The early morning is a time of day I cherish. It is the perfect time for quiet and peaceful reflection and to enjoy, uninterrupted, a favourite book. I bought this copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury in my early teenage years at the suggestion of my father (and using his money). As he told me at the time it is a book no one should be without. In honour of these precious early morning hours here is a short poem by Hilaire Belloc: The Early Morning
The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
Almost two years ago I posted this photograph on my instagram account. It is neither good nor interesting but was accompanied by the following text: “There are two means of refuge from the misery of life – music and cats.” Albert Schweitzer. And to that I will add a third – smoking a pipe.
Today I report with heavy heart that I have lost the most precious of these, my cat Zebedee. I have borrowed the following tribute (with amendments made to name and dates) from E.T.A.Hoffmann.
“Hereby I beg humbly to announce to sympathetic patrons and friends, that on the day of 25 Jan. this year, after a short but severe illness, my beloved ward, the Tomcat Zebedee, died in the ninth year of his promising existence, and awakened to a better life. Whoever knew the immortal youth and saw him tread the path of virtue and justice, will understand my deep grief and honour it – by silence.”
We are at war. It is not a conventional war. Unlike Wilfred Owen’s war we do not face the monstrous anger of guns nor are there any stuttering riffles pattering out hasty orisons; there are no shrill demented choirs of wailing shells, nor nightly rain of bombs.
Our adversary is a virus, our frontline troops those who provide essential services. As in any war we keep careful account of casualties; the news tells of another 385 deaths and the total rises to nearly 34,000; there is little else reported.
And at home in lockdown we make the best of it, hoping, fearing, waiting while all humanity appears concentrated on one thing, the war against COVID-19.
But there comes a glimmer of hope, the restrictions of lockdown are being relaxed, only slightly but it gives us greater hope that victory and normality is a little closer.
Looking forward to post pandemic life I think of these words by A.A.Milne:
“When the war is over and the sword at last we sheathe, I’m going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breath. When the war is over and we’ve finished up the show, I’m going to plant a lemon-pip and listen to it grow.”
Indolent. Another lovely spring day with no laundry to hang on the line to dry. A shameful waste of such glorious weather.
P.M.
Still Bright and warm. After due consideration I decided to persist with my laziness and sit in the garden, making myself the very image of an idle Flâneur. Tried out one of the reclining chairs bought second hand at the end of last summer. Quite mesmerising looking upward through the leaves, tremulous in the gentle breeze, of a tree I have watched grow from a seedling to the point where it dominates my tiny garden. I warned H___ of the size it would grow to but she insisted it wasn’t to be cut down. Moments like these I know that I am lucky to be alive.
Waking on a fine spring morning is one of life’s pleasures, it fills one with hope. It would be a shame and a waste if the fresh air and golden sunshine was not glorified by a washing line full of drying laundry.
But how quickly, how stealthily the cloudy skies of disappointment catch one unawares. But today I will not be disheartened and the laundry will be dried even though sun has been replaced by cloud.
“With just the smallest bit of neglect, the heart too can become neglected and begin to fill with worldly desires. This is why we must do the laundry.”
Shoukei Matsumoto: A Monk’s Guide to a Clean House and Mind
Disappointed, though heaven knows why that should be a surprise to me. I suppose my intent to be creative was always going to end in failure, I have not one print to show for all my efforts, just many hopeful hours spent butchering Lino blocks.
Spoke to D___ today. Well we didn’t actually speak, we messaged each other. Mustn’t be so critical of technology (something I’m too often guilty of) , at least it enables people to keep in touch. Pity I was in such an aggravated mood. Must apologise tomorrow.
adjective,without a clear plan or purpose and showing little effort or interest:.
That sums it up nicely and every day pretty much the same. It is shameful, maybe even sinful all this time wasting I have allowed myself to indulge in since lockdown began.
I was so determined not let it happen and to fill my time creatively, so far I’ve filled it with nothing more substantial than intentions and we all know what is said about good intentions and the road to hell. Even my passions have transformed themselves into a form of calvary. I fear the possibility I have followed this road to far.
“Facilis descensus Averno: Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; Sed revocare gradium superasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus, hic labor est.” (The gates of Hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this task and mighty labor lies.)
Spot the difference. Maybe it’ll rain today, there are clouds in the sky, or maybe not. I have developed a profound laziness while in lockdown, I seldom leave the house now shunning even the garden and the lack of activity is becoming troubling. I really should make greater efforts.
VLADIMIR : How time flies when one has fun.
(Silence).
ESTRAGON: What do we do now? VLADIMIR: While waiting. ESTRAGON: While waiting. (Silence).
VLADIMIR: We could do our exercises.
ESTRAGON: Our movements. VLADIMIR: Our elevations. ESTRAGON: Our relaxations. VLADIMIR: Our elongations. ESTRAGON: Our relaxations. VLADIMIR: To warm us up. ESTRAGON: To calm us down. VLADIMIR: Off we go. (Vladimir hops from one foot to the other. Estragon Imitates him).
ESTRAGON (stopping). That’s enough, I’m tired.
VLADIMIR (stopping). We’re not in form. What about a little deep breathing?
ESTRAGON: I’m tired breathing. VLADIMIR: you’re right. (Pause). Let’s just do the tree, for the balance.
ESTRAGON: The tree? (Vladimir does the tree, staggering about on one leg).
VLADIMIR (stopping). Your turn. (Estragon does the tree, staggers). ESTRAGON: Do you think God sees me?
VLADIMIR: You must close your eyes. (Estragon closes his eyes, staggers worse).
ESTRAGON: (Stopping, brandishing his fists, at the top of his voice). God have pity on me!
VLADIMIR: (vexed). And me? ESTRAGON: On me! On me! Pity! On me!
Spot the difference. A brief moment of excitement yesterday when a duck walked down the street, now that has passed one day continues to slide seamlessly into the next. Ah, sweet ennui.
This wonderful book, The Consolation of Philosophy was composed by Boethius (c. A.D. 480-524) after being imprisoned by the Gothic emperor Theodoris.
Wasting precious time looking out of the window, at parked cars and a brick wall. Oh, how happy I am! Well I must be. W.N.P. Barbellion in The Journal of a Disappointed Man writes:
“The true test of happiness is whether you know what day of the week it is. A miserable man is aware of this even in his sleep. To be as cheerful and rosy-cheeked on Monday as on Saturday and at breakfast as at dinner….”.
Well, having lost all sense of time I must be happy.
Journeys and Observations 