Pest Control
The moon approaches,
Turning its bright face
Towards its ailing parent.‘Hang in there’ it whispers,
Linda Rushby 8 April 2020
‘The treatment is working.
You’ll soon be relieved
of this wretched plague.’
Day 8 – Pest Control
On My Desk
Difficult to write with a cat where the keyboard should be. Fortunately it’s a wireless keyboard.
Does mean I’m sitting very awkwardly. If I sit with my knees under the desk and keyboard on it to one side, I have to twist my lower back to reach it. Not good. If I move my chair so I’m directly in front of the spare bit of desk, my knees are hitting the desk drawers and I have to stretch forward which also puts a strain on my back, and I have to reach over the keyboard when I need to use the mouse, which is awkward. I’ve tried with the keyboard on my knees, but that’s also awkward and I can’t look at the screen at the same time.
In trying to take a photo of this situation, I noticed the mess on my desk. What on earth is the end roller of my old Dyson vacuum cleaner doing here? Box of tissues (fair enough); empty cassette box (who knows what happened to the cassette?); CD box containing – a CD which – yes! – does match the title on the outside of the box (Neil Young’s ‘Harvest’); copy of ‘Tea With Douglas’ which I was using for reference in my last book design job; two empty (used) jiffy bags in different sizes; copy of ‘The Culture of Contentment’ by John Kenneth Galbraith, which I was also using for reference (for the same job, on the order of the front matter for a non-fiction book); a dozen recordable CDs, some with backup data from years ago, some blank, all on a spike; a note book; a Black and Decker Dustbuster on its charging stand (which is here because I’m supposed to use it for picking up dry cat litter off the bathroom floor, and this is the nearest place I can plug it in which isn’t on the floor where it’s liable to get tripped over); a ceramic pot with a large capital ‘B’ on the side and ‘RUSH’ inside the bottom bulge of the B, which is intended to hold toothbrushes, but I bought it because if you think about it could be a pun on my name, and I intended to use it for pens but it contains only a green CD writer pen whose felt tip is fuzzy, dried up and unusuable, an orange gel pen (probably also dried up) and a pencil with a hand carved and decorated end like a cute penguin; stack of four 5 cm diameter semi-clear pastel coloured round plastic boxes containing small stationery items (on closer inspection, two hold buttons, one pins and one miscellaneous including staples, picture hooks, screws, drawing pins, freezer bag ties, a green magnet from a notice board and a small metal plate with East Asian characters which appears to have come off the back of something); three coasters and a coffee cup.
And a cat. Except that she has now woken up, jumped down and walked off in a huff.
Day 7 – A Day Without a Poem
A day without a poem.
Linda Rushby 7 April 2020
A year without a celebration.
But another year of life
may be the greatest gift.
Any Other Day
Trying to write a poem – the first line came up as: ‘Any other day…’ but nothing after that.
Maybe writing a poem about trying to write a poem? That sounds about as mad as the idea I had of trying to write a novel about trying to write a novel… another non-starter.
Any other day… and it wouldn’t matter so much. Why not? Come on, it’s just a day – a Tuesday, in fact – tai chi day, in normal times. Except it wouldn’t have been ‘normal times’ anyway, because I wouldn’t have been here, but on a narrow boat called ‘Teasel’, pootling about the inland waterways around the Hampshire/Surrey border with my son, his wife and their dogs.
I keep telling everyone -especially myself – that I’m fine with this lockdown thingy. Missing a holiday and spending a birthday alone are nothing in the grand scheme of things, nothing compared with what others have to deal with.
So here I am, putting all that to one side and getting on with it. Trying to write a poem – or failing that, just 500 words of any old nonsense, nothing too whiney, nothing too self-pitying. Do some gardening – I’ve been putting that off, till I realised that weeding could be quite appealing, it’s destructive after all. But I might miss the postman, there might be a delivery, so I can’t go in the garden until after then.
Waiting. Waiting for an indeterminate period, for an indeterminate outcome. Waiting for Godot. Beckett on failure: ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. Story of my life.
Late this morning – in fact, it’s just turning into afternoon as I type. Awake half the night, early enough to fall asleep again and sleep in till 8.30, then do my morning stuff and it gets later and later, and my sister rang to say happy birthday, and I tried to call my brother (his birthday too) but couldn’t get through.
So, having made my mind up to do some weeding, I thought about the possible delivery and decided to wait in the front room, and in the mean time to do the writing that I didn’t do before breakfast. Waiting.
It’s not so much the activities that I do to break up my weeks that I miss so much as the café-sitting. It’s a habit I picked up in my flat-dwelling years – in Bedford, Ramsey, Prague and here in Southsea – and the months when I was travelling, when I would inhabit the public spaces – cafes, parks, seafronts and riversides – rather than sitting in hotel rooms. Now I have a garden, and the weather (at the moment) is good enough to be out there. But hunkering down in your own space – however appealing – can become a trap.
Just been interrupted by a phone call from my brother. It was nice to hear his voice, but has broken my chain of thought. We don’t always get on very well, but good to know he’s there.
Day 6 – Breakfast in my Garden
Nothing too heavy today. Got the heavy stuff out of the way in my earlier post.
Breakfast in My Garden
Half an avocado, and home made porridge.
Linda Rushby 6 April 2020
Toast and honey, and a second cup.
Sun on my face, and cat at my feet.
Birds in the tree, and bees on the flowers.
All these moments bring me joy
in the midst of the madness.
Unknown unknowns – or are they?
I had an idea for the start of a poem in the shower, but as I mentioned the other day, poems don’t tend to come when I’m already writing, so not sure what to do about it. Not sure I even remember it now.
Something about balance, and equilibrium, and the middle way. No, even the first couple of lines don’t seem to be coming back. Bugger.
Maybe it was: ‘We live on a knife edge’ – no – ‘Life is in the balance…’ No, because I thought it could be the start of a haiku, and that’s too many syllables (whereas ‘Life is balanced’ is too few). ‘The balance of life…’? That’s about right. Then I followed it with a few comparisons: ‘Freedom and security/Joy and despair…’ That sort of thing.
Pretty trite stuff anyway.
Might have to leave it and see if anything else comes to me.
A friend keeps asking in emails if I’ve seen the Bill Gates (I think it was Bill Gates, somebody like that anyway) TED talk from 2015. I haven’t – not recently at least – but I think from the context I can guess what it’s about.
Something to do with the fact that scientists have been predicting a global pandemic for years, and how devastating it could be? It could have been SARS, it could have been swine flu (or was it bird flu?), it wasn’t, but it was inevitable, it was overdue, and it would come suddenly without anybody taking notice of the warnings?
I’m being completely honest here and the video might be about something totally different, but I have been aware of the science. It’s not that obscure, it’s one of those things that comes up on the news every couple of years, then everybody goes back to whatever the current worry is, and forgets about it – except the scientists directly concerned, and people like me (who as it happens made a detailed study of individual and societal reactions to this kind of high-cost –low-probability risk in the 1990s, and was awarded a PhD on the strength of it).
It’s the same psychology that brought us the 2008 banking crisis and is bringing us climate change and Brexit (don’t forget they’re still lurking in the background).
Twas ever thus.
If I have to sum up my PhD thesis in a single sentence I tend to compare it to Murphy’s Law, with a corollary: ‘Shit happens, but nobody does anything to stop it until it hits the fan’. No amount of forewarning, scientific investigation or crisis planning is ever quite enough to forestall disaster when it comes. This is where my alternative person, ‘Cassandra’, comes from. However we think we can manage and prioritise our lives, there’s always something that creeps up on us that we’ve avoided addressing. Emergencies emerge, that’s what they do. Donald Rumsfeld was ridiculed for warning about the ‘unknown unknowns – but even when they’re ‘known’, reactions depend on who they’re known by – and who chooses how to respond.
Day 5 – Circle of Friends
Circle of Friends
Three months ago, or thereabouts,
a circle of friends sang songs of hope.Knowing we must part,
knowing we would meet again,
but not knowing when.Knowing there would be hard times,
not knowing what.Knowing we would all find joy
not knowing how.Another year, another song.
The memory of that evening comes to me,
Linda Rushby 5 April 2020
and makes me smile,
for the time when we will meet again,
and touch, and hug, and maybe kiss,
in the place that joins our hearts.
It’s good when a poem comes like that, when I was getting dressed, and making coffee, and feeding the cat, and taking pots from the dishwasher. So that by the time I sat at the keyboard, I already knew what I was going to say.
Sheesh, if only it was always that easy!
Can I get away with that today (at least it’s not a haiku!) or do I have to keep on writing? Well, I set the rules, so I guess I can do what I like.
Day 4 – A Hopeful Haiku
Hope comes with the spring,
Linda Rushby 4 April 2020
blossoming despite our fears.
The bees are happy.
Connections and Constrictions (but no poem)
Why do I always come up to my study to write my blog on the PC? I don’t know – there’s no reason why I shouldn’t sit downstairs and write on the laptop. I’ve been working on here for the last couple of weeks, finishing off the book design job because I have software on here which isn’t on the laptop. So it’s habit, I suppose, sitting here feels like I’m doing something serious (as if).
The two poem lines I started with yesterday, I was questioning them before I even sat down to write about them, then I got carried away down tunnels of memory and snatches of songs which made me think of other things. But the distinction I initially made in my head – of a net that links versus a web that binds – was always a bit of a false dichotomy, because a net, just as much as a web, is designed to trap whatever blunders into it. I was thinking more of a net as a network, a positive kind of connectivity, which links us with the necessities of life. As a corny example (no pun intended), the connections between people through the supply chain for food – farmers, processers, distributors, retailers, cooks – ‘field to fork’ – even that’s a gross simplification, which can be extended indefinitely in either direction, with microlinks in between. (Note to self: ‘Chain’ is another monosyllabic word, but when you think about it, that too can imply constriction as well as connection.)
There’s a lovely quote, (I think it’s from Martin Luther King), about how by the time your food reaches your table, it’s already travelled half way round the world. Though that’s not such a good thing is it? There was a time about twenty years ago when I used to get incensed about air miles – even had a letter published in The Times about it – but as always, nobody listened.
Which reminds me – yesterday I invited people to like the FaceBook page which is linked to this blog, but quite honestly, if I keep drivelling on like this, won’t I scare them all away? As I’ve tried to explain to a friend who was encouraging me to share my writing more widely, I can’t always guarantee to write ‘the good stuff’, and I don’t see the point of just trying to pick out the odd sentences that ‘work’ and sharing them out of context.
But on I go, and here I am again, pumping up the word count. Guess I should try and write another poem today, only four days in, ye gods, how am I going to do this for a whole month?
Connections and constrictions – that’s the point really I was trying to make. And perhaps the two are inseparable? Anything which supports us breeds reliance, holds us into a familiar position, if only by imposing a sense of reciprocal obligation. You scratch my back…? ‘We’re all in this together… ‘ at a minimum distance of two metres, naturally.
A Poem That I Meant to Write
‘The net that links us
Is not the web that binds us’
Linda Rushby (unfinished)
I thought that was going to be the start of a poem, but after an hour of rattling around, nothing else has appeared. So now I’m sitting at the keyboard, and – I don’t think this has struck me before – although I usually write as I go directly on the computer (which is why my posts ramble quite as much as they do), it doesn’t work that way with poems. Mostly they come into my head fully formed, and then I have to write them down before I forget them – like a line from a Paul Simon song of 50-odd years ago :
‘I was twenty one years when I wrote this song.
I’m twenty two now, but I won’t be for long…’
Paul Simon, ‘The Leaves That Are Green’
You said it, Paul. And the first time I heard it I was even younger – sixteen, I believe – though the song had already been around for a few years. I think it was the first time I grasped – or at least caught a glimpse of – an adult understanding of the passing of time. That and Neil Young’s ‘Old Man’ from about the same: ‘I’m twenty four and there’s so much more’. (To me at that time, even twenty seemed impossibly mature).
How did I get here from there? Oh yes, ‘The Leaves That are Green’:
‘Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl.
I held her close, but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown.’
That one: ‘Like a poem I meant to write.’ Exactly. If you don’t grab them while they’re there, they get away from you – Poems, I mean, not girls (or boys). I wrote once about ‘catching the words in flight’. It may be in ‘Single to Sirkeci’ or it may just have been a blog post. It might be the one I wrote in Tulcea, on the Danube Delta – which would have gone into ‘The Long Way Back’ – if I’d ever got round to finishing it. Or maybe it was just a random, throw away blog post that at most a handful of people might have read.
Do poems matter more than people? That’s a bit contentious – though once out they’re out there, they can live forever – I’m not claiming this for mine, I hasten to add, but I was thinking of the likes of Wordsworth (whose birthday is next Tuesday – I have a reason for knowing that which some of you might work out), Ovid (who was exiled to and died on the Black Sea Coast at Constanta, from where I went to Tulcea) or even poor Sylvia Plath (enough said). Even mine will still hang around for a while after I’ve gone, out on the internet and in unsold copies of ‘Beachcombing’. Some have already lasted far longer than the relationships that provoked them – but that’s another matter.
Of course – a haiku!
‘When we are ourselves.’
Linda Rushby