Enough Stuff?

          Some time ago, I adopted a deliberate policy of thinking twice before acquiring any more stuff. The change may have coincided with our downsizing to a smaller apartment, though I prefer to believe its origin was more loftily conceived, the result of ideological and moral contemplation. Certainly, I was influenced by William Morris’s advice to “…have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful…” and by the noble philosophy of asceticism, though less so by the latter, given that it requires considerable self-discipline and is tainted by association with religiosity. Most likely, the cause was a combination of pragmatism and idealism, but one thing’s for certain: the ticking clock of advancing age introduces a reality check to the rationale behind accumulating worldly goods.

          Decluttering has become a thing that people consciously do, whereas cluttering is not necessarily deliberate. Moreover, these terms apply not only to objects. Without due care and attention, one’s life can quickly become crowded with relationships and activities that complicate our days, obfuscate our priorities and eat up that most finite of commodities, our time. Of course, it’s not easy to divest oneself of relationships, since they are usually reciprocal. Activities, on the other hand, are easily terminated, as when I gave up gardening.

          One day, I woke up to the realisation that with both a garden and a share in an allotment, my weekends were spoken for well into the foreseeable future. Not long after this dawning, I relinquished both by moving into an apartment. I then bought a campervan, thereby gaining not only the time but also the means to pursue more varied leisure activities. It’s not that I find horticulture uninteresting. It’s just that I would rather someone else’s life were devoted to its execution. In return, I show my appreciation by subsidising the National Trust and visiting its gardens and orchards to admire – and sometimes harvest – the fruits of their labours. Last Sunday, for example, I went to Cothele, where a daffodil fest was in full swing. The gardens there are stocked with 320 varieties of the trumpet-like blooms, some of which date back to the 17^th century, though it was enough for me to pick out the half-dozen types that differ most obviously.

          The next day, I went to the re-opening of the leisure centre that closed for refurbishment a couple of years ago, thereby temporarily terminating my membership of its gym facility. I have to say that I have not missed the treadmill and, despite the shiny new upgrade and reasonably priced membership offer, I cannot work up sufficient enthusiasm to commit to re-joining. It’s not that I begrudge the time – one must exercise to stay well and, besides, music and podcasts are there to fill the mental void – but I’m inclined to postpone the decision ‘til winter, when recreational bike-rides and walks are less appealing options.

          I also spent a few days travelling up north, where I spent time with a few old friends that I don’t see from one year to another – long enough for visible changes to register. Everyone looks a degree or two older, something that might go unnoticed if we met more frequently, but that is to be expected. What I was looking for were changes of opinion, attitude or lifestyle. Of these I saw little. Set in our ways or committed to hard-fought-for values? My vote is for the latter.

          Conversely, I admit to a lapse in principles last week. I was browsing, somewhat scornfully, in a shop full of “collectors’ items”, when my eye was drawn to a framed print of a townscape, prettily done in muted colours and in a style reminiscent of the sixties. Perhaps I bought it for nostalgic reasons but, at only four quid (a mistake, surely?) it didn’t take me long to override my ‘no-acquisitions’ policy. Now, I have to find a space on the wall to justify its purchase.

 

 

 

The Power of Music

          Going to the cinema during the day still feels naughty, even though I’ve been doing it now for 18 years. The benefits are that it’s sometimes cheaper, often empty and always an enticing refuge when the weather is dull. So, it felt like an imposition when I was obliged to go on Wednesday evening to catch the final showing of Becoming Led Zeppelin.

          I’m not a big fan – I like some but not all of their music – but the appeal of the film is that it documents their backstory during an era through which I also lived. In the interviews, the four musicians come across as likeably modest, considering their international fame and their extrovert musical exploits. Acknowledging their musical debt to American soul and blues, they made it big in the USA before coming ‘home’ to consolidate their popularity in the UK, an unusual reversal of the norm in 1970.

          Those were the days! America, flush with the ethos of the summer of love and the hippy counterculture, was open to progressive rock bands from Britain. At the same time, however, the National Guard felt free to shoot and kill unarmed protesting students in Ohio. Two very different Americas asserted themselves. Will the States ever be truly united?

          Well, there is a concerted effort going on right now, though its methodology owes more to fascism than consensus. The Washington Post (WP) reports this week on the extent to which statistical data that provides evidence contrary to the current administration’s version of actuality is being removed from government websites. Much has disappeared already and, in its absence, the government is able to spin whatever story it chooses without the nuisance of contradictory voices. The WP dubs this ‘digital book-burning’, which is ominously reminiscent of Heinrich Heine’s observation, “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings”.

          I also managed a daytime cinema showing. I’m Still Here is another film about 1970, set this time in Brazil, where the military dictatorship was busy ‘disappearing’ those of its citizens who dared question its authority. One day later, I learned – from what still remains of the free American press – that a Green-Card-holding permanent resident* of the USA was taken from his home in an unmarked car and deposited in a migrant detention facility. No charges have been made against him at the time of writing. His pregnant wife, a citizen of the USA, awaits news of his fate.

          Understandably, you can get depressed by such bad news – if you’re anti-fascist, that is. But even fascists might feel a bit down after reading, as I did elsewhere, that if you measure your life in the number of weekends you likely have left, you might be surprised by how few there are to look forward to. In my case, there are very few so, to lighten things up, I chose to go for a long country and coastal walk on a day when the weather forecast was encouragingly vernal. For a few hours, my Other Half and I focussed our attention on varieties of daffodil and birdsongs (the latter, with the aid of a surprisingly efficacious app), while seeking the perfect bench-with-a-view on which to eat our picnic lunch. It was a classic two-in-one, relaxation for the mind and exercise for the body.

          But back to the everyday and, with all this going on, I forgot to prepare for last week’s choir session. Consequently, I was floundering with the melodies, confused by the four-part harmonies and distracted by the voice of the chap on my left, who sings strongly and confidently, even when missing the notes.

          However, there is one song in our repertoire that is relatively easy to sing, even though the lyrics are Italian. Bella Ciao! originally a folk song, was adopted during WWII as the call-to-arms of Italian partisans fighting fascism. I don’t know whether our musical director included it for political reasons but, when sung with gusto, it certainly seems to lift the spirits and offer some hope of resistance to whatever threat to freedom looms.

*Mahmoud Khalil

 

 

 

Party Time?

          I thought I was in good health, but then I got a worrying text from the NHS. It said that the blood test I had a month ago showed me “at risk of developing diabetes”. The degree of risk was not specified, nevertheless, the message urged me to sign up to attend an online ‘patient information session’, hosted by XYLA (part of Acacium Group) and ticketed by Eventbrite.

          Of course, I checked again on the possible causes of the disease. Lifestyle is a major factor but, in my case, an unlikely contributor, since my diet and exercise regimes have conformed, for most of my adult life, with those recommended by the medical profession. If, indeed, I am at risk of developing diabetes, then it is most likely due to ageing and/or having drawn the short straw in the heredity stakes, in which case there is not much point in worrying, since I can’t affect the outcome.

          What does concern me is the involvement of commercial companies in this process. Is it conceivable that there is a payment from the public purse to XYLA for every “patient” that signs up to a webinar to get advice that is readily available for free, either on the NHS website or through the internet more generally? The answer is “yes”.

          Every slight movement towards the American model of healthcare makes me nervous, especially since the takeover of its government by the far right. Fortunately I am not a citizen, but the protection that affords from being affected by its political direction is slender to the point of meaninglessness. The magnitude of its economic and military might is sufficient to influence everyone on the planet. And who is in charge of it? A handful of billionaires who have been working to this end for some time.

          I am inclined to the view that democracy is beyond being at risk in the USA: it has already been captured and is now being demolished by plutocrats who are busy consolidating their position by dismantling the state and selling its parts to oligarchs who will then offer services back to citizens at prices they determine. This is an attractive model of governance for those who stand to profit from it and, as history attests, it is both commonplace and relatively simple to achieve. All you need is great wealth. Feeling uneasy, I checked on the Acacium Group. It’s a Private Equity Investment Company, based – for now, at least – in London, where a modicum of democratic restraint still applies.

          And, despite holding a generally pessimistic view of the future for most of the planet’s populace, I take what opportunities I can to enjoy what is left of our civil society and our cultural and natural heritage. Life in Devonshire showed its bountiful face last week, with unbroken sunshine and a few days spent at the seaside in the jolly company of old friends.

          We stayed at Slapton, a ten-minute walk from the beach. It’s an officially ‘dark’ area, which means that the stars are spectacularly visible on cloudless nights such as we had. We walked through the village, where the vestiges of our feudal past remain in the layout and buildings. We mooched around the quaint old centre of Dartmouth, famous for its Roal Naval College (and, latterly, unaffordable housing stock) and visited the old market, interacting with the characterful fishmonger and genuinely French pâtissier. One of our party picked edible stems from the hedgerow and served them as an appetiser for supper. She identified them as Alexanders and told us the Romans ate them.

          We drank and laughed a lot, as friends will. After all, our party’s not over just yet.

A Word about Diversity

          The dictionary definition of “one who likes to bathe in cold water, especially outdoors in natural bodies of water such as rivers, lakes and oceans” is ‘psychrolute’ (from the Greek words "psychros" meaning "cold" and "loutros" meaning "bath"). Of course, ‘wild swimmer’ is the more commonly used appellation, possibly because, to all but scholars of the classics, it’s more evocative of its subject. Hence (pedants excepted) psychrolute is used only by marine biologists, who know it as the proper name for what is commonly called a blobfish.

          But I would argue that it's not just scientists who find it useful to have a noun, a one-word definition, rather than a phrase. For example, in everyday life, one has no option but to refer to one’s cousin’s offspring as “first cousins once removed”, an awkward phrase to have to insert into a conversation. We could do with a noun here, but none can be found. Was it a challenge too far for the scholars of ancient Greek? I consulted my copy of the Reverse Dictionary, a publication that is designed for looking up words that you suspect exist but have slipped from your memory. In truth, I didn’t really expect a result. I was just giving the book a valedictory airing, knowing full well that AI has supplanted its usefulness. I returned it to the bookcase, where it will remain as a decorative reminder of the days when reference books were, well, referenced.

          Of course, there’s no guarantee that knowledge dispensed by AI will be accurate, impartial or uncensored. It may even be completely fabricated – as is so much that comes from the official communication channels of various Autocracies, Theocracies, Dictatorships and nominal Democracies such as the USA (which now surely qualifies as a Plutocracy). So, how best to protect ourselves against the monopolisation of information by those who would control our lives for the benefit of their own interests? Well, efforts have been ongoing for thousands of years, so hope still burns. I just saw the secretly made Iranian film, The Seed of the Sacred Fig, a story of family conflicts set against the theocratic state’s brutal suppression of the hijab revolution. The title is allegoric and refers to the eventual overwhelming of the tree of state by home-grown dissent. Not everyone is persuaded by the regime’s rhetoric and diversity is a threat to dictatorship, which is a good reason to encourage it.

          Diversity is also a word that has come into vogue. When I was growing up, the very concept was exotic, if not downright alien, to be tolerated rather than accepted. Later in life, I met and mingled with people who were from different backgrounds and other countries. This contact had the effect of disrupting my cultural norms: the manners and etiquette that I had been taught were essential, I came to see as more of a framework of politeness. For example, tilting one’s soup bowl away from oneself and silently spooning the contents might be the quintessentially English way, but it began to seem prudish after I encountered the naked enthusiasm that Oriental soup-slurpers brought to the table. And at the table is a good place to start, since the ancient habit of breaking bread with strangers is the hallowed way of establishing friendly relations.

          In the less diverse days of my upbringing, dinner parties were gatherings of omnivores. But, as veganism heads for mainstream, I envisage a time when the opposite will apply. It’s been a while now since ‘special dietary requirements’ began to appear on invitations to dine (to which one diehard omnivore responded, “a decent claret, please”) and we have reached a point where even the word “dinner” needs either a qualifying adjective or a descriptive phrase.

Solace, of a Sort

          At last, I have resolved the niggling issue of having different types of valve on the front and rear tyres of my bike. Ostensibly, this was not problematic because I had bought a pump that connects to either, but when I needed it most, midway through a longish ride, it broke. My choice of a replacement was limited to whatever was available at the first shop to which I could push my stricken machine, so I came out of there with a very nifty (and quite expensive) lightweight ‘racing’ pump, which I soon discovered to be annoyingly impractical. Yes, it worked, but its adaptor for the differing valves was a plastic fitting so tiny that my fingers found it awkward to extract from its hidey-hole and re-position appropriately. Worse, the whole thing was about six inches long and impossible to grasp firmly and effectively.  Since Monday, however, when I acquired matching valves and a man-sized pump, I have felt happier about being back on the saddle.

          I know, I’ve been called pernickety before. But, in a world in which we are at the mercy of overwhelming forces, both natural and political, there’s comfort in controlling whatever we can to make life more enjoyable – or less annoying, depending on your point of view. And it’s not that I’m a complete control freak. Take, for example, the community choir. (There is a hierarchy of choirs, by the way, according to their degree of expertise. In this context, the word “community” is a euphemism for “entry-level”.) I’ve attended twice now and, as a participating singer, accept that I have no authority over the repertoire or how it is arranged, nor may I criticise the efforts of other members. This is challenging for someone who wants everything to be ‘just so’, yet I accept that teamwork is inherent to the enterprise, so I do what is expected of me. A good dose of working as a team is a useful antidote to selfishness, a reminder to stay rooted in society and a distraction from fretting about that over which I have no control, like geopolitics.

          Most of us are insufficiently rich to be in a position to influence the outcome of political power-struggles (yes, in case you hadn’t noticed, democracy is bought and sold). The very rich are in charge and act constantly to consolidate their stranglehold on power. Those who perpetrate war may legitimise their motives on religious or nationalistic grounds, but the real goal is invariably the acquisition of wealth. If this is true, it makes sense that Donald Trump should propose ending at least two wars, simply by putting forward commercial propositions. We shall see. Meanwhile, those who suffer are the cannon fodder and the civilians caught in crossfire.

          As interested as I am in geopolitics, there are mornings when I open the papers and skip over the headlines about this, that, or the other autocrat’s latest outrages on humanity. With a sad resignation, I search instead for some good news or, at least, a story that is not about destruction of the planet and its inhabitants. I suppose editors include such items purposely to leaven the burden of gloom and doom and avoid reader burn-out. This morning, I did the skip and landed on the story about archaeologists uncovering a pharaoh’s tomb, the first to have been discovered since that of Tutankhamun in 1922. Fascinated by archaeology’s forensic potential to tell us what happened in the ancient past, I’m always drawn to news of its findings, as I prefer evidence-based speculation to mythologies.

          But the uplifting effect of this particular story wore off pretty quickly when I realised that it’s really about yet another autocratic dictator who nabbed all the wealth for themself and – a particularly selfish move, this – took it all to the grave, presumably to avoid inheritance tax. In the three-and-a-half millennia since then, not much has changed. It’s enough to drive a chap to tinkering with his bike.