Sumer Writing

Waiting for the football last night I watched this excellent programme, on ancient Sumer.  The Sumerians appeared in the far distant past, possibly from the hills, possibly from the desert, or even possibly arriving by sea not long after the Ice Age ended and sea levels even in the Gulf rose high, some say as high asd a 13 storey building.  

Around 5500 BC they began to erect huts used as temples at Eridu, now far to the south in Iraq.  The civilisation flourished once they understood how to manage the land and by use of the massive amount of crops they grew became wealthy and the number of cities grew.  

By 3500 BC huge numbers lived in cities, some 20,000 or so in URUK the capital itself, clearly an elite had risen and the masses worked the land and gave their craftsmanship to the state.  This would entail grumbling similar to what we hear daily around us, but obviously not from ourselves.

This also required a better means of accounting, and these people were good at accounting.  Clay tablets were used to keep records and over the years a form of writing developed, civil servants arose and multiplied, administrators took their important pompous positions, and soon writing concerning numbers, merchandice and payment became what is now called literature.  (This does not include the daily press, obviously).  

To think that those first words, soon developed from indications of how many sheep had been sold or how much Beer had been given to workers, those words today allow us into the minds of a people 5500 years from us.

They do not appear to be much different from us.

It was the thought of what writing can do for us that struck me, not for the first time, and how powerful this is.  Printed words take us back thousands of years, into foreign minds, new understandings in science, maths (the Sumerians were good at numbers, they gave us 60 seconds in a  minute, and had complicated maths long before the Greeks were thought off), farming techniques, stories and histories, many of which kings of old gathered together with the intention of helping them rule better. 

It is also interesting that as far away as China and in South Americas that writing developed not that much later.  Growing population leading to growth of cities, dominationg personalities, and need for organisation appearing at almost the same time everywhere.      

Note: Any spelling mistakes here are in fact 'Sumerian' spellings.

   

Laptop Shaped Eyes

Having spent most of the day typing the wrong words into the laptop I am not willing to type many more.  Pictures, yes, moving images, yes, line after line of words, no!
Once I shook of the early morning lethargy, around ten, I began scribbling away.  Naturally I had no idea what I was talking about (The Somme and our local men's involvement) and all the links I looked for turned out to be useless!  My ever helpful array of books did not have the information I wished, the Google search was fruitless much of the time but eventually I found the lost links and got what I required.  
I was writing about five dead men killed under a hail of bullet and shell, why do I grumble when little things go wrong and nothing makes sense?  
Anyway I wandered away to address other problems and returned to the by now switched off laptop.  Coming back to life it went haywire and I found myself with my old 'Word' asking which saved copy I wished.  Neither were the one I was working on, that had disappeared.
I chose the best, returned to rewriting the whole thing and by long after the curfew I managed to scramble something together that will not do at all when she sees it in the morning.  
Muttering things of the top of my enormous head here is one thing, writing for others who can read and think at the same time with no understanding of my mental outlook is quite another.  When I enter the premisis tomorrow I expect blank looks and rude words for my efforts.

An almost twenty year old picture there, but the weather has not changed much, except for getting worse of course.  How can I excercise when the wind outside is so strong it blows my bike back the way I have come?  Worse on a hill!
So instead I exercised inside today as I hoped this woudl stimulate the brain.  
It failed but it did stimulate several muscles to screech blue murder as I did so.  Now other areas are indicating they did not like such efforts either.  It's not as if I did much is it?  Yet I fear for the morning as it will be rougher when I wake.

Write, Right!

I came across a few files on 'Dropbox' and cleared out the old, the repeated and unwanted files.  Some of them surprised me as they were so old I had forgotten them.  I added them to their respective folders and checked the contents thereof.  Among them were several books I had started, one even going as far as seven pages, and I wondered how I had failed to be famous by now.  The answer was not long in coming- illiterate!  
The books vary in subject, reflecting my mood at the time, and I suggest only 'Living Death in the Museum' will ever reach a small audience, this however might lead to a black eye or two.  Another problem appears to be that I have lost it!   Shame as one or two ideas on there were quite useful.   Today gave opportunity for more as crowds came in, phones rang, questions were asked, kids tantrumpted and the funeral parlaour grumbled about our leaky guttering pouring water on their garden seat.  I dealt with this magnificently, I moved the seat!  
The trouble is I read a book and find it exhilarating and wish to copy it, half way down the page I realise things are not so easy and the steam eases off and I fall over a cliff.  After the day we had today I am not in much of a thinking mood anyway, I'm not use to work, I am in the mood for closing my eyes and listening to something interesting on the wireless so I am off to Radio 4 on the iplayer to search for an old programme about country views or waling through interesting places.

    

Cold Thursday

It is of course part of life that when noticing big black clouds stumbling across the sky I check the direction of movement and today noticed the end in sight.  I made off for the shops as the clouds drifted north east.  By the time I crossed the park the wind changed and small hailstones began to cut through those of us caught out in it.  It had become a blizzard by the time I reached home 'Nanook of the North' like.   I knew my cheap shoes leaked, I know by how much now!

Bah!  I only went out to get away from the laptop.  My weight will not decrease unless I exercise, this however is limited by the need to discover POW camps and those who were held therein or actions involving the Home Guard, that's Dad's Army to most of us.  This exercises the ends of my fingers as I type, and both are showing signs of blisters, the position taken leads to blood not running to my hands properly so the arms ache, the feet do also with the cold weather as I stretch out to reach the heater when it is on thus doing my weary muscles no good whatsoever.
But not being one to complain I just get on with it, unless my fingers go numb of course.

Reading through Bede's 'Ecclesiastical history of the English People' some time ago, not the greatest book I have read but interesting, I was interested to read how the weather affected the monks there. Based on the north east coast of England, just below what is now the Scottish border, they had the delight of the North sea on their doorstep.  This is a marvellous place to live but with an east wind arriving from the Arctic, coming via Siberia, Poland and anywhere freezing cold in between, it can be a bit nippy.
Consider that one of the main jobs the lads had was the writing of those illuminated manuscripts. Great huge hand written bibles featuring large artistic letters, delightful drawings, flowery letters and all on hand made parchment. Imagine scribbling away on these, once you had made both the writing implements and the ink to be used, when your fingers were numb and the stone building in which you worked did not possess electric or gas heating systems. On one occasion an Abbot far away in France wondered why the books ordered did not arrive and was informed the weather was so bad they could no longer write!  
Aestheticism can be a way of life some choose however it is not biblical and living poor does not mean freezing yourself or your mates to death!  Quite why they did not invest in better heating when they had the technology is a wonder. The peasants in those little 'Black houses,' the ones where the animals have one half and you the other, would be warmer by far than the monks.  Tsk!

However I have no parchment, no inks, and no talent, so I type from an awkward position, more awkward when sitting here in my bed in an effort to keep warm on the cheap!  The snow has stopped, the wind has not, the cold is cold and my fingers are not as warm as they ought.  But it must be said I will not complain about the situation, it could be worse, I could be English!   

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Write, Right?

I have been listening to one of those wireless programmes again, this time it is called 'The Write Stuff' and features questions of books but specialising in Jerome K Jerome.  You can hear it here if you wish. The spoofs of the chosen authors books at the end are always good and JKJ would no doubt laugh at those heard here.

Once again however this got me thinking about writing a similar book to 'Three Men in a Boat.' Like everyone else I have wished to emulate this success and so far I have only the booklet re the Great War exhibition.  Fame at last!  However writing a book that would travel outside this area is somewhat harder as it has to resonate with readers everywhere.  This makes things harder. Also having an editor rough it up to improve it makes for double work!  

What is the book you are trying to write?  

They say everyone has a novel in them, although I have no wish to write a novel, more a factual book worth reading and offering a light yet serious view of the world.  Travel books are idea, yet the last trip was five miles down the road! An autobiography, but that was cause suicide to the readers.  I read one chaps excellent ' The Goalkeepers Guide to Britain.'  This took the period since the war, set in his home area of run down Islington in London and through the varieties of goalkeepers since gave us an excellent readable social history, at one and the same time personal and understandable for all.  Super stuff, shame he has already done it.  

Ah well, it's good to dream, innit?

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Late Night Scribblings

I have a strange compulsion to write.  I have nothing to say, little articulation of my thoughts, and no readers to er, listen.

The last bit stops me from being mistaken for the ‘Daily Mail.’

As far as I can remember this desire first found life once I left school, well actually two or three years later as far as I can remember.  On occasions I would sit on a train heading north wondering if it were possible to write about the experiences, such as they were on the journey. Rarely did anything come of this, and the world rests in peace because of it. 

It flared up when Blogger came along and I decided to influence the world by putting my ill thought out opinions on line.  

No-one replied.  

It took a while to work out how to contact the world, and often times it spoke back.  It did not always encourage me to continue.

The good people still speak to me today.  The bad people either stop reading or have sadly missed the opportunity to consider my thoughtful contribution to er, literature.  They have a point I suspect.

Why do I wish to write?  I left school at 15, well 14 actually, the day before my 15th birthday, with no qualifications and a suggestion that I could get an 'O' level if I stayed one more year. That was like asking POW's if they would like to stay another year and get a qualification!  I ran away!  I did obtain an English 'O' level a few years ago through answering questions via buttons on a screen. This gave me a certificate but I suspect the one on offer in Edinburgh would have been harder to obtain!  

So why attempt to write when I have little idea of grammar, syntax (wot?), or the use of a full stop?  Is it because I have something to say?  My words tend not to change the world when I speak to people personally, however I do get a response, but let’s not go into that!  Could it just be my itchy fingers wishing to run across the keyboard?  That certainly is a phenomenon that occurs when I have been unable to use the machine for a while, I need my fix on the keyboard.  It can be worse when the PC or laptop breaks down and I have to leave the house and actually speak face to face with folks! 

No, I think I just want to write something, anything, and so I have.  Therefore I am quite content.  I have had my fix, I have spoken, no-one has listened, and I have said nothing.  Another day at the office then?

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Scribbling....

I was given a small task the other day, writing details in capital letters in a record book.  I was appalled!  Since I took to the PC my writing has deteriorated to the extent that I cannot read it myself.  OK capitals may be simpler but I fear the slackness may be difficult to overcome.  
This got me thinking just now about pencils, why I know not as it is a specific pen we will use for that book, but a pencil crossed my mind.  It caused me to ponder on writing and how useful it is, where would we be without it?  
Stone age man did not write.  For several thousand years he lived a nomadic lifestyle requiring no writing but lots of flint arrowheads and the occasional stone axe.  Some became wealthy, we know this because of ceremonial stone axes, the stone being a highly polished Jade, found high in the Alps.  However there is no written record of this.  Huge earthworks, of diverse shape arose, taking years, even centuries to complete, but not one word is found to explain the reason. Standing stones, often brought form distance, are found everywhere with not one attempt at writing thereon.  Thousands of years pass without writing and little artwork to explain their thinking.  Just standing stones, mounds and Cursors.  In some places the inside of the Barrows feature circular and other designs, similar some claim to the effects drugs profuse interestingly, yet no attempt at explaining themselves.  Surely trade with others required some method of record?  Possibly these were small family groups, coming together only to work on the major projects or at special annual festivals, therefore there was no major trade.   
Writing certainly appeared in Mesopotamia around three thousand BC, not so much as writing but as record keeping concerning goods traded.  Withing a thousand years this became actual writing of one sort or another.  India, Egypt followed southern Iraq at this time, as indeed did South America, and now some say China may have taken to writing slightly earlier, we might never know.  
Had my brain been fully awake I would do more research on this but really I just wish  to contemplate actual writing.  Larger gatherings of people changed social outlook, some rose to rule, others took the lowly place.  Sixty thousand lived in Uruk 2000 years BC if memory serves me right and clearly the powerful required control of the resources and writing was important here.  Since then the better societies have encouraged writing both as a practical tool and for retelling religious and mythological tales.  These bound the nation together just as they do today, so knowing truth is a requirement so we can differentiate truth from fiction.  
"The pen is mightier than the sword," unless someone is stabbing you, but a pen can change the world!  This is because of the brain behind it, present writer excepted, and the offering of the thoughts within.  How fascinating that scribbles on a building a thousand years ago can let us into the lives of our forefathers.  Words scratched on a prison cell speak of personnel torment, historical situations, and reflect the heart of the person.  I find this fascinating! A five year old struggling with very big letters can change the heart of a miserable old git miles away, words on potsherds reveal a commanders fears of his enemy and desperation for support from his King, words etched into a cliff in several languages of the day show us how one Emperor sought to impress his world.  
Writing is a gift, that is what I am trying to say.  Today we are so used to words, books, papers, letters, bills, fancy phones all these make us forget how important writing really is.  Take it away through accident or blindness and the individuals words changes, and not for the better.  Maybe of course there are too many words, possibly we read too many, just imagine reading a 'White Paper' regarding some new political Bill, or a lawyers letter?  Anyway, my tired mind just thought the use of writing is a fascinating and important part of society, a gift, ignored or not required for thousands of years, impossible to live without now.  What thinkest thou?  

   

Her Privates We, Frederick Manning

Normally I am not one for novels.  Story books tend to find themselves flung out the door quickly while I look for something worthwhile.  With regard to the Great War I find a great many people writing novels depicting, they say, the situation one man or more went through.  I dismiss them myself.  However when a man who has served in the trenches writes of the war I am more inclined to hear what he has to say and see his description of his war.  The men who served are the men to listen to!  Frederick Manning spent months on the Somme with the 7th Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, a 'Kitchener Battalion,' and claims all the situations recorded in his book occurred to someone, often he himself.   

Manning was born in Australia in 1882 and moved to Lincolnshire in 1903 to live with a family friend who had become vicar at Edenham.  Here he read widely in classics, studied philosophy, and produced a book, 'The Virgil of Brunhild,' others followed but while literary circles admired his writing mass circulation was not to be expected.  In spite of his asthma Manning continued to smok to much, he also spent a lot of time in local public houses an exercise that would lead to troubled times in the future. 

His poor health did not stop him attempting to enlist in 1914.  In spite of London life, where he became regarded as a minor poet and literary critic mixing with some important people from that world, he shared the desire to join the army like so many others of his day.  He was rejected several times until in October 1915 he was accepted by the Shropshires, numbered private 19022. His educated background led him to being selected for a commission, which he failed, he joined his regiment in France during 1916.  The 7th attacked Bazentin Ridge on the 14th of July, the wire was uncut and the second wave were hit by their own barrage, 200 men and 8 officers being lost.  Manning was promoted to lance corporal, possibly after this battle.  In November the battalion attacked the well defended Serre, on the Somme, another trying time. 

Manning received a commission in 1917 as a second lieutenant in the Royal Irish Regiment. This did not suit either he nor the British Army.  Being a bit of a loner, drinking heavily, and failing to adhere to the army way off life he soon found trouble with superiors.  His regard for the men as distinct from officers and his dislike of much military thinking and its effects on the 'poor bloody infantry,' increased his revulsion of much concerning army life.  The effects of trench life were said to be responsible for his drinking and attitude but the commission was resigned in 1918.  He had continued to write, poems, items in magazines and by 1923 Manning took a commission to write the life of Sir William White.  White had been a leading man in the admiralty late in the 19th century.  

Ten years after a war men's minds begin to demand they tell the world what they have endured. Life has, for most, returned to some sort of normality but the experiences have never healed, indeed they never do.  Manning was encouraged to write about his experiences and take advantage of the emotion of the day as books were beginning to fall off the shelves and typewriters were melting under the desperation to publish memoirs   He produced his work quite quickly and published in a limited number as 'The Middle Parts of Fortune.'  The introverted Manning takes the reader inside the hearts of men in battle, and quite unlike any other book we see something of the mind of a real everyday soldier.  The 'soldiers language' was considered too strong for the time and an expurgated version was published as, 'Her Privates We,' the title a quote from Shakespeare. 

Unlike many war books this one contains comparatively little war action even though it begins as an action is ending.  We read instead much of the emotions of a soldier in battle, the relationship of officers to men and vice versa at the time, the attitudes and responsibilities of NCO's, the men who really run an army, and as they withdraw out of the line the scene changes to the dull monotonous routine of army life.  This however is not the somewhat sentimental emotions seen is American movies, here we are confronted with the everyday man.  After the return from the line the men spend a few days settling their nerves, dwelling, without much exchange of confidences, on the stirred emotions within, helped, though they may not think it, by the routine of life.  The dead are an ever present reality for the soldier, one day he may join them. 

As is the way companies break down into two or three men getting together to make their life bearable.  The hero of the book, named Bourne after a small town Manning once stayed in, speaks French tolerably and is used by many to get help from local women regarding obtaining food and wine and having these prepared for them.  One causes Bourne much laughter when lady of the house misunderstands a soldiers use of the word, 'cushy.'  This was a common army word from the Hindi for 'comfortable.'  The woman instead hears 'coucher,' a word which has a differing meaning and results with her fetching the language ignorant solder a slap round the head.  Manning himself 'liked to drink,' as they say and soldiers often while away what is left of their lives in making merry. 'Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die,' means more to a soldier in such a war than it can ever mean to another.  

The action, if this is action, continues with Bourne posted to the orderly office. Here again the 'office politics' of army life is centre stage.  It isn't good. Nervous adjutants, greasy sergeant majors, and the strange feeling that a soldier prefers the real army with his pals rather than this 'cushy' number.  At least he avoids all those hard fatigues men at rest are lumbered with.  However army parades continue, seen as needless by many but insisted upon by an officer core with reasons of their own.  One such is interrupted by two shells which take out several men, much to the battalions disgust.  An aircraft is blamed but it soon becomes obvious that it is British shells falling short, a not uncommon occurrence.  Men sent on raids or to the line on fatigues when to all minds such is not possible is made worse when casualties, often popular officers, are injured.  The regiment returns to the line and Bourne and his mates act as runners, suffering the delight of a German bombardment while doing so.  Again this is used to describe both Bournes reaction and that of his companions.  They then return to prepare for yet another chance to go 'over the top.'

What we read in these glimpses of army life is not so much the action but the reality seen from deep within the authors mind.  The mist or fog is described almost as if it is alive, the countryside, even in the dark, allows us to know that men in war are touched by their surroundings like everyone else.  We also note the attitudes in the towns behind the lines, and the class difference that results in unfair treatment of the men. This impersonal, dangerous army, becomes a family for the men, a man once part of a regiment, sharing the dangers, has a kinship, a clan, that outsiders can never enter.  Indeed many men today with more recent experience of warfare understand Bournes mind and recognise their thoughts and emotions as identical to the men of 1916.   Some form close bonds, but many avoid this as men disappear without trace and never heard of again as injury, death or confusion reign in war. Frederick Manning attempts to tell the inner soldier, himself, while contemplating the men around him.  He seeks their unspoken thoughts, he describes their unsaid words, he reveals men as they are.  War books are often full of dangerous action, sometimes sugary, sometimes unbelievable.  This one is the real deal. War is impersonal, men go 'over the top' together but fight alone.  Men work as a unit, for one another, but fight and die individually.  

This is the best book on the war I have ever read!  It does not give all those little details we often seek, but provides sufficient to understand the sights and sounds, the pleasures and daily trials of army routine for the common soldier. Instead in the midst of a great conflict we see the individual whose name appears on the local, unnoticed, war memorial.  On each memorial is a Bourne, a Martlow his young friend, or his pal Shem the Jew, there we find the many sergeants and officers who ordered their lives and led them to destruction.   

This is a great book!  This book gives us the men and their hearts as it really was during their time on the Somme.  

Wiki

Research?

I have spent much of today in northern Israel fighting the 1918 Battle of Megiddo.  Now naturally I realise I must indicate to the less intelligent among the congregation that I was not actually participating in the fighting myself, I was merely reading about it.  I was trailing the advance of the 5th Essex Battalion after the battle of Jaffa and discovered the part they played in this major 'Mother of all Battles.'  Actually while here can I remind those mentioned previously that the 'Jaffa' in question being battled over is in fact NOT an orange, or indeed an orchard of that succulent citrus fruit, it was the town after which those fruits were named that I meant.   Also I suppose I must indicate that I failed to find much depth in what the 5th achieved in this advance as the reports tended to concentrate on the Cavalry taking major targets, the RAF bombing the communications centre and lesser regiments taking all the credit.  Tsk!  

This is a wee job I began some time ago and returning to it I discovered just how illiterate I am! What appeared to be acceptable at the time turns out to be meaningless drivel!  Now I realise what sub editors, or critics if you prefer, are for.  It didn't help that I had lost my place in all the books, mags and websites I had been using and have to spend hours attempting to find them all again.  Bah! 

For some the Great War was spent in France and Flanders, usually bored, often cold, damp and shot at.  For the 5th the war was spent in the delight of Gallipoli, Egypt and 120 degrees of heat in the Sinai as they approached Gaza.  After three attempts and a new commander they finally passed that historic town and ventured north to Jaffa, not for oranges remember.  I have yet to find out if any of the original 649 men and 29 officers made it to the end.  As they left Gallipoli only 6 officers and 100 men had survived that escapade.  As the war progressed the losses were made up with replacements from Britain, often no longer Essex men alone merely anyone who was available.  A quick calculation shows the 5th battalion lost a total of 332 men dead by wars end.  Around three others would be wounded, often more than once, and no count can ever be made of those who died from their exertions during the next forty years, often long before the next war came to be.  

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Early Morn

I shocked myself this morning by rising not long after five and being on the bike by quarter to six.  The shock being that I have not been on the bike for weeks and the sun shining compelled me to get out there before the postmen get up.  Naturally by the time I had propelled myself fifty yards the gray clouds began to gather.  However the foliage along the old railway was abundant this morning.  The picture does not give a decent shot of the colours to be found in these wild plants that lined the pathway.  The warmer weather does make life so much better!   However once I had spent half an hour on the bike, wandered around town to stop my knees stiffening I then had the joy of going back to bed!  

Nothing much else happened.

How I endure such an active life I know not.  

I did once again attempt to finish my speil on the local regiment during the Great War, once more I found myself rewriting it from the beginning.  Scrawling things on here is one thing, writing something for folks to read is hard, especially when facts honestly given turn out to be wrong!  Bah!  It's hard being illiterate, whatever that means.

From here I can glimpse the red sky in the distance, too difficult to photograph from here, and find this sky curiously satisfying.  What is it that makes the world around us so attractive and refreshing for the mind?  The greens of the vegetation, the colours of the sky, the fragrance of flowers all make the day worth having, no mater what else is occurring.  Lovely, whatever it is.

Hmmm, I seem to be in a good mood, I must read the 'Daily Mail' that will soon fix that!

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Dull Tuesday

The bright sun that enlivened the world has faded into gray, with added rain.  Quite how we survive in these appaling conditions I fail to understand.  People blessed with constant hot weather sometimes cry out for rain, pffft!  There is no pleasing some people!   This tree however appears pleased to have been here for some time, it reminds me of an Olive tree, surely it can't be, not here?  Judging by the trunks girth it has put on the weight since it first appeared, but how long ago I wonder?  Could it have grown from seeds left by the Roman chappies all those years ago?  Well no, there is a line of them carefully planted.  Are they really Olives or have I drunk too much coffee?

A combination of the lurgi and gray skies forced me to spend the day as a slob, much against my will!  The sleeps I had were purely for medicinal reasons and nothing else.  I fed my aches, looked for my brain and failed to find it, and read blogs that appeal.  I think they will appeal to your twisted intellects also.  Especially Robert's.  This man attempts to write short stories of a mere hundred or so words, and his mind 'meanders' into strange places he says, I think he is right in saying this.  It is worth browsing his blog for a moment.  I am convinced most people would wish to know more.  'Mulled Vine.'

The sight of large fat men and women showing how many pizzas they have stuffed into themselves through the winter has annoyed many of us.  I am quite happy to see thin female flesh in the park but recent days have found the cry "Cap'n Ahab! Thar she blows!" escape my lips just once too often.  Even Edinburgh with the perpetual Haar over the Forth and the gray skies desperate to blight the city has seen blue skies and sunshine I have heard.  This has brought out the chip supper and pizza lovers allowing the famous author Mike Smith to release his feelings on the subject.  This will win him much support, world wide I suspect.  Well not from fat folks.  I declare my interest in this in that I always keep my shirt on!  Read and enjoy 'Auld Reekie Rants.'

If however you wish to see the world in a new way you require a picture blog, of which there are billions!  There is one that gives a fresh eye on London that is always worth a look.  It's called 'Fresh Eye on London.'  Take a gander wontcha!

If however you are merely a man of culture and sophistication then I have discovered a site you dare not miss!  'Railscot.'  Men of culture and sophistication will love it!  

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Tuesday, All Day

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I suppose one benefit from the end of Osama bin Laden is that he removed that wedding from the news. On the other hand they now talk endlessly about nothing else! Without a doubt this is a major story, however the news media do have a terrible habit of concentrating on one story often to the extent of ignoring almost all others. However if they concentrate on a decent football* story then I might well change my mind of course.

*By 'Football' I emphasise for one or two of my unlettered American readers, by 'football' I mean 'football' and not either 'Soccer' or that throwball game, the one that bores intelligent peoples, that they play in the United States!

Isn't it always the way. At one point last night I began in my cavernous head a post for today. It was excellent, it made a good point, it was worth posting. I knew the picture I would use with it, and I was sure that it would elicit a response. It was interesting, and not just to me, enjoyable, and in my humble view I was writing it very well.
I just canny mind now what it was!
How often does this happen? This is not the first time I have mentally written a post (as opposed to writing a mental one) and either forgotten what it was or when writing the thing discovered it just would not come out right. All too often the thoughts in the head appear to be right but as I write they do not work. Could it be that typing on such a keyboard as this, including the sticky 'E' makes it too easy to rush ahead of the thoughts. Maybe writing longhand would produce better results, if I could remember how to do that! Anthony Trollope wrote many books, lots of letters, pamphlets, essays, items for magazines and newspapers often while on the move. His job as boss of the Post Office in Ireland (then under British rule) meant constant travelling. On coach or in the train,and you know how shoogly they can be today, imagine Victorian ones, he wrote in longhand. At least that way his thoughts were slower in appearing on the paper.
In fact one of the ways people can overcome trauma is doing just this. The very slow process of writing in longhand can help the mind to sort out lots of confusion that trauma, especially serious trauma can leave a person. A great many men who came out of the war had serious difficulties dealing with their experiences. Guilt, conscience, shock, the loss of friends, sights often too revolting to mention, all these can be the results of war and in 1945 people were for the most part just told to 'get on with it.' There was nothing else to do!   While this may not be a total answer to trauma it can help the mind organise the thoughts and help ease the difficulties problems can give us.
Hmmm I think I might go look for a pencil.....


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Writing

I acquired the Snoopy cartoon from another site, one written far better than this will ever be, but I was really taken with the theme. I have, as you know, written several books, one even getting to page two before I deleted it and burst into tears. I have sat looking at the PC, through strained eyes, filled with floating specks, and numb of mind. Inspiration would not come and yet I had a desire, a real hunger to write something, anything! However the question is 'What to write?' There is no use just babbling along like a panellist on 'Loose Woman,' is there? You need a purpose, something to say, an idea bursting to get out and change the world for the better! I often have such moments, such as when in the bath, on a bus, or burning toast, but when I get to the PC there is nothing there! It's gone, lost forever. Anything that ends up on screen is a pale imitation of the wondrous thoughts that went before, and have now just went! How on earth did people write in days of yore? Thucydides wrote his epic on the Peloponnesian War over a period of 27 years! How many scrolls of parchment did he use? Josephus settled in Rome to write huge long books, about the Jewish War and their Jewish History, as well as defending himself against his detractors. How did they do this? Trollope was employed by the Post Office to run the mail service in Ireland. In between creating the pillar box he write hundreds of books, letters, articles, and so on, often on trains or in a horse and carriage, and in long hand at that! Yet I sit here with PC and spellchecker facing blankness, hold on I am looking into the mirror there, let me change position. 

Several times I have started writing the History of the Great War. Several times I have realised I was a clown and stopped. In the meantime at least five new such histories have appeared while I sit here wondering how to begin the first line! I suspect a novel (a novel is nothing but a story, but do not tell novelists as they think what they write is life changing. Actually it is just a story made up so the world can be made they way they wish it to be. And they one day will know it isn't really.) as I said, I suspect a novel is easier to write. However you begin you can change it to suit yourself! Factual writing is harder, as you can see here, as there are always wingers who will point out your many mistakes, deliberate lies and similarity to a newspaper in that your style stinks and your writing is tosh! So maybe I ought to try this story writing stuff.  OK.

It was a dark and stormy night, well actually the sun was shining brightly and........

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Writing

Today, after completing my exercises, walking through the bright almost Spring like sunshine, and avoiding the seriously important jobs that I had to do, I sat down to write something. Inside my head there appeared that gray mist that often accompanies this desire, and desire it was at first. I had the fingers twitching over the keyboard and yet the gray matter remained misted over. No thoughts crashed into my head like a battleship cutting through the fog. Just mist and nothingness. Cynics may add at this point a comment that they can jolly well keep to themselves, yes Fishy I was thinking of you!  So I thought about this carefully and tried to come up with something original, practical, humorous, newsworthy or spelt correctly without the aid of the spell checker! Nothing came!  

There is of course the Edinburgh Derby at the weekend. The Heart of Midlothian will be taking on the Hibernian, a small Leith outfit of little importance, in a game which gives bragging rights to the victors and despair to the Hibs. Since the first meeting in1875 the Men in Maroon have won a vastly superior number of games than the Hibbys. That is why the Hibs wear green, it reflects their jealousy of the Heart of Midlothian, the Big Team! However our friend Mike has written perceptively about this game and the effects it can have on the individual on his excellent blog On the Terracing.

I could write about walking about in the sunshine, listening to the birds preparing nests and singing in the trees as I passed. This would mean noticing the way these English folks respond to the sun. You see I could tell that there was a chill in this bright sunshine simply by opening the window, yet these folks here rush outside in the sun in T-shirts and even shorts! Now I can understand this when youth is involved, it is not done to wear heavy clobber when there is a chance to show your strong or for the lassies to show off their bits.(Not that I'd notice) However a fat lass revealing her tummy as well as the reason she was chucked on the streets is unnecessary in my view! Most managed to get through the day happy in the sun brightening life and relishing the idea that winter may almost be over. I think we all hope so. This of course does not matter to those residing in warm climes with pretty girls and smug grins. They know who they are also! Bah!

How about the list of 'To Do' that sits beside me? There is a page full of things listed and requiring attention. It never fails to amuse me just how many have not been scored through signifying completion.

Clean the Loo 

Fix bike gears (still not done)

Visit Favourite Blogs (Yup!)

Make Oatcakes

Sleep (managed this one)

Exercise (Yup, that too!)

Found a job? (WAAAAAHHH!)

Despair (Yup, done that....)

Cook Mince

The excitement is never ending here.....

Writing Blogs

Yesterday, while busily going about my day, I had a wonderful blog post going through my mind. Now at this moment I cannot remember what I was doing at the time, but there again I cannot remember what I intended to write! At the time I thought it excellent. It was informative, relevant, humorous and I thought worth posting. I got the first couple of paragraphs into my mind when something distracted me, I think I may have been hiding from the rent collector, anyway I lost it! try as I may, like a dream that leaves an imprint in your mind when you awake, but disappears forever deep into the gray matter, it has gone.

I wonder if it concerned my 94 year old mother? She has developed a back problem and the pills the doctor gave her make her unwell anyway, as is often the case. Was I going to bore you with her details, how she is doing well for her age, until now? Does she know Jesus, and does the church she has attended since 1936 really evangelical. You know the type, they want God but water things down a bit, doubting miracles but seeking Jesus anyway. Was it about the guilt I feel being 400 miles away and having no money to visit? Could it be about the guilt I feel when speaking to her? Her conversation is now limited to her world, which gets smaller all the time. And there is no connection to mine, especially as she informs me of the goings on amongst people I have never met, nor heard of nor am interested in! Who are they, and why do I care of they are of to Italy with their boyfriend and have no job?

I don't know if that was interesting enough to waste a few minutes of your life reading, so don't do it! What? oh.... Ah well, Maybe I was going to fill a post about rain? Yesterday it rained all day, almost. For reasons I fail to understand folk in this island act as if this was either unusual or criminal. Either way they can talk about it for days! Mind you, I live in the driest county in England, well so they said when I got here. They also claimed it was flat! Anyone who has cycled around this town delivering post will be very quick to indicate the mistake in that statement! The rain busily knocked the leaves of the trees making the streets greasy and the street cleaners life murder. However, late in the day the sun decided to show itself and as I walked across the park I saw the glorious site it presented. To my right the sun brought out the colours of the rusting leaves. A golden glow came from the trees, a more heartwarming glorious site than any man could produce, and it was all free! Such a simple pleasure, watching the remaining green leaves protruding among a vast array of yellow, rust coloured and golden leaves. A wall of splendour that had been hidden all day behind a gray mist. That is worth posting about!

Is it age? I enjoy watching the autumn colours and feeding the squirrels in the park as much as I enjoy watching the football team winning or listening to good music. Simple pleasures are longer lasting. Mind you, so has this post, and I have had nothing to say........

Nothing to Say

This cannot be right, I find I have nothing to say. Shome mishtake shurely?
I could write about Jesus and how he has died for me and the need to let myself go fully into him, but I have done so before, often, too often. I could discuss the need for work, how to find it, my poor health, my laziness and dumbness, and the resulting waste of my life and need to live of benefits that do not cover my debts - which increase daily! But we have been there before.
I could mention the weather, a subject talked about constantly by those residing in the British Isles, and no wonder! With the Atlantic emptying itself on your head every other day folk do tend to keep it in mind quite a lot. This summer has been poor, much too much rain, and too little sun for our liking. So I could go on about that but let's face it, that is boring. By the way it is overcast at the moment and the weather man says it will clear and reach over 20% . You know how much faith we can out in them don't you? The Anglia weather girls have a terrible habit of mentioning 'possible showers' when they actually mean heavy rain from 6 a.m. until midday. At least that is what I discovered when I was working as a postman! Bless them....

However you do not want to read these things do you - in fact as you never read this anyway it appears you don't want to read anything I write. So what is the point I ask, just what is the point? I could write anything and you would not notice. Unless I made it a porn site, then I would have readers, er, I mean viewers of course. Porn sites seem to abound on Blogger these days. I wonder why? Still I am not going to scribble about them, not today anyway, so what shall I write?

Nope, I cannot think of anything. So in that case I will avoid wasting my time and instead of using the quill I will browse others desperate cries for attention, if you see what I mean.....

Writing

I have been trying my hand at this writing lark. How difficult is that? I have some great ideas for features, and begin the process and almost immediately come to a halt. The blank screen stares back at me until the thing goes black. Then I begin again, finish a sentence, switch off and go away.
When I restart I note the sentence is poor and we are back to the blank screen. Reading through 'Wodehouse on Wodehouse' a collection of autobiographies we see him at the top of the tree coming across the same problem. Mind you, he managed to get out of it and become a roaring success most times. I have not reached the stage of 'mere failure' as yet.

Sitting in the Gardens the other day I decided to attempt a feature on them. I think I was inspired by the quietness among dappled pathways, gentle breezes ruffling the leaves around me, all made alive by the sound of bird song. Lovely stuff really. Enjoyable even when the weather is not too hot, but incomparable when the sun shines. I like to go early, before mum brings the kids to run around screaming blue murder, and the adolescents pass through on their way to pretend their studying at the college. In truth, these days I would be very happy with a garden full of trees and bushes, a few hidden paths, lots of colour and bird, a squirrel or two, and a chance to sit watching the sun go down while feeding the feathered ones. Sounds good to me.

Oh well. I had better just water the window box instead......
I would write about that but could you stomach it I ask?

Writing

This writing lark is not as easy as it looks. I wrote a small item for some friends and when I looked it over I had to make one or two changes. It took several days to complete those changes! As I wrote all seemed well, but later the wonderful text turned into total drivel! Similar happenings occur when I am lying half asleep in my bed. In my mind I write wonderful articles full of drive, inspiration and constructive thinking. By the time I reach the keyboard this has dissipated faster than an ice cream in the desert! Where does it go?
A year or so back I started to write my tome on the Great War. It naturally got forgotten in the rush to make a living and find sufficient sleep at the same time. When it came back to my attention I could not believe what a load of rubbish stared me in the face! I reckon someone had sabotaged my effort!
If you have stumbled through this I congratulate you. I tell you I am not going to re-read it, just in case.

Writing

Every so often I take to writing, but I never get far. Recently I had an idea for a short story. I began to scribble the main idea, some of the characters, and one or two relevant points. I got no further. Somewhere on a disk is the beginnings of my major work, 'The History of the First World War.' The war lasted from the fourth of August 1914 until 11th of November 1918. My book makes it to midday on the fourth of August 1914 and falls asleep! There are several more, history based, items I have found. Not one is going anywhere, a sad reflection of the author!
Others are more able to make use of their talents. The word 'talents' I use there of course depends whether you like what is written or not! There are those who write weighty volumes, with hundreds of pages, that I would not use to kindle a fire with.
Woman's fiction is a good example of wasted paper if ever there was one!
When I first came to this backwater I looked into the charity shops for cheap books. In London these shops were always full of a wide selection of books able to satisfy every taste. Out here the predominate taste was Joan Collins, or Barbara Cookson! Dozens of similar volumes filled the bookshelves awaiting another feeble minded, self centered lassie desperate to escape into an unreal fantasy world. Yet , something to consider, these folks can vote! Time for a rethink I say!
Is it possible to find a woman who can write properly? A female who understands the world and has experience of life? Do thinking women exist?
Well yes as it happens. I admit you have to look for them, sometimes it takes a bit of digging, but they can be found. I found one once, beautiful, intelligent, kind, thoughtful, full of charm, grace, and all things good. I was in love!
She ran off with a Frenchman!
But there are still others around. I know another, and she is an author in waiting.
Blackberry Juniper has attempted novels, short stories and the like. Possibly she has put her mind to non fiction also, she certainly has the ability! Maybe she ought to combine the two and write a historical novel, set in the Victorian era, and become world famous?
This would be the least she deserves after all her troubles.
One day one of her attempts, and maybe one of mine, will end in print.
The world waits.....