The quality of life

Much is made about "the quality of life". By this we seem to mean the intrinsic value in the things we do.
As a working person one rarely has an option, the bulk of ones time is spent working, burying oneself in the needs of others to earn a living, part of the earnings, hopefully set aside to pay for doing something which is outside the scope of work or the money and effort you put in to simple live each day.
The decision regarding what you value as special is very individualistic except when and if you are bringing up children, their needs often come first.
The question of considering "quality" rather than quantity become particularly sensitive when one reaches "retirement" since time and options begin to become naturally limited.
There can be an obsessional focus on the time one has left when you retire. The things you need to do whilst fit and able, the places to visit, the mountains to climb and the rivers to cross. Of course the fact that the list you made a few years ago begins to be less relevant as you cogitate about your life in general and the dreams seem not now as relevant when you visit a place as an older person, unable to fit in to the night life or risk your lot on a relationship amongst strangers.         
Quality therefore means something very different when you get older. Quality can mean a good nights sleep. Quality can mean having a peaceful day. Quality can mean sustaining good communication with family, friends and neighbours.
Getting older, one begins to shrink back into ones self, to a degree, finding your own company sufficient, your own thoughts entertaining and revealing.        
Perhaps it's natures way of reminding yourself after a lifetime of putting others ahead of you that you can reintroduce the substance of who you are to the person you have become and hope there is still plenty left in the relationship.               

I,m out there somewhere

Sean Kelly. I woke at 2am. The name of the Irish cyclist who commentates for Eurosport had popped into my head and I wanted to check it out before it effervesced into the thin air which purports to be my memory.  

Another advantage of living on your own is that you disturb no one in your strange relationship with time and the immediate need to jot something down, or having a snack when most are sleeping. The in-consequentiality of your actions seems to allow a broad canvas for mental activity when before, you were naturally constrained not to wake other people, now you are free to potter.
This very phrase "to potter around" has a homely sound to it, far removed from the definite action required by many. "Make up your mind" is the usual direction of travel insisted upon by a busy public, the antithesis of "pottering".
It goes hand in glove with the garden shed, a retreat from the sounds of constant movement and chatter, a moment when your actions have no effect on others but signals the onrush of those inner thoughts struggling to find their place in the noise and constant clatter which is modern life.
Waking and jotting down the name I reached, as I so often do these days, for my iPad.   The iPad has been a discovery which has rejuvenated my life.
It is the focus of so many things. From the email which is what I am engaged in now, to the monumental resource of the Internet. From the books stored and available at a click on the screen, to the huge music store held within the catalogues of Spotify.   Radio stations broadcasting from all parts of the world revealing the character and the culture vibrating from people in distant lands, to the instant recall of a film simply to be entertained.
Night owls often have for their edification documentaries or avant-garde films which are not to the taste of the general public and tonight, having been woken by Sean Kelly I watched a moving film depicting the trauma felt by the survivors of the dreadful massacre of Andries Breivik on the tiny island of Utoya 25 miles north west of Oslo in Norway. He mercilessly shot down students attending a Norwegian Labour Party summer conference and the harrowing stories of the survivors as they sought to escape, the horror still lingers in their eyes.
From podcasts to Google World and the mesmerising  amazing ability to drop down, out of the sky into a friends back yard on the far side of the world to lectures in Astro Physics from some of the best universities, and to how to cook an omelette via You Tube.
It's all packed into a slim, no fuss, 10" by 8" package which brings to focus, on your knee the might of modern day communication.
Two way communication, both receptive and expressive, the iPad is a proper tool to communicate and receive  ideas, since in my world, the world of the "Potterer" the important, inconsequential yet powerful acknowledgement that we still exist is perhaps the most important message out there.

Being anti

In a conversation I had recently, I was accused of being anti Jewish. It could have been anti Muslim, anti Establishment, anti Authoritarian, anti Elitism, anti Women, anti Gay, anti Drugs, anti Security, anti the Educational Establishment but this time it was anti Jewish.  The list of anti's is fairly long because at some time or other I have criticised certain aspects of all these groups largely driven by what I see as their over reaction to criticism.

We all have flaws, we all are guilty at some time or another of following our stereotype, reverting to norm, being what we are accused of.
But it seems in this age of infinite attention and none stop communication we begin to build a fortress mentality behind which we fester with a false image that we feel we must provide ourselves with to continue to establish who we are. Criticism is seen as hurtful even hateful rather than just someone's observation based on what they believe they have discovered over time. 

Truth as we mentioned in recent blog is relative. Our own perspective is often fractured by our involvement and our own proximity and whilst it's important to preserve our loyalty we mustn't be blinded by facts if they present a different conclusion regarding whoever we wish to reserve our loyalty for.
All of history is full of things which people should perhaps not feel too proud about but sometimes that very history is the problem since it is often the bedrock on which 'exceptionality' builds a smokescreen and we begin to judge others as inferior or simply different. The difference becomes a way of defining our exceptionalism, of making us not only feel different, but superior.
Defining oneself as special with all the protection that is implicit in maintaining ones speciality drives our understanding of others and the way we appear to others, into a dark place. A questioning voice raised in asking perfectly reasonable questions of your exceptionality becomes hurtful especially if the questioning comes from someone outside the group.

The task of every mind is to comprehend "reality" accurately. If we 'deny' ourselves this task, not only to comprehend but on comprehending, criticise, (if there is need to criticise), if we deny for the sake of harmony then we land ourselves in the situation many people in this country and across the world find themselves, scared to opinion for fear of up-settling, or worse, being branded as one of those chronic undesirables, a seeker of truth.

Oblivious to whats important.

As I settle into bed without a cheery "goodnight" ringing in my ears, or the sound of snoring as I make a customary trip to the toilet, peace has once more descended on the house. The piles of discarded clothing, which in a panic got thrown out of the suitcase when 'over-weight' was calculated in dollars of potential surcharge. Clothing I might add I will have to send on later. The question, "does this fit you" soon revealed a gulf in taste and "no thanks I don't think I will wear it" only goes to show how conservative, 75 years of living can bring to a person.

From a monastic existence I had been blasted into a roller coaster, subsumed in a friendly, enthusiastic, dynamic which covered, eating, shopping and eating, in that order.

My dietary regime was torn apart. I was sadistically chewing dead animals (at least I was one removed from chewing live ones) and my karma would inevitably bring me back as one of these defenceless warm blooded creatures to endure, what I was so cavalier about, the killing machine which supports our sightless pursuit of satisfaction.

Going shopping drew me into corners of the shop I had never visited. Packets of things the names I couldn't even pronounce. Ingredients which held no appeal but which, I was assured, would be good for me. 

All this trauma and good intention is now sadly gone and I'm contemplating a bacon butty but in the full knowledge that each meal will have to be accompanied by a big swig of Gaviscon. 

The impetus another person brings shakes you out of your lethargy and is good for you but the internal turmoil of playing second fiddle, handing over the car keys and visiting places one would never have thought to visit, is at an end.  I sit once more in my "ivory tower" the door locked and bolted, invaders repulsed, master of all I survey but  like the King with no clothes, oblivious to what's actually important.

A Substantial Loss

Emotions are in some ways an Achilles heel to our sense of our sobriety and of being in charge.
It was not long ago when I wrote of my trip to Gatwick airport and the suspense I had in not only getting into the airport but the special thrill of meeting Andrew once again after all these years away in Australia. The smile on my face as I saw him confidently walk through the doors into the 'Arrival Lounge', his own face wreathed in a smile of its own anticipation at meeting at least one of the "oldies".

 Now the anticipation is changed, replaced with a sad tint of farewell as we make the preparations for his departure for "down under". The bags packed, the weighing of the bags, and the unpacking to see what can be left behind to get the weight down. Eventually it's near enough so there's one last chance for a walk across the fields of his childhood, or rather the emergence from childhood as one learns for the first time of the scrapes with the local Bobby for smoking cannabis. This was a world we as parents were blissfully unaware. It was a world relatively unscathed with much danger since the affiliation to gangs and the trouble young people get into was diluted by the fields and open spaces and with these open spaces came the relinquished containment 'grown ups', particularly parents brought with them, their baggage was not yours. You had of course baggage to collect of your own, things your parents could not share. How could they understand your obsession with "rap music" or the attraction of "scratching" (the vinyl record scratching as opposed to the skin) to add yet another dimension to the noise we, Mum and Dad, had thrust upon us as we watched the metamorphosis of our sweet boy into a teenager.

Walking on this last walk, with the distance of many many years he was at ease to tell of some of the scrapes he got up to but I think  it was the carefully scripted version as we walked trough the fields of rape seed and corn each field heavily pregnant with its crop.
I got up early today to arrange the Dartford Crossing Toll payment, make a cup of tea and see the sun rise on what could turn out (weather wise) a beautiful day.
We have had poor weather from the time of his arrival, not that it mattered much since it was the reunion which mattered most and that went very well with only the occasional histrionics from Angela as she defines a new course for her life.  Having spent the last few years securing it financially, she is now engaged with finding "purpose" for the years ahead in getting closer to the essence of things, disentangling herself from some of the day to day responsibilities she has shouldered up until now.
In amongst those is "work" or at least the regular 9 till 5 treadmill as she seeks a more sublime regime of one day a week in Optometry whilst spending the rest "down on the farm" volunteering and helping retarded folk gain some meaning in their lives.
Andrew with his Buddhism, Angela with her "good causes".  Although I can't claim any credit, at least the kids are not in any conformity rut and although marking my own scorecard with rather long periods of nonconformity, I seem to be the essence of the mould these days. Perhaps my refusal to accept retirement is just another one of the bloody minded things which make the backdrop for 'their' kicking over the "normal".
Anyway the sun is shining and soon we will be driving the wrong way to Gatwick, heading for Departures this time and a final hug as he sets off through the door where the aliens live whilst we the "ordinary" people shuffle back to our cars, making the most of what is left of the day whilst reflecting on what we have just lost.

Truth

Is truth a singular thing or a component of many interrelated things which feed into and shape the "truth".

Is there a surety in truth which we crave or is truth,  one man's truth, another man's falsehood, a moving target which can never be known.

Are there different kinds of truth. Some, which based on faith, are as much  a creation of the mind to support that other mental conjuring trick, 'religious surety' which we then use to put off the emotional enormity of the 'finality of life' question. 

The truth of particle physics is itself a moving target as new discoveries reveal new truths. The truth of what is morally right or wrong varies with culture and environmental necessity. The truth of a political statement is defined by circumstance.

Andrew and I were walking down the beach in Swansea this morning yacking away about politics and the rights and wrongs of Andrea Leadsom's argument, that having children some how brought you into a collegiate of mothers who's experience of having children gave them greater insight into societies problems and our responsibility to plan well into the future so our children wouldn't suffer.

His view was that it didn't make any difference whether the "leader" was a mother or a father a man or a woman for that matter, these questions were dealt by "leadership" and the influence of child rearing or being childless played no part in the sensibilities of tackling that particular issue. Being a transvestite didn't bring particular skills to solving the problems of being a transvestite, those problems could just as easily be defined by a person of either gender so long as they were humane and intelligent.

Truth or the correct application of a healthy mind must arrive at the same destination since there is only one answer.

If you set up the truth as a goal and work backwards to find ways of obtaining that truth then you better be sure your truth is correct. I have propagated the idea that truth has no fixed position and that society, as it investigates itself and the world around changes its conception of what is the truth on a continuous basis.

If truth is as is love, seen through the eye of the beholder, then we arrive at many truths each dependent on the specific experience of the person holding that truth.

If your 'fortitude' (truth) is cemented in a belief system then you will move heaven and hell to ensure your truth fits the result you want. With the result that your truth will be narrowly defined and somewhat totalitarian. 

If your truth is less sure and changes as you bring more and more factors into the attempt to define it, then perhaps like adding too many ingredients into a receipt, you loose the concept of the dish.   Perhaps allowing too many influences into your definition of anything, can so muddy the water, that our perspective of everything is then lost. But sadly we are still no nearer "the truth" but our journey to find it  has been massively educational.

Relationships

Relationships are so difficult, so loaded with expectation, so vulnerable to disappointment, so dependent on factors outside our control, so influenced by personality and the fluctuation of character.
The mind sets the scene with its limitless optimism and a strong tendency to ignore past experience but more often finds itself back into the old impasse which because the mix is problematical becomes the reset mode.
Like a box of firecrackers the care you take to ensure that no stray spark or comment sets off the whole box makes communication itself a minefield and extremely tiring. The best is to retreat into your own mental bunker and seek sanity with your own toys fielding off the slings and arrows by ducking the issue of building bridges but when relationships matter it's not something one can do lightly.
And so the gavotte of best intention versus pragmatism starts with a little sally this way and a retreat that way, hoping to maintain some sort of esprit de corpse, trying not to damage moral or appear aloof to other sensitivities whilst clinging to ones own assumption of normality.
Should I be described as eccentric if one analyses everything and everyone. Becoming judgemental where it would be better to let things flow and be as they are.  Over analysing things, and looking for patterns and structure where there is none.
It's a devil of a processes since no stone is left unturned and many bruises are inflicted, not least on ones self, in this examination of the human condition.