Winter.

Did I imagine it or did the PM’s advisors tell him that one way to improve the sum of British happiness would be to stop changing the clocks? The clock change has become the starting gun for winter in the collective mind so there will be a multitude of folk waking up this morning feeling more depressed than they need be. As a cog in that collective I would like to support their theory. It takes me months to get used to this change - it’s worse than the Spring forward.

The signs for the onset of winter are so much less poetic than they used to be (sign of the times?) The days shorten and the leaves turn wonderful colours as ever, but there is also the clock change and the ‘flu jab. The jab was Thursday, coffee and biscuits after, and conversation with people I’ve never met before but with whom I was sharing the annual ritual. Then there was a day of feeling a bit shivery. Now it’s all over and hopefully I am fully armed against whatever Mother Nature had in mind for reducing the population overload.

My reading has been a bit haphazard lately, couldn’t settle to anything. Then the autobiography of Kathleen Raine arrived, ordered so long ago I’d almost forgotten about it. She isn’t a favourite poet of mine but she played a major role in the life of Gavin Maxwell who I've always found to be a charismatic and intriguing character. I’ve read his side of their friendship and his biographer’s opinions but wanted to hear hers. I had to wait for that sad tale till very near the end of what is a charting of her inner life rather than a account of the outer mundane events that formed the backdrop to what was more important to her. Her writing style is that of poet of a past era and I’m an impatient reader who doesn’t appreciate too much embroidery so I’m afraid I skipped quite a lot. I might return when I’m in a more tranquil state; she does have some very interesting observations, and the people she was at Cambridge with, like Jacob Bronowski and Malcolm Lowry occasionally get a mention.

Her love for Gavin Maxwell and his inability to love her in return in the way she desperately wanted (not only, I think, because he was homosexual but because he was entangled by his own bipolar condition) was so sad it almost broke my heart. What she saw in him, or as she acknowledged in another context, all the qualities that she endowed him with (as women do) made him everything she wanted in a soul-mate, and though she tried to see the truth of him as a fascinating, gifted, and emotionally flawed human being, she failed to do that, so causing herself the deepest pain she had experienced in her life. Maybe I see too much of myself in her. I certain recognise the intense personal narrative that drowns out any signals from the worlds others are living in.

Ramblings.

All is well. A new iMac laptop is on it's way. Now all I have to do is fire it up. I'm so nervous! So long since i had to launch a new computer and i'm not very adept. This week I have deleted Sandy and I from Facebook somehow. Not that I use it, nor does he, but we like to know we have the option. All I did was voice my opinion on a government site then panic when it said I could link my entry to Facebook. It sounded alarming. I thought S would be credited with my soap-box stuff about planning application for a local development submitted by the Tesco company and, he wouldn't want that ruining his street cred. I pressed 'cancel' and now we are history.

It's extraordinary how topics, people, events collide in my life, in everyone's. We all have examples. I was reading the book 'by' Kim Noble (ghosted) who is a non-existant woman, given that name at birth, but her body was then later inhabited by 100 or so personalities as horrific abuse caused mulitiple fractures. The dominant personality Patricia, began painting to encourage their daughter ( a daughter she doesn't remember giving birth to and who, until the diagnosis, she imagined to be the child of a friend always being left for her to mind). Other personalities found they also enjoyed the opportunity to splash paint around, express themselves or just have fun, and now they have group exhibitions, all except one of them who wants her own exhibitions! It sounds crazy. Staggering to hear just what the brain is capable of. None of Patricia's personalities were aware of the existence of the others and though their lives seemed oddly disjointed they somehow made sense of them, with occasional spells in mental institutions . They did suffer and there were terrible sadnesses, like the woman who gave birth to the baby girl only to have her taken away by social services. Another personality fought to get her back but the birth mother who had lost a newborn couldn't accept the infant and still mourns her baby. There are also the funny sides. One woman has a driving licence, another loves water and always plunges into any she sees, which led to the driver finding herself sitting in her car fully clothed but soaking wet in front of a fountain after the water lover had had her bathe. Years ago I read 'Sybil' about a woman with multiple personalities . It was made into a film, which was gripping but turned out to be a scam cooked up by a therapist. That experience made me wary of 'All of
Me' but it does seem authentic. Nowadays the condition is called Dissociative identity Disorder. I'm tempted to be cross my brain can't come up with something more interesting so that bits of me at least could actually write something worth reading! More seriously, if we could access all our brains have in the way of functions how exciting that might be!

With all this in my head I found out that two siblings I knew as cheerful teenagers in Brussels have been diagnosed schizophrenic and, now
in their 40's are still living with their parents. Their cheerfully normal younger sister came into the shop yesterday, startling me, because she looked like a stranger, by saying 'Carol, it is you isn't it?'.

I am so sad - my iMac seems to have died, or at least to be in a critical condition. It won't boot up ( is that still the term?). Now I'm faced with a decision that isn't really much of a decision at all because the poor thing was already declared so out-dated as to be ready for the knackers last time I rang the help-line.

I'm going to have to replace it!

In the meantime, whilst I go busking, rob the rich to give to me, sell my body (any Burke and Hare teams out there willing to give me something on account, sort of pay now buy later scheme....) there will be no pics here. Sad.

I’ve been going through one of those uncomfortable between-times when I can’t find a book to suit my mood. I have several unreads waiting on my shelves, a Rose Tremain 'Colours' Amitav Ghosh ‘The Glass Palace,’ and ‘Topper takes a Trip’ by Thorne Smith, to name just a few. Raking disconsolately through the Red Cross shelves wasn’t helpful; what they had on offer was same-old same-old, although I do acknowledge the problem is more mine than theirs.

Eventually I grabbed a fat ex-library hardback copy of ‘Joyce and Ginnie’ a collection - selection - of the huge correspondence between Joyce Grenfell and Virginia Graham over Joyce’s lifetime (she dies some 12 years before her friend.) I knew I wouldn’t read it all and thought it might irritate me but it was worth a go. I have one or two fond memories of laughter shared with my ma-in-law (of all people) over recording by Grenfell, ‘George, don’t do that’ amongst them. Also the early St.Trinian’s films, watched on TV with my parents seemed funny in their day. I bought the collection recently and unfortunately my taste, tolerance, and the times have all changed so they were a bit of a disappointment. I greatly prefer the updated versions with Russell Brand, Rupert Everett and Colin Firth.

To my surprise I read about a third of the way through before skipping to the end and her death. From the tone of the letters, said to be very like her manner of speaking, and a few photos, Joyce didn’t have to act much to be the gauche ‘jolly hockey sticks’ gym mistress in St. T. She’s even got a sort of gym slip on in the cover photo. What I did admire is her gutsiness and positivity which, at a guess, were both natural to her but equally might have been a result of the discipline involved in being a Christian Scientist, or, even more probably, the ethos of the time.

My mother-in-law, a contemporary of JG, expressed disgust every time I tried to share my real feelings on any subject. I always used, as one was exhorted to do in counselling and workshops, the ‘I’ word so as to own my emotions. She told me this showed how irredeemably egotistical I was/am. It simply wasn’t done in their day to say ‘I think’ or ‘I feel’. ‘One’ had to be substituted at all times so as to distance oneself! I believe I pointed out to her, in a provoked moment, that every time she said ‘One’ she meant ‘I’ so it came to the same thing in the end.

There is something admirable in the determined bright-brittle cheerfulness of these between-the-wars people. The lost generation. It can be found in ‘The Camomile Lawn’ by Mary Wesley, in ‘Love in a Cold Climate’ by Nancy Mitford, and ‘Cold Comfort Farm’ by Stella Gibbons, three of my favourite novels made long ago into BBC series and films which I bought recently on DVD to spend many hours glued to my couch watching when I should have been doing something more productive,

I learned an interesting fact: at the time their correspondence began there were five posts a day and a letter written early in the morning could reach the recipient by tea-time. So different now!

I also liked this ‘pome’ (yes, she was unfortunately fond of this verbal whimsy!) by JG and shall have it at my funeral. I might change the last two lines. All suggestions welcome.

If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I am gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must
Parting is hell.
But life goes on
So sing as well.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.... and Spring.

N and I watched a very beautiful film by a Korean director Ki-duk Kim, last Sunday, 'Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter..... And Spring' Long title, but it does contain the essence of the film which is the circle of life. Quite apart from the ravishing scenery which was a treat in itself, it coincided nicely with a resurgence of interest in Buddhism chez moi. N always asks me what sort of film I'd like to watch and I always say 'not gloomy, and not one of those Art House films in which nothing happens,' but this time he ignored me because he had decided the evening before what we were going to watch - and I had to say how psychic he had been! I may not have known that's what I wanted, but it was!!

A monk and his disciple, a very young child, live in a tiny monastery on a platform built in the middle of a lake, surrounded by steep tree-covered banks that frame and protect it. The child grows to manhood under the watchful eyes of the monk, learning life lessons as he passes through the stage of growing. His first harsh lesson is brought to him through his own childish play with creatures he catches as he explores the forests alone. The innocent play turns to cruelty when he ties stones to a fish, a frog and a snake. The monk punishes him for this cruelty by tying a heavy rock to his own middle, telling him that if the creatures have come to harm because of his thoughtless actions he will wear the stone in his heart for the rest of his days. Two of them have died and though the child weeps with regret he will never be free of the anguish he has caused.

In his adolescence a sick young woman is brought by her mother to be healed by the monk. She also brings with her the greatest lesson of the young man’s life for he falls in love. The monk tells him that though love is good and their sexual play has helped to cure the girl, if he can’t let her go his desire will lead to killing. He can’t let her go, he leaves the monastery instead, and it and it does lead to a killing.

The student returns to the island, perhaps to seek forgiveness, or sanctuary or perhaps to find peace, but anyway to tell the monk he was right - the Buddha was right! The monk reminds him of the sutras which he sets the student to carve out on the wooden decking before he is arrested by the police. After they have taken him away the old monk commits suicide. His work is done.

Inevitably the student returns to the island monastery, finds his old clothes waiting for him and a book of martial art exercises which he works on to perfect. He remains alone as the seasons turn until the day when a baby is left with him - the baby who will become his charge to teach in the ways of wisdom. There are some strange scenes toward the end that I would like to have explained. They are probably clearer to those who know the mythology of his country.

This director has caused controversy by representing women in a way that looks to be derogatory and mysoginistic; also by the explicit cruelty to animals shown in some of his films. He doesn’t get past the western censors without cuts. None of that is apparent in ‘Spring, Summer, Autumn...’ which would indicate sympathy with the Buddhist Way an essentially harmless path that wishes all sentient beings to be happy. It’s difficult to assess how much of what he does is deliberately to shock or if it’s a cultural difference.

The Aviator.

Talking of rabbits, I wish I knew the history of this aviator chappie. I've had him for years since being the only one to bid for him at the local auction (Gillian's 'Gladys' made me think of him). He is made in some sort of plastic, not quite resin, lighter, and he's hollow although his very sympatique expression shows he has a soul IMO. The detail is quite remarkable - his face is so furry you can almost feel it and his knitted scarf so very woolly. I feel he was more than a toy. His feet show signs of being stuck to a surface with cement (not concrete).

I got my moonhare. I had wanted one since I saw an earlier version at an exhibtion by the very creative felting ladies. I didn't expect it to be in a circle - so much more exciting! It was a birthday present from my eldest daughter.

Celebrations and sadness.

Congratulations to my favourite newspaper, the Independent, on it's 25th birthday. I hope it has many more.

Farewell to Steve Jobs. He did what most men wouldn't think to do and put design on a level with technology. Even the earliest Apples were so much less cumbersome and ugly than Microsoft efforts. I can't afford a new Apple at the moment but I have no intention of lowering my standards and buying an inferior brand. Presumably communication in the hereafter works without even WIFI but if it doesn't I'm sure he will fix that for them.

Verdict on black garlic.... Not yet...

The jury is still out. The taste (IMO) is a subtle mix of molasses, liquorice and garlic, and so far I've only tried it in a sauce poured over veggies. The sauce was from the Internet but I didn't follow quantities and the balsamic vinegar with wasabi was a bit over-powerful so the garlic got lost.

Even so - I tried one on it's own and I'm not sure I like the taste, or the smell. Shame. I was looking forward to a new addition to my quick-meal cuisine.

I shall persevere.

I find the time goes more quickly between customers in the shop if I browse recipes. More often than not this makes me extremely hungry so I dash home and open a tin of mackerel, which is a bit of a waste of good hunger but there you are. Sometimes something new to me and intriguing pops up; this week it was black garlic. It is fermented garlic and promises to be both delicious and very nutritious having far more anti-oxidants than the fresh stuff. I've ordered some so shall report back.

Probably everyone else in the world has already eaten it but - new to me remember!

Culinary delights are showering on me this week. J sent me some orta. I've been looking for this ants-egg shaped pasta for about thirty years since eating it in Greece with Youvetsi, a rich lamb stew. If I lived further south I would have found it by now but it hasn't made it to the Highlands. It cooks fast and is soft - I do love soft food these days. I remind myself of Heidi's grandmother, for whom the thoughtful child pocketed all those nice soft white rolls....

Travelling in the mind.

It has been a strange week, the heat-wave tempered by overcast skies and high humidity which I, for one, find uncomfortable. It was great to be able to turn off the heating again, walk about in bare feet and wear summer clothes but the house was gloomy morning and evening so I needed more lights on (I’d hate to deny the energy companies their bonuses) and thoughts of Seasonal Affective Disorder were sending customers into the shop for ammunition against The Dark.

Also making me wonder about getting daylight bulbs for reading lamps. I hate these dim low-energy things.

My diverse reading over the past two weeks has sometimes failed to lighten my spirits. It’s all very well reading quality literature but mostly all I need is escapism that’s just a bit thought provoking, nothing too heavy or meaningful.

Elizabeth Haynes’ first novel ‘Into the Darkest Corner’ was gripping, intelligent, insightful, worrying. That thing about feeling mad, and possibly behaving madly, when you don’t expect people to believe you or don’t want to believe yourself. The protagonist suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and is paranoid, maybe for a good reason - maybe not. It’s nicely paced without the method of pacing becoming too overt ( one gripe I have with Phil Rickman is that his habit of creating cliff-hangers then sashaying off into another thread or back-story is beginning to irritate. It was a OK formula to begin with... need remodelling!)

Tanglewreck, a children’s story by Jeanette Winterson, the author of ‘Oranges are Not the Only Fruit’ is really good. A story line crafted out of flights from quantum physics and modern molecular scientific observations like the String Theory. The weirdness of Time - does it exist or have we created it? Can it really become a commodity? Adults never seem to have enough of it these days. There is a cat called Dinger who exists in a quantum state in which he is both alive and dead. You can't tell which he'll be until you open his box. Sound familiar? Well it may not be quite so familiar to a child reader and anything that introduces children to Schroedinger and a mind-fuddling paradox like that one in fun way is good news in my world. Nicely drawn characters too. I can’t think why I hadn’t heard of this book before happening upon it on the Red Cross shelves, or that there hasn’t been a film or TV production of it. It’s not as dark as ‘His Dark Materials’ which to my mind isn’t a children’s novel at all by the third book. Very heavy stuff that.

Jillian bought me ‘ Sisters of Sinai’ by Janet Soskice because she thought I should know about these remarkable Scottish twins who were born in Irvine, just 30 miles SW of Glasgow, in 1843. Their mother died two weeks after their birth and their unusual father, a lawyer, devoted himself to their upbringing. His views on what that meant where, for the times, unconventional but he set about it with a conviction with a conviction that enabled them to flout most conventions and disregard social boundaries thereafter. He believed in education (including physical fitness training)and the fact that his offspring were female seemed no reason for them not to learn to use their brains and bodies in the acquisition of knowledge and good health. They showed an aptitude for language so he promised them that for every language they set themselves to learn there would be a trip to the country that spoke it. It began a lifelong passion for linguistics and travel and led, as they were also passionate about their severe Presbyterian religion - to travels in the Bible lands. Eventually this caused them to make what must have seemed like a miraculous discovery; in an isolated monastery in Sinai they found pages of vellum on which were written four additional gospels. The twins, with scholarly male travel companions (and sometimes their husbands) translated these causing a furore throughout the Christian world. The discovery, which they insisted on being credited with in accordance with the part they had played, sadly brought them into dispute with the men who had travelled with them (and their wives!) and also with Cambridge men back home who were outraged by the temerity of these two 'uneducated' women.

It’s all beautifully written in a coolheaded sort of style though the story could easily lend itself to hyperbole!

Lesser considerations than scholastic moved me of course. Always when I read accounts of women travelling into lands dangerous for men, never mind for women, in the days before penicillin, anti-malarial drugs, decent dentists, Tampax. etc. etc. I am filled with total awe!

The third book of note that I’ve dipped into over the past week has been Ayya Khema ‘When the Iron Eagle Flies.’ Ayya Khema was born of Jewish parents in Berlin in 1923. In 1938 she was taken in a transport with 200 other Jewish children to Glasgow. She was only reunited with her parents two years later in Shanghai. At the onset of war the family was put into a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp where her father died. It wasn’t a great start to life but life is what we make of it and she, like the Ayrshire twins, carved out a notable one for herself, travelling with her husband in Asia and Tibet, learning meditation, teaching meditation and eventually becoming ordained as a Buddhist nun and being given the name Khema, which means safety and security.

This was a book that inspired me years ago, probably when it first came out in 1991. It is the teachings of the Buddha put in simple form and a guide to meditation toward Awareness. I haven't progressed very far along that path, but I have tried, spasmodically, and it has helped me. Once begun the quest for awareness never really ends. I was so pleased to find it again, (the book and the path!) the same edition and in really good condition - thanks be to Amazon!

What especially stayed in my memory was the source for the title: It is taken from a prophecy by an eighth century Indian sage who travelled to Tibet and helped establish Buddhism there.

“When the iron eagle flies and horses run on wheels, the Tibetan people will be scattered over the earth and the dhamma will go to the land of the red man.’ (The land of the red man is considered to be the wets as our skin looks pinkish-red to the Tibetans.

The advent of the aeroplane and the petrol engine did almost coincide with the forced exodus of Tibetan monks fleeing from the Chinese. I think that's emarkable.