Refreshing Freshwater.

 I might not have participated in the Olympics, but during the marathon, I made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and washed the dishes—a record time!

I have buckets of respect for Olympic athletes, but I didn’t watch much of it. I also try to put in ‘personal best’ times for chores, and I have some writing to get done. The garden also needs some TLC, so sitting in front of the television admiring the strength and endurance of athletes won’t help me.

What I do enjoy are the interviews with the medal winners. Hearing how much training and effort they put into getting this far reminds me that there are times when we all need to develop some of that discipline to improve or train ourselves for our favourite hobbies or jobs.

So, I’m trying to spend less time in front of the screen, whether it be on TV or idly scrolling social media pages on my phone. The time that we waste on endless streams of (let’s be honest) trivial B.S. doesn’t help us at all. 

I enjoy gardening and performing stand-up comedy. Both require knowledge and discipline. Gardening knowledge is gained only through research, followed by trial and error and work. Comedy requires giving yourself time to stare, think, and write—lots of writing. 

With the arrival of social media and the internet, our ‘free time’ has been put under enormous pressure; in our pockets, we carry machines that are a porthole into the total knowledge acquired in the history of homo sapiens - everything, it’s all there. Still, dogs and cats are also on skateboards, and humans are falling off things. We can use it to learn; we can also use it to blank out the ‘real world’ by endlessly and aimlessly scrolling. All alone in our bubble, we scroll; scrolling has turned us into people with addiction; we are hooked on being isolated from actual human contact. Breaking an addiction is hard, but it’s something I (we) need to do. 

This summer, my wife and I spent two weeks in a village or settlement called Freshwater (Carbonear) in Newfoundland. We met people who, without knowing, made us think about how we ‘urbanites’ seem blissfully unaware of how we let our lives slip by and how far we have become distanced from our ‘humanness’. 

Freshwater is a small community, and thanks to our Airbnb hosts Andrew and Ingrid, who are inspiring with their life stories and exploits, I could listen for hours to their tales; we met many others in the community. Andrew is a retired Vet and author of some exciting and entertaining books (look up Andrew Peacock), plays guitar, has a comprehensive brain in music, and kayaks (or is it Canoe?) He also finds time to help organise the community Church and get-togethers. Ingrid, a retired Doctor, has more energy than a three-year-old on steroids; she also plays the harp, Piano and probably much more. Then there were ‘the others’, ‘The Daves’, Jennifer, Jake, Bonny, Belinda, Clive and many more whose names I forget, they all sing, play instruments, make jam, paint, fish (I mean the real deal). They build their houses and are pretty good at what they do. I couldn’t help thinking, where do they get the time? And do they ever rest? Of course, I had forgotten that doing something you love and enjoy is not ‘work’. It is a form of relaxation and even meditation. 

While in Freshwater, we were invited to a BBQ at a house (I think one of the ‘Daves’); we hardly knew anyone, but it’s been a long time since we felt so welcome and ‘part of it’. People sat around talking and listening to each other, singing, dancing and creating a feeling of acceptance for everyone there. Nobody, not one, was texting or scrolling; a good time was had, and I felt that ‘life karma’ or call it what you want, had brought us here to witness how things can, could and should be. I thank the community of Freshwater for that. 

It’s been three weeks since we left Newfoundland. We have agreed that it was our best vacation ever. The week we spent in St Johns was also great, but Freshwater has given us something else. 

So, sorry Netflix, you Tube and Instagram, I’ll still use you but no way will I be letting you use me and my precious time.

King Dong.

 King Dong.

While I was meditating, I was getting flashbacks to my youth. At school, there used to be a boy called Andrew Wiggins; he was known amongst us boys as the boy you don’t want to stand next to in the shower; Andrew was blessed (or cursed) with having the most significant ‘Willy’ of us all, it wasn’t just a bit bigger than ours, it was huge, in fact it looked a bit like some of those deep sea monsters you see on sea life documentaries appearing from under a rock on the bottom of the ocean. 

We used to crack jokes, asking him what he fed the thing; we were in complete puberty and were amazed at anything and everything bodily; a girl in our class, for example, had six toes on one foot. Everyone wanted to date her just because of that one fact. 

Andrew Wiggins was also very muscular, good at sports, and a lovely lad; he wasn’t a bully; if you had him as a friend, you were pretty much safe from the boneheaded bullies that hung around. His speciality in sport was the long jump. Word had gotten around about his huge Willy and the fact that he let it swing free while performing sport; he never wore underwear under the sports shorts, so many a time you would see him taking the run-up for the long jump with the Willy popping out from under the shorts as he ran. It was Comic and awe-inspiring. Wednesday afternoons, when we had sports class, girls -and some boys- would lie down on the grass next to the long jump, trying to get a glimpse of ‘King Dong’ as we called it. 

I always wondered what Andrew thought of the whole thing; he was quiet whenever we made comments, never boasted, bragged or got on the macho bandwagon; he just smiled as if it was just his ‘cross’ he had to bear. 

In the youth club we all visited on weekends, it was taken for granted that he was the guy to hang around with; his reputation had the girls flocking toward his ‘charisma’, so the thought was, if we hung around with him, we might get to hook up with some of the girls as a sort of second prize. 

Yet he never took advantage of the opportunities that came his way; he was quiet, never danced, never flirted, and was almost embarrassed by the attention. 

After I quit high school, I never saw him again and often wondered what had become of him; I always thought we had a unique band, even if it was just alphabetically when the teacher called the register each morning calling our names us answering ‘present!’ It was great for me when it got to the ‘W’ ’s the tension was palpable ‘Webb? Present! Wiggins? Present! (laughter and comments like ‘both of them’) then ‘Williams?’… and for that moment, I felt top of the bill… until some witty kid shouted, ‘That’s a long way down!’

The New Guy.

 The New Guy.

A new guy has taken up residence in our street these last few months. He’s also in the drinking game. He sits in the small square near the library. I pass him each day on my way to the newsagents. He drinks beer from cans and lines up the empties as if it’s some kind of competition, and he’s counting. 

His clothes are clean but ruffled. His face is tanned; he could be a teacher or even a writer; each time I see him, he gets older. 

Now and then, a woman sits beside him; she looks like the social worker type. Usually, she’s talking while he stares into the distance, drinking. 

Once, I saw her give him a packed sandwich from the local bakery; when I returned, she was gone, and the sandwich lay untouched on the bench next to him, the following morning, birds were fighting over it.

The High and Low Street.

 Our street. #1

Sitting on a bench across the street from where his local Bar used to be before its recent closure, the place where he used to be 'first in' and 'last out'. In the Bar, he felt at home. There he was somebody. He got to talk to people - at least before the alcohol kicked in. In the Bar, people would get worried about him if he didn't show up for a day or two. He was part of the colourful fauna of folk there, part of the family, and then it closed.

The locals have long since found other places to sit, drink and argue about the world and what it all means. He remains on the bench across the street as if he still believes it will return, the time when he was part of something. Now he sits here and drinks from a can (more are in the bag). People pass him by, nobody stops to talk, and the Bar becomes a distant memory; one day, he won't be around and fade as if he hadn't existed.

November 1st 2023.

 I write. Therefore, I write.

Whatever the thoughts on this, at least I'm off the mark, doing this writing exercise, writing even though I have nothing to say. I need to put in the effort. 

At least writing can be done working from home, something stand-up comedy could never be. I like writing but have never found anything that interests me so much I want to write about it. Even comedy, even the gigs, and especially the people who come to watch me. The people, I love them and love them a little less simultaneously. They are comedy's lifeblood and the vampire that sucks it out of you all rolled into one. When they are into what I do on stage, I feel like I'm surfing; words come easy, and jokes appear out of nowhere. When they aren't into my act, it's hell; every minute is like an hour, and the mind stutters and, in the worst case, stops functioning. The mind races and opens all the drawers, trying to find jokes and anecdotes of years gone by to help retrieve the situation; sometimes, defeat has to be accepted. Then comes the inquest: was it my material? The delivery? Timing? Something I said? The way I look? my clothes? The inquest usually goes on all night in my mind as I foolishly try and find sleep.

Why do I still perform comedy at my age? I have no answer to that. Is it because I've been doing it for so many years that it has become an addiction? It would be much easier if I stopped, gave up, and started something new, so why don't I? I hate to admit it, but I would miss the attention. However low in the ratings, there is always a tiny form of celebrity. 

At this moment, I envisage myself as an author, a writer, a columnist or whatever comes. Do I have the talent? I will only know once I try.

I do a daily podcast, so why not do daily writing as well. Fear the criticism and do it anyway.

So here it begins.

The flag of hypocrisy.

 Why I don't 'do' flags anymore.

Once again, we will be judged by our social media profile. Are we on the 'right' side? Do we have the flag of the oppressed posted so everyone can see how compassionate we are? At the moment, the Palestinian flag is the 'go-to flag' to cover the cracks of hypocrisy we here in the West are so keen to hide. 

Don't get me wrong, Palestinians need our support. The only hope for future peace in the region is a two-state solution, and one day, let us hope both sides will agree on it and get around the table to accomplish it. Meanwhile, thousands are dying, and protest is needed.

But let us remember there are not just two sides involved in this conflict.

For example, I have noticed that a lot of people who vehemently oppose Israel seem very quiet when it comes to Iran - and their involvement with Hamas, and also their treatment of women within Iran. We 'progressives' like to think we are always on the right side, but are we? It's not the people or issues we support that reveal our hypocrisy, but the ones we are silent about, and posting flags on our social media profiles won't change that. We can shout and scream about the role the U.S. and other allies play in the conflict, rightly so, but what about the bigger picture? 

We (progressives) seem to be stuck in some 'Cold War' nostalgia. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' logic. Iran hates Israel, so we keep quiet about the lack of democracy and human rights in Iran. Is it that simple? Maybe the enemy of my enemy is an even bigger asshole.

That is why I don't post flags on my Profile because there isn't enough room for nuance. 

To put it more comedically, while wearing clothes probably made by slave labour, using an iPhone (which in itself is a threat to all our privacy and freedoms), marching for the right to wear a headscarf while ignoring the women who die in other countries because they want the choice not to wear it, and so on and so on, because of the hypocrisy inherent in my own life I don't feel that I should be waving flags. 

Stop the war on the Palestinian people, free the hostages, stop Hamas.

 Let it go. Saturday 21 October '23.

I take the advice of my meditation teacher and let my mind go where it wants without thinking about it too much. This page is the result: me just rambling on a keyboard (not really a keyboard, is it? There are no keys on it), just letters, numbers and little things that I don't know anything about or what they do. 

Let your head go where it wants, he told me.

I have watched so many Netflix docus on serial killers that I could pull off the perfect murder if I had the guts. I can't even murder a spider. Most of the time, when I see a spider at home, I ignore it and hope it goes away unless my wife has seen it and wants me to get rid of it - sounding like she means it 'Maffia style' - but usually it ends up me sliding a piece of paper under an upturned Tupperware box where the bewildered spider is trapped, I chuck it out in the garden, and try and run back in before the spider overtakes me - it's warm inside, I do wonder what spiders think of us, do they find us ungrateful? I mean, they do Lots of good work for us, eating horrible little dust mites and things. 

Meditation is going well, but I'm afraid it might spill over into my real life, and I'll sleep at the wheel of my car. 'Concentrate on the breath', they say… these last couple of days, I have had some ear infection, and when I lie down with my head on a pillow, I can hear the sound of blood whooshing around very rhythmically. Is this the heart pumping around? It's a reality check listening to blood being whooshed around the body. What if it stops? it makes you think about how easily it could all suddenly end, how easy it is for us to stop being, and be dead. So I've been sleeping with earplugs to lessen the whooshing, but now the earplugs annoy me and keep me awake.

Where were we? 

I was in the flow of this writing when the doorbell ding donged; it was my neighbour. He needed help getting his trailer into the garage, and I'm always willing to help him. After all, he's a lovely bloke and my landlord, and he owns my house. I like living in this tiny house we started to rent about four years ago. It's big enough for my wife and me yet not big enough to invite people around for dinner, so that suits my anti-social behaviour. I just don't see the point of eating for eating sake, asking people around, all the stress of what they eat and don't eat, the stress of cleaning the best cutlery and plates, hoping the cooking will be successful and all the bla bla that goes with it, I mean what are we trying to prove to each other? That we're all some Jamie Oliver or Nigella Lawson. Watching Nigella making a Bread pudding while in her nightgown? oh! fuck off, it isn't that easy! I usually end up having to spend four days cleaning the kitchen after I've finished cooking, she's rich and has people cleaning up after her; she's not on her hands and knees after the show scrubbing the Floor. (I never imagined her as a scrubber btw). 

FOOD! In most countries, it's a worry if there will be any. In our rich little areas of the planet it's a worry that a fucking souffle won't rise or that our soft boiled egg is hard. 

Tune out...

 Tuesday 26th of September 2023

It’s not so much that I’m tired of people telling me what they think and how I should be, what really pisses me off is that I listen to them and try to change myself.

I Think I’m spending too much time surfing all these ‘self-help’ podcasts, youtube tutorials, and memes. They aren’t self-help, they are people you don’t know telling you how you should be, what you should eat, how you should exercise, and especially what you are doing wrong. Why should you even listen to these people? They don’t know you, or your situation or your expectations, or your capabilities. 

So I weigh a few pounds over my ‘so say’ ideal weight, so what? I’m not happy and friendly all day and every day? So what, I’m human that’s how we operate. I’ve come to the conclusion that we all should search deep within ourselves, get to know ourselves better, work out what we want and want to be and then find the tools to make it happen, and if it doesn’t make us happy? Re-think the whole thing. 

These people are on the internet earning money through people's lack of self-esteem, they are not in it to make you feel better, they want you hooked on to their site/page/or profile so they earn more, and if they give what you are looking for you ain’t gonna come back so they’ll give you unachievable goals which leave you thinking that you are a loser. Fuck ‘em. 

Tune in to yourself, be you, and not what some money-earning meme tells you to be. 

I firmly believe that we all have the inner knowledge to work it out for ourselves, if we are given the rest and the peace and quiet we need to think straight. 

On-line lifestyle takes all your creativity and thoughtfulness away from you, it occupies our brains and takes charge of the whole operation. Creating new pathways that take you farther and farther away from your real self. 

Use it for what is necessary and trust yourself and your fully formed brain to do the rest. 

We have choices on how to spend our time and our how to invest our attention, make the right choices, every minute you spend listening to how this or that should be done, you’re not doing it. 

By the way, this is more of a ‘to do’ text for myself, I need to become more of a self-help helper, than relying on Strangers on the internet, I mean who the fuck are they? If their lives are so perfect why do they need to earn cash by telling others what to do. 

So, Tune in (to yourself) Turn on (the internal microphone) and drop out of the internet life style. Go your own way, there will be good and bad decisions along the way but at least you would have given it your best shot. 

A sense of being.

 Sunday the 27th of August 2023.

When sitting alone, in the quiet of my own small corner of this house, I like to think about this thing called ‘me’. What makes me ‘me’? Nowadays, with the ‘takeover’ that social media has acted out on our collective consciousness, it’s hard to know if that original thought I had this morning, was actually real, actually original, and not just some seed that was planted by AI.

Would it really matter? I think what I think, that’s it, end of the story, although to be honest I rarely identify actual ‘thoughts’  it seems. 

It’s all very tiring. 

Generally, I like the peaceful life, a life of few complications, that’s one reason why I don’t have many friends, and nobody that I would actually count as a ‘soul mate’ or as they say these days a brother from another mother. Friends complicate things, I have never really worked out what to do with them, the stress of having to fit them into my schedule for starters.

I have my job and my family life, the rest of the time I like to lose myself in thoughts or daydreams and especially this, sitting here writing, random unplanned thoughts, getting them down on paper (on screen), and filing them away on some blog or hard disc never to be read again, although you never know, maybe, someday after my death, a relative will think he/she is getting to know me by reading through all this trollop, the poor bastard.

These moments are what make me tick, they make me happy for some reason, It’s not like I am writing a book or poetry, it is just the satisfaction of being able to sit here, alone, and formulate some sense of what is going on in my head at any given time. 

I used to be in a continual state of anger or frustration about politics, the state of the world, etc, but now I can honestly say I do not give a flying fuck about any of it anymore. I still feel bad for the downtrodden and the exploited, but I no longer have the energy to pretend to do something about it. Years I spent being an activist, going on demonstrations, organizing strikes, and on the streets with one petition after the other but I lost the feeling that ‘we’ were actually getting anywhere. It seemed like every time the enemy was unmasked, the exploited and downtrodden would go and vote for them at the next election, and then I lost ‘it’. I no longer believe that the masses will someday rise up and overthrow the tyranny of those in charge, and if they do they’ll probably put a bigger bastard in charge. 

I now look at our world as this comedy of errors, we humans evolved against all odds and are just one big accident (and I'm one of them), always just one step away from destroying all that is naturally beautiful on this rock in space. So I try to enjoy the time I am allotted on this earth and to hell with the futility of politics and struggle. I’ll sit back and watch the show, not take it too seriously and mock the obvious. This is me, now, although I must warn you, it might not be how I feel tomorrow, so don’t take it too seriously.

 

Social (mentally ill) Media

 Social media health guide.

Social media is lots of things but it’s also a continual stream of people telling you ‘how to live healthier’, ‘how to live without stress’, ‘how to get a good nights sleep’, ‘how to meditate’, ‘why not to meditate’, ‘how to exercise’, ‘how coffee helps you’, ‘how coffee destroys your health’ in short, how to do everything and anything… It’s the best way to feel bad about yourself watching some - white painted teeth - always upbeat - influencer tell you how to get out of bed refreshed every morning at 6 am go for a 5 mile hike, then come back home write a fucking book have a nutritional breakfast to activate your brain, and the day hasn’t really started yet… Meanwhile it’s 8 am and you’re still contemplating whether you need a shit or a pee, and realise there is no bread or milk and you feel tired because you didn’t sleep well. 

The reason these ‘always happy’ nut jobs are so smiley all the time is because every time you click on their madness they get richer, so fuck them and the dentist that gave them the false smile, because that would make us mortals happy! 

Be human stay human, with all the ups and downs that come with that.

Pass the coffee!