the daily grind were behind me.  I would be able to drink, eat and sleep to my heart’s content.  The ‘True Path’ stretched out before me; Nirvana beckoned.

How wrong was I?

No sooner had the dust settled than I was apprised of my duties as ‘Parent in Residence’,  I learned how a day filled with nothing in particular requires organisation, time management, responsibilities.   Further, I discovered my vulnerabilities ‘in old age’ not only rendered the lotus pose physically impossible, but even to attempt it would earn a look from the attending physician in Accident and Emergency that could best be described as ‘withering pity’.  Nor was settling for the ‘downward dog’ any sort of solution.  Different dog, same game.  Same supermarket, too.

The schedules, the plans and the commitments have not gone away.  I am merely that much slower in fulfilling them.   So, not only am I as busy in retirement as I was when I got paid, but I am also physically less equipped to keep up.  Nowadays, to maintain the pace means resorting to ‘uppers’ of a very different kind to those I imbibed in my youth.  All legal,if that is any consolation, but all essential, or so I’m told.

Takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it?

Well, at least I must finally concede that the Complete Yogi, as well as the ‘complete breath’ that is the gateway to perfect contemplation, lies somewhere beyond my reach.  It will never be.   It never was, truth be told, because the life of the true Yogi does not translate from that hilltop – does not fit into the modern world.  Our posturing is just another form of exercise to be fitted into an appointed slot in our day.  The elastic woman on the silver screen who demonstrates her ‘Yoga’ is guilty of a misnomer, because those extravagant poses are merely a form of exercise that might as well be aerobics, or weight training, or any number of alternatives far removed from the true prize sought in the Astika of a Hindu philosophy many thousands of years old.

I shall roll up my mat, restore the bedroom curtain, and let each incident-free negotiation of the staircase serve as my small victory.   A Dhoti and a turban are rather too draughty for an English winter, as it goes.

Namaste.

Image Credits:

Featured Image: Oxana Taran on Unsplash

B&W: 532Yoga on Facebook

Behind the Screens

A little narrative:

Recently, a young woman from Eastern Europe who lives in UK, rushed her heavily pregnant sister to hospital, 

Adhering to the letter of their Covid 19 regulations the hospital staff insisted the pregnant sister be separated from her sibling, who was seated on a chair in the ward corridor – a chair she occupied for the next four hours.  An examination of her heavily-pregnant sister was obviously needed, but the staff on duty refused to proceed until an interpreter had been summoned, because she spoke very little English.  

 They refused, inexplicably, to fit her sister (whose English is impeccable) with protective clothing and invite her to interpret.  Instead, they insisted upon sending for an interpreter, a man, living in a town 98 miles away, who took more than three hours to arrive.

The interpreter was lacking in medical knowledge, and extremely embarrassed by the bedside position in which he found himself.  His input was limited to a few sentences, and he frequently felt the need to turn his back on the patient!

It isn’t impossible to extract some humor from that situation, as long as you, a taxpayer, are happy to ignore the discomfort to which this poor woman was subjected over a protracted period, the occupation of staff and bed, and the cost of the interpreter, together with his travel expenses for 186 miles, when more capable help was freely available just yards away.

In  legal parlance this tale is hearsay, anecdotal, although I see no reason to disbelieve it.  There are many such examples of profligacy and waste, yet because whistle-blowing is effectively gagged we rarely have the chance to hear an insider’s view.  Instead we are constantly fed the line  that the Health Service is short of money, that more support is needed, more nurses, more doctors, more this, more that.  It takes emergence of these tales from a patient’s perspective to suggest the problems run much deeper.   Deeper, even, than the Health Service itself.

I can see how easily common sense might have prevailed, were it other than a Sunday night, when a senior person might not have been present.  Perhaps they might have overruled the strict ‘letter-of-the-law’ position that prohibited employment of the English-speaking sister – or perhaps not.

Perhaps everyone in the National Health Service has to tread upon eggshells because there is a phalanx of ambulance-chasing lawyers and journalists waiting in the wings to pounce upon anything that could be made to look like malpractice; ready to sue for millions and campaign across all the mainstream media, if the tiniest chink in the armour of accepted practice is exposed.

This is a malady that afflicts us all.  Not just in the National Health Service, but the Police Force and any one of a list of organisations where contact with the general public is involved.

There is nothing intrinsically wrong with protecting people’s rights, or guarding against criminal malpractice, but society has become so litigious everyone is afraid to apply  common sense, and the cost to us all in terms of waste and duplication is huge.   A jet stream of negativity seeks out every crack in the casement, every cranny in the conversation so an action that is not specified by a rule book, a word not in the prepared script can send the unwary tumbling from their career and leave them personally unprotected.

We are knee-deep in poorly-drafted legislation that can be re-interpreted or simply misused in ways that, in the end, offer protection for nobody.  The effect has rather been a tendency to drive the real issues underground.

Personally, I have experienced both good and bad from the National Health Service in the UK. I would not belittle the wonderful care I have received, but nor should I deny the duplicated work and extravagant use of resources – they are enough to persuade me that money itself is not the cure-all the Service would have us believe.

Released finally from her treatment, the pregnant lady concerned has vowed she will ‘never return to that hospital’ as she believes medical care was better in her home country.  In the meantime, she has vowed to have her baby at home!

It is an ill wind that blows no-one any good.  I’ve said this before, but maybe Covid, with its gift for forcing us to re-examine all of our basic structures, might provide a fresh start?

Picture Credit: Stocksnap from Pixabay