Hi all.
Thank you all for visiting my blog over the past years. Now that I have completed my MA, I am moving to wiseprose.com: A Writers Notebook and will no longer maintain this blog:
Wiseprose.com
Hi all.
Thank you all for visiting my blog over the past years. Now that I have completed my MA, I am moving to wiseprose.com: A Writers Notebook and will no longer maintain this blog:
Wiseprose.com
As an eleven-year-old, I lived in Glasgow, where many of the old tenement buildings were subject to the wrecking ball. This meant rich pickings for my friends and I. We would enter the buildings and dismantle the copper and lead piping and take it to the scrap merchant who would give us a handful of silver coins.
One day, we were excavating a wall in search of block tin (A metal that fetched a high price). When we made some progress at chipping away the plaster, to our surprise, in the cavity was a ceramic vessel with a crack on it. Inside was with a note written on brown paper in pencil. It read,
“Today, on this July day of 1871, I sat here with my sweetheart eating pickles, cheddar, and bread as we spoke of our future union
George Craven the bricklayer.”
As kids we threw the note away and never gave it a second thought, at least until now. I often think about such notes left for future generations to find and hope they enjoyed a long and happy marriage.
I never found out George’s sweetheart’s name. I assume George was working on the building project and she came along with his lunch all the years ago. Perhaps the vessel in the wall was used for his water or milk. Since it was cracked, perhaps he had the idea to leave the note.
I am often asked about book quotes and what my favourite quotes are. As far as nonfiction is concerned, one of my notebook quotes is the introduction to John Hersey's Hiroshima:
What is special about this quote is that the author outlines the normal mundane, everyday routines that Japanese people were carrying out the second before the bomb was dropped.
As a child I spent my summers on The Island of Bute and I would stare out the cabin window at night and observe the blanket of stars.
With the lamp suppressed
The universe enters in
The child gapes with awe
It was 1971. I wasn’t in the mood for two periods of music.
You glanced around the class. I could see you summing up this new class. This wasn’t the career choice you envisioned. Teaching sacred classical music to Clydeside kids who were only interested in the Beatles and the Stones was not why you spent those years at university.
But here you were with your flannels with turnups and a Harris Tweed jacket thinking you better make the best of it. I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t recall your name.
You went over to the record player and removed a ’78 from its sheath.
“Let’s go on a journey, boys,’ you said.
“Journey?” I wondered.
“Allegretto pastoral is what this music symbolises. Absorb the sound of the countryside; the sound of the flutes as they liaise and resonate with clarinets in fluid harmony saluting the rising sun. Listen as the flute and the oboe sing like two morning birds; the bassoon as it brings morning to a close and a new day begins.
You stood there whilst Morning was playing and observed each one of us being caught in the moment. It was spiritual. Apart from the gentle music rising in a lazy, sustained crescendo, it was the first time I heard such silence in a classroom. After school that day, I scampered to the library to find books on, Norway, trolls, Peer Gynt, The Hall of the Mountain King, and Edvard Greig. You made me believe I was born in the wrong place. I’m still convinced I was.
You, the unknown teacher with the tweed jacket, you changed my life in ways you never dreamed.
Tusen takk from Norge 1999.
But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream Amos 5: 24
Recently I was talking with a heating engineer who runs a company. He was telling me that it is not unusual for engineers to stick a screwdriver in the works so to speak. Therefore, leaving the householder with a costly repair or a new boiler system. The idea being that you call him for the job when you later notice the leak.
This sort of practice is all over. A car servicing company not far from where I live discovered a considerable number of air filters and oil filters thrown over the wall. They were brand new. The mechanics were cutting corners to save time.
And please, don’t get me started on fraudulent review sites that are well…” creative” with the stats.
I find it disturbing. I wonder, I mean, I really wonder how they can sleep at night. I am not using this hackneyed phrase for no good reason. I am a Christian, and like most people, I like to operate in a kind, honest and loyal society.
However, I take comfort in a universal sense of justice. A subjective justice; an accounting for how we carry out our life.
As a child I read many books: Pinocchio, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Peter Rabbit and Tom Thumb to mention a few. I read many books now. One thing every book I have read has in common is that they all have happy endings. Ever wondered about that? We like happy endings. It's human to see justice prevail.
I was in Manila Airport last month waiting in a long, long queue to get through security. Well guess what? Someone tried to skip the queue. Many in the queue reacted and the perpetrator was sent packing (forgive the pun). We don’t like this kind of cheating, it triggers our ethical alarm. Our sense of fairness.
You know this, we are led to believe we are in an aimless universe with no meaning or purpose. Mr Richard Dawkins wrote the following:
“I am against religion because it teaches us to be satisfied with not understanding the world.”
Maybe that is the case with many religions, but me, I find the answers in scripture very satisfying. They help me understand the world.
Many years ago when I was a boy, I was searching and searching and searching for answers to this unjust world. It was then that I had one of those experiences you only read in fiction. I was in a second-hand bookshop looking through the philosophy section. I’m not sure why, but I picked out a book on Scots Law when a piece of paper fell out between the pages. It had been cut out from another book and placed inside. I read the words:
‘[God] has so inseparably interwoven the laws of eternal justice with the happiness of each individual, that the latter cannot be attained but by observing the former; and, if the former be punctually obeyed, it cannot but induce the latter.’
William Blackstone, an 18th century British jurist, penned this. I found the unpacking of it fascinating. Was there a universal sense of justice? I wondered. Is this gravitational pull towards goodness in this conscience that accuses and excuses me the work of a wise architect? It made sense. Why form the moon, the stars, the earth, and mankind without a gravitational pull towards what is right and wrong.
Think about it: why does doing good for others make us happy?
.“The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.”― William Arthur Ward
When I think of the German word Fingerspitzengefuhl,
I think of Mr Abbot, our science teacher at St Gerard's in Govan, Glasgow.
Academics were in 3A. Girls were 3B, and we were in 3C. Whilst 3 A were absorbed into the more scholarly curriculum that included subjects like Latin, French and German, we, 3C focused on technical subjects like metalwork and woodwork. We were the offspring of hard drinking, macho shipbuilders. We were destined for the shipbuilding yards like our fathers and forefathers.
With that in mind, Mr Abbott knew we would never be Nobel Prize Winners in science, so, he taught us to make fishing rods. Every Thursday, with our two periods of science, we would get out the fiberglass, glue and twine, and skilfully make seven-foot fly rods. They were works of art and it engendered self-esteem in us teenagers.
When the project was completed, he would take us all in the minibus over to the Clydebank canal to catch 1-to-3-pound goldfish. Yes, you read correctly: goldfish.
During the war, families could not obtain food for the pet fish, so they did the humane thing and poured them into the canal. The warm water emanating from the nearby Singer Sowing Machine factory allowed the fish to thrive and reach considerable sizes.
Fingerspitzengefuhl (literary finger-feeling) describes someone who has the finger on the pulse. Someone who can assess human nature and bring the best out in them.
Mr Abbott changed our life. Every weekend, Sammy, Tam and I would hop on the bus with our rods and fish in the Barrhead Dams and Loch Libo in Neilston. Many young people in those days adopted a life of gang violence and crime and I often wonder, what if I, we, never experienced Mr Abbot’s Fingerspitzengefuhl?
That day, the street blushed with a force-ripe sun, but modern life made me wonder, how do I escape from humans? —Jim McCrory
How to raise a child
Her hair is dyed silver, euphemistically speaking. Fattish in tight pants that accentuate the unseemly parts and stress the stitching. The child in the pram has a Gregg’s sausage roll partially submerged in her mouth with the wrapper blowing down the street. The mother swipes her mobile phone to listen to the next track on her playlist.
The Indians are coming.
It's spring. The daisies are out the sun gently fills the air with a comfortable temperature. The High Street is busy with a conspicuous glee and the busker man in cowboy hat and boots spoils the mood with endless melancholy songs sung with a Nashville accent. Someone in the flats above hits him on the head with an egg. Perfect shot. He moves his kit up street and he begins disputing for performing space with the Peruvian Indians who have arrived with their pan pipes and charangoes.
Protect the beer and fags at all costs.
The two men stand outside the pub with their half-empty or half full beer glasses; it depends on your viewpoint. They’re exhaling large clouds of cigarette spoke on passers-by with masks on. One seems too old for slim jeans and the grandad looks absurd with his saltire tattoo on his neck. They complain about the cost of living, the price of cigarettes and a pint. ‘The wife will need to go and get another job.’ The younger-old man says with a smirk.
Clarence Darrow, the 19th century lawyer who defended the school teacher in the Scopes "Monkey" Trial is reputed to have lit a cigar in court before his opponent summed up his case. Allegedly, Darrow inserted a long wire into the cigar and as the lawyer for the prosecution was summing up the case, the jury was distracted. Mesmerised by the long gravity-defying ash that failed to drop from his cigar, they failed to give the prosecuting lawyer their full attention.
However, with the absence of documentary evidence regarding this anecdote, the jury's out. Interesting that the story may be, I guess it's an urban myth and Darrow is innocent until proven guilty.
I have just returned from the Philippines; a trip that's been culturally rewarding. Some aspects I have and will blog about.
However, returning on the 22-hour flight I looked down on all the countries I was passing and wondering about their thoughts and cultural practices. Feeling a large gap in my literary education, I have decided to read one book a week over the next year. Not any book, but a book from a different country every week. I will report back next Saturday regarding my first choice: When All is Said by Anne Griffin. I have never read anything from her despite her fame.
Next week I will read the nonfiction book called Ellis Island by the Polish writer, Malgorazata Szjnert.
All books for the most part are drawn from The New York Times column called Globetrotting: Featuring books from around the world:
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2021/books/new-books-international.html
As a writer, I am currently suffering from writers' block and the only cure for it is a period of intensive reading to recharge the creative generators.
My nephew Shug was not the brightest marble in the box. Hampered by the wrong crowd at school, he had spent sixteen years there with nothing to show, for it bar the ability to read and write, and a few party facts.
Still, he was resolute, no, adamant, that he was going to reverse those years. Figuring that gold rim glasses would do the trick in gaining other’s respect, he went one better and upgraded to a pair of Specsavers Levi gold frames that not only made him look intelligent, but also, cool.
There he was, sitting, doing the “Easy Crossword” in the Sunday paper. After half an hour, he threw it down and went out with friends.
I picked it up. There was one question attempted: “Friend of Adam: Three Letters.”
He wrote “Pal.”
I first read about
Gustaf Frederik Hjortberg in an essay called ‘People reluctantly on their way
into the shadows.’ It was written by the Swedish crime writer, Henning Mankell
(1947-2015). Being a bit of a Swedophile, I endeavoured to do more research on
Hjortberg.
Tucked away in the commune of Släp on the west coast of Sweden hangs a painting like no other. Long before the invention of photography, prosperous folk commissioned family portraits. Jonas Durchs was the artist. His painting of the Hjortberg family hangs in the local church but online copies are available on the Wikimedia Commons’ website. Gustaf Frederick Hjortberg was a local clergyman. The portrait features him and his wife, Anna Helena, and their fifteen children. As a son of the enlightenment, and a member of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, he has his foot in two worlds it would seem to the modern observer: In the background there’s a crucifix with 1 Timothy 1:15 written underneath. On the table, lays all his scientific and navigational instruments with a large world globe at his side. He holds an academic paper in his hand, emphasising his studiousness. As a student of Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist, Gustaf displays sample jars on the bookshelf in the background. As a former ship’s pastor, he shows evidence of wide travel: A row of African spears stand erect like Terracotta soldiers ready for action. A lemur’s tail is embraced by one of the boys as it walks with considerable freedom on the floor. Behind, and hanging from the ceiling, are various stuffed animals, including a tortoise. And on the right, a servant’s bell hangs at the ready.
Unlike British Victorian portraiture, where subjects are stiff with constrained facial expressions, Gustaf displays a kindly, patriarchal posture with an impish expression. There’s a sense of playfulness as one of his discarded shoes is laying on the floor, which may explain why the boys are informal in their half smiles. The females are slightly reserved in facial expression. Perhaps manifesting the ‘modest’ Biblical expectations of Lutheran women of the 18th century. However, there is nothing suggested in my profile of this artwork that would disabuse this family of their happiness, except for one important detail:
The family portrait includes not only those children in their midst, but the six that have passed away. Child mortality was high in Europe at the time. The main causes being cholera, typhus, typhoid and other air and water borne diseases. The deceased children float in the shadows, neither here nor in the nether world, but seemingly soliciting an invitation back to the physical realm. No other piece of artwork portrays more the human drive not to be forgotten, nor forget. Which comes back to my analysis of why I write: I wish to be remembered. My desire is to leave a written record to say, ‘I was here.’ It’s my way of defying mortality.
When studying Social Science some years ago, I learned
of the Kitty Genovese murder in 1964.
Apart from being chased down the street, sexual assault and then murdered, what made this case
more shocking was the bystanders that ignored Kitty’s screams for help.
This came to mind whilst reading Kathrine Boo’s shocking testimony to life in Mumbai’s slums in her book Behind the Beautiful Forevers.
She writes about a one-legged girl whose is set on fire by quarrelsome neighbours, many bystanders gather and watch like it’s the next episode in a soap opera. She writes,
“The adults drifted back to their dinners, while a few boys waited to see if Fatima’s face would come off.”
Fatima’s husband in a effort to get her to hospital is shunned by rickshaw drivers concerned about their rickshaw seats becoming bloodstained.
I see the expression "Enlightenment now" in books and the media. Just exactly what do we mean by it? In what ways have we become enlightened?
“People die from lack of shared empathy and affinity. By establishing
social connectedness, we give hope a chance and the other can become heaven. ― Erik Pevernagie
I was watching a documentary last night about the “happiness” paradox in the Scandinavian countries. I say paradox because despite the level of happiness, there is a considerable reliance on antidepressants.
One factor for this is the lack of shared empathy and companionship. Scandinavians by nature are reserved. Look at the following image on Quora and you will see this played out (Enter the link into the search bar): https://qr.ae/prsTkh
If there was ever an opportunity to have a social chat, this would be it: when people are standing in a line.
Due to the high suicide rates in Denmark in the past, the nation addressed this by recognising that loneliness was a major factor. Houses are designed to encourage neighbours to socialise. Many Danes are members of several clubs. The work/leisure life is carefully balanced, and suicide is now at a low.
There's a lesson in empathy for all of us: Say hello to the stranger. Invite them for a coffee. Talk with your neighbours. Put a smile on someone’s face. Give hope a chance.
Why is there something rather than nothing? Why do our hearts and minds think on terms of eternity? Why are we still young inside even when we get old?
A wise man once wrote that God has “set eternity in our hearts.” Ecclesiastes 3:11
I find this a very pleasing concept. Think of our brains, we have the capacity to take information into it indefinitely. We grow to love other humans. When out time comes, we never want to leave this planet. We desire to take knowledge in constantly. Is it all for nothing? Or is there something, somewhere in the unseen we do not know of? Many argue that we are bound in a material world, but the lived experience tells a different story.
I often wonder if the Chinese man I spoke about yesterday, found the answer.
I was thinking of yesterday’s post and wondered if the theme of death is worth a blog.
A friend, who was a charity worker that looked after the needs of refugees had a Chinese man walk into his office one day. The man never spoke English, so, with a video link to a professional translator they were able to answer the man’s query.
“Can you tell me, what happens when we die?” was his question.
The Chinese man is not unique. We all ask that question and believe me; the thought becomes more frequent as you get older.
Why is there something rather than nothing? Why is this lump of matter and electrical charge we call the brain aware of itself? Why are we so unique that we can explore these matters? This is the boundary of science. These are questions that will never be answered by science. Despite the grandiose claims, we are nowhere near answering these questions.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IF54xqYhIGA&list=WL&index=17&t=29s
There cannot be a God, there’s too much evil. However, why is there so much good? And think of the statement, “There’s too much evil.” Where do we get that moral absolute? Where does this invisible standard of right and wrong come from? If we are products of blind chance, then why is there the demand for justice? Justice has no place in a blind universe.
I will return to this question tomorrow.
What's Your Favourite Book Quote? Goodness, it's like deciding who your favourite child is. But I would have to say David Berlinski the mathematician and thinker.
We live in a society where New Atheism and popular science has made more claims and promises than it can deliver. Berlinski puts it this way:
“Has anyone provided proof of God’s inexistence? Not even close. Has quantum cosmology explained the emergence of the universe or why it is here? Not even close. Have our sciences explained why our universe seems to be fine-tuned to allow for the existence of life? Not even close. Are physicists and biologists willing to believe in anything so long as it is not religious thought? Close enough. Has rationalism and moral thought provided us with an understanding of what is good, what is right, and what is moral? Not close enough. Has secularism in the terrible 20th century been a force for good? Not even close, to being close. Is there a narrow and oppressive orthodoxy in the sciences? Close enough. Does anything in the sciences or their philosophy justify the claim that religious belief is irrational? Not even in the ball park. Is scientific atheism a frivolous exercise in intellectual contempt? Dead on.”
― David Berlinski, The Devil's Delusion: Atheism and Its Scientific Pretensions
A happy New Year to one and all.
When I say trolls, I don’t mean The Hall of the Mountain King, Solveig, Peer Gynt and all those characters that appear in Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. No, I mean Internet trolls. Although both types have something in common: Ibsen’s trolls would hide behind rocks and cyber trolls hide anonymously behind their identities.
The modern word troll comes from the idea behind fishing trolling. The vessels troll along the sea looking for a catch.
The same applies with the cyber troll, they cast a bait and wait for a response. They are really creatures to be pitied. Behind their aggression and hostility is the need for attention. Therefore, they are best ignored is the advice that most sources recommend:
However, if I was ever faced with one, and I haven't on any of my websites , I would consider just being kind to them and ask they Why are you being so hostile? It may just help them self-reflect. That would be a good thing; helping another human to be human.
However, there is the option of contacting the organisation hosting and reporting them. You can also make light of the situation. Or just don’t give them a platform. Most blogs allow you to instantly delete them. On my website I have to "approve" comments before they appear on it.
However, matters can become more serious and involving the law when trolls cross the line. This would be the case with harassment, hate or threatening speech, cyberstalking as in the case of dragging sites.
I began writing to explore the more positive example of human nature, but here I am exposing the negative, ugly side.
Request: These little excerpts at times form the basis of some of my larger articles that are being compiled. Feedback is most welcome. If not here, then on my email toxoscot@gmail.com
My wife came home early from work last Friday. 'Can we go for fish and chips and do the beach thing?' Sure!
We have a great chippy. We headed to West Kilbride and sat on the picnic tables enjoy our meal and watching the gentle sun cast its presence over the sea.
In a short time, we found ourselves on a migratory path. At least a thousand geese passed overhead on their path from Canada to Scotland. I took a moment to bow to this great metaphysical act of creation.
“The Swedish he knew was mostly from Bergman films. He had learned it as a college student, matching the subtitles to the sounds. In Swedish, he could only converse on the darkest of subjects.”
― Ann Patchett, Bel Canto
My daughter's Swedish pen-pall invited herself over for a holiday in the eighties. The following year. her family reciprocated the hospitality and my son and I spent the year learning Swedish from Linguaphile cassettes and watching a Bergman film (The Best Intentions: Den goda viljan) and a Swedish copy of Dances With Wolves (Danser Med Vargar). Like Ann Pratchett's experience, I had pulled out Swedish phrases that were dark, or downright strange and to the amusement of the encountered Swedes.
I miss Sweden now.
Ah! Robert Louis Stevenson, a man after my own heart. I go everywhere with my notebook and my current reading material. Chance favours the prepared mind. A random thought emerges. The thought is pursued and drafted into the notebook. Less I forget.
“I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in.”
― Robert Louis Stevenson, Essays of Robert Louis Stevenson
And current reading, if you're enquiring. The Penguin Book of Prose Poems
I've two quotes on my office wall: one the reminds me of what it means to be human, and the other, the first paragraph from Richard Selzer’s essay, The Knife. It’s the best piece of writing I have read. I always read the essay's first sentence before starting a new project. It reads, ‘One holds the knife as one holds the bow of a cello or a tulip — by the stem.’ I’m not sure why this is such an invitation to read on, but it is — always.
I was reading Richard Selzer's essay, The Knife whilst waiting on an X-ray yesterday. He had just performed an operation. Here is how he concludes the essay in a masterful manner.
At last, a
little thread is passed into the wound and tied. The monstrous
booming fury is stilled by a tiny thread. The tempest is silenced. The
operation id over. On the table, the knife lies spent on its side. The bloody
meal smear-dried upon its flanks. The knife rests.
“We meet so many people in life, but we connect to the heart of very few!”
― Avijeet Das
Walking in Scotland’s fine places, one realises you don’t have to travel the world; the world comes to you. But many fine opportunities are missed by not having the courage to commune with our fellow man.
Corvid had restricted this for the past few years, but four nights of camping in Aviemore recently confirmed that things are going back to normal-if there ever will be normal.
Some of the joys were those I met on my trip. The Native American Indian and his wife. The couple from Canada. The Scottish couple we met at An Lochan Uaine (The Green Loch) in Aviemore.
In all cases we conversed for some time. People I will never forget, But, in the hustle and bustle of life, it is difficult to keep in touch; to give one’s heart to all we would like to
I agree with Mary Wollstonecraft, who made many trips two centuries previously, a soulmate, like me, who found separation of newfound friends as a most melancholy, death-like experience.
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