editing

I'm noticing just how much I'm editing what I write. I just looked at my blogger posts and found that the two I've written most recently are still sitting in the draft box. They probably won't get published because they feel like they have crossed the boundary between public blog and private journal. And yet there's a voice inside that says "maybe these are exactly the things that people want to read". The trouble is that there's another voice that says "lots of blogs are so self-centred that they become boring after a while".

So, how much is that kind of self-editing going on in the rest of my life? Probably lots - deciding what I can say with groups of people. And yet I sometimes want to say "hang the politeness or the political correctness, just say it".

So, here's an edited highlight of what's in the drafts - no, I'm not ready to publish all!

First, do the highway engineers who put in speed bumps ever try driving over them when they are in pain? I'm sure they don't, or they wouldn't use them so much.

Second, what makes me feel woozy and stiff so much? Is it encroaching age or dietary neglect? And can I really justify going to see a doctor for what may be just part of the human condition?

Simon

autumn leaves

moments of doubt and pain

How often do we stumble across those moments when we really don't know what's going to happen next? When rationality and basic fears come face to face like rival gangs in a dark alley.
Yesterday, November 9th, I felt that there was a cold finger nudging me. When I thought about it, I realised it was the anniversary of my mother's death. She died unexpectedly in 1991, 2 days before her 78th birthday. She had suddenly realised she was in the same situation as her mother many years before - lying in hospital at the same age and with the same problem - a broken hip. And the same thing happened - pneumonia came and took them both away.

Her passing really shook me; it was the start of a long period of darkness and uncertainty for me. The results - a much smaller family and a long path of personal change.

And here I am, sitting at home in front of a screen, trying to distract myself from the feeling of illness that came over me 2 or 3 hours ago. I don't know what it was; I just know I felt really ill.

And I remembered a story my Maths Lecturer told me at university - and I just googled the answer, because I hadn't remembered the name of the person at the heart of the story. He was Evariste Galois. He was young, brilliant, and doomed. He was lying awake the night before a duel - and he knew deep down that he stood little chance in the duel. So he spent the night feverishly writing down all the mathematical theories that had been buzzing around his head, so that they would not be lost to the world if he died the next morning.

Now if you or I spent the whole night awake, writing, before a big event - would we be at our best? He wasn't, and he didn't survive the duel.

So maybe that's why I sometimes feel this feverish urge to write and to publish before it's too late. That's why I'm writing now.

Less than an hour ago, I chose to be alone this evening. I was feeling strangely ill, and yet I know my strength wasn't there for me to travel to chorus rehearsal tonight. A pity, because I'd actually put in the extra time this afternoon, rehearsing! Damn.

And as I write, the sickness I felt at 5.15 and for the next 2 hours seems to have receded. (I hope) Is this calmness I feel? Or the calm before another storm? Yesterday was chilly, clear, bright and definitely felt like winter is close; and yet today has been a little warmer. That strange variability in our temperate weather.

Yesterday I saw those fabulous fall colours I was longing for. I went for a walk along yet another stretch of the canal I've visited so much these last few weeks. And as I walked along, I felt the chill in the air - and realised I couldn't spend a winter afloat. I've often wondered about having a narrowboat; in truth I've not been on one for years. I tried to push closed a gate that a careless boater had left open - and felt the danger of straining my back! (For those who don't realise, the gate I'm talking of is a giant lock gate, with a big wooden beam to help get the momentum to open and close it.) I saw this big marina full of boats; and felt the desire to be inside a house with central heating! And then the leaves at last - incredible reds and oranges and greens - all within a few feet of each other. And I printed out the best of the shots on A4 size - wow!

So, let's remember those Galois moments; those moments when we feel the hand of fate on our shoulder and we shudder with doubt.

Simon

autumn thoughts

So, it's November. Rain has returned; light is at a premium again.

Yesterday I rediscovered the sheer pleasure of watching nature in all its forms. I knew it was going to be sunny and reasonably warm; perhaps the last such day for a while. So I took my new camera and some lenses and walked along the Grand Union Canal again. This time I started where I'd left off the previous sunny day. What did I see? Swans exercising their right to own the canal; a mallard stretching and displaying to prove he's boss (when the swans aren't around); a field of grasses waving in the wind like some forgotten harvest; sunlight on water; and people going about their business - in this case the three men who run a small boatyard welding and pumping out water and whatever it takes to renovate a canal boat. And a wooden barn-like building; perhaps a meeting place, but more likely a home with fine oak beams and doors onto the terrace from every bedroom - so serene and peaceful in the November sun with the shimmering water of the canal at the bottom of the garden.
And I gave thanks that fortune has allowed me the time to walk along and take photos and be at ease.
I met a fellow photographer - also noticing the lack of brown leaves on the trees and the certainty that rain and wind will change the landscape before we get those prized photos of "fall" colours. Why is it that so many of our trees are still green? Some - like the maples outside my front door - have been turning colour and shedding leaves for the past 3 weeks - while others have held their green.
What I noticed is the difference in the mood of the conversations along the canal - when I compare it with the streets in the nearby towns. The lone traveller working his boat up the locks; the small group sitting watching a film crew in a canalside farm; the lone photographer; the rambler gently asking for directions. All these people notice the light, the warmth, the passing of seasons rather than seconds.
And maybe that's part of our legacy - the canals have long since lost their trading and transport roles, but they serve as a thread through our changing countryside. Just as the parks in London are seen as the lungs of the city; so the canals are havens of peace and timelessness and a return to nature. And you can still travel from London to Liverpool or Leeds on them; just allow the time; the window to open on our land; and see the towns as clumps of buildings just as there are clumps of trees.

So, now I have a legacy of a different kind; some 500 photos I've taken in the last month, thanks to the freedom of a digital camera. Some are great and I'll find ways of publishing them; some are not and they serve as lessons. In the last few days I've written short poems again; I was wondering if I'd lost touch with the muse - but I'm glad to say she's still here.

Simon