Category: Uncategorised

I’ve decided to make this post, and publicly (kind of*) talk a bit about suicide. I suppose the trigger to do so is the recent death of Sinead O’Connor.

Nobody (at the time I first posted this) – at least nobody I could find online – has said yet exactly how she died. But there’s a distinct possibility it may have been suicide. I didn’t know till reading about it yesterday and today (in the wake of her passing), but her son Shane hung himself in 2022.

I’m not a fan of Sinead O’Connor, to be candid. Ok, I do like Nothing Compares 2U. But as far as I know that’s the only thing she’s done I like. I’ve watched the Father Ted episode that lampoons her (Rock A Hula, Ted) much more frequently than I’ve ever listened to her.

So, in all honesty, and meaning no disrespect to her, her family/friends and fans, etc, her death is merely an excuse for me to say out loud that I myself have often been suicidally depressed.

I’ve had thoughts that to be dead might be preferable to being alive since my mid-teens. And in nearly all the subsequent years it’s been such a commonplace idea or desire for me that it’s become an unthreateningly banal thought for me.

In all that time I never really got too close to acting on such thoughts. They were, by and large, just nasty passing ideas and emotions.

But that has changed somewhat in the last six months. In this recent bout of depression, which comes on the back of a long and happy period of contentment, I’ve tried twice to hang myself. I’m most definitely not proud of this. But I don’t want to be ashamed of it either. And I suppose I’m allowing O’Connor’s death, and that of her son Shane, to give me license to speak of such things.

One thing that reading about Sinead and her son has done for me, is give me a better perspective on the fall-out and damage such actions have. One of the problems is, the suicidally depressed person tends to be very solipsistic and inwardly directed. AKA self-centred. And they may even think most folk will actually be glad they’re gone.

Teresa, my wife, knows about what’s been happening with me. But up till I made this post only a very few in my closest family also knew (plus my doc’, and some ‘professionals’, or care-workers). But just recently I’ve started to ‘confess’ about it to a few friends. And, whilst I was very anxious about it, I think (or is that hope?) that it has been a good thing.

I can’t speak for the suicidal at large. But I have learned over the years that those prone to such thoughts might go through several stages, over time. I’m not going to pretend to try and be at all scientific or rigorous about this. I’m just writing about my experience.

My first stage was just thinking about it a lot. And back then I very rarely ever thought far enough down the road towards acting on it. I do recall looking at knives and wondering how messy it might be, or plain difficult, to successfully stab or cut oneself.

The second stage, at least for me, is when you start to think, plan, and research the idea. You may by this time have thought so much about it you find yourself thinking, well, I need to know how to act on these thoughts, at some stage.

And the third stage is the transition, having thought about it an awful lot, and researched it a good deal (can I get some pure helium? for example; not easy!), and maybe even laid some plans, to beginning to act on these thoughts.

For some that might mean stockpiling certain pills. For others it might be writing goodbye notes.

On two occasions in the last six months, both during sleepless nights, in the wee small hours, I’ve got out of bed, and gone downstairs to fashion a rudimentary and makeshift noose, from whatever I can find, and then tried to hang myself.

Hanging oneself isn’t the method I’d choose ‘on paper’, so to speak. A suicide bag kit, with an inert gas would be best, as in most effective and least painful or messy. Overdosing on pills is out. And I’m too lazy to go somewhere like a train track. Plus I really don’t like the public aspect of that type of suicide. °

° Traumatising one’s near and dear is bad enough. But traumatising random strangers? That’s a step too far!

Anyway, the first time I actually really tried – prob’ back in February of this year? – I went to my workshop shed, and made a noose from a length of blue nylon cord. With a very simple noose around my neck, I attached the other end to an extremely strong fixture on a roofing beam, and then slumped, letting my legs go limp.

I don’t know how long I hung there. It felt like several minutes. And it was very uncomfortable. As time passed, I felt extremely foolish. So I just stood up. The roofs in all of my several sheds are way too low to hang from them, with feet dangling above the floor.

After maybe five minutes of just standing there, quite possibly mumbling to myself, I had a second go. This time I tried to get the noose better positioned to cut off air supply, and possibly even blood supply.

The second go was even more physically uncomfortable. And again, although it may only have been seconds, it felt like I hung there for several minutes. I was hoping and half-expecting to slide into unconsciousness. And from there I thought things would ‘naturally’ take over for me.

But this didn’t happen. So once again, in the face of considerable pain and discomfort, I simply straightened my legs and stood up. Was this all just a half-arsed attempt? Or was I really serious? I’ll confess, I really honestly don’t know. It seemed serious enough to me at the time. But with hindsight?

Anyway, after the second go also failed, I removed the rope, and went back inside our house. I woke Teresa up, and confessed to what I’d done. I can’t recall much of what passed after that. Poor Teresa!

My next or second attempt, much more recently (but I forget exactly when!?), might make a good tragicomic scene on the small or large screen? Again it was around 3-4am, not having slept at all. And, once again, whilst depressed, sad and upset, I was also kind of ‘blank’, or dead inside.

This time the first thing I did on going downstairs was call The Samaritans. I don’t think I was even thinking of suicide yet, at this point? I was just very depressed, unable to sleep, and maybe wanting some form of help. Or just someone to talk to?

There have been periods in the last six months when I’ve called The Samaritans daily (or nightly), sometimes multiple times in a day. In previous bouts of depression – sadly I’ve had a fair few over the years – I’d been very critical and dismissive of their service. But now I’d become so down and desperate I was starting to find them actually quite helpful (on occasion).

The funny thing is (funny peculiar, that is; not so much funny ha-ha, I guess?) that despite all the time and energy put into research and potential planning, for me at any rate, the move to acting on these thoughts can be shockingly swift and easy. And not just easy, but also surprisingly and banally blank, possibly emotionless?

Anyway, on this particular night, after over 20 minutes with no one answering my call to The Samaritans, the suicidal thoughts kicked in. Teresa had hidden the nylon cord. But there’s always something to hand.

On this occasion one of Teresa’s longer knitted scarves served my purposes. Interestingly it was a similar blue to the nylon rope I’d used the previous time. Just coincidence. So, I fashioned a very rudimentary noose at one end, and then secured the other to the highest bit of our stair furniture I could get at.

The first comic part of this tragicomic moment occurred at this point. Chester, our cat was on the stairs, near where I was fixing the scarf. He thought I wanted to play; and started attacking the scarf. Bless him!

But I wasn’t made happier by this at the time, alas (I usually would be), nor was I deflected from my grim but soulless resolve. I put the noose round my neck, drew it pretty tight, and, as previously – low ceilings etc, again – let my legs go limp.

This turned out to be a very different experience to my previous effort. The knitted wool of the scarf, which one might’ve thought would be softer and more comfortable, quickly drew very, very tight around my neck, as my weight went onto it.

This time I did feel my breath being cut off. As intended. And, very rapidly – within 20-30 seconds – I sensed my blood vessels must also be getting seriously constricted; I felt myself going into a swoon. My vision even darkened.

Despite this being what I supposedly wanted to happen, the shock of it actually happening really alarmed me. So much so that I just involuntarily stood up. My head was spinning, and the noose end of the scarf was still extremely and uncomfortably tight round my neck. My heart started pounding. I felt panic mounting.

Then… a lady answered my Samaritans call? I’d left my phone, still in one of those interminable queues we all experience, on our dining room table. ‘Good morning’ – it was about 3.30am – ‘The Samaritans, can I help you?’ a female voice asked.

I was still dizzy and light-headed, and very much tethered to our stairs, in such a way that I couldn’t get to and pick up my phone. I tried to explain this to the lady, on the line, but I was still dizzy, and – I suppose? – in a state of shock and confusion. I guess this is an opportunity to use a rather fine word; I was rather discombobulated! I don’t recall exactly what I said now. But I probably said something like ‘Could she bear with me’, whilst I tried to untether myself!

At first, and before I could talk to her properly, I tried to loosen the noose end, around my neck, as it remained worryingly and painfully tight. But try as I might I was getting nowhere. I managed to stretch it, and thereby take a good deal of the pressure of my neck. But this slightly panicked effort just tightened the noose part more.

Because I was a bit woozy, it took me a minute or two to think of untying the other end. Once I’d thought to do that, it proved much easier. But the scarf itself remained tied to me until quite some time after the subsequent Samaritans chat finally ended.

Looking back on this now I can see the comedy in the scenario. But at the time it was pretty grim! Anyway, it’s now 2.20am. So I ought to try and get some sleep. Don’t want to precipitate a third attempt, do I?

* Not that many folk know of let alone read this blog! So it’s hardly that public.

FOOTNOTE

Another element that, retrospectively, might add to the comic aspect, was that I had a T-shirt on, but naught else. I often sleep naked. Otherwise so get too hot to sleep. But talking to a stranger, tethered to one’s banister, in such a state? Maybe even more so because it’s a woman I’m talking to, and we’re talking about me attempting suicide… It’s all both very weird and, oddly, just a bit funny.

Had a haircut today, at one of the local Turkish barbers. I like that I get a coffee before/during my shearing, and a hot face towel and neck, shoulder and arm massage after. Nice!

Today marks the first time – despite always asking them to do so – that they actually left the hair atop my head alone completely. Usually they can’t resist trimming it!

I also ordered a new pair of testacles… we, I mean spectacles, from the local SpecSavers. Whilst there I tried to get them to fix my very buggered current pair. They tried and gave up! The arms were bent out of whack (downwards), by about 60/70°!!!

They did give me some free mini-screws, so I could try fixing the damn things myself, at home. I wish I’d taken a before pic! They were in an awful state.

In the photo above you can see where I had to saw a groove into the underside of the hinge. This allowed me to get a tiny screwdriver and remove a broken piece of thread (resting atop the hinge in the same pic) that had broken off when the specs got bent out of shape.

Last pic is the fixed specs, with the superb little craft saw that did such a great job. These old discs are just for distance.

My new pair – ready in 7-10 days time – with be bisexua… et, I mean bifocals! Plus they’ll have an anti-glare coating. Something I’m often too broke or cheapskate to pay for.

Back from the dentist. My first appointment was last week. A check-up. First time I’d seen a dentist in at least seven years. Poss’ as long as a decade?

Treatment plan: over a couple of appointments, have one tooth removed, tout-suite, another filled (the latter prob’ also to be removed fairly soon). Both have or had cavities along the gum line.

Today the worst of the two was extracted. Unlike the x-rays, which were a real mother (I have a bad gag reflex!), the extraction itself went very smoothly.

The dentist, a lady of Indian heritage called Priti, had expected the tooth – beset by not just one but two cavities – to collapse or shatter. Fortunately it didn’t.

She was also concerned that the roots might separate from the tooth, and remain in the cavity. Happily they didn’t. The whole thing came out as one. And much quicker than I’d expected.

Back home, it’s rather uncomfortable: my mouth is filling with blood and saliva, which entails fairly regular spitting. The treated area remains numb (an hour has passed this far).

When the NHS was created I believe dentistry was included. Over the years the Tories have steadily chipped away at the NHS, such that nowadays getting dentistry on the NHS is: 1) incredibly hard to find, 2) requires payment (albeit less than private).

I’m very glad to have finally got on the books of a local dentist, as an NHS patient, after years of sporadic but fruitless efforts. Usually enquiries would result in the dentist saying the NHS waiting list was closed, due to too much demand! How do you square that with the Tory ideology of supply and demand!?

I just hope that, one: I get my oral horror-show sorted out, two: I learn to take better care of what’s left, in the time that remains to me.

I better check in with Teresa, re co-codamol. So’s I can deal with any pain as the anaesthetic wears off.

Well, that was quite a match. Esp’ so for one that ended in a straight sets victory for the favourite. As Djokovic said in his after-match speech, it was a lot closer really than the score line might suggest.

Sinner took Djokovic to five sets when they met at Wimbledon last year. I was kind of hoping for something similar. But truth be told this was still a great match, and excellent viewing.

Sinner’s only 21, to Djokovic’s 36. So the Italian (he looks and his name seem more Dutch!) will be around for plenty of time, and he’ll no doubt be a serial winner himself, in due course.

Djokovic got both a hindrance and a time warning. Both in the same game, from the umpire, Haigh. To his great credit Djokovic took it like a man. And, as the commentators noted, he turns all that stuff others might find off putting, to grist for his mill.

It was a bit sad to see that both players were, to some extent, not just battling each other, but the slippery on court conditions. Only the covered areas were in play today, as Wimbledon suffered from torrential rain.

Sinner did himself proud, playing extremely well. And Novak simply confirms why he’s the living legend that he is. He could be the dictionary definition for granite, or stalwart. And, despite some theatrics – which I think everyone actually grows to love – he handled his in court demeanour with supreme strength and grace.

Grace under pressure? Who came up with that? Was it Hemingway? Sounds like Hemingway! And Novak is, in some ways (not the hard drinking!), a kind of heroic Hemingway like figure. Chiefly in how he faces down and overcomes fear or adversity.

The more one sees Djokovic, personally speaking, the more one loves him. And so it is he continues his record-breaking trajectory into the tennis and sporting stratosphere!

This came up on my Facebook feed today. And it had me in stitches. Apparently it’s been out there aeons (posted 12 years ago!). But this was my first encounter. Really, really, very, very funny. Thank you Stevie Riks!

Vulfmon has, so far/as far as I know, been an altar-ego for Vulfpeck’s Jack Stratton for quite some time. Often, or so it’s seemed to me, for slightly more goofy or experimental stuff.

This is – correct me if I’m wrong – his first mini-LP length offering of stuff under that nom-de-plume. A collection of tracks raving from totally solo stuff, to collaborations with numerous other folk. Some of these collaborators I’ve see and heard him work with before (Antwaun Stanley, Jakob Jeffries), others I didn’t recognise.

Vulfmon/Stratton also collaborates here with video makers: there’s the very light/lite or cute/sweet dance competition storyline of ‘UCLA’, and then the much darker but incredibly beautiful ‘Blue’. The whole Stratton/Vulf universe has always had a very powerful unified visual aesthetic. It’s amazing how even in collaboration, and as diverse as this set is, that aesthetic unity, the string flavour, is preserved.

There’s even a ‘dance remix’ style re-working of The Stratton/Jeffries How Much Do You Love Me? Normally I can’t stand this sort of schtick. But they pull it off, with the help of a goofy video.

It’s not easy for me to admit – who likes to be the aloof lone wolf, up on my lonely crag, howling at the world – but I’m a fan! There’s very little Jack does that I don’t really love. Indeed, although I don’t like to concur with … et, um…

The spoken word piece – ‘James Jameson used 1 finger’ – is brilliant. Poetry, philosophy, aesthetics, motivation. And the way he frames himself as a tousle-haired squinting, side-burned Vulfnik guru, with tiny mic and gorgeous if uncomprehending female acolyte?

There’s a simultaneous density and richness that makes for a piquant contrast with the otherwise oft-Spartan low-volume thing.

The only track I’m less sold on is ‘Harry’s Theme (Lite Pullman)’. But even then, it is at least interesting. Vulfmon and co cover an astonishing range of territory here, from the gospel-soused cover, ‘The Lord Will Find A Way’, to ‘I Can’t Party’ or ‘Bonnie Wait, to the funk of ‘Harpejji’, the deeply introspective ‘Blue’ to the effervescent ‘Nice To You’ or

Some while ago Teresa asked me to make a bodhran style drum for one of her service users (a chap called Angus). So, eventually, I did. It was fun. And Angus apparently loves it.

So I decided to make another, for my own use. Both were made from the same old 13” drum-kit tom, stripped of hardware (holes filled!), and the cheap and horrible drum wrap it had previously sported.

Teresa has persuaded me to try selling it. And possibly start doing this as a bit of a low key hobby that might even bring in a bit of money. So I’m going to give it a shot.

Talking of ‘shot’, here are a few very short video clips of me that Teresa shot on my iPhone, in the garden today, attempting to play this drum. I’m a kit drummer, primarily. And I think these videos might reflect that. I ought to play hand drums more. It’s fun!

The above video is kind of holding the drum in a traditional hand drum manner. Some hand drums, like the bodhran, can have wooden beams inside the, across the diameter of the drum. Some times just one (like the I made for Angus), sometime two, 90° to each other. This drum has no such internal beams.

The next three videos I’m playing the drum on my lap. I probably should’ve put it between my knees. To stop it bouncing around and moving. I might do some more practice (and maybe some videos?) in that line.

I’ve advertised the drum on Facebook Marketplace. And I’ll also be putting it up on Etsy, Reverb, eBay, Gumtree, and anywhere else I can.

Annoyingly FB Marketplace limits me to just one video. So I added the following six photos.

This drum, like the bodhran before it, was made from the shell of a drum, from an old drum kit. I have four complete drum kits, and lots of other sundry drums and bits ’n’ pieces.

I’ve always wanted to make my own drums – drum set drums, that is – in a variety of ways: stave construction, ply, or even solid shells. But I’m not at that point yet. For now working with existing shells is challenge enough.

I spray painted Angus’ bodhran, in matt black. And then added numerous coats of silk lacquer. So it’s a little shiny, but not high gloss. This drum is just the wood, which I think is a maple outer ply, over birch inner plys.

The skin is a goat skin, ordered off Amazon UK. When I made Angus’ drum, the skin arrived in a card tube. This one came only wrapped in a thin bin liner! Our kitten, Chester, smelt the gamey animal smell, and attacked. He shredded the packaging, and even chewed the skin itself.

Luckily he only nibbled one edge, and I was able to soak, stretch and glue it onto the frame, and cut away the damaged part.

Both of the drums I’ve made so far have used this gorgeous black and white herringbone patterned ‘fabric tape’. I love it. But for future projects I may try skin variations, such as a patterned fabric.

Sometimes hand drums also have metal tacks, for a belt ’n’ braces approach to securing the skin. I’ve got some, but chose not to use them on this drum. Mostly ‘cause I just love the fabric. Herringbone textiles are my bag, baby!

I’m keen to make some larger hand-drums, perhaps with a thicker heavier skin? I want to w able to get deeper bass notes than either of my 13” drums produce. But this still sounds great.

Unlike pretty much all kit drums, and nowadays a lot of hand drums, because the skin is glued on, tuning is kind of fixed. I say kind of because the tuning will change with heat and humidity.

The last three consecutive nights my normal nightly sleep has done a severe bunk. I will eventually sleep. But not until 5, 6 or even 7 am. Today, for example, I finally got to sleep around 6am, and then slept till midday.

These insomniac nights can really fuck up my mind. But the last three nights I’ve decided to try and ‘ride it out’. As that great funky sage James Brown frequently said; ‘what it is is what it is’!

Upon the hearth the fire is red,
Beneath the roof there is a bed;
But not yet weary are our feet,
Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone.
  Tree and flower and leaf and grass,
  Let them pass! Let them pass!
  Hill and water under sky,
  Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.
  Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,
  Let them go! Let them go!
  Sand and stone and pool and dell,
  Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead,
We'll wander back to home and bed.
  Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
  Away shall fade! Away shall fade!
  Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,
  And then to bed! And then to bed!

In a fairly recent post about reading Tolkien, I said I much preferred his prose to his poetry. But I then posted about (?), a poem I adore, from The Lord of the Rings.

Another fabulous poem from the same work is Upon The Hearth. I don’t know if that’s the official name of the poem? But it’s what I call it. And it’s the title of the version so brilliantly set to a gorgeous simple tune by Stephen Oliver for the BBC R4 radio adaption (c. 1980?).

I’ve always wanted to do a version for guitar and voice. And I’ve attempted to do several times. But never with any success. Until today.

For some reason I decided I should try it using one of my favourite open-tunings; an open-C that Nick Drake uses on such songs as Pink Moon and Which Will.

And, with a degree of effort, I soon came up with some guitar parts that I think might eventually work. I’m definitely not there yet. But at least I’m on the way!

TED talk by Rutger Bregman

I don’t often watch TED Talks. I don’t know why, but I kind of took against them, early on. I think the reason I took against them was thanks to watching CEOs of large corporations doing the same sort of schtick.

It all seemed a bit vain and egomaniacal, and there was a whiff of evangelical smugness about the format. Look at me up here, a picture of success; sit at my feet, and hope that maybe you’ll pick up a few gems, the crystallised diamond beads of wisdom that drip off me!

The truth is, however, that the describe actually watched or listened to, have usually been quite good. Or at least quite interesting.

This popped up in my FB feed. I guess FB’s AI has learned me quite well. To my own surprise I decided to watch a bit. I was all too ready to dislike both speaker and subject.

But as I listened, I thought what he said sounded, well… sound. When he directly contradicts one of Margaret Thatcher’s basic tenets (‘poverty is a character defect’*), I start to like the guy.

This TED talk sounds rather like the prologue to a book length argument. And as such it feels like it lacks in depth and detail. But the basic idea, the basic argument, seems both cogent and – rather surprisingly, to me – quite uplifting.

The moral positivity such a philosophy requires, in a world currently ruled by the amoral heirs to Thatcherite strains of ideology – the ‘I’m alright, Jack’ and ‘dog eat dog’ mobs – is refreshing.

* Good God, Thatcher was an appalling idiot.