I had two very small fish in a tank. These fish came to my attention because they seemed to be looking for something - needing something. I fed them but they weren’t interested in food. I filled up the tank with water because the level looked a bit low. S and I went looking for a shop that would sell us an aquarium and fish-keeping equipment but we couldn’t find one open. When we got back to the tank it was empty with one fish gasping on the bottom, lying across the plug hole (there shouldn’t be a plug hole in a fish tank I think!) It looked a bit weird but I didn’t investigate. I shouted to Sandy to help me refill the tank and then I woke up so I have no idea if the fish - one or both - survived.
Looking back the fish lying across the plug had an oddly human look about it.
OK, water is usually seen as symbolising emotions. Fish - well, all characters in a dream are me so perhaps my inner self (younger than my outer self and symbolised by my grandson?) needs emotional outlet. It’s a thought. can’t do much with it though - except write....
10 Jan 2011
Tiny treasures
It was Sunday yesterday, the day of rest, and I was confined to barracks for most of it because I’ve been losing a battle with some disgusting virus tickling up my lungs. The result was a pool of boredom that drove me to abandon ‘Bones’ (I’ve bought the whole series now) to root through some boxes left from the move, and I found, not what I was looking for which was a couple of useful hooks to hold my tea-towel and apron in the kitchen (obviously men designed these fittings!) but these tiny treasures kept in a box belonging to my mother. I have no idea how old the tape-measure and the purse are but they are certainly from the days when a lady’s handbag (did they call it that I wonder? Or was that a holdall into which babies could be popped when necessary) had still to grow into a A4 sized affair yet was needed to hold such items ready for any emergency.The tape measure, 36”, would not go round MY waist now, sad to relate, but would measure a piece of knitting or a yard of material. The farthings that were inside the purse where dated 1921 and 1942 so have Britannia on the latter (the Empire was still intact) and a wren, on the former. Very sweet but why a wren? If anyone can tell me I’d like to know. Too lazy to chase up Wikkipedia.
6 Jan 2011
Human Traces
I was awake until 3.30 am then restless after finishing a first read of Sebastian Faulk’s novel ‘Human Traces.’ A first read because, as is usual for me, I was impatient to follow the characters to the end of his narrative so some of the more didactic passages just had to be skipped over to be returned to and absorbed later.
Reading this so soon after ‘Freedom’ has left me with the possibly unfair image of the Franzen novel as a cartoon - in the earlier sense of that word , a sketch for a piece that will one day be fleshed in. The insights and occasionally memorable passages hang on the outline like areas given more attention than the rest. I read somewhere that Franzen, after a long ‘dry’ spell reworked the beginnings of something he had thrown aside, a couple of chapters about Patty. That possibly explains why she is so unevenly drawn, detailed at first then blurry, her motivations confused rather than explained by subsequent events.
Probably ‘Human Traces’ can only really be relished by people who are interested in the history of psychiatry and the quest for understanding of the human mind. But then aren’t all humans, if they are able to rise just a little above the fight for mere survival, fascinated by the how’s and why’s of our mental states? The first clumsy forays into attempting to locate the seat of the mind (and even the soul) by cutting into the organs of the dead look foolish now but the intensity of the desire to find clues can’t be derided. The two men, Thomas and Jacques, who are the main characters in this almost 800 page opus go through moments of despair as they realise how little they will be able to learn in their lifetimes and how far science has to go before the secrets of consciousness can be uncovered.
The passage of time, from the 1870’s to just after the tragic madness of the 1st World War, in fact saw huge strides made in scientific method, more sophisticated equipment was developed, microscopes improved and people were able to gaze deeper and deeper into the mysteries of the universe in microcosm. In the final chapters words like ‘chromosomes’ appear. But Thomas and Jacques, good men who sought to ease human suffering as much they desired to find the secrets of life, were to die sadly knowing they had come hardly a step closer to helping the poor lunatics who had inspired their work. Only, as Thomas hopes somewhere early on in his career, their explorations had perhaps made people more kindly toward the sufferers of derangement.
The women who circle around these two men, their wives, lovers, patients, children, are as clearly drawn as themselves and their normal lives, lived in the shadow of the madhouse (a smart clinic and sanatorium in the Austrian Alps but nonetheless an acknowledged madhouse) , are a vivid backdrop to the task the men have set themselves, the ‘normal’ life the mad are denied.
I’m awed by Faulks. Now he IS a real master of his craft.
Reading this so soon after ‘Freedom’ has left me with the possibly unfair image of the Franzen novel as a cartoon - in the earlier sense of that word , a sketch for a piece that will one day be fleshed in. The insights and occasionally memorable passages hang on the outline like areas given more attention than the rest. I read somewhere that Franzen, after a long ‘dry’ spell reworked the beginnings of something he had thrown aside, a couple of chapters about Patty. That possibly explains why she is so unevenly drawn, detailed at first then blurry, her motivations confused rather than explained by subsequent events.
Probably ‘Human Traces’ can only really be relished by people who are interested in the history of psychiatry and the quest for understanding of the human mind. But then aren’t all humans, if they are able to rise just a little above the fight for mere survival, fascinated by the how’s and why’s of our mental states? The first clumsy forays into attempting to locate the seat of the mind (and even the soul) by cutting into the organs of the dead look foolish now but the intensity of the desire to find clues can’t be derided. The two men, Thomas and Jacques, who are the main characters in this almost 800 page opus go through moments of despair as they realise how little they will be able to learn in their lifetimes and how far science has to go before the secrets of consciousness can be uncovered.
The passage of time, from the 1870’s to just after the tragic madness of the 1st World War, in fact saw huge strides made in scientific method, more sophisticated equipment was developed, microscopes improved and people were able to gaze deeper and deeper into the mysteries of the universe in microcosm. In the final chapters words like ‘chromosomes’ appear. But Thomas and Jacques, good men who sought to ease human suffering as much they desired to find the secrets of life, were to die sadly knowing they had come hardly a step closer to helping the poor lunatics who had inspired their work. Only, as Thomas hopes somewhere early on in his career, their explorations had perhaps made people more kindly toward the sufferers of derangement.
The women who circle around these two men, their wives, lovers, patients, children, are as clearly drawn as themselves and their normal lives, lived in the shadow of the madhouse (a smart clinic and sanatorium in the Austrian Alps but nonetheless an acknowledged madhouse) , are a vivid backdrop to the task the men have set themselves, the ‘normal’ life the mad are denied.
I’m awed by Faulks. Now he IS a real master of his craft.
3 Jan 2011
1st working morning of 20011
I spent the morning freezing my butt off in the shop, a potentially gloomy time that was cheered because I was allowed to play with my daughter's new iPad. That was fun. I checked you all out. I also found tens - hundreds - of crits of 'Freedom,' not one that agreed with the personal irritations I registered, but there were a pre-decimal dozen or so which were less than euphorically positive about it.
I did enjoy the iPad but... not sure how creative I could be with it and I was terrified of dropping the skinny slab because I'm clumsy these days. The book page ('app' should I say? I hate this disintegration of the language...) is sort of fun, but the number of words per page is so few that it felt like reading a Ladybird. Maybe that's adjustable.
I did enjoy the iPad but... not sure how creative I could be with it and I was terrified of dropping the skinny slab because I'm clumsy these days. The book page ('app' should I say? I hate this disintegration of the language...) is sort of fun, but the number of words per page is so few that it felt like reading a Ladybird. Maybe that's adjustable.
Freedom from Freedom.
I got to the end of 'Freedom' finally and can add a third reason for hating it, after first acknowledging that there were moments when I warmed and even got involved with it. The third reason for my dislike was the characters. They have all been exposed too much already; like Macintosh or Monet. There's the stereotypical, middle-class bored housewife who's been denied the career she really wanted but who tries to subsume her frustration into being a 'good' woman who cooks like Betty Crocker and is first in line with the Welcome baskets. Then there is her equally stereotypical soya-drinking, teetotal, save-the-planet, be-understanding-to-everyone, make-allowances, ecogeek husband (in earlier literature they wore sandals and sported beards). There's the bright son who revels in his mother's doting love but wants sex with the girl next door who's everything his mother despises (and incurs Ma's bitter jealousy by the way). There's the daughter who resents her mother's obsession with her brother and is consequently cold toward her. There are the petty envies of neighbours and friends, along with the previous mistakes of grandparents and forebears generally to explain and define the characters of these main protagonists. There's the glamorous rock-star, an old school friend of the husband, who doesn't wear wholemeal sweaters and isn't moral or idealistic so can romp with the bored housewife with only the merest qualm. There are the signs of the times - drugs and pollution, disaffected youth.. There's the obligatory reflections on the attack on the Towers, the assault on Iraq, the immoral reasons that caused America to stop selling arms to Saddam and start whacking hell out of the country instead. It's all been done before. I'm jaded with the parent/child wars, by the divides, rebellions, identity crisises in middle-class society (not just American) I've read too many vignettes on these subjects, seen too many soaps/series and movies that cover the themes.
There was one moment when I cheered and suddenly felt the narrative had some point to it, that was when Walter (the aforementioned do-gooder Eco-geek), suddenly exposed to the fact that his wife and his best friend have betrayed him, (how corny is THAT?) reacted as any soap hero would by taking too many antidepressants (Veriteserum maybe?) which resulted in him yelling out what he really felt about a project he had been trapped into and which is about to turn poor whites into yet more wealthy middle classed red-necks, who will in turn continue the downward slide of America in its cancerous ruination of the planet. I even understood when he rued his outburst and tried to intellectualise - too late - what he had said as the whacko-aggressive social elements, always on the look-out for a cause through which to channel their anger, amass themselves behind the spirit of his ill-chosen words.
But that moment petered out.
I suspect Franzen of seeing himself as a latter-day Tolstoy since he likens one of his characters to Pierre, tilling his fields, trying to transform his futilely ideal political philosophies into a personal return to nature. It did no harm to nudge the critics in that direction.
There was one moment when I cheered and suddenly felt the narrative had some point to it, that was when Walter (the aforementioned do-gooder Eco-geek), suddenly exposed to the fact that his wife and his best friend have betrayed him, (how corny is THAT?) reacted as any soap hero would by taking too many antidepressants (Veriteserum maybe?) which resulted in him yelling out what he really felt about a project he had been trapped into and which is about to turn poor whites into yet more wealthy middle classed red-necks, who will in turn continue the downward slide of America in its cancerous ruination of the planet. I even understood when he rued his outburst and tried to intellectualise - too late - what he had said as the whacko-aggressive social elements, always on the look-out for a cause through which to channel their anger, amass themselves behind the spirit of his ill-chosen words.
But that moment petered out.
I suspect Franzen of seeing himself as a latter-day Tolstoy since he likens one of his characters to Pierre, tilling his fields, trying to transform his futilely ideal political philosophies into a personal return to nature. It did no harm to nudge the critics in that direction.
2 Jan 2011
2011
Have a good one everybody! Most years I don't make resolutions for fear of breaking them therebye increasing the feelings of inadequacy I'm prone to. This year I have made a couple but am keeping quiet about them - at least that way I'll be the only one who knows if I fail.
I've probably started my grandson on a life of alcoholism by topping up his glass of mulled wine as fast as my own Friday night as we watched episodes of the 4th series of 'Bones' put in my stocking by Santa via my daughter. Sanders is as fond of a good gloopy, slushy autopsy as I am luckily and is quite able to see the humour in the characters - Brennan's rain-man rationality and Angel (David Boreanaz's REAL character) messing around as an FBI agent! They may not be much like the books but they're very entertainingly silly. I love them.
We did finally move on to something slightly more age-appropriate, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone which S claims is the only one he really likes because it's not dark. In the run-up to my Christmas each year I always re-read the HP's, a habit which has crept up on me until it has become a tradition.
So we watched the fireworks set off by neighbours as the year changed, accompanied Harry to his triumphal denouement, and fell into bed at 1.45. I ws amazed to be able to get bacon, egg and fried potato into S by 9 am the next morning before he went off to spend a day sea fishing with his father.
Thus the traditions have been observed and the snow has gone (except for the depressing grey hillocks of slush where the ploughs created small mountains of the stuff). My back yard looks like a peanut-packaging plant strewn with the discarded husks and the birds aren't lining up along the fence each morning. I think they go first to the nearbye field of cows to share the delicious silage.
Just to prove to myself I can read something other than crime I took in Sebastian Faulks 'A Week in December' and was very impressed by it - had to stay awake most of the night to get to the end which didn't help my mood the next day. By contrast I borrowed Franzen's 'Freedom' ('A Masterpiece' says the New York Times) and am hating it. I've tried to work out why it's annoying me so much. Is it the American culture, that alien land of baseball, sports jocks, Bush (his ghost lingers) and Macdonalds? Is it (and this seems more likely) the monotonous tempo of the writing? Too many short, breathless sentences like landscape rushing past a train window without the soporific heart-beat of the track noises. Now I'm sounding like Pseuds Corner. Succinctly, I don't like his style. The characters should be sympathetic enough but I don't find them likeable even whilst I understand them. I could just toss it but my ex liked it so I have to keep going to give a good account of my reactions when I return his copy (it's an ego thing!). The first 120 pages weren't so bad. Maybe after the end of the Chateauneuf du Pape left from yesterday's lunch it will read a bit more like War and Peace or Madame Bovary or The Four Gated City or one of the other real literary masterpieces it's being ranked with.
I've probably started my grandson on a life of alcoholism by topping up his glass of mulled wine as fast as my own Friday night as we watched episodes of the 4th series of 'Bones' put in my stocking by Santa via my daughter. Sanders is as fond of a good gloopy, slushy autopsy as I am luckily and is quite able to see the humour in the characters - Brennan's rain-man rationality and Angel (David Boreanaz's REAL character) messing around as an FBI agent! They may not be much like the books but they're very entertainingly silly. I love them.
We did finally move on to something slightly more age-appropriate, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone which S claims is the only one he really likes because it's not dark. In the run-up to my Christmas each year I always re-read the HP's, a habit which has crept up on me until it has become a tradition.
So we watched the fireworks set off by neighbours as the year changed, accompanied Harry to his triumphal denouement, and fell into bed at 1.45. I ws amazed to be able to get bacon, egg and fried potato into S by 9 am the next morning before he went off to spend a day sea fishing with his father.
Thus the traditions have been observed and the snow has gone (except for the depressing grey hillocks of slush where the ploughs created small mountains of the stuff). My back yard looks like a peanut-packaging plant strewn with the discarded husks and the birds aren't lining up along the fence each morning. I think they go first to the nearbye field of cows to share the delicious silage.
Just to prove to myself I can read something other than crime I took in Sebastian Faulks 'A Week in December' and was very impressed by it - had to stay awake most of the night to get to the end which didn't help my mood the next day. By contrast I borrowed Franzen's 'Freedom' ('A Masterpiece' says the New York Times) and am hating it. I've tried to work out why it's annoying me so much. Is it the American culture, that alien land of baseball, sports jocks, Bush (his ghost lingers) and Macdonalds? Is it (and this seems more likely) the monotonous tempo of the writing? Too many short, breathless sentences like landscape rushing past a train window without the soporific heart-beat of the track noises. Now I'm sounding like Pseuds Corner. Succinctly, I don't like his style. The characters should be sympathetic enough but I don't find them likeable even whilst I understand them. I could just toss it but my ex liked it so I have to keep going to give a good account of my reactions when I return his copy (it's an ego thing!). The first 120 pages weren't so bad. Maybe after the end of the Chateauneuf du Pape left from yesterday's lunch it will read a bit more like War and Peace or Madame Bovary or The Four Gated City or one of the other real literary masterpieces it's being ranked with.
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