Moscow is huge. I do not have the statistics but I will seek them out for later.
At its centre is the Kremlin (which simply means 'fort' - many old towns have their kremlin)
The old part of the city sits around the Kremlin. It is mostly of 18th and 19th century with small corners of much older buildings. One of the reasons that you find so few ancient remains is that the buildings were mostly of wood, and fires and wars kept setting back developments!
There are 4 significant ring roads: the closest to the centre is the 'Boulevard' ring - an 18th19th century tree lined road: then the 'Garden' ring, a wide (8 lane) 20th century road that once skirted round the gardens of the old palaces; then the 'Third' ring, a recently completed outer ring road made up from older sections of road connected by fly-overs and tunnels. Last is the 'Moscow Ring', Moscow's equivalent of the M25!
Within the Moscow Ring the city is well wooded and there are many parks. The Moscow river winds through the city and there many are canals, lakes and one or two smaller rivers. The city is well served by water. The Moscow river is about the size of the Thames at London as it passes the Kremlin and travels on to eventually swell the waters of the Volga..
Most of the population live in apartment tower blocks; there are very few houses. The huge area between the Ring road and the Third ring is filled with row upon row of apartment blocks. They are the most enduring image of the city. Interspersed are industrial areas, parks, woods and lakes.
Geography lesson finished!
We have an 8th floor apartment just outside the Third ring. The windows look down on a spacious, tree dotted 'courtyard' with other blocks surrounding. There is a mixture of scruffy older blocks and post communist smarter blocks - guess which sort we are in :-( There are playgrounds, cars parked and a central services building, with shops on the 'outsides' of the blocks. This typical arrangement is repeated throughout the residential areas.
Today the ground is covered in a sprinkling of fresh snow overlying a treacherous layer of ice from a compacted previous snowfall. The roads though are kept clear. The public services are well prepared for this predictable state of affairs.
Do Svedanya
Graham
Sunday 30 December 2007
Saturday 29 December 2007
Christmas in Moscow
Well, I made it to Moscow!
I am still ill with the shingles and the journey,on 23rd, was a strain (to say the least!).
The title here is misleading ~ nothing happens on December 25th. Everyone goes to work and the Russian version of normality continues. Whilst I say nothing happens, my own experience on Christmas day was dramatic. My illness reached a crisis: my temperature soared, I was violently sick and I thought death was imminent! Olga nursed me through it though and I am now back to being normally ill.
I have been here a week now and have only ventured out once. It was -4C and the windchill doubled that, so it was a short journey to the bank and back. The weather does not interrupt routines for the stoic Russians. They are well prepared and it is always warm inside.
I will be living here for a few weeks and will let you know my impressions of life in a January Moscow amongst my Russian friends and family.
It has just started snowing.
Graham
I am still ill with the shingles and the journey,on 23rd, was a strain (to say the least!).
The title here is misleading ~ nothing happens on December 25th. Everyone goes to work and the Russian version of normality continues. Whilst I say nothing happens, my own experience on Christmas day was dramatic. My illness reached a crisis: my temperature soared, I was violently sick and I thought death was imminent! Olga nursed me through it though and I am now back to being normally ill.
I have been here a week now and have only ventured out once. It was -4C and the windchill doubled that, so it was a short journey to the bank and back. The weather does not interrupt routines for the stoic Russians. They are well prepared and it is always warm inside.
I will be living here for a few weeks and will let you know my impressions of life in a January Moscow amongst my Russian friends and family.
It has just started snowing.
Graham
Monday 10 December 2007
Shingles
I have got the shingles!
Bloody Hell!
I had it many years ago and it was not too bad, as far as I can remember. This time it is awful.
For a week I suffered from occasional pains in the chest and back. It felt a bit like indigestion. I had no symptoms that suggested a heart problem so I was not too worried on that score.
Then it started to keep me awake. The pains became more intensive and I felt a bit feverish. It was time to seek medical help.
The doctor homed in on it straight away and told me that I would have a rash in the next day or so. He was correct. I now have pains, fever and an infuriatingly sensitive rash. At least I have the anti-viral drugs as well.
Shingles is a closely related to chicken-pox. It lies dormant in the body and re-appears when the immune system is weakened. Mine was weakened by the stress of caring for my senile father. I can identify the point at which I started to feel the pains and relate it directly to the stressful period. It can last for many weeks and this is worrying. I am in the process of preparing for an extended trip abroad. The thought of travelling for 6 hours is horrifying - two flights, changing at Zurich. I hate it enough when I am well! Then I have to adjust to living in a strange environment.
I have had to stop listening to some of my favourite pieces of classical music. You know the tingle that you get - hairs on the back of the neck, goose pimples etc. Well this effect drives a wave of pain through my shingles rash and detroys the pleasure. If I was a masochist I could enjoy it.
Illness is not on my agenda. I have lived free of it since being a child, no 'flu or colds etc., and it is a sobering experience.
Bloody Hell!
I had it many years ago and it was not too bad, as far as I can remember. This time it is awful.
For a week I suffered from occasional pains in the chest and back. It felt a bit like indigestion. I had no symptoms that suggested a heart problem so I was not too worried on that score.
Then it started to keep me awake. The pains became more intensive and I felt a bit feverish. It was time to seek medical help.
The doctor homed in on it straight away and told me that I would have a rash in the next day or so. He was correct. I now have pains, fever and an infuriatingly sensitive rash. At least I have the anti-viral drugs as well.
Shingles is a closely related to chicken-pox. It lies dormant in the body and re-appears when the immune system is weakened. Mine was weakened by the stress of caring for my senile father. I can identify the point at which I started to feel the pains and relate it directly to the stressful period. It can last for many weeks and this is worrying. I am in the process of preparing for an extended trip abroad. The thought of travelling for 6 hours is horrifying - two flights, changing at Zurich. I hate it enough when I am well! Then I have to adjust to living in a strange environment.
I have had to stop listening to some of my favourite pieces of classical music. You know the tingle that you get - hairs on the back of the neck, goose pimples etc. Well this effect drives a wave of pain through my shingles rash and detroys the pleasure. If I was a masochist I could enjoy it.
Illness is not on my agenda. I have lived free of it since being a child, no 'flu or colds etc., and it is a sobering experience.
Thursday 6 December 2007
"Struggling Authors"
To all writers who feel isolated and unsupported I highly recommend "Struggling Authors". A very young site that is dedicated to helping new writers to get published. The site needs to build up its community, so if you have pages waiting on the word processor and you are not sure what to do with them then have a look, join in and see what others in the same position are doing.
I will let you in through my own little feature (just so you don't miss it!)...................
http://strugglingauthors.co.uk/authorofthemonth.aspx
I will let you in through my own little feature (just so you don't miss it!)...................
http://strugglingauthors.co.uk/authorofthemonth.aspx
Tuesday 4 December 2007
The price of independence
I have just had a few days caring for my 89 year old father. It has been an eye-opener!
Mother (87) needed a break. She is fit, alert and active so I packed her off to Belgium for a stay with my brother. The original intention was that Olga and I stayed with him and cared for him but Olga had a work offer she could not refuse and so I was left on my own.
He can just manage to walk short distances, has had three strokes and is seriously senile. He can dress himself (but needs tidying up afterwards!), eats well but slowly and has all the bathroom lifts and hoists to be able to keep himself clean.
Seems to be OK you think. The physical coping is not the problem - it is the mental onslaught of the loss of short-term memory..
He doesn't know where mother is. He keeps asking and I tell him all day long . He immediately forgets. If you say something it has to be repeated. It is partly deafness but partly senility. He forgets he has just eaten and asks for his dinner 10 minutes after finishing. This goes on all day long and there is just no escape.
I put him in the car and we go for a drive, just to have a change of scene. All through the ride he asks where we are going and I make up a destination just to say something.
There are blessed moments in the evening when he falls asleep in his chair or stares blankly at whatever is on the TV.
It is out of love for the dear old chap that I remain patient but it occurs to me that an employee in a care-home will not have this attitude. I am determined that both parents will keep their independence no matter what it takes. I see myself in him, 30 years on, and know what I would want for myself.
Mother (87) needed a break. She is fit, alert and active so I packed her off to Belgium for a stay with my brother. The original intention was that Olga and I stayed with him and cared for him but Olga had a work offer she could not refuse and so I was left on my own.
He can just manage to walk short distances, has had three strokes and is seriously senile. He can dress himself (but needs tidying up afterwards!), eats well but slowly and has all the bathroom lifts and hoists to be able to keep himself clean.
Seems to be OK you think. The physical coping is not the problem - it is the mental onslaught of the loss of short-term memory..
He doesn't know where mother is. He keeps asking and I tell him all day long . He immediately forgets. If you say something it has to be repeated. It is partly deafness but partly senility. He forgets he has just eaten and asks for his dinner 10 minutes after finishing. This goes on all day long and there is just no escape.
I put him in the car and we go for a drive, just to have a change of scene. All through the ride he asks where we are going and I make up a destination just to say something.
There are blessed moments in the evening when he falls asleep in his chair or stares blankly at whatever is on the TV.
It is out of love for the dear old chap that I remain patient but it occurs to me that an employee in a care-home will not have this attitude. I am determined that both parents will keep their independence no matter what it takes. I see myself in him, 30 years on, and know what I would want for myself.
Saturday 10 November 2007
Don't write about the Lottery?
If someone says don't do it then I find ways to do it. When an advice column told us that stories about the National Lottery were not a good idea I decided that I would write one.It is an illusion. It looks as if the story is about gambling, losing, winning etc. but it is actually about the relationship between two good friends. Is that cheating? Decide for yourselves:
Winners:
When the National Lottery arrived in 1994 Melvyn was excited along with the rest of the nation. The prospect of never having to worry about money ever again was extremely tempting. So he went along every week and joined the queue to buy his ticket.
“Fourteen million to one chance,” Pete, his best friend, reminded him constantly.
“You’re wasting your money.”
“Someone wins every week and when it’s me you’ll be getting your share, you old cynic,” replied Melvyn.
He never watched the draw. Every Sunday morning he would go and buy his paper and check his numbers. The sense of anticipation was delicious.
On one occasion the first three numbers matched his. He hardly dare look at the next one. He did and was disappointed. The last two were also not on his ticket. Never mind, thought Melvyn, there is always next week, and a tenner is welcome.
On ‘rollover’ draws he would buy extra numbers. Seven lines usually. His simple arithmetic told him that by buying seven lines he reduced the odds from fourteen million to two million to one. This may, or may not, have been the case but it raised his optimism; there is huge difference between fourteen million and a mere two million.
After he had bought his ticket he would drive home dreaming of the things he would do with his fortune………….. A nice big bungalow; five or six bedrooms, a villa in Spain and a cottage in Scotland or Ireland. Plenty for his brother and a few thousands scattered amongst friends and relatives. He would have time to travel and to do all the things that going to work prevented him from doing. Pete would do well, of course, and Melvyn would take great pleasure in constantly reminding him of his cynicism.
When the Wednesday draw was announced in 1997 his hopes soared: now there was twice as much opportunity each week. He now regularly bought four lines on Saturday and four on Wednesday. Then along came the Euro Lottery, with even bigger prizes; two lines on Friday. He spent eleven pounds a week on Lottery tickets; well, he could afford it.
When he told Pete he was attacked with the arithmetic:
“Eleven pounds a week! Just a minute, let me work this out………..that’s five hundred and seventy two pounds a year! That’s a week in Marbella.”
“Don’t forget the occasional scratch card,” Melvyn added. “Let’s call it a round £600. I hate untidy numbers.”
“A week in Tenerife then. Seriously, just think what you could do with that money.”
“Excuse me; Mr Arithmetic. How much do you spend on red wine each week, eh? It’s probably more than my £11.”
“That’s different. Wine is one of life’s necessities.”
“Oh, is it - then how come I can manage without it? Anyone can find an expense that is not essential, but part of the pleasure of living. Mine happens to be my Lottery. Next time a bottle of red hits the jackpot and makes you a millionaire, let me know.”
*
After this exchange every time they met there was a little more playful banter. Pete kept a tally and reminded Melvyn of how much he had spent on tickets:
“£33 since we last met Mel, and £6,000 or so since you started. You don’t seem to be very lucky Melvyn. Why don’t you just give it up?”
“I don’t believe in luck; just random chance. So called ‘lucky’ people have just as much chance as everyone else who buys a ticket. Anyway, I won a tenner two weeks ago. I notice you conveniently leave these little wins out of your calculations: Lies, damn lies and statistics. What’s the wine bill this week, by the way?”
*
Melvyn dreamed on and Pete kept adding up. Year on year they persisted; always friendly – it was their game.
Melvyn looked forward to his retirement. His lottery routine continued and his luck never faltered – the occasional tenner, and once the princely sum of £73. On that occasion Melvyn phoned Pete immediately to tell him.
One Thursday afternoon Pete called round; both were retired now, and he announced, with a raspberry fanfare, that Melvyn had now spent £15,000 on lottery tickets. As he spoke the words his speech faltered:
“Are you OK Mel?”
“Not really. You know what’s funny; your sums are wrong. Twice recently I forgot to buy my tickets! I have not been feeling too good; constant headaches.”
“Get yourself to the docs mate.”
*
When Pete called round the following week Melvyn was in bed.
“Come on lazybones, it’s nearly noon,” he said, as he poked his head around the bedroom door. “Bloody hell you look like death! I’m calling an ambulance.”
*
Melvyn’s brain tumour was very advanced and he was given two months to live. He spent most of his days sitting in the ward lounge, drifting in and out of a drug induced sleep. Pete called to see him every day, and afterwards often cried at the appalling deterioration he saw in his old friend. He started to buy Melvyn’s lottery tickets for him and brought them along to the hospital. They enjoyed a little laugh at this irony.
“If I could escape from this institution I would pop round the ‘offy’ and get you a case of Merlot.”
The effort of this little speech exhausted Melvyn. He closed his eyes for a minute and they both sat in silence. Melvyn broke it:
“I never won those millions did I?”
“So what,” Pete smiled. “Anyway, the fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”
That Saturday as he bought the lottery ticket on his way to the hospital, Pete found himself wishing that this could be the ‘big one’. He would love to give Melvyn the ticket he always dreamed of. When he arrived the ward sister informed him of Melvyn’s death just two hours earlier.
The ticket never came out of Pete’s wallet and was never checked: not because Pete forgot about it, but because he wanted it to remain in a permanent state of anticipation, never ever checked and therefore always in with a chance; in honour of the only real pleasure the lottery gave to his dear friend.
©G E Wilkinson 10/07
Winners:
When the National Lottery arrived in 1994 Melvyn was excited along with the rest of the nation. The prospect of never having to worry about money ever again was extremely tempting. So he went along every week and joined the queue to buy his ticket.
“Fourteen million to one chance,” Pete, his best friend, reminded him constantly.
“You’re wasting your money.”
“Someone wins every week and when it’s me you’ll be getting your share, you old cynic,” replied Melvyn.
He never watched the draw. Every Sunday morning he would go and buy his paper and check his numbers. The sense of anticipation was delicious.
On one occasion the first three numbers matched his. He hardly dare look at the next one. He did and was disappointed. The last two were also not on his ticket. Never mind, thought Melvyn, there is always next week, and a tenner is welcome.
On ‘rollover’ draws he would buy extra numbers. Seven lines usually. His simple arithmetic told him that by buying seven lines he reduced the odds from fourteen million to two million to one. This may, or may not, have been the case but it raised his optimism; there is huge difference between fourteen million and a mere two million.
After he had bought his ticket he would drive home dreaming of the things he would do with his fortune………….. A nice big bungalow; five or six bedrooms, a villa in Spain and a cottage in Scotland or Ireland. Plenty for his brother and a few thousands scattered amongst friends and relatives. He would have time to travel and to do all the things that going to work prevented him from doing. Pete would do well, of course, and Melvyn would take great pleasure in constantly reminding him of his cynicism.
When the Wednesday draw was announced in 1997 his hopes soared: now there was twice as much opportunity each week. He now regularly bought four lines on Saturday and four on Wednesday. Then along came the Euro Lottery, with even bigger prizes; two lines on Friday. He spent eleven pounds a week on Lottery tickets; well, he could afford it.
When he told Pete he was attacked with the arithmetic:
“Eleven pounds a week! Just a minute, let me work this out………..that’s five hundred and seventy two pounds a year! That’s a week in Marbella.”
“Don’t forget the occasional scratch card,” Melvyn added. “Let’s call it a round £600. I hate untidy numbers.”
“A week in Tenerife then. Seriously, just think what you could do with that money.”
“Excuse me; Mr Arithmetic. How much do you spend on red wine each week, eh? It’s probably more than my £11.”
“That’s different. Wine is one of life’s necessities.”
“Oh, is it - then how come I can manage without it? Anyone can find an expense that is not essential, but part of the pleasure of living. Mine happens to be my Lottery. Next time a bottle of red hits the jackpot and makes you a millionaire, let me know.”
*
After this exchange every time they met there was a little more playful banter. Pete kept a tally and reminded Melvyn of how much he had spent on tickets:
“£33 since we last met Mel, and £6,000 or so since you started. You don’t seem to be very lucky Melvyn. Why don’t you just give it up?”
“I don’t believe in luck; just random chance. So called ‘lucky’ people have just as much chance as everyone else who buys a ticket. Anyway, I won a tenner two weeks ago. I notice you conveniently leave these little wins out of your calculations: Lies, damn lies and statistics. What’s the wine bill this week, by the way?”
*
Melvyn dreamed on and Pete kept adding up. Year on year they persisted; always friendly – it was their game.
Melvyn looked forward to his retirement. His lottery routine continued and his luck never faltered – the occasional tenner, and once the princely sum of £73. On that occasion Melvyn phoned Pete immediately to tell him.
One Thursday afternoon Pete called round; both were retired now, and he announced, with a raspberry fanfare, that Melvyn had now spent £15,000 on lottery tickets. As he spoke the words his speech faltered:
“Are you OK Mel?”
“Not really. You know what’s funny; your sums are wrong. Twice recently I forgot to buy my tickets! I have not been feeling too good; constant headaches.”
“Get yourself to the docs mate.”
*
When Pete called round the following week Melvyn was in bed.
“Come on lazybones, it’s nearly noon,” he said, as he poked his head around the bedroom door. “Bloody hell you look like death! I’m calling an ambulance.”
*
Melvyn’s brain tumour was very advanced and he was given two months to live. He spent most of his days sitting in the ward lounge, drifting in and out of a drug induced sleep. Pete called to see him every day, and afterwards often cried at the appalling deterioration he saw in his old friend. He started to buy Melvyn’s lottery tickets for him and brought them along to the hospital. They enjoyed a little laugh at this irony.
“If I could escape from this institution I would pop round the ‘offy’ and get you a case of Merlot.”
The effort of this little speech exhausted Melvyn. He closed his eyes for a minute and they both sat in silence. Melvyn broke it:
“I never won those millions did I?”
“So what,” Pete smiled. “Anyway, the fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”
That Saturday as he bought the lottery ticket on his way to the hospital, Pete found himself wishing that this could be the ‘big one’. He would love to give Melvyn the ticket he always dreamed of. When he arrived the ward sister informed him of Melvyn’s death just two hours earlier.
The ticket never came out of Pete’s wallet and was never checked: not because Pete forgot about it, but because he wanted it to remain in a permanent state of anticipation, never ever checked and therefore always in with a chance; in honour of the only real pleasure the lottery gave to his dear friend.
©G E Wilkinson 10/07
Monday 5 November 2007
The Waterborne - next bit.
Having leapt into the river Philip discovers a new existence outside of his old body. He learns what it is to be one of the Waterborne:
See that body? That is me, or was me. It has left me and floated away – useless, discarded; like the shoe with a hole in it. This is me, here, held still beneath the water; the flow going through and around me like the warm breeze on a hill top in another place and another life. I gaze on the landscape of this new element without the fog of corruptible eyes. The mystery of the fathomless bridge pool is revealed. Down here all is clear. There are rocks, both washed clean and clothed in weed, and quiet silted corners; gravel pockets and sandy spits; each playing its part in directing the water. A few small trout gather close by me but they, unlike me, are still subject to the force of the flow and constantly flick their tails to seek comfort within it. They are not aware of me – good! In the last life I forever wanted to come close to the small, wild things of the earth. A youthful perversity made me want to kill them. It was the simple solution: To stop their constant jittering and flittering and hold them calm and still in my hand. They would then belong to me, without knowing it. My fishing brought them to me and doubled the pleasure as I watched them swim free again on their release. This paradise puts me alongside the quivering life; with no desire or means to take that life. I feel I am part of the water that gives them life. They belong to me again, without knowing it but still living.
Over there is a fine fish, a cock – maybe two pound. He holds prime position, little bits of debris and food passing within a fin’s flick of his great pale gape. See him move with so little effort; his instinct tells him that every morsel must be worth more than the effort needed to take it. There: A small, struggling nymph has been eaten. She was moving to the surface to fulfil her destiny as an imago, and now both the nymph and her destiny have gone.
Can I move? I don’t know. I don’t know how. The water is almost powerless against my formlessness. The sensation of flow is a false physical presence and I have very little resistance on which to push. I have no shape, no limbs, yet I must learn to walk again. Will I be a tottering toddler in this new element of my new life? How can I seek what I wish for if my new being stays put, like a prisoner, or a troll beneath this bridge? Alexandra was a lover of warm, salty waters. I need to seek her in warm seas.
How to move? Relax. Want it. Believe it. Do it. Mr big brown trout I am coming to you………..now the rocks move. He is closer. Success. Believe it. Do it. My vision is filled by his muscular length. Oh what beauty! How can the limp curve of a fish, even newly lifted from the water, compare to this vibrancy in living colour and the ancient, subtle co-ordination of movement. The half-hidden, dark shadow, which the angler views from above, is transformed now that it is viewed from within its natural element. I am so close and he does not know I am here. I have the ultimate in stealth but no need of its power.
What is that? I am being watched. By what: Or whom? Why do I feel it and not see it?
“Welcome Philip. I see that you have learned that the physical world has little influence on your new form.”
“Where are you? Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“I am water and I am everywhere. I carry all such as you within me. You are here because you knew of this existence, as I knew of yours.”
“Will I meet others?”
“You will meet others, particularly those you seek.”
“Can you show me where Alex is?”
“She is within me, that’s all you need to know.”
“I have more questions.”
“Ask.”
“Is this death?”
“There is no death. You are one of the Waterborne because you chose it. The Airborne are above you, most free of all. The Earth-bound are not free, but they are happy in their tight world, as all are who choose their element, and the Flame-bound come and go like the Phoenix.”
“Is there another ending to this existence?”
“Far beyond existence is oblivion: The end of all things. But there is a malign influence in all elements that can send you to oblivion before the end of all things. Beware of those who intrude into an element that is not their own. They do not belong and would destroy out of malice. You will feel pain, as you will feel pleasure.”
“Where are the other Waterborne?”
“They are fully part of me, as you will be. They will come to you when you have learned. Stop now. No more questions. Many answers will come to you as you find the peace of being one with me.
It is time to continue your journey.”
See that body? That is me, or was me. It has left me and floated away – useless, discarded; like the shoe with a hole in it. This is me, here, held still beneath the water; the flow going through and around me like the warm breeze on a hill top in another place and another life. I gaze on the landscape of this new element without the fog of corruptible eyes. The mystery of the fathomless bridge pool is revealed. Down here all is clear. There are rocks, both washed clean and clothed in weed, and quiet silted corners; gravel pockets and sandy spits; each playing its part in directing the water. A few small trout gather close by me but they, unlike me, are still subject to the force of the flow and constantly flick their tails to seek comfort within it. They are not aware of me – good! In the last life I forever wanted to come close to the small, wild things of the earth. A youthful perversity made me want to kill them. It was the simple solution: To stop their constant jittering and flittering and hold them calm and still in my hand. They would then belong to me, without knowing it. My fishing brought them to me and doubled the pleasure as I watched them swim free again on their release. This paradise puts me alongside the quivering life; with no desire or means to take that life. I feel I am part of the water that gives them life. They belong to me again, without knowing it but still living.
Over there is a fine fish, a cock – maybe two pound. He holds prime position, little bits of debris and food passing within a fin’s flick of his great pale gape. See him move with so little effort; his instinct tells him that every morsel must be worth more than the effort needed to take it. There: A small, struggling nymph has been eaten. She was moving to the surface to fulfil her destiny as an imago, and now both the nymph and her destiny have gone.
Can I move? I don’t know. I don’t know how. The water is almost powerless against my formlessness. The sensation of flow is a false physical presence and I have very little resistance on which to push. I have no shape, no limbs, yet I must learn to walk again. Will I be a tottering toddler in this new element of my new life? How can I seek what I wish for if my new being stays put, like a prisoner, or a troll beneath this bridge? Alexandra was a lover of warm, salty waters. I need to seek her in warm seas.
How to move? Relax. Want it. Believe it. Do it. Mr big brown trout I am coming to you………..now the rocks move. He is closer. Success. Believe it. Do it. My vision is filled by his muscular length. Oh what beauty! How can the limp curve of a fish, even newly lifted from the water, compare to this vibrancy in living colour and the ancient, subtle co-ordination of movement. The half-hidden, dark shadow, which the angler views from above, is transformed now that it is viewed from within its natural element. I am so close and he does not know I am here. I have the ultimate in stealth but no need of its power.
What is that? I am being watched. By what: Or whom? Why do I feel it and not see it?
“Welcome Philip. I see that you have learned that the physical world has little influence on your new form.”
“Where are you? Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“I am water and I am everywhere. I carry all such as you within me. You are here because you knew of this existence, as I knew of yours.”
“Will I meet others?”
“You will meet others, particularly those you seek.”
“Can you show me where Alex is?”
“She is within me, that’s all you need to know.”
“I have more questions.”
“Ask.”
“Is this death?”
“There is no death. You are one of the Waterborne because you chose it. The Airborne are above you, most free of all. The Earth-bound are not free, but they are happy in their tight world, as all are who choose their element, and the Flame-bound come and go like the Phoenix.”
“Is there another ending to this existence?”
“Far beyond existence is oblivion: The end of all things. But there is a malign influence in all elements that can send you to oblivion before the end of all things. Beware of those who intrude into an element that is not their own. They do not belong and would destroy out of malice. You will feel pain, as you will feel pleasure.”
“Where are the other Waterborne?”
“They are fully part of me, as you will be. They will come to you when you have learned. Stop now. No more questions. Many answers will come to you as you find the peace of being one with me.
It is time to continue your journey.”
Tuesday 30 October 2007
Euphemisms
I’m just going for a Euphemism.
Euphemisms were invented to hide unpleasant truths or socially unacceptable vocabulary. By shrouding the telling in a gentle cloak, we disguise that which we feel we must utter but would rather ignore. They also can be useful when trying to hide vulgarity or sexual references, especially for the closet prude or when in mixed company. My favourite is “He told me to have sex and travel.”
One concept which has probably as many euphemisms as sex and bodily functions is death:
Gone for a Burton’s
Hello, How’s whatsisname? Malcolm was it, or Michael, yes, Mike?
Didn’t you know? He bought it.
Oh, that house on Woodhead Road with the wobbly car-port and the damp understory.
No. He’s gone. Gone West.
Liverpool eh? Bought a house in Liverpool. Well I never. He always was a Beatles fan. He did a fair rendition of ‘Yesterday’ when he’d had a few. Didn’t think he’d go that far.
No, Not Liverpool; he’s gone for a Burton; he’s sleeping.
Burton eh? That would be Burton-on Trent? That’s South not West. Make good beer there. Oh I see. Not gone there but had some beer. Now that I understand. I always fall asleep after a few pints.
No. Asleep, as in, ‘gone to a better place’.
There aren’t many better places than Liverpool now are there? Burton-on-Trent is ok. Both are a fair distance, just for a sleep. So where has he actually gone? Which pub sells Burton ales round here?
Oh dear. How shall I put it? He’s gone to the Grim Reaper; kicked the bucket.
I know the Grim Reaper. Do a lovely ploughman’s lunch. The Bucket? Just remind me. Where is it? I thought I knew all the pubs round here. Ah: a bucket of ale. Surely you mean that figuratively. No wonder he’s gone to sleep. Didn’t know the Reaper sold Burton’s.
Poor Mike has gone to his final resting place. Now do you understand?
That is amazing. After a skin full I usually fall asleep where I’m sitting. Good old Mike eh? Took himself straight to bed.
You don’t get it. He’s let go. Cashed in his cheque. Shuffled off etc…
It’s the drink you know. Let himself go. Straight out of the post office with his giro and straight to the pub. Spent it all on drink. Shuffles now does he? I always thought he was in control of himself; always walked tall did good old Mike. Shuffles eh? Plays havoc with the heels of your shoes. Wouldn’t like his shoe repair bill.
You make this very difficult. He……..he…… he died.
I’m not surprised after all that Burton’s Ale. Alcoholic poisoning eh? At least he died happy; and in his own bed.
© GEWilkinson 8/07
Euphemisms were invented to hide unpleasant truths or socially unacceptable vocabulary. By shrouding the telling in a gentle cloak, we disguise that which we feel we must utter but would rather ignore. They also can be useful when trying to hide vulgarity or sexual references, especially for the closet prude or when in mixed company. My favourite is “He told me to have sex and travel.”
One concept which has probably as many euphemisms as sex and bodily functions is death:
Gone for a Burton’s
Hello, How’s whatsisname? Malcolm was it, or Michael, yes, Mike?
Didn’t you know? He bought it.
Oh, that house on Woodhead Road with the wobbly car-port and the damp understory.
No. He’s gone. Gone West.
Liverpool eh? Bought a house in Liverpool. Well I never. He always was a Beatles fan. He did a fair rendition of ‘Yesterday’ when he’d had a few. Didn’t think he’d go that far.
No, Not Liverpool; he’s gone for a Burton; he’s sleeping.
Burton eh? That would be Burton-on Trent? That’s South not West. Make good beer there. Oh I see. Not gone there but had some beer. Now that I understand. I always fall asleep after a few pints.
No. Asleep, as in, ‘gone to a better place’.
There aren’t many better places than Liverpool now are there? Burton-on-Trent is ok. Both are a fair distance, just for a sleep. So where has he actually gone? Which pub sells Burton ales round here?
Oh dear. How shall I put it? He’s gone to the Grim Reaper; kicked the bucket.
I know the Grim Reaper. Do a lovely ploughman’s lunch. The Bucket? Just remind me. Where is it? I thought I knew all the pubs round here. Ah: a bucket of ale. Surely you mean that figuratively. No wonder he’s gone to sleep. Didn’t know the Reaper sold Burton’s.
Poor Mike has gone to his final resting place. Now do you understand?
That is amazing. After a skin full I usually fall asleep where I’m sitting. Good old Mike eh? Took himself straight to bed.
You don’t get it. He’s let go. Cashed in his cheque. Shuffled off etc…
It’s the drink you know. Let himself go. Straight out of the post office with his giro and straight to the pub. Spent it all on drink. Shuffles now does he? I always thought he was in control of himself; always walked tall did good old Mike. Shuffles eh? Plays havoc with the heels of your shoes. Wouldn’t like his shoe repair bill.
You make this very difficult. He……..he…… he died.
I’m not surprised after all that Burton’s Ale. Alcoholic poisoning eh? At least he died happy; and in his own bed.
© GEWilkinson 8/07
Friday 26 October 2007
The Waterborne - first extract
This is the opening passage, in which our angling hero stands on a high bridge parapet and reflects on his life and his drowned, lost love, before setting off on his journey to join her:
The Waterborne
I stand up here, parallel with the tree tops, because of an anniversary that plunges me to the depths of sadness, but the view from here is amazing. It is a view brimming with memories of my fishing life.
The river stretches away to a distant curve with the water sparkling between the bank-side leaves and reeds as it flows inevitably towards me and passes far beneath. There is a pool not far along, beside the left bank, where a grayling would eventually rise and let me know that they were all resident and ready to take the fly. I remember a mink once, just a youngster with hungry eyes, locked stock still on the water’s edge opposite, watching me take three grayling from that pool. The pool is quiet and still right now; too early for a hatch of olives. Blue Winged Olives – those delicate, aquatic insects that the fish love to feed on - probably start about two o’clock.
Look, a kingfisher! I have rarely seen this view of his azure back - from above. Such speed. A sapphire bullet. He heads round the bend and disappears. It was just round that bend that I caught my largest trout from this stretch.
There’s that knotweed! Bloody nuisance. I have lost innumerable flies in that patch on the right down there. It is a wicked, foreign weed with the power to absorb fishermen’s flies.
There is some colour in the water, perhaps peat washed off the high moors.
The deep, fathomless pool under the arches has always been a mystery, too deep to wade, never revealed fully, even in the lowest summer flows. So many memories….of here and of home:
So often have I pulled my wadered feet from the water beside this bridge, icy feet in winter, cooled feet in summer, anticipating my welcome home. It was such a joy, such a moment of quiet thrill, starting the journey back from the chilled water to the warm comfort of her safe, domestic domain: a thrill born of a love that stretched back through our older years: now gone. Oh Alex, my dear, I can no longer bear the pain of your absence.
All the tears have dried now, evaporated and dissipated into the cycle of life-giving water. A mere dampness from those tears could have passed through the heavens, fallen back to earth and be part of the flow beneath me right now. How much would the river rise if all the tears for all lost love were to enter the system at one go? Would the river be a more melancholy place? A river of tears would certainly be salty.
She loved the sea as much as I loved the river and the lake. Between us our combined love embraced all the water on the planet. I remember watching her swim from a Mediterranean beach out towards the horizon. She loved to be so far from land with the deep, dense, blue space beneath her. Was it foolish ignorance of the spiteful anger of the sea, or reckless bravery, which allowed her this pleasure? I would join her sometimes – because I feared the deep and therefore feared for her. Her reckless pleasure shone out from her face as we swam side by side, until we turned and looked back at the receded shore. She laughed at my eagerness to return to the security of the shallows with the small yellow fishes. She touched my cheek, clung her body to mine and her laughter and warm limbs dissolved my fear. Her fearless laughter in the face of the sea was the rock upon which I stood, with my head clear above all dangers.
My rock has been gone a full year and the trembling ground constantly threatens to swallow me up, to bury me with my anger. I am here to defeat anger and to choose water, not fear it any longer. The water, our shared love, will take me when I am ready to go to her. This element of air is becoming too thin; suffocating my life. I will go to water, where she has gone, and find love again.
The bridge parapet is now my rock. It is my Alexandra holding me high above the river and offering to me the deep comfort below. The long fall will begin my journey to freedom and back to my lost love.
The Waterborne
I stand up here, parallel with the tree tops, because of an anniversary that plunges me to the depths of sadness, but the view from here is amazing. It is a view brimming with memories of my fishing life.
The river stretches away to a distant curve with the water sparkling between the bank-side leaves and reeds as it flows inevitably towards me and passes far beneath. There is a pool not far along, beside the left bank, where a grayling would eventually rise and let me know that they were all resident and ready to take the fly. I remember a mink once, just a youngster with hungry eyes, locked stock still on the water’s edge opposite, watching me take three grayling from that pool. The pool is quiet and still right now; too early for a hatch of olives. Blue Winged Olives – those delicate, aquatic insects that the fish love to feed on - probably start about two o’clock.
Look, a kingfisher! I have rarely seen this view of his azure back - from above. Such speed. A sapphire bullet. He heads round the bend and disappears. It was just round that bend that I caught my largest trout from this stretch.
There’s that knotweed! Bloody nuisance. I have lost innumerable flies in that patch on the right down there. It is a wicked, foreign weed with the power to absorb fishermen’s flies.
There is some colour in the water, perhaps peat washed off the high moors.
The deep, fathomless pool under the arches has always been a mystery, too deep to wade, never revealed fully, even in the lowest summer flows. So many memories….of here and of home:
So often have I pulled my wadered feet from the water beside this bridge, icy feet in winter, cooled feet in summer, anticipating my welcome home. It was such a joy, such a moment of quiet thrill, starting the journey back from the chilled water to the warm comfort of her safe, domestic domain: a thrill born of a love that stretched back through our older years: now gone. Oh Alex, my dear, I can no longer bear the pain of your absence.
All the tears have dried now, evaporated and dissipated into the cycle of life-giving water. A mere dampness from those tears could have passed through the heavens, fallen back to earth and be part of the flow beneath me right now. How much would the river rise if all the tears for all lost love were to enter the system at one go? Would the river be a more melancholy place? A river of tears would certainly be salty.
She loved the sea as much as I loved the river and the lake. Between us our combined love embraced all the water on the planet. I remember watching her swim from a Mediterranean beach out towards the horizon. She loved to be so far from land with the deep, dense, blue space beneath her. Was it foolish ignorance of the spiteful anger of the sea, or reckless bravery, which allowed her this pleasure? I would join her sometimes – because I feared the deep and therefore feared for her. Her reckless pleasure shone out from her face as we swam side by side, until we turned and looked back at the receded shore. She laughed at my eagerness to return to the security of the shallows with the small yellow fishes. She touched my cheek, clung her body to mine and her laughter and warm limbs dissolved my fear. Her fearless laughter in the face of the sea was the rock upon which I stood, with my head clear above all dangers.
My rock has been gone a full year and the trembling ground constantly threatens to swallow me up, to bury me with my anger. I am here to defeat anger and to choose water, not fear it any longer. The water, our shared love, will take me when I am ready to go to her. This element of air is becoming too thin; suffocating my life. I will go to water, where she has gone, and find love again.
The bridge parapet is now my rock. It is my Alexandra holding me high above the river and offering to me the deep comfort below. The long fall will begin my journey to freedom and back to my lost love.
Thursday 25 October 2007
Wedding
Well it all went smoothly. In fact it was quite magically wonderful.
My daughter belongs to another man (sob!).
Fortunately he is a sound guy with most honourable intentions and more than adequate means. He paid for the whole lot - no chance I could afford it, I'm a struggling author.
I will start soon to publish extracts from 'The Waterborne'.
The story, briefly, is about two lovers who are seperated when the woman drowns in the Med. A year later the grieving man commits suicide by drowning in a Yorkshire river. They both become 'Waterborne' spirits and the meat of the story is in their adventures as they roam the seas and rivers looking for each other.
Will they meet in the end?
What do you think!
My daughter belongs to another man (sob!).
Fortunately he is a sound guy with most honourable intentions and more than adequate means. He paid for the whole lot - no chance I could afford it, I'm a struggling author.
I will start soon to publish extracts from 'The Waterborne'.
The story, briefly, is about two lovers who are seperated when the woman drowns in the Med. A year later the grieving man commits suicide by drowning in a Yorkshire river. They both become 'Waterborne' spirits and the meat of the story is in their adventures as they roam the seas and rivers looking for each other.
Will they meet in the end?
What do you think!
Wednesday 17 October 2007
Time off
After a searing start from the blog-blocks I have ground to a halt. There is a reason. My daughter, the apple of her father's eye, is getting married on Saturday and life is HECTIC. It is not just the amount that needs to be done but also the way it distracts one's attention. If you are not buying bits of clothing you are thinking about it: even if your house guests haven't arrived they need planning for etc.
The only bit of writing I have managed this week is an article for BBC wildlife and my wedding speech!
The only bit of writing I have managed this week is an article for BBC wildlife and my wedding speech!
Tuesday 9 October 2007
The anglergeek analogy
How to fly fish on rivers.
First the anglergeek's or 'tackletart's' version:
Hardware -
For small streams a 2.3 ATFM 4 or 5 rod with a tip action for tight situations, or for larger waters a 2.8 ATFM 7 or 8 with a mid action for distance casting.
A large arbour reel with disc drag.
A matching double taper line for delicate presentation.
A tapered, 3m copolymer of flurocarbon leader with a 6x point.
A selection of artificial duns, spinners, nymphs and bugs.
Civilian version:
Equipment -
For small streams a short, light rod that allows you to cast short distances amongst restricting, bankside vegetation. For larger rivers a longer rod with the strength to cast further.
A fly reel to keep the line on.
A line with a reference number matching that on the rod handle. The line needs to have a gentle, gradual taper so that the fly will land on the water gently and not scare the fish.
A nylon type line attachment of 10ft, gradually stepping down from 8lb to 3lb breaking strain.
Some dry flies to imitate surface hatching insects or egg-laying insects and some wet flies to imitate sub-surface insects.
Yes, the second version uses more words - but why not?
The weird thing is; as I wrote the first version it all made perfect sense to me! But, you see, I'm on the INSIDE.
Software writers - know your audience.
First the anglergeek's or 'tackletart's' version:
Hardware -
For small streams a 2.3 ATFM 4 or 5 rod with a tip action for tight situations, or for larger waters a 2.8 ATFM 7 or 8 with a mid action for distance casting.
A large arbour reel with disc drag.
A matching double taper line for delicate presentation.
A tapered, 3m copolymer of flurocarbon leader with a 6x point.
A selection of artificial duns, spinners, nymphs and bugs.
Civilian version:
Equipment -
For small streams a short, light rod that allows you to cast short distances amongst restricting, bankside vegetation. For larger rivers a longer rod with the strength to cast further.
A fly reel to keep the line on.
A line with a reference number matching that on the rod handle. The line needs to have a gentle, gradual taper so that the fly will land on the water gently and not scare the fish.
A nylon type line attachment of 10ft, gradually stepping down from 8lb to 3lb breaking strain.
Some dry flies to imitate surface hatching insects or egg-laying insects and some wet flies to imitate sub-surface insects.
Yes, the second version uses more words - but why not?
The weird thing is; as I wrote the first version it all made perfect sense to me! But, you see, I'm on the INSIDE.
Software writers - know your audience.
Blogs are a problem.
Yes - they are a place where you can write anything that takes your fancy.
Yes - they allow you to 'publish' instantly and have satisfaction from that fact.
But:
Who reads it?
How do you reach your intended audience?
How much cyberspeak do you need to learn before you can make the best of the potential readership.
The last two/three postings disappear once you have posted your latest offering and only a dedicated fan would search back in case they have missed anything.
I have just appeared here, re-directed from 'Struggling Authors' and I am quite pleased with the site. I have another blog with 'Writelink' and it is just plain bloody awful! This site takes you through the setting up process with clear instructions and plain english prompts; the Writelink Blog is stuffed with software jargon and strange options. I call it Bloggledegook.
My theory is that blogs are, even still, in their infancy. They are having a long childhood, but that is the nature of cybergeekdom. There will come a time when all postings are made in a simple front end slot and links, photo posting etc. is direct and straight forward. If I was of another generation my aim in life would be to make blogs more user friendly and less exclusive.
This is the first blogsite/forum where I can post pictures directly from my computer, without having to go through a 'host'.
I still do not know what is a ping or a pingback. I don't even know if it is useful. Worst is the assumption that I do know and therefore no explanation is given or I don't understand the explanation because it is written in the same mysterious register..
There are other examples of assumptions of this kind, e.g. backlinks.
My next post will be an analogy, with flyfishing as the example.
Yes - they are a place where you can write anything that takes your fancy.
Yes - they allow you to 'publish' instantly and have satisfaction from that fact.
But:
Who reads it?
How do you reach your intended audience?
How much cyberspeak do you need to learn before you can make the best of the potential readership.
The last two/three postings disappear once you have posted your latest offering and only a dedicated fan would search back in case they have missed anything.
I have just appeared here, re-directed from 'Struggling Authors' and I am quite pleased with the site. I have another blog with 'Writelink' and it is just plain bloody awful! This site takes you through the setting up process with clear instructions and plain english prompts; the Writelink Blog is stuffed with software jargon and strange options. I call it Bloggledegook.
My theory is that blogs are, even still, in their infancy. They are having a long childhood, but that is the nature of cybergeekdom. There will come a time when all postings are made in a simple front end slot and links, photo posting etc. is direct and straight forward. If I was of another generation my aim in life would be to make blogs more user friendly and less exclusive.
This is the first blogsite/forum where I can post pictures directly from my computer, without having to go through a 'host'.
I still do not know what is a ping or a pingback. I don't even know if it is useful. Worst is the assumption that I do know and therefore no explanation is given or I don't understand the explanation because it is written in the same mysterious register..
There are other examples of assumptions of this kind, e.g. backlinks.
My next post will be an analogy, with flyfishing as the example.
Grayling
picture: Rod Calbrade,
The Grayling Society
The Grayling Society
This is a grayling. They are of course, most beautiful when seen in their natural element, but this is the next best thing. The angler has brought the fish to hand and is about to release it; surprised but unharmed.
I forgot to mention that a Grayling is also a butterfly.
Coincidences
Everywhere I go on the web I give the name 'Grayling': it is my 'username'. It is also the name of a fish and that is why I chose it.
For the civilians* out there I will describe the grayling:
It is a fish of clear streams and sparkling rivers, a member of the salmon family and a native to Yorkshire. It is a shoal fish. It is silvery in appearance and has a huge sail of a dorsal fin, which has purple and pinkish hues. It is a beautiful fish and is called 'The lady of the stream'. It shares the water with the brown trout and the chub. Anglers love to see it because it is an indicator of water quality - the grayling is intolerant of even the slightest pollution and will quickly migrate upstream if any appears. It rises readily to the dry fly.
Grayling also happens to be the family name of one of the owners of the 'Struggling Authors' website: Richard Grayling lives in York, which was the home city of my birth. I was in fact born in Riccall, a village outside York, and a place where Richard once lived for a short time. I would like to have had the family name Grayling, but Graham Grayling would have been a bit music hall; but then, I am sure my parents would have called me something more sensible like Richard. Now that would have been an extraordinary co-incidence!
For the civilians* out there I will describe the grayling:
It is a fish of clear streams and sparkling rivers, a member of the salmon family and a native to Yorkshire. It is a shoal fish. It is silvery in appearance and has a huge sail of a dorsal fin, which has purple and pinkish hues. It is a beautiful fish and is called 'The lady of the stream'. It shares the water with the brown trout and the chub. Anglers love to see it because it is an indicator of water quality - the grayling is intolerant of even the slightest pollution and will quickly migrate upstream if any appears. It rises readily to the dry fly.
*civilians - those who do not belong to the community of anglers.
Grayling also happens to be the family name of one of the owners of the 'Struggling Authors' website: Richard Grayling lives in York, which was the home city of my birth. I was in fact born in Riccall, a village outside York, and a place where Richard once lived for a short time. I would like to have had the family name Grayling, but Graham Grayling would have been a bit music hall; but then, I am sure my parents would have called me something more sensible like Richard. Now that would have been an extraordinary co-incidence!
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