pARTicles: Artwork by Glenda Gerrard.

Angels danced in millions on a pin.

Science ridiculed.

Like Tinkerbell, they almost died. 

Now countless unseen particles 

want for names.

Dare we call them Angels? 

Exploding Head - Salvador Dali

. 


This has been one of my favourite images for many years. I've never seen the original but even without the help of Wikipedia it was easy to understand at least a part of what had prompted him to paint it. The experts say:

"Dalí has fragmented the head to show how the sense of order from the past, illustrated by the balance and reason of a classical icon, has been shattered by the advent of nuclear weapons. The motif of the shattered head was a common one amongst artists in the post-war years. This reflects the emotional turmoil of a period when nuclear war seemed like a reality, following the use of nuclear weapons in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In this context, the delicate halo of the Madonna now suggests a nuclear mushroom cloud and her expression, with eyes downcast in prayer, seems particularly appropriate."

To me it represented much of what I felt, without any reference to what was going on in the outside world. Perhaps my generation were all affected by the splitting of the atom and the nuclear bomb so that our personal journeys were seen in the shadow of that mushroom cloud. It shattered much of what had been regarded as certainties. Dissertations have no doubt been written on this, I'm not going to add to them, but the forced readjustments probably contributed to the shift in perception in many fields - religion, the personal responsibility of ethical choice, and so on and so on.  

There was one period of my life when I feared I would lose myself completely in a tumbling  of conflicting perceptions, unable to form reliable or even intelligible concepts. And, of course, there was the  nightmare whirl of guilt and fear and ego. Can't say I've found my way out of all that gracefully but I have found a certain peace - and learned to live with the fragmentation. 

Well, I don't understand the outlining in white or antique cream.  Can't get rid of it either. A new reason for my head to explode! There was an interesting programme on BBC 4 last night on The Brain. Brains of Nun's who had agreed to donate their brains to medical science after they died, sometimes showed distinct signs of Alzheimer's although whilst alive they weren't exhibiting symptoms. The deduction was that the brain is like a tool box and if one tool disappears (brain cells die) the synapses find other cells that will perform the same function. I may have got the technical jargon wrong but I hope the imagery is enough to transmit the message! Determination - or an assumption that we will continue to function in the way we are used to, is enough to keep us doing it - maybe. Amazing, and there was more amazing stuff that I want to re-watch.

Rabbie and the Louse.

The poems of Rabbie Burns, the pride of the Scots, are often too sentimental for my taste, but this one is very amusing, (and the language understandable with a little patience.)  As it's his special day tomorrow I'm putting this up here now. The final lines have wisdom that has caused them to be lifted right out of the poem and used in many another context.
Translation

To a Louse, On Seeing one on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!

Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gawze and lace;

Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,

Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a Lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,

On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,

Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,

Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,

Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,

Till ye’ve got on it,

The vera topmost, towrin height

O’ Miss’s bonnet. 

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpriz’d to spy

You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On ’s wylecoat;

But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!

How daur ye do ’t?

O Jenny dinna toss your head,

An’ set your beauties a’ abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie’s makin!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us

An’ foolish notion:

What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,

And ev’n Devotion!

How the Mackay Clan came to Scotland

This is one of my favourite folk tales from this part of the world. Unfortunately I forget where I first read it, but I've retold it here in my own words.

(With apologies to the Mackay clan)

How the Mackay Clan came to Scotland.

A very long time ago the chieftain of a small tribe in the Reay district was in the habit of sending to Ireland for shoes and leatherwear for his fighting men. It might seem a long way to go but he was a canny man and although there was plenty of leather to be had in Reay and yet more of it still grazing in the hills around them, there was no-one skilled enough to fashion the footwear like a certain merchant across the Irish sea who also sold his goods at a very reasonable price.

One day the time had come to put in a new order for 21 pairs of brogues and a few other bits and pieces of bridles and breastplates, belts and pouches. The chief wrote a letter listing his requirements and he gave the letter to a messenger who was good at staying on a horse for a long ride and willing to find a boat to take him across the treacherous seas. The messenger set out on a fine day but before long the wind changed and it began to rain. He was travelling west so the rain got harder the further he went along and then there was a rough sea crossing to face. The poor man and his horse got soaked through and the letter didn’t fair much better. He was very thankful when he arrived at his destination and could hand over the order and be treated to a warm meal around a good fire. 

The merchant read the letter through and came to the messenger in some perturbation. ‘Ye’re certain this is what the chieftain wrote?” he asked. The messenger, who could stay on a horse and find a boat, had as yet to learn to read so he had no idea what was in the letter when it started out. He was sure he hadn’t lost any part of the paper though so he nodded his head firmly and said , yes, it was just as the chieftain had written it.

Which, needless to say, with all the wet and moisture from the spindrift, it wasn’t. There was one letter wiped out by the rain and it made all the difference. What the merchant read to his surprise was: ‘ Please send me 21 pairs of rogues, bridles, pouches etc. etc...’ 

The Irish merchant would never disappoint a customer so by the next day he had managed to fulfill the order though it had stretched his ingenuity to the utmost. The messenger returned with his purchases. He might have been a bit surprised but he knew it wasn’t his place to question the wisdom of his chief. Which is how 21 male Mackays and 21 female Mackays , the best rogues the Irish merchant could lay hands on in a hurry, came to Reay to settle.

You may believe this tale or you may not. That is your privilege. 

Tea-Time with Frances

I wrote a poem about a good friend, Frances, who, though born in Scotland, spent much of her life in the US and gave birth to three daughters who grew up as American citizens. Frances herself would never take citizenship. She valued her Britishness, her traditions, and perhaps most of all she valued her cup of tea. Over many, many, shared cups of tea she helped me through a painful time in my life. ‘Tea and sympathy,’ was the best medicine anyone ever gave me.

We sat in painted white basket chairs in her caravan, the chubby blue teapot, blue and white cups, saucers, and plates (for the Abernethy biscuits) between us on a small cane table, also painted white and covered with a crisp hand embroidered cloth. Once I offered to pour the tea. I was about to pour from the pot into the empty cup as my mother-in-law, a terrific snob, had done. It had taken me years to throw off the ‘milk in first’ pattern adopted by my parents, but I had done it in a futile attempt to win some approbation from this severe lady. I was slightly taken aback therefore when my friend said kindly: ‘Let’s do it like the Queen and put the milk in first.’ Somewhere she had read that Queen Elizabeth II preferred her tea served this way. So I dutifully reprogrammed myself again. When, long after her death, I wrote the poem about Frances I put in her comment verbatim. Another writer friend who read the poem told me firmly that the Queen would have the tea poured first, ‘because that’s how the aristocracy do it.’ And so the discussion began. 

I have trawled the internet for support of Frances’ claim. Found nothing sadly (although I’m sure she had read it somewhere at the time) but I’m now a repository of information about tea. I had no idea that whole blogs are written on the subject of the British cup of tea. And facts around tea.

here are a few:

The first record of tea written in English came from English merchants abroad, suitably enough in the East India Company in Japan. In 1615 Richard Wickham, the manger of the office there wrote to merchants asking themto bring him ‘The best sort of chaw.’ It was often called chaw or chaa and described to those not in the know as ‘water with a sort of herb boyled in it.’

By 1657 it was being served in the coffee houses in London but had to be explained to the patrons until they got the taste for it.. By 1667 Samuel Pepys was noting that his wife took tea for medicinal reasons and the Royal College of Physicians debated whether any of the exotic new drinks appearing (the cocoa bean arrived at about this time) would agree with ‘the constitution of our English bodies.’

Even very slightly formal events can be a cause for cups and saucers to be used instead of mugs. A typical semi-formal British tea ritual might run as follows (the host performing all actions unless noted):[18]

1. The kettle is brought to a rolling boil (with fresh water to ensure good oxygenation which is essential for proper diffusion of the tea leaves).[19]
2. Enough boiling water is swirled around the teapot to warm it and then poured out.
3. Add loose tea leaves, (usually black tea) or tea bags, always added before the boiled water.
4. Fresh boiling water is poured over the tea in the pot and allowed to brew for 2 to 5 minutes while a tea cosy may be placed on the pot to keep the tea warm.
5. Milk must be added to the tea cup, the host asking the guest if milk is wanted, milk may never be added after the tea is poured.
6. A tea strainer is placed over the top of the cup and the tea poured in, unless tea bags are used. Tea bags may be removed, if desired, once desired strength is attained.
7. Fresh milk and white sugar is added according to individual taste. Most people have milk with their tea, many without sugar.
8. The pot will normally hold enough tea so as not to be empty after filling the cups of all the guests. If this is the case, the tea cosy is replaced after everyone has been served. Hot water may be provided in a separate pot, and is used only for topping up the pot, never the cup.

I have also learned that afternoon tea was introduced by Anna, the 7th Duchess of Bedford, who became low and peckish at about 4pm.

I used to love afternoon tea when it was available in tea shops. Not, ‘High Tea’ which can include fish ‘n chips or baked beans on toast or Welsh Rarebit, all lovely in themselves but NOT for afternoon tea which should have little cakes and biscuits, sandwiches with the crusts cut off and..... I’m making myself hungry now.

Male and female created he them.

I’ve had conversations with two female friends recently on the ever-fresh subject of Men. Conclusion reached: They are very different to Women. 

Nothing new about that so why should it be so eternally provoking? The answer is - we have to live with them. It seems the sexes are doomed to be a constant challenge to each other. I dislike generalisations generally (and I really like men) but in this case I believe there is justification.

By coincidence, my ex and I watched ‘45 Years’ together at the weekend. Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay. It’s a remarkable film, brilliant even, poignantly demonstrating the difference, the unbridgeable divide, between male and female. 

I didn’t even attempt to find out what my ex made of it. He made noises of approval as the credits rolled. I was curious to know in what way, or why, but expected him to say: 'the acting.' As this might have annoyed me I chose not to ask. We find ways of working with the situation.

It's Tuff this Stuff

Dizzy is a poem without words. Bred to be lap dogs these Italian greyhounds have jaws that can barely take the skin off a rice pudding. Faced with one of those chew things the spirit is willing but….

Oh goody

Now what's the best way??

..getting tired now...

Exhausted