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These (presumably decommissioned?) shells are just sitting, rusting, on the verge/someone’s drive, at Gedney Drove End. Weird!

I’ve mused upon my possible ‘allergy to life’ before. My psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis are, to my mind, potential manifestations of this idea.

The skin component came on in my early to mid teens. The bone part started about a decade later.

I’ve also had some form of perennial rhinitis since childhood, prior to the onset of the psoriatic conditions.

So my body’s baseline is, it seems, to be at war either with itself, or ‘nature’ at large, or both. Not an ideal starting point.

Depression also began during early teen years. And as time passed, grew ever stronger. Aided in growth by the physical aspects of ill health, and psychological issues, arising from family and relationship stuff.

The ‘nuclear family’ blew up in my late teens. And the fallout has been lifelong. And, as Robert Crumb has it, ‘my troubles with women’ have cast an equally long and doleful shadow.

And here I am. 52 years old. Struggling with both physical and mental health issues. Will things ever get any better? Or will they actually get worse?

I’m on a ‘biologic’ treatment for the psoriatic stuff. And have been for what must be about a decade now. And that has improved things massively on the skin and bones front. So there’s certainly some grounds for optimism.

But sometimes – like now – it can seem that there’s nowt to look forward to but yet more slings and arrows. I only just got back to work, after three weeks not earning. And I seem to have picked up a cold or infection.

In my fragile state, all and any setbacks can be magnified out of all proportion.

LATER THE SAME DAY…

Well, I rang 111. They had someone – allegedly a doctor – call me back. He reckoned I prob’ had an infection. And that antibiotics might be a good idea.

He also set up an urgent – as in within the hour – ‘out of hours’ appointment for me, at Doddington Hospital.

The lady I saw there seemed to think I was fine!!! And when I mentioned the Doc’s comments, re infection and antibiotics, she ridiculed the suggestion (actually saying the person I spoke to obviously didn’t know their business!).

I went home. Very pissed off. What a total waste of my time and near non-existent energies. I may take this up, with 111, or whoever is appropriate.

[pic/vid?]

Anyway, once home, I was offered a shift. So I did it. Just as that shift ended, I was offered another. So I did that as well. I didn’t really want to work at all today. But our economic situation requires I do all that I can.

And now I’m home, in bed, feeling utterly appalling. My nose feels as if someone’s poured concrete into it. It’s totally blocked (inflamed?). And my throat feels like I’ve been deep breathing in a combination coalmine/woodwork-shop.

So… what am I to do? I’m using Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest, and as a steam inhalation. I’m taking Lemsip, and throat lozenges. And lots of liquids, inc’ hot lemon n’ honey, etc.

But I feel like absolute shit! And in addition to all the usual crap, plus this cold or allergy or whatever the fuck it is, I have super-itchy toes. Athlete’s Foot, perhaps?

We just watched the rather duff Curse of The Crimson Altar. And now I really ought to sleep. But I have to sit upright, on account of my breathing/congestion. My feet – esp’ the right one – are driving me nuts. Gaaah!!!

It’s 10pm. I’ve been abed since about 7.30-8’ish. I’ve got a calming YouTube video playing. I’ll try reading. I just hope I get a good nights sleep…

This movie was a fairly fun watch. Not great. Just dependable fun. The music, by Lalo Schifrin is occasionally rather groovy.

The plot is fairly lame. Broadly grouped with ‘revisionist Westerns’, we find Clint’s Kidd initially siding with the villains, before (kind of) crossing over.

It’s not a plot that bears much scrutiny. But it’s the McGuffin that drives what is – for all that it’s supposedly ‘revisionist’ – a very bog-standard set of Western movie tough guy clichés.

There are a couple of moments that are almost worthy of classic 1960s James Bond levels of silliness. I’m thinking of the train through the saloon scene, and Kidd’s moment as judge, jury and executioner, in the courtroom.

*one more than half expects Eastwood to have a furry white kitten in his lap.

Eastwood gives the standard full-Clint: tough, taciturn, in like Bond with the babes, and, well… scowling, etc. Robert Duvall is perfect as the arch-villain, with a crowd of suitably ne’erdowell hangers on.

The landscapes are stunning, and the acting and direction dependable if not inspired. Far from being a classic. But fun, and worth watching.

I can’t help but think that the cast and/crew, or production team, must’ve recently read some James Bond. In particular Diamonds Are Forever, with the Spectreville/Old West train scene, springs to mind…

I also found a website online that refers to the ‘phallic imagery’ of this movie. Certainly the hijacked train achieves deep penetration! And whilst such phrases as phallic imagery seem too baldly literal, it’s undoubtedly true that Clint’s persona is, like Janes Bond, an archetypal male fantasy.

Usually churches like this have a Saintly name. Not, it seems, in this case. That said, I did find one website calling it Saint Germain (note the added ‘i’!).

The church is right beside the Great Ouse. Outside…

Inside…

One very striking feature here, are the large numbers of carved wooden figures on the ends of the pews. Some have been defaced. Many have not.

As with pretty much all old churches, look hard enough, and there will be something – often many things – making a trip to visit the place well worth making.

In this case it’s all the wood carving. Definitely worth a look.

I do love Rick Stein. As does Teresa. She watches his stuff daily! Ought I be worried? She’s cooking in the kitchen now (smells delicious), and Rick’s on in the background.

One of the things I love about him, is his love of culture. He often talks about art, music poetry, and suchlike. And just a moment ago, he slipped in a short poetic extract – ‘A sweet disorder in the dress / kindles in clothes a wantonness’ – I just had to immediately look it up.

Turns out it’s an old’un:

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

By a certain Mr Robert Herrick. A new name to me. Or so I thought. But everyone know the phrase ‘Gather ye rosebuds’, surely?

Having just learned who Herrick is, or was. I’m beginning to like him a lot! His poem, The Vine, essentially a near psychedelic dream about his willy, is fabulous.

And the ending of To His Muse are an entire compendium of a philosophy of life in just two lines:

That man's unwise will search for ill,
And may prevent it, sitting still.

My great and longest standing buddy, Dan Ellis, has been battling thymic cancer for several years now. It was discovered, alas, at what they call Stage Four.

He posted an update on his current status yesterday. On the one hand it sounds pretty awful: constant pain, lots of quite invasive and draining treatments.

On the other it’s quite positive: he has a loving family and devoted wife, and a well remunerated and supportive/understanding job; a very fine oncologist; and his treatments thus far have been very effective ; i.e. he’s still alive.

Not that long ago a stage four diagnosis meant imminent death.

When I first learned of his illness, I tried to go and see him weekly. Sadly since then my own life issues have intervened and made that much harder to do. And these days I hardly ever see him.

I posted a comment to his latest update, and a screenshot of Amy’s response is atop this post.

I was tempted to say Dan is ‘in our prayers daily‘. But I opted instead to say ‘in our thoughts daily.’ And that got me thinking about what prayer might actually be.

One definition of prayer is that we ask for intercession from a supernatural source – most popularly (‘though nowhere near as common as in former times), in our present culture, the ‘all powerful’ being called God – to alter the course of reality in our favour.

That’s quite obviously deluded poppycock. The recourse of desparate fools. At least in my opinion.

But another definition of prayer might simply be the speaking out of a thing ‘devoutly’ or keenly wished for. And I can see some value in that.

I forget now, it’s so long since I read it. Did Alain de Botton address this in his quite interesting book Religion For Atheists? He certainly should have. So he probably did.

Nowadays there’s a lot of wishy-washy New-Agey stuff, and worse, where you’ll hear talk of ‘manifesting’. I must confess, such stuff makes me bridle.

But, within both prayer and the desire to ‘manifest’, usually through such stuff as ‘affirmations’, I do see things of real genuine value.

Perhaps the most important of all is the merest glimmer of hope. One of the worst things about the energy and motivation sapping depressions I’ve experienced (and am currently experiencing) is their bleakness. The absence of hope, or ‘faith’, call it what you will.

A crushing sense that things will only get worse is not conducive to any kind of improvement. Perhaps prayer, or affirmations, or whatever, can be a part of a practicing of hope?

And if these vocalisations of one’s hopes are repeated, as is the very core of practice, then maybe they become gradually more tangible, or plausible?

It certainly seems true that constantly repeating negative stuff has the opposite effect: one’s vistas shrink; less and less is possible or plausible.

I’ve certainly already discovered, through using my cue-cards, for example, the power of repeated recourse to positive ideas.

Having just read a Tolkienian re-imagining of Breton folklore, I give myself license to take on – oh, the hubris! – the trad Christian verse, known as The Lord’s Prayer.

I found a Church of England website giving these two versions:

Modern

Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
Forgive us our sins
as we forgive those who sin against us.
Lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.
For the kingdom, the power,
and the glory are yours
now and for ever.
Amen.

Trad

Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come;
thy will be done;
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation;
but deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom,
the power and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.

So, here goes nuttin’…

Oh Life, whose art is heaven,
Tho’ hollow seems the game
Yet days do come;
And nights, as one;
on earth we are yet in heaven.
We eat each day our daily bread.
And forgive us our mistakes, 
As we forgive the mistakes of others. 
Let us forbear from evil;
And avoid foolish council.
For this is our world,
Our hour, and our story,
For this fleeting moment.
Okay.

I like this, as a first attempt. It’s so much more humble and universal and real, than any religious prayer belonging to any tradition I’ve yet encountered.

I may ‘worrit it‘, as in come back and finesse it. This is a first attempt. But I think I am going to get it printed. And start saying it daily. See how it feels…

My great and longest standing buddy, Dan Ellis, has been battling thymic cancer for several years now. It was discovered, alas, at what they call, Stage 4.

He posted an update on his current status yesterday. On the one hand it sounds pretty awful: constant pain, lots of quite invasive and draining treatments.

On the other it’s quite positive: he has a loving family and devoted wife, and a well remunerated and supportive/understanding job; a very fine oncologist; and his treatments thus far have been very effective ; i.e. he’s still alive.

Not that long ago a stage four diagnosis meant imminent death.

When I first learned of his illness, I tried to go and see him weekly. Sadly since then my own life issues have intervened and made that much harder to do. And these days I hardly ever see him.

I posted a comment to his latest update, and a screenshot of his wife Amy’s response is stop this post.

I was tempted to say Dan is ‘in our prayers daily‘. But I opted instead to say ‘in our thoughts daily.’ And that’s for me thinking about what prayer might actually be.

One definition of prayer is that we are asking for intercession from a supernatural source – most popularly in our present culture the ‘all powerful’ being called God – to alter the course of reality in our favour.

That’s quite obviously poppycock. And a fools’ recourse. At least in my opinion.

But another definition of prayer might be simply the speaking out of a thing ‘devoutly’ or keenly wished for.

Well, things got too much for me, and Monday evening I snapped, or let go, or whatever.

I wilfully ‘got fucked’. Partly as a response to constant work/money issues. Partly other stuff; which I’ll simply call general depression (arising from numerous causes; least said, soonest mended).

On this occasion it was just booze that I abused: a small-ish bottle of gin, and a standard bottle of red wine. The intended aim? Oblivion. Which I succeeded in. But not without dire consequence.

I smashed a picture frame, cutting my hand, and raged and raved, behaving pretty atrociously, by all accounts. The oblivion I sought was found, such that some of this sorry episode – perhaps I should be grateful? – is entirely lost to me.

I posted a message to FB – obviously both venting and a cry for help – which is, obviously, very embarrassing once the fit has passed.

Since this occurred I’ve confined myself to bed, and ‘recovery mode’. Near enough sleeping around the clock. Or just resting. Reading a bit, if I can muster the wherewithal.

Yesterday (Wednesday) I managed to do several hours of telephone based admin work, that desperately needed sorting. All of which revolved around sorting a working mobile phone (my latest iPhone SE not working has, it turns out, been part of the lack of work issue taking so long to resolve).

A new phone has been procured, via an insurance claim, costing me £55 (at a time when I’m totally broke), and should be arriving today. And all the documentation Amazon have requested – and which I was unable to successfully supply via the old/broken SE – has, via a secondary/backup iPhone 6S, now been sent.

So, hopefully, I’ll be back to delivering, fairly soon; could still take ‘up to five working days’! That’ll bring this current period of unemployment to a full month. Or £1200+ out of pocket.

I’m trying – tho’ barely managing (or more accurately not managing) to succeed in doing so – to sell some more drum stuff. I’ve got as far as getting it all down from the attic. But I have yet to place adverts, or whatever else I might do to sell the stuff.

I’ve had – as I always do, when things go south – a constant loop of self-destructive thoughts playing in my mind. One reason I’m confined to bed is that if I did get up and go out, it might be in search of rope and a tree.

Teresa remains my rock. She stayed home on Tuesday, to keep an eye on me. Which I think was very necessary. That got me through the worst post-meltdown period. I called Samaritans several times that day. Probably spent a total of about two hours talking to them. Thank goodness they are there!

Having just got and read Tolkien’s Lay of Aotrou & Itroun, I think it’s (fairly?) safe to say that it touched a raw nerve, for me, re our childlessness. Whilst Tolkien’s doomed Lord takes a potion to bring forth issue, my ‘potion’ merely seeks oblivion. But both have dire results.

I don’t want to go into this aspect of my current struggles. But the Tex Avery pics, and Tolkien’s tale, I think, will convey something of the issue.

Rather tragically, for me, at least as I see it, my fate must needs be more that of an ascetic monk than a princess-rescuing dragon-slaying adventurer.

It seems that I’m a hyper-sensitive endorphin junkie. And that to manage my ‘condition’, if I want to survive (never mind ‘prosper’, which seems an outcome that remains totally beyond reach) I must abstain from everything my pleasure-seeking self longs to indulge in.

This arrived today.

I’m currently bed-bound, after a mini-breakdown. I think it was Monday evening, I kind of, erm… snapped?

Anyway, I’d ordered the book that is the subject of this post a few days ago (see this earlier post). And it’s now arrived.

It seems eerily apt, for me/us, as it’s the sad story of a childless couple.

The above is the artwork that’s also used on the cover. A beautiful thing. As is so much of Tolkien’s creative work, be it art or literature.

The book is only a little over 100 pages. And easily read in a single day. I love it. It’s fascinating to see how Tolkien evolves his ideas.

The book comprises the titular ‘lay’, two shorter Corrigan poems, and lots of other material, directly related to the lay and it’s evolution.

As well as Tolkien’s own writing there’s quite a lot of commentary, describing how the linked ideas that form these pieces arose; their sources, and evolution.

If you love Tolkien, and I certainly do, it’s very absorbing and fascinating. It’s often repeated herein that these works – the lay especially – are from the ‘darker side’ of Tolkien’s creative oeuvre.

Well, yes. But at the same time I think they also underscore a deep vein of melancholy that characterises pretty much his entire output.

I think I also love Tom Waits and Jack Kerouac a great deal because there’s so much wistful nostalgia for vanishing worlds in their work. And Tolkien, whilst ostensibly operating in a different milieu, I feel partakes of a very similar ‘rear-view mirror blues’ aesthetic.

Whether it’s the loss of the innocence of one’s own youth, or the changing of whole cultures, there’s very often a deep sadness underlying a lot of Tolkien’s work.

His work as a philologist in itself situated him in the citadel of academia, as the chill winds of history blew through the bones of the dead languages he studied.