Saturday, December 25 2004
Difference of sex no more we knew / Than our guardian angels do;
Today, just a hiatus for Christmas Day morning before we start this thing proper here. The most lovely thing anyone ever said, publically, that I knew was for me, privately. A long time ago.
The RelicWhen my grave is broke up again
Some second guest to entertain,
(For graves have learn'd that woman
head, To be to more than one a bed)
And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let'us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls, at the last busy day,
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?If this fall in a time, or land,
Where mis-devotion doth command,
Then he, that digs us up, will bring
Us to the bishop, and the king,
To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
And since at such time
miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.First, we lov'd well and faithfully,
Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;
Difference of sex no more we knew
Than our guardian angels do;
Coming and going, we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals
Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free;
These miracles we did, but now alas,
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.John Donne
(1572 - 1631)
Posted by honey at 12:33 PM | Read or leave a comment (0)
Grep works.
I'm new at this, so forgive me if I'm sounding like a silver surfer who just discovered that ink cartridges cost more than the remarkably cheap printers they just bought, but lying in bed after only 4 hour's sleep on Xmas morn, my hyper mind's been currently obsessing on this: that writing a weblog's making me think a lot about categorisation, and dangers of allowing post-hoc changes later. I suppose what librarians of the more ghastly kind who get fed up stacking shelves call "information choreography". This is all rather beside the real point of this weblog, but think of it as laying out your pencils in a row before an exam I guess, and stretching your fingers before starting.
So don't read this if you're here to read about illness, gender or God. This is a sidenote, some chatter before I start.
It's the post-hoc thing that concerns me most. You can't reformat and recategorise paper diaries long after the ink's dry, which may not be such a bad thing. On starting this thing, I'm tempted to create a lot of categories, and sub-categories, in which I can file entries multiply; so, say, this article might be filed under a master category "information", a sub-category "technofear", and also under another master category "blogging". I might do this with a year's worth of articles. Then one day I might feel that, given that I only have six articles under "technofear", and the only ones I remember are about how people irrationally fear cloning, I'll just rename the category "irrationality" and file it under a master category "belief". Now, clearly I can review what's in it, but you can imagine given a few permutations, it'll get out of hand, beyond the pale and altogether not altogether.
So I guess I'm learning not to over-categorise, tempting though it is to do so: after all, the one thing you can't do with a paper diary is slice through it via categories, and see how you felt 10 years ago about just, say, sheep-dipping in Shropshire in the early 1950s. So doing it this way is very tempting. But, as I'm trying to clumsily warn myself above, over-categorising could lead to the equivalent of, say, over-partitioning a Linux installation. Sooner or later your /var will fill up, and have to move /var/log to somewhere else and create an ugly softlink. You might never understand the irrational glow of pleasure that the above analogy is likely to be unintelligible to me 10 years from now. Best move on.
I'm selfishly worried about this kind of information rot - I don't want to lose what I've written in here - I've wanted to write a diary/journal of some sort for years, have tried and failed, like everyone except Pepys, Boswell and Alan Clarke to do so on paper, and am trying again now online. I've felt at times it might save my life if I can just look back and see how I felt 2, 5, 10 years ago, and see how everything isn't so frighteningly out of control. And I've found that the feeling (mirage as it may be) that I'll be able to slice through, search and retrieve how I felt years later makes me feel like it's doable. I've found that creating a pretty frame around my blank canvas before I start can help set my mode, and my resolve to do it, contrary to reason which says it should just be content. I forget, but I bet Boswell cared what colour his notebooks were, and what type of ink he used, so I don't feel so bad about this.
But then, I suddenly find myself making a choice to do this say in Movable Type, version 3.wotsit, because it's the current version, it's the mostly widely used (right now) and my friend can teach me about stylesheets in it, even though, say, Wordpress is open-source, and can allow me to email entries in more easily. I make a further choice to make MySQL the engine, rather than say SQLite or PostGres, because it seems like most people still use that. I'm vaguely aware of the possibilities of data export, conversion etc. I leave it at that for now and get on with it.
When I step back, this worries me a lot because, although most people's weblogs are about their cats and their keyboards, I do believe they are of infinite worth, because they are also about their own selves. And what happens when Movable Type and Wordpress are a funny memory from years back, and pulling data from a long-forgotten but suddenly cherished MySQL database is akin to trying to emulate those little TV ping-pong games on a super-computer, and a job for the dedicated geek? A paper diary suddenly seems like a futuristic, stunningly clever and simple solution to cross-platform compatibility.
Here's why it matters. Five years ago, L and I went on holiday to France. I was ill, but it was a nice holiday. I might never be able to do this again.
I took hundreds of photos over two weeks, of early morning mist refracting Dordogne sunshine down rows of grape vines, of funny little french farmer who gave us a bottle of the strongest and sweetest Calvados I've ever tasted (and still have) that he distilled under his bed in his bedroom, and of L pulling funny faces. On the second to last day, I tried to extract the pictures from the (new! exciting!) digital camera's flash card on L's laptop, and it wiped the lot.
It sent me spinning into one of the blackest nights for a long time: a symbol to me of futility, the hopelessness of hope at getting through a nice holiday relatively unmarred by the black dog of depression, tried as it did to snap at my heels, and the hopelessness of trying to freeze some nice memories of why life was worthwhile when I got back. I span into such a panic that night that the people in the room next door to us in the hotel rang the front desk.
The next day I felt so traumatised it was like I'd been run over by a truck. We were driving home, and I suddenly felt I had to do something not to let this ruin everything, for me, for L. So I took out my Psion - it's something your grandparents used in the 20th century - and wrote down every day I could remember of the holiday, every photo I could describe in words. I drew little pictures and (I think, or was it another French holiday? - the calvados must have been Brittany) and added little multimedia clips of sounds we'd recorded. All this to try to subdue the storm in my mind, and save myself from the horrifying fear of hopelessness. It worked.
That Psion's now sitting upstairs, and has sat on a desk for probably 4 of those years, rundown, and without a shadow of doubt with nothing on its internal flash. I remember trying for days to extract everything I could from it before I swapped it for the next shiny thing, and these holiday journals were the most important. And try as I might, I couldn't extract them intact with those proprietary multimedia document attachments.
So that very important record of my life's probably gone. I'll have to look and see if I can find at least the text saved somewhere, now that I've mentioned them. But where will these words be in 5 years' time? Even if I have them in some form, will I be able to read them in any chronological order? Click through to links, make sense of references to references? Paper diaries, or at least text files suddenly seem so appealing. I've never trusted databases. Grep, the most basic tool in the Unix world works so well, simply because it works on the simplest things: plain text. And you can't really lose information from plain text files because all they have is... information.
As a final note, even reviewing my memory of that disproportionate response to losing those photos makes me ponder: I was just as prone (though less frequently victim to?) what I now call "panic attacks" then wasn't I? I must have been: what I recall of my feelings in that hotel that night are the same as I feel now, when I fall. Particularly for those of us with poor memories, diaries are so important about teaching us about our present, through our past. Ramble over, but I must keep this up.
Posted by honey at 12:23 PM | Read or leave a comment (1)
Friday, December 24 2004
Tapping the microphone...
Christmas Eve, 2004, and I start my conversations with myself (and anyone who wants to listen). Is this thing switched on?
As Dom Pedro listened to Bell recite Hamlet, Dom Pedro heard every word and exclaimed "My God, it talks!"
Standby.. transmissions will start shortly.
This weblog's likely to be less fun than most. Be warned. You're likely to see lots of this:
and some of this:
If you know me and see some things about me you didn't know, please don't feel you're trespassing - I probably always wanted you to know, really, or at least it makes my life easier if i know you do. Even if you think it makes me rubbish.
Posted by honey at 11:30 PM | Read or leave a comment (0)
Dylan Thomas - A Child's Christmas in Wales - and a first Christmas Eve's test of my weblog
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.
It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.
We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.
And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.
Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.
"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."
But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"
Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."
"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."
"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence."
"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."
"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."
"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."
"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers."
Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.
I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.
Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"
Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"
The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.
Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "
Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.
Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Posted by honey at 7:42 PM | Read or leave a comment (0)