A bit of Bruce

Crisis and catharsis at the fleamarket

2011-11-09T16:15:00.002+02:00

Helluva year so far.

Let me recap the blogless months. I visited the States and got engaged to a lovely Statesian lady. My father passed away. I got married, in Scotland, in a kilt, to said lovely lady. I visited the States again. Now I'm waiting on the outcome of a petition for a visa to be able to live with my wife stateside. All while trying to breathe life into my start-up company and keep the pennies flowing in, while stopping too many pennies from flowing out.

Helluva year so far.

One of the issues with moving (and moving in) after 44 years of singledom and 12 years in the same flat is that I have stuff. Too much stuff. And it can't all cross the pond and fit into the new ~~flat~~ apartment.

Solution: fleamarket.

I could just try to tip all my stuff into the big communal bin, of course, but that (a) wouldn't bring in any pennies and (b) isn't very socially/environmentally sound. I like money and recycling.

The problem is what to sell and what not to sell. Some stuff is a relief to get rid of, in the manner of baggage that you never knew you didn't need. In other cases, if you decide to heart-wrenchingly part with an item, and a week later it still hasn't been sold, what the heck is wrong with it anyway?

Plus, my living-room is full of plastic stackable boxes, and likely to be so for a few months.

Ah! Life, eh?

Two bits divide

2011-10-26T12:58:00.009+03:00

For grits and shins (as you might almost say), the bits of Bruce are dividing in twain.

You may consider this a bit rich, considering that no bits have been posted here for a year. However, the business bits are now elsewhere. The personal bits (or what I choose to reveal, which lately is less than a nun in a space suit), remain here.

Business-minded bods may please feel free to click thus:
thetextbiz.blogspot

Intercultural indices of the breakfast egg

2010-09-26T21:31:00.002+03:00

There I was, with two other naked blokes, talking about eggs.

No, really. If you're Finnish or if you've spent any significant time in Finland, the situation seems less foreign. It's a sauna thing, see. People discard their clothes to sit and sweat together, and pass the time in either perspiration-soaked silence or small talk.

This time it was small talk. Which meandered in the direction of intercultural diversity.

At this point, I should explain that I've just returned to Finland after a bout of globetrotting to and from the two Uniteds: Kingdom and States. The Kingdom is much as it ever was, and maybe much as it ever shall be. The States, on the other hand, is still an object of some cultural puzzlement.

Or to put it another way, the States makes me feel like an object of some cultural puzzlement.

An infamous misquotation hangs in the air, with the two same nations still divided by the same common language, and the authorship (Shaw or Wilde, both Irish) still unresolved. But at this moment, the pith seems to be epitomised by eggs.

Actually, I'm spreading the yolk somewhat. It's not an Anglo thing, it's European-North American intercultural diversity hanging like an improperly punched chad in the frontal lobe of my mind.

One much-regurgitated personal tale from the Bulgaria of old concerns my favourite menu item of the times: Хемъндекс без Яйце (that is, 'ham and eggs without egg').

The lack of said breakfast item in the immediate aftermath of the fall of the Berlin Wall is neatly juxtaposed by the market saturation on the other side of the pond in the immediate aftermath of the fall of Lehman Brothers.

There still, the unwary European traveller can be befuddled by waitresses who, intent on earning their 20% tip, want to know whether the eggs are to be 'over easy' or 'sunny side up' (and whether the sausages are to be 'patty' or 'string'; and which of any number of variants of milk/cream/milk-cream mix is to be preferred).

And hence it strikes me, with not a little irony, that in Europe I may not understand what is said, but I do most often get the meaning. In America, where we have that common tongue, I can mostly tune in to what people say. The puzzle more often is what they mean.

Who's in awe of the IT guy?

2010-02-17T19:30:00.003+02:00

So. Two stories.

The first story takes place in the coastal town of St Annes-on-Sea in north-western England. I have my mini-laptop with me, with its built-in webcam, but need a headset to go with Skype. One possible port available: USB.

So I walk into a self-proclaimed computer shop. There's a guy doing something technical in the workshop at the back. I decide to not waste his time and get straight to the point: "Hi, I'm looking for a USB headset."

"Pfirrrrpp," replies the guy, inhaling through his teeth in the manner of a middle-aged man caught masquerading as a specialist. "I've never seen one of those in the catalogue."

I resist the obvious reply ("Have you ever looked?") and believe his assurances that such fanciful technology doesn't exist.

Except that I don't. Instead I go to the shop over the road.

This place is different. Not much on the shelves, but two eager looking chaps behind the counter. I try a different approach. "Hi. Look, I've got this headset with the audio in/out jacks but my laptop only has a USB port. What do you think I should do?"

Hardly a moment's pause from the younger of the two techies. Then: "Have you thought about getting a USB headset?"

I play the part of the naïve technovirgin. Oh, does such a thing exist? How wonderful and how clever you are. Yes, if you can get me one by tomorrow morning, that would be perfect.

Job done.

Now, before all the Finns start laughing at how backward the British Isles can be in matters technical, let's cross-cut to Espoo, Finland.

Second story. Having got all Skype-happy on the young upstart mini-laptop, it would be nice to do the same on good ol' desktop. Headphones are no problem. I've got the ones with the audio in/out jacks, you know. But how about a webcam?

Hmmm. Webcam.

I walk into an electronics shop (expert [sic!], with a wonderfully web-savvy lower-case logo, for those who know) and find a USB plug-and-play webcam, no software necessary, no requirement specifications listed on the packet. I wander over to the counter and ask casually if this will work on Windows 2000.

The look the sales assistant shoots at his colleague tells me instantly that I am a contemptible technocaveman.

"Pfirrrrpp," the young guy inhales. Here we go again. No, he doesn't reckon it will. He has the schadenfreude smile of someone who senses that a painful clean install of Vista is imminent.

"Is there a webcam for Windows 2000," I persist, wielding my brontosaurus bone in self-defence. No, no. You need Windows XP or ... (significant pause) ... newer. So I believe his assurances.

Except that I don't. Instead I go upstairs to the department store (Anttila, for those who care). Avoiding the look of the sales assistant, which isn't too difficult as he's browsing facebook or something, I scan the shelves. Clearance offer on a webcam, special low price. Suits ... *drum roll* ... Windows 2000.

Thank goodness there's always an IT guy around when you need one, eh?

For words' sake

2010-02-16T22:33:00.004+02:00

you you a the he he his but for as can needs needs give paying know work tools craftsman well

Roll up, roll up! Here they are, ladies and gentlemen! Just what you've been waiting for! Twenty lovingly crafted words that'll fit neatly into a readily preconcepted and grammatical sentence. I'll even throw in the necessary punctuation for free: , . ,
Syntax not provided. Capitalisation negotiated as layout. Extra charges apply.

Yes, you see. Because after (as my New Zealand immigration official put it) "going all over the place", I've decided to see if I can do some "writing all over the place" as well. Heck, I'm going to get £150 for one job, so I must be a professional, right?

So there I was. Looking at these submission guidelines for this online magazine, see. And I did a bit of thinking. And I looked at the article length what they was looking for, like. And I looked at the pay what they was offering, you know. And I thinks to myself ... why, I thinks, that's a good three (euro)cents per word, that is. So I thinks, well, if I can come up with twenty good words, like I have just there at the start, well, that's about forty minutes worth of rent on my flat. Innit?

So there they are. Twenty shiny lexical items - not all different, it's true, but then bricks don't look too much different from each other neither, if you get my drift - and they're going to keep my head and DVD collection dry for the best part of an hour, right? That must be a good deal.

Oh hell, I can't keep this up. [Insert actress/bishop joke? - ed.]

The point being, you see, what's a word worth?

As an aside, and for reasons that I won't go into right now, I've also recently become the loving owner of the domain name luv-u-2.com, like what they have on them internets. Unfortunately it's worth next to nothing, what with hyphens and numerals being, apparently, the linguistic equivalent of mould when it comes to virtual real estate. But maybe someone will come along who wants to do it up and make it look nice. You never know.

Aha! Back to the main plot. Location, location, location! It's not the word. It's where the word is that matters. Luv is fine, but its flatmates bring down the neighbourhood.

And while I'm on this internet stuff: why, everybody's at it, ain't they? Everybody's bleedin' writing stuff. Our whole wwworld is swimming with words and sayings and sentences and all sorts. Some of it right shoddy material, too, I can tell you. But it's all there.

Talk about market saturation! Everybody's their own bleedin' columnist these days! And here I am adding to the pile. For free, dammit!!!

But if you can't beat 'em....

Roll up, roll up! Buy all twenty words and I'll knock 50% off your syntax costs. Best deal on the net!!!

Miles and miles and miles

2010-01-27T17:33:00.000+02:00

The BBC reported today that, in 2009, air passenger traffic declined by its largest amount since 1945.

Whoa, there! I certainly didn't notice many empty seats on my travels, and I wasn't even flying with budget airlines. So maybe there have been fewer flights operated, through airline codeshares and so on. And that would surely be a good thing, environmentally speaking.

Which brings me to this: air miles. I just calculated my travel mileage for 2009. With Helsinki as my base, that involved a round-the-world ticket, a return to Bangkok, a return to Cincinnati, and a couple of visits to the UK.

Total air travel for 2009: 58,425 air miles (94,034 km).

2010 has already kicked off with a round trip to Washington DC, and the question people are asking is ... where next?

Watch this space! But meanwhile, maybe I'd better get out there and plant a tree or two. I think I have carbon debt.

A succession of Willies

2010-01-07T16:18:00.000+02:00

Margaret Thatcher famously once said that every prime minister needs a Willie.

I, too, have been searching for a Willie, but in my family history. And now, by a bit of good fortune, I have solved one of those little knots that come up in genealogical research.

I knew that William existed. He was my great-great-great-great grandfather. However, the transcribed records that I have managed to lay my hands on seemed to indicate that he had, in fact, died in childhood. This would have been a problem, and might have led to the tricky discovery that I was merely a figment of my own imagination.

My existence is secure, however.

Back then in the mid-1700s, it was not uncommon that, if a child died, one of the subsequent children would be given the same name. There are several cases of this on my books. In this case, however, the burial of the first William took place on the exact same date as the baptism of the second William. For some reason, only half of this information got into the transcribed records.

With my twenty-first century sensitivities, this seems a bit cold. I can almost imagine the gruff Yorkshire father: "Eeh, 'eck. Now 'e's gone, you'd better 'ave 'is name, lad!"

In this particular instance, it even seems likely that William One was still alive when William Two was born. So at what point was William Two's name decided? Was William One still warm?

It also makes me ponder on the psychological effect on someone of going through life bearing the name of a deceased sibling.

It can't have been too heavy a burden on William Two, however. When he grew up, he named his third child William. That's my great-great-great grandfather.

It all gives me the willies.

Around the world in 58 days

2010-01-06T11:44:00.003+02:00

So many people have asked me about this that I'm just going to post it here for posterity. Well, I suppose if you tell them that you've been around the world, they'll want to know where you mean, exactly. After all, you can't go everywhere. Can you?

This, therefore, was the official itinerary of Bruce's Grand Tour 2009.

===========
4 August: depart Helsinki, Finland (Finnair)
5 August: arrive Kyoto (rail) via Osaka, Japan

11 August: depart Kyoto (rail), arrive Hong Kong via Osaka (Cathay Pacific)

13 August: round trip to Guangzhou, China (boat, road, rail)

15 August: depart Hong Kong, arrive Singapore (Cathay Pacific)

17 August: round trip to Melaka, Malaysia (road)

18 August: depart Singapore, arrive Perth, Australia (Qantas)

22 August: depart Perth, arrive Darwin, Australia (Qantas)

26 August: depart Darwin, arrive Alice Springs, Australia (Qantas)

29 August: depart Alice Springs, arrive Sydney, Australia (Qantas)

2 September: depart Sydney, arrive Auckland, New Zealand (Qantas)

9 September: depart Auckland, arrive Easter Island via Santiago, Chile (LAN)

13 September: depart Easter Island, arrive Santiago, Chile (LAN)

17 September: depart Santiago, arrive Buenos Aires, Argentina (LAN)

21 September: depart Buenos Aires, arrive Montevideo, Uruguay (American)

25 September: depart Montevideo (Iberia)
26 September: arrive Madrid, Spain

29 September: depart Madrid, arrive Helsinki, Finland (Finnair)
===========

Excluding Finland but including Hong Kong SAR separately, on the entirely spurious basis that it has its own immigration controls, that makes 11 countries in 58 days, with a total scheduled flying time of just over 78 hours.

Those are the bare facts. The photos are on Flickr. More travellers' tales may follow. At last. Now that I can include Thailand, and Ohio, and....

Troubling times

2010-01-05T12:42:00.000+02:00

I interrupt the quiet slumber of this blog with an urgent message for my current country of residence:
Oi! Finland! Wake up!!!

Yes, I know I've given you a bit of stick on here in the past, Finland. But usually, when push comes to shove, if someone else starts giving you lip, I'm there to defend you and tell them all about your good side. I've also reeled out some of the lines that you like so much, about how other countries don't do any better and all that.

But really! The last couple of months have been a bit silly, haven't they?

The international news media picked up on two stories from your snowy shores this Christmas. One was a former ski jumper allegedly trying to murder his wife, and the other was the actual murder of several people at my local shopping centre. That's on top of your recent history of other gun crime.

Not only that, but the last two times I've come over here to see you, your airport arrivals hall has been jammed with unclaimed luggage. Plus the central metro station in your capital city is closed for an unspecified time due to water damage, and now there's a runaway train lodged in the hotel wall at your principal railway station.

I can't leave you alone for a moment, can I?

I know it wasn't always like this, and I know you have a history of good Nordic efficiency, but I have more to tell you, and it's not pretty.

You see, several people whom I met on my round-the-world trip were mumbling unkind words about Finnish companies ignoring environmental regulations in Australia and South America. And don't forget that it was a Finnish tourist who tried to hack a piece off one of the sacred moai on Easter Island not so long ago.

You think that's funny?

Sorry, Finland, but you're fast developing an international image problem.

Sort it out, will you?!

Z is for Zorro

2009-06-29T21:30:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
26: Zorro

I must have been 15. Yes, that's right. It was at the start of our O-Level course on English literature. Our class went to see a performance of Shakespeare's Henry IV, part i in Newcastle. It was our set text.

I mean, I'd been to the theatre before: pantomime at the local community hall and musicals in London and York (that's old York, by the way). This, though, was different. It was so alive. So real. So truthful.

That was it. I was hooked. I have been a theatrical of sorts ever since.

Earlier this month (and was it really only this month), the lights went down on our latest show at the Finn-Brit Players: two one-act plays by Harold Pinter, including A Slight Ache, directed by me.

A little description is necessary here. The play sees Edward, a neurotic writer of philosophical essays (a bit like a blog A to Z, I suppose), talk himself into a self-destructive mania brought on by the presence of a matchseller. Meanwhile, Edward's wife, Flora, persuades herself into seducing the matchseller and sealing Edward's demise. The matchseller says nothing and wears a balaclava.

A balaclava.

You see, the reality about the matchseller is hidden. Everything that we think we learn about this character is assumed or projected by the other two. If tragedy is self-creating, then this play is truly Edward's tragedy, and arguably Flora's tragedy as well.

Now this is going to go all meta. Because what is theatre other than an audience interpreting characters on stage and projecting ideas onto them? What are actors other than balaclava (or mask or make-up) wearing agents provocateurs, engaging the audience in an act of consensual deception? Where is ... the reality? The truth?

And how do people relate to each other any differently in real life?

There is one sentence in particular in A Slight Ache that still resonates in my inner ear. In one of his moments of psychological disintegration, Edward shoots back at a comment by his wife with the line: "And stop calling me Edward."

Ouch! Confusion of identity? Confusion of theatricality? Once more, the truth is an elusive little swine.

Cut back to teenage me.

One of my favourite programmes on Saturday morning television was Zorro. Not the cartoon version, which I found, well, two-dimensional. No, the acted black-and-white version with Guy Williams in the lead role. Classic.

It's a superhero formula, of course. An unassuming real-life guy has a masked alter ego who selflessly saves the world, or just the country. Look at Batman, the alter ego of a namesake of mine.

Ah, it's those masks. Like the balaclava, or like stage make-up, they hide reality and distort truth. They may well do it all in a good cause, but at the end of the day, after the villains are sent packing, to find true fulfilment, Batman needs to be Bruce Wayne and Zorro needs to be Don Diego de la Vega.

The irony, of course, is that by stripping down to reality, as would happen if the matchseller removed his balaclava, the superhero also becomes fallible. But isn't that weakness more ... human?

I don't know what has brought this on in me now. Maybe the matchseller has had an influence on me, too, but I tire of the balaclava. That is, I tire of the masks that we, all of us, wear every day. Even this blog is a mask of sorts: a constructed view of its creator, differing from and maybe even replacing your view of the real person whom you may or may not recognise in the street.

So here I am at the end of my A to Z, and I find myself swiping a Z for Zorro line in the sand. Zorro represents the mask, the illusion, and the alter ego. My line in the sand says that I refuse my consent beyond this point. I am no longer satisfied with being and seeing less than the whole truth. There must be more than that out there, waiting to be discovered. I must re-evaluate my theatre, my writing, my ... many things.

Thank you for coming with me on this A to Z journey, dear reader. It's been a bumpy ride, but perhaps I will be back sooner rather than later. Who knows?

Y is for yesterday

2009-06-21T22:10:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
25: Yesterday

Midsummer in Finland. Time to re-discover The Beatles, re-organise the future, and re-evaluate the past.

'Nuff said.

X is for Xanadu

2009-05-30T18:20:00.003+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
24: Xanadu

I have completed the first step of my promise to myself. It's goodbye to all that. Kanikoski has left the building. No more corporate whoredom (for a while, at least).

So to the next step: the journey, the trip, the grand world tour. Whatever.

Whatever. That's the key, isn't it? For I guess we are all in some way attempting to find the elusive whatever that may on the off-chance fulfil us. The problem, as always, is to be sufficiently open that we may just recognise whatever when it comes along and slaps us in the face, and sufficiently wary of any false whatever that we don't start chasing ultimately fruitless shadows.

It's an age-old quest, whether narrated as poking around for a holy grail or searching for Mr Right. And people have had very different ideas of what form whatever might take. So over to you, Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree".

Well, quite. Pleasure-domes have always been vogue when it comes to exploring whatever. Very sensible, this. For a while. Until the gloss wears off.

"A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played".

Fine. But putting aside the likelihood that most creative writing gurus would jump on poor Samuel Taylor for using the word dulcimer twice in just four opium-heavy lines, how does this get us closer to whatever? Our sardonic post-postmodern age does not easily accept a drug-induced vision of a musical Abyssinian as a worthwhile marker on its quest.

"I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!"

Good, good. Samuel Taylor was wise enough to throw some killjoy iced water on the flames. He knows it's all dangerous illusion. He's a post-postmodernist at heart.

But nevertheless, I cannot stop myself feeling that a more ethereal Xanadu, a city of dreams or whatever, is out there somewhere. This is the Xanadu I seem to be seeking; not the opulent Chinese pleasure-dome. Though it does bother me a bit that the Xanadu quest may be just another way of, as The Eagles put it, "ridin' fences".

Yes, that song has been much on my mind lately, too. For freedom read Xanadu:

"And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'."

But meanwhile, we must all tread our own paths and make our own mistakes. So here's to the quest for Xanadu.

-----

Quick plug: Seeking the Xanadu within? The Finn-Brit Players open their latest production in Helsinki next week. 5 - 13 June: two short plays by Harold Pinter, including 'A Slight Ache' directed by yours truly. Bookings are coming in fast at finnbritplayers.com.

W is for wanderlust

2009-04-03T21:10:00.003+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
23: Wanderlust

Decisions, decisions.

I recently took one of those immensely silly but occasionally fascinating personality tests that you get in certain sorts of magazines and on Facebook. Yes, I took it on Facebook. I'm one of those people.

Anyway, this particular quiz sagely revealed that if I were a Shakespearean character, I'd be Hamlet. Apparently I think too much (go on, tell me something I didn't know) and am torn by conflicting philosophies and fears.

Um, yes. Maybe. Or maybe not.

With this in mind, and having written in recent (and yet distant) blog entries about my wavering attitude to solitude, my thoughts turn to wanderlust. Mayhap solitude and wanderlust are not necessarily companions, I soliloquize, Hamlet-like, at the Swiss cuckoo clock that ticks above my computer desk. But that conflict of philosophies is not the topic here.

No. It's time to go public. A decision has been made.

How many times do we make truly life-defining decisions? I suspect that we subject ourselves to status-quo-affirming or go-with-the-flow indecisions on a regular basis. But what about swimming against the tide and proactively putting ourselves through the process of change?

Back in 1990, as a goofy and fresh-faced graduate in a dead-end job, I decided to walk out and throw what little cash I had into a certificate in teaching English as a foreign language. A year later, I applied for a job in Hungary, was offered one in Bulgaria, and have been in ex-pat exile for 17 of the 18 years since accepting.

Now, approaching the age of 42, contemplating what might be termed a mid-life crisis or the 7-year itch or the answer to which Douglas Adams never really found a satisfactory question, a similar turning point lies ahead. For yesterday, dear reader, I signed my resignation papers.

Yes, in two months, I will begin what I consider to be a well-earned career break. I will exit corporate life with sufficient financial padding to keep me in baby carrots for a good while, plus a sketch of a plan to visit at least some of the bits of the world that I haven't visited yet.

It's that wanderlust thing, see. There's stuff out there and I want a taste of some of it. And when the money runs out ... well ... I'll deal with that later.

Meanwhile, I think Fortinbras would like a word....

V is for veracity

2009-02-15T21:30:00.003+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
22: Veracity

One frequently used symbol of the process of maturing and 'settling down' is living in a house called 'Dunroamin'. I dislike the name 'Dunroamin' with quite visceral ferocity. It breathes unbearably smug self-satisfaction on so many levels.

Firstly, the occupants of said dwelling imply that they have seen not just some, but as much of the world as they need to satisfy their obviously satiable curiosity. Secondly, they imply that they are now above all that or, even worse, that they have become the keepers of some sacred wisdom.

Even now, in my forties, as my wishes for a comfortable life turn more than usual in the direction of shelves of leather-bound books and servings of hot-buttered crumpet in front of an open fire, I still find 'Dunroamin' just plain wrong. I never want to lose my curiosity, whether it involves travel in a physical, spiritual, or intellectual sense. It's such a part of life. You might as well just call your house 'Dunthinkin' or 'Dunlovin'.

Of course, the search for truths (plural) in life is not only external, it is also internal, and for a couple of years now I have been following this part of my urge to roam through a good, long look at Jungian psychoanalysis.

One thing that this has brought me is a conviction that, however hard we try to prevent or deny it, we carry our prior experiences of life with us at all times. Our previous 'roaming' travels with us in our minds and affects our current 'roaming'. It is then our choice whether we let it weigh us down into 'Dunroamin', or whether we use it to achieve greater understanding and clearer vision, as we seek our truths.

This leads me on to another thought. How is it, in Western culture, that the search for truth, for veracity, is somehow mostly linked with identifying the bad stuff? The 'cool' is so often a portrayal of the dark, the bleak, and the distasteful. It is almost as if we go through life in a state of perpetual adolescence, angry at the ugliness around and within us. In fact, we seem to be fed by an adolescent-oriented pop culture that nurtures this mindset and strives for the teenage coolness that lies in the depressive. Even in the 'high' literary world, the special praise is reserved for the view of "the skull beneath the skin".

The case for the positive is not helped, of course, in that many of the images of 'not the Dark Side' really do lack depth and insightfulness. I am certainly not a fan of the thick sugar coating that is lavished onto much of what passes for modern day 'romance'. It has me reaching for the sick bucket as much as the next self-disrespecting, black-denim-clad misfit.

However, veracity should involve both yin and yang. Yes, we need to be honest in seeing what is rotten, but we also need to be honest in seeing what is good. It's quite easy these days to see and say that the world is crap. But to see and describe the beauties of the world in an intelligent and truthful post-modern manner? Now there's a challenge.

Back at Jung, I wonder how much of the crap is just in our heads anyway. As a culture, we yearn for things to love, and yet we sneer at much that might go some way to satisfying this need. I postulate, therefore, that it is not the love object that we miss. It is the post-adolescent ability to allow ourselves to feel and accept that love.

To put it another way: there is more in the world than crap, but the crappiness in us often prevents us from seeing it. And that crappiness; where does it come from? Is it in our nature? Is it due to bad experiences that, in our busy lives, we fail to sufficiently process and understand? Or is it down to a contemporary culture that focuses on the Dark Side of the Force?

To understand the veracity of that balance would be wisdom indeed.

The almost obligatory Obama post

2009-01-21T16:03:00.001+02:00

I justify this intrusion into my A to Z as a post-script to my last entry.

Following the inauguration speech of the 44th president of the United States of America, I flipped through a few bits and pieces here and there to read about the rhetoric involved, because I tend to look at that stuff.

One point in particular caught my thoughts and my mood. This was a comment on the difference between the incoming and outgoing chappies in terms of approach to policy-making.

In Obama's speech, this took form in terms of choosing hope over fear. A recognition of hard times, but a positive mood towards making things better. We're in trouble but we can work together, get over it, and move forward.

The analysis contrasted this to the regime of George W, which, it argued, was defined by negatives and the fear factor; by can't and don't. We can't protect the environment because we'll wreck the economy. We can't maintain human rights because we'll be letting our enemies escape. We can't ... all sorts of things ... improve universal health care, reduce carbon dioxide emissions, or even count all the votes; we don't accept other points of view and we won't change our ideas.

Essentially, the plethora of can't and don't scenarios reads like the journal of a committed depressive, caught in a cycle of self-destruction.

As I posited under unknowingness, negative leads to negative. In the case of the no-longer-incumbent, this included a drift to an astonishingly low approval rating.

As an antidote, cut to another US presidential inauguration, rather longer ago, and "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

Thank you, FDR. So it's time to live and learn once more. It's time to see what is light and what is right, and not waste a lifetime wallowing in self-pity and darkness.

U is for unknowingness

2009-01-17T16:22:00.000+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
21: Unknowingness

We're getting towards the end of the alphabet. I'm not sure that I thought I'd ever get this far, and there are 'difficult' letters ahead. Time for some sort of meta-analysis.

I've tried some limited introspection before. But how is this larger exercise helping, and how much more do I know myself now? In fact, how far do any of us know ourselves, and to what extent do we depend on others for a view of who we are?

Then, if the mirrors that we and others hold up are unflattering, and the reflected image is unpleasant, does negative always reflect negative, forever stuck in the same destructive thought, in some sort of spiralling, self-damning image to eternity?

It would be, in this situation, all too tempting to try to run away from ourselves. Which is, of course, impossible, and can only lead to pain.

It may seem that I'm digressing, but the riverbed drift of this thought is that it's time, maybe, to return to some basics. If I'm not happy with me, then nobody else will be happy with me. If I'm always negative about stuff, then negative stuff will continue to happen. If I'm always being closed, then things around me will continue to be closed.

I don't think I've painted a particularly positive image of myself so far in this A to Z. The initial entries started off on the track of describing things that I am not. A lot of the later entries became accounts of the darker side of my personality. And, as was pointed out to me, even the entry on jocularity was quite a humour-free zone. The last year has, it seems, thrown me off balance.

Healing injuries, as I have discovered with my shoulders, takes time and effort. It is necessary to identify the underlying condition, then to treat it, and then to allow time for rehabilitation.

This is also true of emotional injuries. And we all have them. Often they have been piling up since early childhood, accumulating and increasingly debilitating. Maybe in the rush to get on with life (or to attempt to get away from ourselves), we don't pay them enough attention, so that the scars never truly heal. So that the underlying pain prevents us from being who we truly are.

For example, what is the emotional injury in that, for more than 20 years, I have had to be wary of shoulder movement and strain? Never stopping before to properly heal the underlying condition, has this physical restriction led to emotional restriction? Has this emotional restriction led to a lack of fulfilment? Has this lack of fulfilment then led to an expectation of failure, which has ultimately stopped me from being me?

So the dominoes tumble.

To live life at all, healing is necessary. Maybe it is only now, with this A to Z, that I have started to properly identify the issues at hand. With my shoulders approaching full function, maybe I can now, at last, start the real treatment and rehabilitation.

T is for timidity

2009-01-15T17:02:00.001+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce

20: Timidity

Good friend keltanen posted on language the other day. More specifically, on a podcast by Stephen Fry, urging us Anglophones to be (presumably) more like 'the Frenchies' and actually enjoy the words we speak, rather than getting all splenetic over a rogue apostrophe.

Out with the anally retentive intercourse with commas, and in with all the plentiful fruits of wordplay and wit.

All well and good. Say no more.

Except that I'm drawn in two directions at once: a desire to leap exultantly from the whale-bone corset of grammatical correctness and dangle my participles for the adoration of all, and a nagging thought that it's good to be understood.

But if my natural, innate psycho-/socio-/syntacto-linguistic self is yearning to be let out to roam the literary fields unmolested, seeking truth and love and all things yummy, what does that say about my other, culturally nurtured, self and its quest to impose order on chaos and understand just what the hell is going on?

Is the latter clearly in the wrong? Can my two selves coexist without tearing each other apart?

Hence the timidity thing. Because I often get stuck between the two, on the fence between me and me, telling each side not to be such a complete wazzock and please listen to the other for once.

And it's not just language. Oh no.

It's also self-expression, even life, as a whole: to express or not to express, to dare or not to dare, which leads through the logic circuits of my mind to the conundrum of linguistic determinism.

If I free my words in songs of Fry-like effervescence, will my soul follow, soaring in their wake? And if so, does the reverse apply, so that my occupation as purveyor of definite articles and scourge of imprecise adjectives restricts my emotional inner life, like a grumpy grammar teacher with a spanking stick?

I don't think that's quite the case, because sometimes it is only by speaking an idea out loud that one can realise the absolute nonsense that lies behind the veneer.

So do I have to heal and grow my soul in order to produce language that truly speaks? Maybe, but if this is the case, where is such growth to be found if not in words?

I wish I could sing like no one is listening and love like I've never been hurt and all the rest of that marvellous advice to the over-wary. But they are, and I have, and pretending otherwise is all very well but, dammit, if I go on like that it becomes chaos and someone gets hurt. And when I keep it all in, someone gets hurt anyway.

So I retreat to my fence and plead with my yin and my yang to stop pulling me in all these different directions and just let me sleep for a while. Then, maybe, when I wake up, the sun will be shining, the bees will be buzzing, and the beavers will be swimming in the lake. The language will be both voluptuous and clear, the song will be both expressive and easy, and I will be both loving and loved once more.

S is for solitude

2009-01-06T15:20:00.001+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce

19: Solitude

On this day of Epiphany, let's start with three little pieces of me.

Piece #1: The novel that I am currently reading is The Solitude of Thomas Cave, by Georgina Harding. It's a cracker. Set in 1616-17, it tells of a crewman on a whaling ship who sets out to be the first person to spend winter in the Arctic. I'm only half way through, but so far, what he has tried to log as a scientific experiment has instead been dominated by visions of his lost love, who died in childbirth.

Piece #2: Back in spring 2007, which now seems a lifetime away, I visited Ljubljana. In one of my photographs from that trip, I described myself as "a solitary tourist". One response I got to that was concern that I had been so lonely. Phooey, said I. Solitude and loneliness are not the same thing.

Piece #3: Rather more years ago than that, as I was coming to terms with the end of a relationship, I said to a friend that I needed more time to myself. "No," replied my friend, "you need more time with other people."

Now let's place the pieces into the jigsaw.

I think my attitude to solitude is changing. Maybe it's to do with turning forty and middle-aged, or maybe it's to do with having just spent a year of convalescence in love but largely on my own. In any case, whereas in spring 2007 my solitary sojourn seemed totally natural, things seem different now. I am beginning to view solitude as a state that I have visited to recover from emotional trauma, but not as a state in which it is wise to live for long periods. I have become too accustomed to the emotional hospital bed, if you like.

Compare India and Finland. Despite the difficult conditions that can exist in India, which may seem almost impossible by European standards, many of the people living together in close-knit groups of friends and family seem genuinely content. In Finland, it is comparatively easy to subsist alone and pretend that all is well, but many people who do that seem utterly miserable. They may blame other factors, but miserable they are.

Of course it's not easy to live with others. There is always a trade-off, a balance, so that each person gets enough space, independence, and respect. But in the end, isn't it the emotional connection to other people that makes this life worth living?

I must review my attitude towards solitude. Happy Epiphany, dear reader.

R is for reminiscence

2008-12-30T18:35:00.004+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
18: Reminiscence

"Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention." Ah, Sinatra!

Christmas ... New Year ... the time to get all mushy about looking back. Though, given how I've felt through much of 2008, what I really want to be doing is looking forward. Perhaps I spend too much time, as my father put it in a well-used sermon of his, "looking in the driving mirror".

I don't want this to be about regret, however. That's a strong word. We all remember things that we could have done differently, but here we are. Doesn't regret imply that we'd rather be somewhere else, doing something else?

Looking back is a difficult thing, in any case. There can be a temptation towards an Orwellian rewriting of the past. We either cast ourselves in a better light, blot out our worst moments, and imagine we were better than we were; or we do the opposite, and take the guilt for things that were actually beyond our control.

It's a little like being the type of person who, to me at least, appears to decide that they will feel or not feel a certain way. There is dishonesty in that. Someone who decides how to feel, rather than truly feeling it, must surely be denying to themselves who they really are. In the same way, not accepting the events and decisions of our past for what they were is like a denial of our own identity. And without identity, we are in limbo, unable to see ourselves, unable to move forward.

So reminiscence can be positive, even essential, if used in the right way.

And where did all this come from? I hang my head in shame. From a sequence in It's a Very Merry Muppet Christmas Movie, on daytime TV in Britain last week. Everything is going wrong for Kermit and he wishes he had never been born. In the spirit of A Christmas Carol, he is obligingly shown an alternative reality in which he had never been born: Gonzo is an unsuccessful busker, Fozzie is a pickpocket, and Miss Piggy operates a dubious telephone service in an apartment full of cats. Needless to say, seeing such a nightmare scenario, Kermit realises the true value of friendship and thereby manages to save, if not the world, at least his theatre.

So move from regret, to reminiscence, to the future. What have I done to make a difference? How can I make a difference again? Can the Muppet Theatre survive?

With that thought, it will be 2009 in a couple of days. Happy New Year, everyone!

Q is for quiescence

2008-12-04T22:25:00.001+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
17: Quiescence

I often do far too much to avoid an argument.

What? You disagree? Alright then, I don't.

And actually, you're right. Though before we all get confused and this turns into a language lesson, I don't mean acquiescence. I mean quiescence. I mean that I keep quiet rather than raise a fuss. So let's start again.

I often do absolutely nothing to avoid an argument.

This is not necessarily a good thing.

Firstly, there's probably very little wrong with having an argument, if it clears the air and helps to uncover a healthy way forward.

Secondly, my quiescence means that when I don't like something, anyone else involved may not realise it until a good amount of tooth has been ground away. In fact, I can fairly quietly survive many long months of feeling thoroughly dejected. I may get moody and grumpy and shed the occasional tear in private, but we're still talking about quiescence rather than acquiescence, remember.

But, like any form of suppression, maybe this sort of quiescence can't and won't last forever. One day the bubble must burst. Quietly.

P is for pedantry

2008-10-30T20:02:00.000+02:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
16: Pedantry

I guess one person's precision is another person's pedantry. It's a difficult distinction to draw, and most often subjective. (And if you're now assessing how that statement might be wrong, and how pedantry might be seen, in some objective way, to be different from precision, then you're a bit like me.)

This difference also makes for some interesting feelings and reactions. When I ask for precision from someone else, that's one issue. When someone else gets all pedantic about something that I've said, that's another matter entirely. Of course. And are you any different?

Many linguists are somehow pedants at heart. When one's job (or pastime, or profession, or interest, or hobby, or [insert better word here]) involves analysing fine semantic and syntactic details, it comes with the territory.

But when it's me that's doing it, I'm just being precise. I'm often just correcting generalisations and simplistic assertions. Surely that's obvious?

So there's actually no more to say on the topic. You know I'm right. And any disagreement would simply be pedantic.

-----

Compact Oxford English Dictionary online:

pedant, noun, "a person excessively concerned with minor detail or with displaying technical knowledge"

precise, adjective, "1 marked by exactness of expression or detail. 2 very attentive to detail. 3 exact; particular"

O is for onions

2008-10-09T22:54:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
15: Onions

There is a wonderful saying in English that somebody "knows their onions". Basically it means that they know what they're talking about, usually concerning a particular subject.

I like to know my onions. And that, like most things, is potentially both good and bad.

The desire for onion knowledge can drive some people to peel back as many layers of skin as possible, which is arguably a good thing if this happens before committing to an action. Or may be a bad thing if they feel they never get to the centre, or never have a full enough plate to start eating.

On the other hand, the side of exhibitionism that involves the public display of one's alliaceous pickle can lead the afflicted to pretend they have more vegetables in the sack than is actually the case.

So I will resist attempting to identify, classify, and pronounce on the oniony bit of Bruce, and will instead let others draw their own conclusions.

But there are two more things about onions that are worth noting at this point. Firstly, they are an essential base for many sorts of cooking. And secondly, if someone cuts into them, they can make you cry.

---

Enigmatic postscript: I didn't have a suitable photograph of an onion with which to illustrate this entry. I was about to take one. But then, thinking about a recent conversation that will not be explained here, I found another photograph. So there's a picture of my walnuts to satisfy (or excruciate) my readers.

N is for nakedness

2008-09-27T12:20:00.000+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
14: Nakedness

Once again, I return to T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:
"There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet".

In addition, I get to use a word that should increase hits on my blog tenfold and that may even get me onto some secret police watch list.

Hello boys and girls! Nothing to see here. Move along, folks.

For what I mean by nakedness (as opposed to nudity) is the face under the face; the mask removed.

The trouble with masks is that, if you wear them for long enough, you become like them. And (as they say in Yorkshire) if you make a face and the wind changes, the face sticks. So gurn at your peril!

On the other hand, without a mask, without an extra face, one becomes ... well ... exposed to public view.

So what masks and faces do I use?

Certainly, I have played a round or two of The Vicious Circle of the Great Mask of Indifference. The rules are simple. Think of something that you want. Imagine, for whatever reason you can come up with, that you can't get it. Then pretend that you don't want it. This almost guarantees that you won't actually get it. So you can start to believe that you never get what you want, and that you really don't care one way or the other. The Great Mask of Indifference ensures that you stay well within this comfort zone.

This, by the way, is not to be confused with The Raised Drawbridge Mask of Nonchalance. Such a mask is a defensive posture for use against provocative fellows who wish to see the colour of the wallpaper inside your castle. Whatever they do, jumping up and down or chucking cannonballs through your windows, the inscrutable Mask of Nonchalance demonstrates that you hardly even notice their presence.

Another example would be The Day-to-Day Drudgery Mask of Getting By. In Yorkshire, this would be known as the Mask of Nobbut Middlin'. It's been quite a favourite of mine, and I've been so habitual in its use that, even when I'm feeling that life is quite good, people come up to me and ask what the matter is.

Maybe the wind changed.

But now, a little like a forty-year-old Winston Smith at the Ministry of Truth, at the age at which a man supposedly has the face he deserves, I begin to wonder how life would feel if the oppression of public view was removed and I could peel back the masks. To not care that, when I laugh, my eyes pop out and my rabbit teeth protrude. To not give a damn about the middle-age spread and the receding hairline.

Would I get all that I want? Would I be able to feast and drink, chortle with merriness, and frolic in the other kind of nakedness for the rest of my days?

Or, as we have turned from Eliot to Orwell, is it the job of the internal Thought Police to prevent such insane freedom?

M is for music

2008-09-21T13:30:00.004+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
13: Music

Here's a typically me bit of irony: when I was studying theatre, I didn't join the student drama group. Nope. Looking from the outside, it seemed several rungs too pretentious for my taste. I was after something more honest, more open, more salubrious. I ended up in the Gilbert & Sullivan Society, which was lots of fun and a surprisingly good place to engage with practical stagecraft. And more importantly in terms of 'food for the soul', I ended up in the chamber choir.

It was a great little group to be in (though probably terribly pretentious seen from the outside). Membership was by audition only, the conductor was the professional director of music at the arts centre, and there were no music students. (Well, there couldn't be. There was no music degree course.)

Thinking about it now, a large percentage of my most intense artistic experiences to date came with that choir. I have already mentioned the St John Passion. There was a tour of northern Italy with Handel's Coronation Anthems, in which 'Zadok the Priest' brought a full appreciation of the magnificence of the acoustics of Italian church architecture. There were guest visits to Durham Cathedral, Winchester Cathedral, and the chapel at Windsor Castle. There was the powerful Symphony 13 by Shostakovich, at the Royal Festival Hall, in which the percussion section of the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra demonstrated how drums and chimes really should sound. There were BBC radio broadcasts. There was even the recording of an album of English choral chamber music.

Sometimes I forget how much I've been around. However, the point of this is how the making of music on all these occasions was a deeply felt artistic endeavour.

People get their jollies in different ways, of course, and I've also had a good share of kicks in theatre. But thinking now, there is little for me that has approached the raw emotional buzz of being part of that group as it milked the potential of a cadence or counterpoint.

Part of the trick, I guess, is risk-taking. It's like being in a relationship. To get the full emotional value out of music, theatre, or any art, one has to open up, heart and soul, and be vulnerable. Without that, 'Zadok the Priest' is mumbling apology rather than soaring ecstasy. Without that, the percussion is a couple of taps on a triangle rather than a swell that makes the foundations of the earth shudder.

I haven't committed myself to a choir for many years. I just haven't wanted to face the disappointment if (and, as I unfairly suspect, when) it doesn't reach the same heights. I haven't opened myself to that vulnerability, to that possibility of disappointment.

But as I say, living in this world in any emotionally meaningful sense requires risk-taking. So now I'm wondering what risk should come next.

L is for lollipop

2008-09-02T23:50:00.002+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
12: Lollipop

When I was a young teenager in Yorkshire, we lived just a short walk from the town centre. It was not a very big town, but it was well flavoured by wholesome air off the Moors and the Dales, with a twice-weekly livestock market, farmers' pubs, and a real sense of community. Actually, I rather miss it.

The first shop on the walk from home to town was a sweet shop. With the few coins that I got as pocket money, I had to spend wisely. I could stand in that shop for what seemed like hours, staring at those wonderful old-fashioned glass jars full of loose sweets to be weighed by the pound, deciding what the week's treat would be. Actually, I rather miss that, too. Except for the lack of cash.

Today, a little like then, I should decide which item, from the plethora of possibilities, to select for L.

L seems to be well-endowed as far as bits go. There are lungs and legs. There is liver, and lap, and various lobes. Topically, there is labrum. (No, not that. Go and look it up. It's part of the shoulder, and both of mine have been stitched.) There is even libido. But let's not go there today.

The jar of L also contains life, love, and loneliness. The latter two make an exceptionally bitter pair when combined. In my late twenties, I was in a distance relationship for four years. That's four years in which we only saw each other for two or three weeks in every fifty-two, being separated by visa regulations and, again, a general lack of cash. (Come to think of it, L is also the basis of the symbol for pound sterling [£] and is the first letter of the Bulgarian currency, the lev, as well as several others, such as lek, leu, lira....) Beyond the spondulicks, however, I wonder if I have yet fully processed that period of emotional imbalance between solitude and intimacy.

So, for all these reasons and more, because it's one of the things in the shop that I would be able to afford now even if I couldn't then, and because we all need comfort from somewhere, L is for lollipop.

K is for kinesis

2008-08-28T22:55:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
11: Kinesis

Dark days. The effects of the A to Z are lessening. It's not that it's a bad idea or that it encourages too much introspection. It's just not enough. What I need, what I have grown up with, what has stopped me from going crazy all these years, is action and movement.

I guess constant movement has also stopped me from having to think about the potential bits of the A to Z that are missing.

It was the same pattern in January. I held it together, quite well under the circumstances, for about two weeks. In February, something changed. The four walls of my flat, which in other circumstances I have considered a sanctuary, became a prison. My solitude, which at other times I have considered a personal strength, became a gnawing weakness.

I have already blogged that I consider myself to be moderately clever. At times I can be quick-witted. (And, for the record, driving test apart, I have never failed an examination ... not even the fast-stream civil service IQ test that, if I'd had the right sort of personality, could have set me on the path to the diplomatic corps or MI6.) But I'm also mentally restless. Or am I just mentally undisciplined? At least, I am, in some way, kinetic. I need movement. Mental and physical. And without sufficient lubrication, the engine of the mind burns itself out.

In the old days, when I was bogged down and unwanted after graduation, I wrote several hundred job applications. I would not write a batch at a time. Back then, in the days before e-mail and affordable personal computing, I would concentrate on one application, finish it to my satisfaction, and then walk down the street to post it. The walk to the post box became symbolic of the closure of one thought and the beginning of another: the movement, the oxygen, the freedom.

That movement, in varying degrees, let me cope as an individual. That is, it let me cope. First-person singular. Young and proud, I was stubbornly independent, accountable and tied to no one. Even more so when events took me to Bulgaria in the wild days of economic chaos.

But now, without movement to camouflage the gaps, I question my former self. What was it that I didn't want to be tied to? What was it, other than myself, that I kept trying to move away from?

Answers on a postcard, please, to: Bits of Bruce, Splendid Isolation, Finland.

J is for jocularity

2008-08-26T22:27:00.002+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
10: Jocularity

People who know me will realise that I like a good joke. Oh yes. Jocund jests and pert little puns are the stuff of life. Not to mention a good ol' double entendre or two.

I have quite a good collection on VHS and DVD that may show something of my taste. Yes, Python entrails lurk, and I'm sure Fawlty Towers and Jeeves & Wooster grace many racks, along with Men Behaving Badly and The Office. Everything's better in a box. Then there's my recent acquisition of a couple of series of Cheers, and I have the first season of Taxi on order. That's just a start.

Many of these have been bright companions in dark hours. Sometimes they have been my only companions. Well, they're cheaper than drugs and lower maintenance than pets, right?

Looking at the list above, it seems I have a taste for 'clever' comedy. It's ideas and words that tickle my funny bone. Though it must be said that I do also have a weak spot for a touch of farce and slapstick. It's possible to spy the words 'Carry On' on my shelf, for example. If you want sacks full of double entendre, that's the place to go.

One thing that I don't go for is entertainment by humiliation. Good slapstick is a well-crafted art, but getting jollies from another person's pain, as in some 'candid' or 'reality' programming, seems a touch on the sick side. Besides, in sling-bound post-operative mode, I often find myself teetering on the edge of tears, and images of anguish are too likely to tip the balance salt-side.

Perhaps similarly, I find the sort of humour that consists of shouting obscenities as loudly as possible to be plain tedious. Any tears here will simply be of boredom. There were enough crude fart jokes in the school playground, thank you. They can be handled well, as in the whoopee cushion chairs in The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, but increasing the decibels does not increase the wit.

So those are the contents of my jocular nutshell. I like lots of comedy a lot. I like it quick and smart, with just sufficient sauce. Unless, of course, it's not funny.

I is for inspiration

2008-08-24T13:31:00.003+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
9: Inspiration

One of my favourite words at the moment is apophasis. So I will start this entry by not mentioning insecurity, which was originally going to be the topic to fill this slot of my A to Z. Because I re-read Matti's kind comments from earlier and decided to blow my own trumpet a bit. Yes, from time to time, I can have a good idea or three.

I'm not saying that if I were president of the world that all would be peace, harmony, and free chocolate. Although I'd hope there'd be fewer wars and more amateur theatre. And I'd expect that energy would follow a different pattern of production and distribution. And I'd certainly make sure that the people had enough bread and circuses (an idea that the Romans placed in a derogatory context but that could actually lead to fewer wars and more amateur theatre).

And of course not every idea is a good one. I often throw in a thought off-the-cuff only to look up and realise that it was a total clunker that someone else had already dropped three minutes earlier.

No. Yes. But.

Anyway, I can occasionally have a good idea or three, but it is a bit of a puzzle where they come from. I sometimes wonder if my best ideas are actually about things that I'm not thinking about, if you see what I mean. They come out of the blue, often when I'm having a brisk walk, and definitely not before lunchtime. (Come to think of it, stuffing me into a dim office in the morning is a good way of making sure that all my best ideas are reserved for elsewhere.)

Certainly, the more I fixate, the more restricted my thinking becomes. Fresh input and fresh air are the ingredients I need to produce a fresh perspective. Yes, I should get out more.

Now, what was I saying?

Clunk.

H is for hurt

2008-08-22T18:30:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
8: Hurt

Wary of turning this blog into a one-topic whinge about wonky shoulders, I thought carefully about whether 'hurt' really justifies inclusion in this A to Z. Firstly, there are certainly lots of people in the world who are much worse off. Secondly, it may overlap a touch with 'damage'. However, living for this short period with a certain amount of persistent physical discomfort, I tend to think about this stuff, and as the topic goes way beyond just the ball-and-socket tribulations, here it is.

I tend to react badly to hurt, whether it is physical or emotional. I guess most people do. The main trouble is that it can send me into a state of irritable grumpiness, which is not a side of myself that I like very much. I wouldn't like to talk to me in the worst moments of that mood.

But what hurt are we talking about? Apart from a couple of Achilles' heels that are nowhere near the heels, I can be physically quite resilient. I'm not particularly strong, but can be stubborn enough to get from start to finish when it matters, even if it takes a while.

Emotionally, I feel that I'm usually also quite robust, but there are, of course, sensitive points. I know that I react badly when I feel I'm being overlooked or under-estimated. And while for many people it seems that a sense of loss is a big emotional tidal wave, I think I'm more in the group for whom rejection leads too easily to insecurity.

Those are the hits that bruise me easily and send me into a sulk. But we're all allowed feelings, right?

G is for guilt

2008-08-17T20:05:00.004+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
7: Guilt

Some people out there in blogland may expect me to approach the word 'guilt' in a religious sense. I'm going to disappoint them. Whatever it was that Adam and Eve got up to, it doesn't bother me. It was before my time. No, this entry is much more mundane than that. It's just that almost anything I do has the capacity to make me feel guilty.

You know how it is: the surgeon drills a hole through your shoulder and you feel guilty about bleeding all over the nice, clean sheets.

Sure, there are many people who, even if badly ill or hurt through no fault of their own, feel that they are letting others down. These people, like me, find it difficult to phone in for sick leave even when they have a fever or an arm in a sling. (Although I've been improving at that for a while. After all, if I went to work with bad 'flu, I'd feel guilty when my co-workers were unable to get out of bed the next week.)

Again, like me, there are also plenty of people who often get all angst-struck that they are wasting time. I'm here simultaneously messing with my blog, playing word games on Facebook, and half-watching the Olympics on television. I should be writing a novel, planning a round-the-world holiday, and exercising my good (well, better) arm. And I feel guilty that I'm not in the mood for any of that.

This guilt-tripping extends to things such as giving someone a present. I wonder if it was the right thing to get, and if I chose a good time to hand it over. I feel that I should have made less of a gesture ... or more. I feel I should have given something better ... or nothing at all. Although then I would certainly feel guilty.

And then this goes beyond just things that I do, and beyond things that happen in places where I should have been, even if I have a legitimate reason for being absent. I'm talking about the times when someone steps on my heel in a bus queue, or knocks a glass of wine out of my hand, or tells me that I'm not important enough to spend time with this week. Yes, it's "excuse me for existing" syndrome.

So there you are. Someone punches me in the face, physically or emotionally, and I respond by apologising.

Sorry for wasting your time.

F is for fixation

2008-08-15T20:22:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
6: Fixation

I have friends who are worried about me. Actually, it feels good to say that, so I'll say it again. I have friends who are worried about me.

It's true that, for someone who devotes large amounts of time to dangerous things like thinking, spending time alone on sick leave writing a blog about themselves writing a blog is potentially unhealthy. However, in controlled doses, I believe it can actually be a positive thing.

Quite often, I find myself with the same issue going around and around in my head. "Oh dear, did I say something wrong to X?"; "Is X in a bad mood about it?"; "If I ask X about it, will that make it worse?"; "Oh dear, did I say something wrong to X?"; et cetera, ad nauseam.

But here's one thing about this blog project. By doing it as an A to Z, the vicious circle of repetitive thinking, which is the real killer, is broken. Each entry demands a new thought.

So far, it seems to be working. But if we get half way through the alphabet and the only words appearing are synonyms, I may think again. Again.

E is for exhibitionism

2008-08-14T20:03:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
5: Exhibitionism

In the search for silver linings, being stuck at home with one functioning arm has at least let me watch some of the Beijing Olympics. (And how does Finland get away with calling it the Peking Olympics? 'Beijing' is in the logo, hey!)

One sport that I had not seen very much of before this week was beach volleyball. Now, if we're talking about exhibitionism, and if we exclude the variety that involves waving your wedding tackle around at bus-stops, then this must come pretty close to the definitive activity. Apparently there are maximum (not, as is usual, minimum) sizes for the kit. There's plenty of glistening skin, rippling muscle, and daring gymnastic agility on display, for people to ... ... er, hold on. Does this mean that exhibitionism implies the existence of voyeurism?

One commentator on the BBC Olympics blog reckoned that the women's beach volleyball is getting more television air-time in the UK than, say, the handball or water polo, because it appeals more to the (male, sexually alert) target audience. Presumably due to the factors given above.

But who am I to criticise anyone for exhibitionism? Someone who maintains a blog and uses it to post details of their life is likely to have some exhibitionist tendencies, right? Add in the Flickr stream and the theatre performances, to name but two more facets of my own public face, and it seems we have an individual desperately seeking a complementary (and probably complimentary) voyeur.

So what's it all for? Is it to seek appreciation, recognition, or maybe even approval?

Oh, dear blog voyeur, notice me! Like me!! Come back for more of me!!!

D is for damage

2008-08-13T15:40:00.002+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
4: Damage

Some years ago, a charming companion of mine half-joked that we were both "damaged goods". In her own case, she was referring to a scar from the emergency removal of her appendix. In my case, I guess it was my shoulder (which was still only damaged in the singular).

Well, yes. We're all "damaged goods", aren't we? But maybe the bigger issue is how we deal with that damage.

Let me play with an idea. The appendix scar was a mark of damage that had occurred and that had been dealt with. It was properly assimilated, if you like. There were memories attached, and even experiential learning, but the actual danger and fear were gone. On the other hand, the recurrent shoulder dislocation was damage that, in volcano terminology, was dormant rather than extinct. Although not actively erupting at the time, it could, and did, erupt again at some later point. In this way it affected my behaviour (and personality) differently.

My point is not to play down the severity of the experience of a burst appendix. My point is that the behavioural implications are different according to whether the damage is, as I theorise, extinct, dormant, or active.

Over the last couple of years, I have come to feel that the same applies to non-physical damage.

When I was young, my family moved frequently, due to my father's job. We moved every five years, on average. When I left for university and went abroad, I continued this pattern of constant moving. In consequence, I never really committed myself emotionally to a place or to a group of people. Underneath, feeling that I would just move on again, I guess I wanted to save myself the pain of loss.

The disadvantages of this are probably obvious. My emotional life became damaged, in that it was, consciously or subconsciously, restricted. In such a condition, I would and could not achieve my potential in social activity or personal relationships, because I was always holding myself back.

This is directly comparable to my shoulder condition. Knowing that pain could occur, I restricted usage and movement of my shoulders, and could not achieve my physical potential.

I am hoping that this painful period of 18 months, now entering its final stage, will move the shoulder damage to an extinct state. However, to go from dormant to extinct, it has to go through this current active phase. No gain without pain, you might say.

Is there a psychological parallel? To deal with past emotional experiences, do we have to bring them out, consciously and directly, to be able to move them from being dormant to being extinct? Is that what I'm doing in this blog?

I don't know in which volcanic phase to place my issue of trying to avoid pain by pulling back from social and personal relationships. However, I have grown up enough to realise that although pulling back may deflect the trauma of loss, it is not a proper solution because it only creates other, different pains.

After writing all those essays on literary theory, maybe I'm finally beginning to understand the necessity for catharsis.

---

Quick trivia break: The most frequent searches to land on this blog are people in the USA looking for 'European work ethic', and people in Finland looking for 'Leppävaara Thai massage'. Apologies to all. Not.

C is for confidence

2008-08-12T15:54:00.003+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
3: Confidence

If there is one word that always appeared on my school report, this is it. Just after the phrase "should have more". This also ties in with Matti's comment on B. (For which, thanks, dude. It's my choice to put this stuff out there, so there's no breach of privacy.)

I have always had difficulty estimating my own 'worth', in terms of quality of contribution, or comparative talent, or whatever. Though I have to say, as a personality trait in others, I tend to prefer people who go this way rather than over-estimating their own intelligence, wit, or (yuk!) charm.

This possibly goes to the crux of the matter. One big turn-off for me is another C, conceit. Maybe in the past I've gone a little far in the self-deprecating direction; and looking back at the first two entries in this series, this pattern could be continuing. But I'd much rather be thought of as modest than arrogant. And as, quite often, only other people are in a position to make that judgement, finding a happy mid-point is a difficult balancing act.

---

Medical update: Ouch! The Lupine anchors are now installed in both shoulders. I have painkillers coming out of my ears. This surgical episode, by the post-operative state of my hospital robe, looked to be a little, er, messy. Perhaps I'm not in the best state to be considering my A to Z, but life is full of challenges....

B is for brains

2008-08-10T20:29:00.001+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
2: Brains

Considering my current state, it is, perhaps, slightly ironic that the only thing I was actually top of the class in at school was athletics. I could run faster than anyone else and that was that. Much to the annoyance of the type of guy who got selected for the football team.

I was bottom of the class at a couple of things: notably art and, later, applied mathematics. There were one or two unfortunate fellows who were worse than me at metalwork and woodwork, which was quite an achievement on their part. And the 40 minutes that we boys spent in a home economics cookery class one day because our metalwork teacher was ill simply froze me in terror.

But I digress.

In most subjects, I was up there in the top five. It was widely accepted that I was one of the kids with "brains", especially as I was one of the bespectacled contingent. I kind of learned that I was awful at the practical stuff but could think tolerably well.

This made me a bit lazy with my memory. I didn't usually have the desire to memorise lists of boring details. Most of my history essays lacked names and dates, which was unfortunate, but were good enough at the overall patterns of, say, the Russian revolution to get away with it.

These days I see myself falling behind. Many of the people around me are a few years younger and can reel off reams of facts about both their specialised subjects and a good whack of general knowledge. Sure, I know a bit about linguistics and can, in English, spot a dangling participle at twelve paces, but I'm not up there with most of my social group in memory or cleverness.

Dammit, am I becoming fossilised and middle-aged? Not having any of those practical skills from art, home economics, and metal-/woodwork to fall back on, this is a bit worrying.

A is for ambition

2008-08-09T17:10:00.000+03:00

An A to Z of bits of Bruce
1: Ambition

Here's a problem (or not, depending on your point of view). I've never really had any burning ambition.

I have things that I like and want to do, things that I don't like and don't want to do, and things that I'm a bit nervous or reluctant to try. But things that I must, must do at all costs ... no, not really.

Maybe such desires get beaten out by experience. After a certain number of rejections - be they professional, artistic, or romantic - maybe the proverb "once bitten, twice shy" kicks in and defuses the internal drive that would actually help to overcome the obstacles that are invariably involved in getting anywhere. I used to save the rejection letters that I received in all those categories. I should have burned them.

I must have had a bit more drive when I was younger, but even then I was lacking the focus of a stated ambition. At age 16, the careers adviser in the UK told me to leave school and join a bank. (Mind you, the careers computer told me - a confirmed neurotic - to become an air-traffic controller, so I distrusted that process anyway.) I didn't. I followed the track to sixth form and university through choice, not expectation, hoping to get ... somewhere. And then I fell in with what was available, which was a desk job at a life assurance company, before a big kick of rebellion sent me abroad, where I have stayed.

There are one or two things that I'd like to do once all this shoulder business is dealt with. Things that I may come back to later in this A to Z. But how strong does the urge need to be for them to be classified as ambitions, I wonder? And I wonder if I can find the focus and drive to overcome the obstacles.

---

P.S. You. Yes, you, reading this. Take up the bit of Bruce A-to-Z challenge. A word for every letter of the alphabet, plus a brief explanation of how each one relates to you. You know you want to!

An A to Z of bits of Bruce

2008-08-08T21:30:00.002+03:00

Oh no. Here we go again.

Here we go with two things, I mean: the blog and the shoulders. After time out for summer, the next cutting is scheduled for Monday. Weirdly, I'm a bit more nervous this time around. It's not the surgery as such, though that is, of course, not without its worry. But that happens under general anaesthetic. Once the unpleasantnesses of waiting, being prepared, having the injections, and waking up wobbly are over and done with, in some ways it's not as bad as being at the dentist. Dentists tend to keep you awake these days. You can see and feel what dentists are doing.

No, the thing is the recovery period. It's long. It's slow. It's awkwardly one-armed. It involves painful rediscoveries of how to move. Last time I survived largely by passing time researching my family tree. There's not much more I can do on that at the moment, as I am getting to the limits of computerised online records and need to go to various places to look at paper and microfiche. This time, well, hum-de-ha-de-hum-de-ho.

I know. I'll resurrect my blog.

It's curious, but I think I've missed my blog in some ways over the last months. It is rather odd to analyse oneself in a public forum of course, but I think I was beginning to understand myself better when I was blogging. Sure, posting stuff on the Internet adds a level of self-censorship (or maybe in some cases exhibitionism), but writing a blog does mean having to put thoughts into words, and maybe even into words that make sense.

The enforced inactive solitude of my last convalescence, in the endless months of Finnish pre-spring, forced me into deep, dark corners of my mind. Corners that I hadn't visited for many years. Active hobbies such as theatre usually keep me away from those places, and having a social life provides a safety valve in case something from out of the darkness does force itself to the surface.

Not so in spring.

No. There were questions circulating. Questions without answers. For example, if I'm not happy, what is it that's missing? What is it that I actually want to do and achieve in life? If I can't give myself to others, how can I expect them to give anything back to me?

So this time I intend to blog. The project is an A to Z. After this introduction, the first entry will be on a bit of Bruce beginning with A, and so on. I've no idea where it will lead. That's part of the fun. But let's see how far I get, and how quickly I progress. That in itself may say something.

High on Parnassus

2008-04-02T21:35:00.001+03:00

The eternal flame

The eternal flame.
Often we passed the monument,
hand in hand at first.
Each time I failed to see
beyond the dimming light
in your increasingly sceptical eyes.

The torch passes with time.
I run a different marathon now,
keeping another's step
in cardio-congruous beat,
to an auroral mountain top.

Faster, higher, longer.

The eternal flame.
In lighter, brighter eyes.
I notice it today.

Parnassiad

2008-04-02T21:30:00.004+03:00

out of season

a single bird's song

in the gloom-drenched light

leaves echoes that drift

shrouding damp dark paths

where lovers had strolled

once kissed by the sun

as in winter's dream

we recalled our joys

of spring half-begun

cut short

your footsteps resound

.

Parnassian urges

2008-04-02T21:00:00.005+03:00

New bearing

Co-pilot to my own life, I watch myself
descend to middle-age.
From flying high to cruising in turbulence,
referring to the manual, made up
of extracts from books I thumbed
when thoughts were new.

The controls are worn,
the view of clouds familiar,
and the radar down.
The sleepless watch continues,
in disoriented misconception that
I know the destination.

Below, the ghost of myself tracks
footpaths worn by long-lost lovers.
Are they happier now, the voices
that whispered to me once
on sensual summer evenings
and solemn Sunday mornings?

Co-pilot to my own life, I watch myself
push on, one engine out.
The throttle strains to turn,
to bank against the gravity of baggage
in the hold that pulls me down.
The compass plots a more supernal course.

Writing Society, 'factory'

2008-03-31T12:00:00.002+03:00

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Muses churning, verses buzzing,
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With images in perfect rhyme
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at the push of a button.

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Each phrase inspires like simile,
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Morphemes that guarantee delight,
Phonemes with awesome symmetry.

Congratulations on installing me,
afflatus server professional,
with wireless connectivity to PoetInYourPocket®.
(Multiple PoV requires empathy client and additional broadbard subscription.)

Trim the trochees, stretch the spondees.
Quality parsed and certified,
A virgin sonnet on CD,
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Each shade of life intensified.

Subject, verb, and direct object.
Subject, verb, and direct object.
I - - love - - you.

Warning! For personal safety,
emotional response must be disabled.

Each and every in its place is,
Nouns and verbs around and round go,
You turn me on, on me you turn,
Incant, decant, recant, confess

Alert!
Feeling-to-form conversion failure.
Incompatible sentiment detected.
Edit from PoetryFactory master control pad.

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Save now or any insights you have had may be lost.

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Eject poet.

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Seeking John Thomas

2008-02-01T20:10:00.001+02:00

Five weeks of sick leave gives one time to fiddle. To do some of those things that have been at the back of one's mind for a while.

Oh, stop it. You know what I mean.

My current project is genealogy. In the last few years, a good number of Internet search engines and databases have sprung up to make this easier than, say, ten years ago. With such assistance, so far I have been relatively successful [sic!], and in one case have got back as far as the 16th Century.

The good dude keltanen asked me yesterday what I get out of it. One thing, I said, was a sense of identity.

Let me reconsider that. What I mean, I think, is a sense of connection: with people, with history, with a culture.

For example, Charles Dickens published Nicholas Nickleby in 1838-1839. I now know with a high degree of probability that, at that time, my great-great grandfather James was a teenage woolsorter in the West Riding of Yorkshire. The genealogy gives me a personal context to a whole set of historical and literary images and allusions that I have accumulated over the years. I can now do this to some extent all the way back to Shakespeare.

Another bonus is being able to see how a cultural identity has developed over time, and to be able to get a personal reference point in that as well. For example, although I haven't yet found an actual John Thomas among my ancestors, it is certain that Thomas begat John and John begat Thomas. And with the amount of begetting that went on in those times, it becomes easy to see how certain expressions arose.

Up and at 'em

2008-01-18T14:05:00.000+02:00

I went outside today.

Not much news in that, maybe, and I only went to post letters and buy stamps from the corner shop. But my world in the last few days has consisted of Facebook, 19th century census sheets, DVDs of Hercule Poirot, and packets of painkillers. Yes, it's post-operative recuperation, part the first.

The irony of the medics immobilising one arm and then telling the patient to change their own dressings is still playing on my mind. Now add to that the daily complications that, when fully fit, seem so ridiculously simple not to be worth mentioning.

Getting up, making tea, unscrewing and drinking a bottle of yoghurt, brushing teeth, shaving, getting dressed, putting on shoes, putting on a coat, locking the door, fiddling with the post box, finding loose change, and then unlocking the door and taking the coat and shoes off again. Not many things there that I would normally do with just one arm. And we haven't even started on other things that happen in bathrooms.

My right shoulder is stitched back and front, and has been probed internally and fixed with things called Lupine anchors. (I'm debating with myself whether to look that up on the Internet or not.)

But today I stepped outside. The world was still there, albeit dark and damp. One small step for mankind; one giant leap for the newly implanted bits of Bruce.

Writing Society, 'time'

2007-12-05T17:13:00.000+02:00

Before it's too late

At ten, the doors swing wide and they are there.
Parade, you monsters of the last-chance lair!
The pints are pulled; set up another round;
More beer, some wine, a shot or two is sound.

Eleven, and the opening moves are made;
The games must last until all cards are played.
What gambit stokes this hand of hormone chess?
A red knight thrusts but staggers under stress.

Midnight, and poker dominates the board;
The king of clubs stalks through the sweating horde.
With glass in hand, he hunts his weekly prey;
A pawn of diamonds falls in open play.

At one a.m., a final hand is dealt.
All hearts are trumps. All weaker suits now melt.
A Stygian mist engulfs the sordid scene:
Full house; check mate. At two a.m., the queen.

Writing Society, 'soup'

2007-12-02T23:15:00.000+02:00

remnants

alone in his bachelor pad
with a bag of limp vegetables
and a cheeky little number
she gave him
however many years ago

he pokes at the fragments of cork
desecrating his only ever taste
of estate-bottled vintage

while thin soup reflects
the stock she took
and the fool she left behind

Accentuate the positive

2007-11-27T23:02:00.000+02:00

I was wrong. I realise it now. I was mistaken.

It's nothing at all to do with the cobra woman. It's not that the hits keep on coming. It's something else entirely. And now I know, Candide-like, that nothing could possibly be better in this best of all possible worlds.

The year had been going swimmingly. A super Easter break in Ljubljana, a fantastically feel-good production of The Bald Prima Donna, and a fabulous adventure in India with a most delightful companion. So what happened on the way round Rajasthan that changed things, then?

It's well obvious, innit? In Jodhpur, I bought myself a camel-bone Ganesha. This particular deity is known to be the remover of obstacles. So let us consider.

(a) Contracting salmonella. This prevented me from going to Japan, and thereby (1) gave me an extra week's holiday; (2) gave me time to post my India photos on Flickr; and (3) saved me money for (b1).

(b) Dislocating my shoulder. This (1) gave me the opportunity to go to Finland's leading shoulder surgeon and arrange for a problem that has been bugging me for years to be fixed; (2) gave me time to sit back and consider the direction of my life; and (3) forced me to step down from acting in the autumn, thus giving me a chance to learn something new and fill a gaping hole in the backstage crew.

(c) Finding tiles lifting from my bathroom walls. This (1) persuaded me to tackle the problem of a couple of other tiles that were troublesome; (2) confirmed my bathroom walls as properly dry; and (3) gave me half a bathroom wall that looks almost new.

(d) Having my 40th birthday occupational health check. This (1) helped me to identify a previously undiagnosed ear infection; (2) gave me the opportunity for a free blood-test check-up; and (3) allowed my doctor to decide to hack some bits off to prove that I'm healthy.

Points (b1), (d2), and (d3) are still in the future. More on those later, maybe. But, hey, no more negative thinking. What can possibly go wrong when Ganesha is removing one's obstacles in this best of all possible years in this best of all possible worlds?

I, Sulu

2007-11-21T22:51:00.000+02:00

The technical box of a theatre is a unique sort of place. It's a place of power and a place of separation. At the push of a button, the whole world can go light or dark. Yet the finger behind the button remains somehow hidden.

The tech side of drama is not entirely unfamiliar to me, and I was there again, with more button-pressing and fader-pushing responsibilities than usual, for our recent performances of The Mourning Primrose, by the Finn-Brit Players' very own Z for Zorro, charnel doze.

Running the lights is a bit like manning the helm on the bridge of the Enterprise. The mission won't go on without the buttons being pressed, but the direction is set by a higher authority. Furthermore, there are other guys down in the engine room who do the stuff that actually makes the buttons work. Nevertheless, with a wide array of toys to play with, the experience can be a touch on the nervous side.

The Primrose crew were fortunate enough to have an excellent Scotty-style chief engineer, in the form of a former roadie called Ted, running the theatre with admirably enthusiastic discipline. We had a magnificent Kirk leading from the captain's seat, and with our theatrical context of historical swashbuckling, Trekkies will not forget that helmsman Sulu had ancient weaponry as a hobby.

Warp seven, aye sir!

A parade of puzzled men in overalls

2007-11-08T23:16:00.000+02:00

It never rains, but it pours.

Now my bathroom is in need of attention. I'm no Mr Fix-It, but even I can see that if tiles start to lift off moisture-proof walls then there might be a problem.

I have been visited by a whole bevy of handymen, and the pattern is now familiar. Look puzzled, tap the walls, check for damp, mutter, look worried, leave.

Apparently my walls are dry. There is no damp. There is no reason for the tiles to be extracting themselves, shoulder-like, from their allocated sockets. But they are.

The game is going through the ranks of the housing association. The owner's husband asks the caretaker. The caretaker asks the repairman. The repairman asks the owner's husband. Much scratching of heads all round.

I see it now. Mr Blue Overalls, in the bathroom, with a pile of loose masonry.

The European work ethic

2007-11-07T18:10:00.000+02:00

Everyone likes a good public holiday, right? Well, not governments and corporations, of course. And especially not in the North, it seems.

This point came home to me again over the last couple of weeks. All Saints' Day, on 1 November, is a Roman Catholic holiday, fair enough. So it is no surprise to see it observed as such in countries such as France, Italy, and Spain. (But not in Ireland, if someone can explain that to me without blaming the English.)

Finland and Sweden, although not Roman Catholic by statute, try hard to be equitable but chicken out at the last and place the holiday on the nearest Saturday, which is nice for shop workers but makes life difficult for everyone else. Though it looks good on paper. (And as a side note, Finnish law has this disingenuous habit of counting Saturdays in its quota of annual leave, which makes employers sound more generous with holidays than they really are.)

Then the UK ... ah, the UK ... not only ignores All Saints' Day completely, but also ignores Hallowe'en as an opportunity to make vacational amends, and even ignores wicked ol' Guy Fawkes as a reason to give people an extra feel-good winter day off.

And by the way, is the UK the only country in the world to celebrate the day when the revolution didn't happen? Never mind. It's obviously not a real holiday.

And in Finland, we get Saturday off, so there!

What?

D'oh!

I control the blog. The blog does not control me.

2007-11-07T00:03:00.000+02:00

It's a funny thing.

Sometimes you want to blog your thoughts and feelings to the whole world to let everyone know how wonderful, cruel, beautiful, absurd, or unfair life is. And sometimes you just want to sit quiet and keep them warm and safe.

It's a funny thing.

Bills, bills, bills

2007-10-24T20:22:00.000+03:00

Last week I received a bill for a lovely ride that I had in an ambulance two months ago. (Actually, the first ambulance that arrived didn't carry any painkillers, so they had to call a second. And still they charge me. A tax-payer. But let's not go there again. For now.)

Today I received a bill for the accident and emergency treatment at the hospital the same day. No doubt it includes a special payment for the exclusive trolley-top view of the corridor.

I was, once more, amazed. Firstly, that the bill is in English. (Well done, them!) Secondly, that they obviously have a sense of humour for someone who has just passed a landmark birthday.

Dog's vomit and the apprentice radiologist

2007-10-23T21:54:00.000+03:00

Warning: This is a thinly disguised whinge. If you do not want to read a medical whinge, leave now. Go on, click! There are many better things to read. You have been warned.

Oh good, you are at least a little bit interested.

Dammit, though, I didn't want to be blogging entry after tedious entry on my even more tedious health. But bits of Bruce happen and my current misgivings with the medical service, any medical service, need to go on public record. I have grown from a child who always trusted that adults knew best, into an adult who realises that, no, actually, we don't.

It's not just that, in Britain, my shoulder complaint was seen simply as an emergency procedure, with little or no follow-up. It's not just that there seems to be so little understanding of the anxiety that goes with recurrent dislocation. (And I mean real anxiety, like lying in bed worrying that you might fall out.) No, this time around, two small incidents have crystallised my suspicion that, actually, things are in complete chaos.

I thought I was treated relatively well in the emergency room in Helsinki. The whole thing took hours, of course. And to be left lying on a trolley in a corridor like that is what you expect these days. But when, later that week, I presented myself at my own doctor's surgery with the handwritten instructions from the trauma unit, I did not expect his reaction: "This is the specialist university hospital. Why have they given you this dog's vomit?"

Presumably the question was rhetorical. Sometimes I have difficulty telling. But my worthy, retirement-age Finnish doctor then proceeded to lecture me on my rights as a tax-paying European citizen in Finland. The scrawled note from the small hours of the morning and the lack of official records were, apparently, enough to convince him that I'd been treated as a shabby foreigner and chucked out onto the street.

Next up, my MRI scan results. Again, I was happy. I trusted. I believed what the radiologist's report said. And then I spoke to my specialist. With images of my shoulders on his computer screen, he was straight on the phone to the head of radiology. After a few minutes' conversation, he turned back to me: "The radiologist who wrote the report is new here. I think they will have some discussion." The report was, apparently, missing a crucial observation. In fact, it was missing an observation that was the main reason for my having the scan in the first place. An observation that means that I have now, after all these years, finally been recommended to surgery.

So here we are again. More doctors' appointments, more therapists. Time to gather the fragments of remaining trust in the system and decide how best to be sent to cutting, as a literal translation from Finnish would so happily have it.

Writing Society, 'wall'

2007-10-09T18:33:00.000+03:00

As if in nightmare

I claw at the wall of my bubble,
Like a Scottish king dreaming spiders,
But held in a more intimate cave.

The bells ring 9-9-9 in the dark.
Fretting, white-rabbit-like, at my fate,
To strangers I must seem a goldfish.

Motion stops; the bubble fixes all;
Me like a fly in web or amber,
Bonds as clear as glass, as strong as steel.

Head first into the big, big magnet

2007-10-08T18:33:00.000+03:00

Yesterday, in the context of India, I blogged about how crowds can be intimidating. It's time to flip the coin and ramble on for a bit about how solitude can be intimidating. Am I never free of intimidation? I begin to wonder....

Anyway, this involves things medical, with apologies to anyone getting tired of reading about my health difficulties. Though I'm not blogging about having a stinking cold right now. (D'oh! ... just go and look up the word 'apophasis', right?) In fact, the context is magnetic resonance imaging (MRI).

Even with Vivaldi's The Four Seasons piped into earphones, spending 25 minutes lying still and alone in what seems like a big metal coffin, while bits of machinery chug and vibrate around your head, is not the most pleasant of experiences. The first time around I was mentally in control and almost fell asleep while they scanned my left shoulder. But the pre-scan injection put my right shoulder into spasm, so my second insertion into the tube was of a more disturbing order, as I was unable to either stretch or relax. Instead, I spent my time worrying about how I was going to get out of the box without straining my two aching shoulders.

At least that's over now. I will get my own CD-ROM of the results, for those long winter evenings when I want to examine the scarred inner mechanism of my own joints. Meanwhile, it's back to the specialist for the verdict.

People, people, everywhere

2007-10-07T16:42:00.001+03:00

It is little more than two months ago that my companion and I returned from our Indian adventure. As has been noted, the whole experience was so intense that some substantial processing time is needed to internalise the things that we saw and did. Add to that the various setbacks that have surfaced since our return to Finland, and you have a reason why it has taken so long to blog anything much about the trip.

Now, however, I flip to the pages of my travel notebook. On the road out of Delhi, I scrawled the words "wall-to-wall people; what do they all do?"

The sheer number of people was quite amazing. Take one example from the desert city of Jaisalmer. At the hotel, one of the staff (a charming older chap known to the rest of the staff as 'the boy', who would engage you in pleasant conversation for as long as it took you to twig that a tip was expected) guided us to the hotel gift shop. The lights were off and all was quiet. It was undoubtedly shut. Except that it wasn't. Immediately we approached, the lights snapped on and we suddenly had four or five shop assistants showing us clothing and souvenirs.

I was reminded of the children's television series Mr Benn, and the quote "as if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared." I have no idea how these guys spent the doubtless long hours without customers. They must simply have been sitting and waiting, because there was no delay to fetch them, as there would have been in the West. Furthermore, whereas in Europe you may expect one or two people to be doing a task, in India that number is easily doubled or tripled or more.

Such an abundance of humanity must surely lead to a different view of life than in a more sparsely populated country. In Finland, for example, I experience crowds as aggressively indifferent places. (Yes, that is an oxymoron; but yes, it does make sense.) On the other hand, in Finland, a group of people is unlikely to form around you to just stare, as happened to us straight away in India, when we entered the Jumma Masjid mosque in Delhi with our guide. Yes, that can be intimidating, even if the stares are merely inquisitive.

All told, though, for an Indian in India, with friends and family all around, the feeling in a crowd must be something quite at odds with that of a European in Europe. Perhaps the feeling of constant familiar company is warm. Perhaps the feeling is supportive. Perhaps the regular Indian seems happier than the regular European because they are so often in this sort of situation.

Perhaps I'll never know.

A statistic in medical progress

2007-09-30T19:35:00.000+03:00

I first dislocated a shoulder back in 1985, at the age of 17. Seeing a shoulder specialist now, 22 years later, I learn that with a first injury at that age, the chance of further dislocation is around 100%. Which means that with current knowledge, under my circumstances of 22 years ago, surgery to repair the damage would almost certainly follow the first incident. In my case, in spite of seven such occurrences affecting both sides, surgery has not yet been performed. This time, it looks more likely.

My shoulder trouble, over the years, has forced me to give up racquet and team sports, has seriously disrupted my theatre ambitions and participation, and has strained a number of relationships. Some people have never quite grasped that it has significantly restricted my lifestyle.

I can't help thinking that all this may have been different if I had had surgery for my first injury, as is recommended practice now. I can't help reflecting that I am a statistic in medical progress, with my experience helping others after me to avoid the same restrictions. I guess that is a good thing.

It's impossible to feel too bitter about it, though. After all, if I had been born in a less advanced age, I may simply have been left outside the cave as food for wolves.

That's medical progress. Feeding on the pain of experience.

Satisfaction in little things

2007-09-27T21:34:00.000+03:00

I am right-handed. Today I made a cup of tea with my right hand. That means filling the kettle, pouring water into the teapot, and stirring the sugar in the cup. All that stuff. Nothing special.

Except when one's right arm has been pretty much out of use for a month.

I still have only 90 degrees of movement in my shoulder, where the normal expectation is 180 degrees, and that's without holding any weight. Tomorrow I see a specialist who will decide whether I need surgery.

When someone falls over during a sports event or in a film on television, I immediately wonder how they can do it without injuring themselves, and then remember that it's something that I couldn't manage. A couple of weeks ago I watched a DVD of a David Attenborough documentary featuring orang-utans, and could hardly bear to see all the swinging through trees. How are shoulders like that possible?

But one thing that all this does: it gives a new sense of just how remarkable the everyday life that we often take for granted really is. Opposable thumbs and all.

Writing Society, 'form'

2007-09-23T21:05:00.000+03:00

Blurred vision

I did not know how to fashion her,
Sitting, head forward, on the bench,
Hair spilling over the papers,
Driving my pen with slender fingers.

I did not know what to do with her,
Later, approaching, eyes now raised,
Tears welling, upper lip turned down,
Frustrated vision, longing for breath.

And so I made her into these words,
Skimpy sketch, a half-formed muse,
So barely shaped, a silhouette
That may be her but then again is you.

The curse of the cobra woman

2007-08-26T21:18:00.001+03:00

So here I am. It's been a while.

The summer trip to India was stunning. Normal western terms of reference do not apply. The entire experience was so intense, so out-of-the-ordinary, that I'm still mentally processing. No doubt things will emerge here in dribs and drabs. For starters, check out Flickr.

The first week was a real high: heading into the Thar Desert surrounded by goatherds, camel carts, and the amazing forts of the Rajputs; discovering the incredible Golden City of Jaisalmer. The second week started on a similar high, in the dreamy white (well, off-white) city of romance, Udaipur, and the country retreat of Deogarh.

Then, on the road to Jaipur, our karma seemed to change. Waiting in our car at a railway crossing, we drew the usual attention of the local beggars. This time, it was an old woman with very few teeth and a cobra in a basket. Even if we hadn't been urged not to hand out money in the streets, opening the car window to a cobra seemed like a bad idea, so we ignored the woman as much as we could until the train passed and we drove on. I get the feeling that this left us with some sort of shadow. Since that encounter, a couple of old traumas have re-awoken.

Firstly, in Jaipur and Agra, my companion and I started to become unwell, which, on the last day, culminated in a homeward journey dominated by several hours of unremitting stomach cramps. On return to Helsinki, this was confirmed as salmonella. At 7 years old, I was hospitalised with salmonella and complications, so this ailment already carries enough bad karma in my mind. In any case, I was unfit for travel to Japan, so that leg of the summer didn't happen.

Secondly, on returning to the autumn season of theatre rehearsals, I fell awkwardly and triggered another complaint that has figured large in my medical history: a dislocated shoulder. The repetition does not make the injury less painful, and I needed a double dose of two different types of hard stuff to knock me out enough to get the joint back in place. Further surgery may be necessary to stabilise the condition at last. I am typing now slowly and left-handed.

So, as I said, here I am. Sitting at home with my second successive sick-note, remembering the highs and lows, the ups and downs, the rights and wrongs since my last blog entry. Arm in a sling, about to take my final dose of anti-malarial medicine, and hoping that simple passage of time will lift the bad karma of the beggarwoman with the cobra.

Take a large pinch of salt

2007-07-19T16:19:00.000+03:00

It is possible to rely too much on guidebooks. If the Lonely Planet guide to Rajasthan is to be believed, almost every step one takes is overshadowed by the danger of a scam, an illness, unbearable weather, or an environmental crisis.

Maybe it's like that. I don't yet know. But you can sometimes get a better sense of proportion if you go back to look at guidebooks of places that you know a little better.

Here are some excerpts from The Rough Guide to Scandinavia (1993 reprint of the 1988 edition). Don't blame me for the title; I know that Finland is Nordic really. The country was less well known in Britain then, and this was my solitary beacon of information when I first arrived, all those years ago.

On second thoughts, maybe the warnings about India are all true and the trip is just what I need to rekindle my appreciation of a quiet life.

Imatra
"Imatra has little to set it apart and you'll make more of your time by passing right through it...."

I've been to Imatra only once. The hotel restaurant closed for lunch. Other than that, I couldn't possibly comment. Although I know at least one chap who may.

Kajaani
"... idling is what you're likely to be doing if you stay here overnight. The problem of complete boredom is no less severe for the local youth, who've taken to lining the pavements of Kauppakatu in their hundreds, waiting for something to happen."

The highlight, apparently, was watching the logs floating along the river to the pulp mill. I heard that the mill has closed, so I sneakily checked out the most recent Lonely Planet guide in a bookshop. There is no mention of the mill. But it did say that Kajaani is now widely considered the most racist town in Finland. I have never been to Kajaani, but things are obviously not improving.

Kokkola
"For what it's worth, the tourist office ... can point you towards the only remotely interesting local sight: the English Park ... A much more welcome sight, though, is the train station...."

I was a regular visitor to Kokkola for a couple of years, on work assignments. This write-up is a little unfair. But only a little.

Rovaniemi
"An administrative centre just south of the Arctic Circle ... tourists who arrive on day trips from Helsinki expecting sleighs and tents will be disappointed by a place that looks as Lappish as a palm tree."

No, no. I like Rovaniemi and find it quite charming. Though that may be because I've been fortunate in my companions, just proving that it's the people who make a place special.

Varkaus
"There's little incentive to stay longer than you have to in Varkaus...."

I've been to Varkaus only once. I have no intention of returning.

Oh, and for those who know:

Helsinki
Pub Angleterre: "Utterly Finnish ... good for a laugh and cultural disorientation."

Well, yes.

Hmph

2007-07-18T11:45:00.000+03:00

Thanks for the link, Anna MR. Not quite what I was expecting, but remarkably apt.

After all, anyone at The Finn-Brit Players knows that I don't look good in hats. So the Blue Pyramid jury says:

You're Alice's Adventures in Wonderland!
by Lewis Carroll

After stumbling down the wrong turn in life, you've had your mind opened to a number of strange and curious things. As life grows curiouser and curiouser, you have to ask yourself what's real and what's the picture of illusion. Little is coming to your aid in discerning fantasy from fact, but the line between them is so blurry that it's starting not to matter. Be careful around rabbit holes and those who smile too much, and just avoid hat shops altogether.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Random numbers

2007-07-11T20:33:00.000+03:00

By 19:30 on 11 July 2007, my blog had been viewed 4,065 times.

By 19:30 on 11 July 2007, my Flickr stream had been viewed 5,514 times.

By 31 December 2006, 15,512 copies of my book had been sold.

On 10 October 2000, The Washington Post claimed that 1 in 140 people react severely enough to have to stop taking mefloquine, the malaria prophylaxis that I have just started.

On 11 July 2007, the BBC 24-hour weather forecast for Udaipur in Rajasthan, India, was 35°C maximum temperature with 100% relative humidity.

The 2007 eniro telephone directory online lists 193 hairdressers in Espoo and 825 in Helsinki.

Where do hairdressers come from?

2007-07-09T22:19:00.001+03:00

For some time I have been fascinated by the number of hairdressers in Finland. Where do they all come from and whom do they all perm? I still have the Yellow Pages from when I lived in Jyväskylä, in Central Finland. There were 146 hairdressers listed in the Jyväskylä region in 1998. Compare that to the 24 dentists or the 51 electricians. (Or the 6 psychotherapists. Or the 1 theatre. One!)

There seems to be the same peculiar overclipping in Leppävaara, the district of Espoo where I live now. To check this properly, I decided to relive the days of secondary-school geography fieldwork to see what the statistics show.

This is a raw list of the shop-fronts that I pass on my 15-minute walk home from the railway station. It does not account for the main shopping centre nor the main road, so is not a survey of Leppävaara as such, but let's take it as random and therefore vaguely typical. Get your bar charts ready. Here goes:

1 aquarium,
1 beauty parlour,
1 chemist,
1 diving-equipment shop,
1 doctor's surgery,
1 electrical engineer,
1 estate agent,
1 flea market,
1 gift shop,
1 gym,
1 osteopath,
1 solicitor's office,
1 tattoo and body-piercing parlour,
1 Thai massage parlour

2 banks,
2 dental surgeries/laboratories,
2 restaurants,
2 supermarkets,
2 video rental shops

3 kindergartens,
3 pizza take-aways,
3 pubs

and

8 hairdressers

Granted, Leppävaara is quite well-stocked if you're looking for a Quattro Stagioni to go, a tropical fish for your collection, and a quick rub-down. But that ratio of hairdressers is alarming. And I'm sure there were more of them a couple of years ago, before the beauty parlour and the osteopath moved in.

So what's it all about? I looked around. I did not detect a particular coiffuredness among the local populace (many of whom were sitting on benches, bottles in hand). I remain puzzled.

However, this little outing did lay to rest another idea that I had, which was that Finland also boasts an unseemly wealth of florists and undertakers. But maybe they're on the other side of the tracks.

Writing Society, 'brilliant'

2007-07-04T23:08:00.000+03:00

scream of delirium

best read in lust love inks as nascent time
a form so vandalised perhaps or bent
so double with a stick of rock to chime
the quarter pie in apple sky so full
shot down in flames the dream that you crave me
today and went tomorrow with intent
and forethought malice is the town you see
before you go first do no harm and pull
my leg hurts at the knee that bent to you
it was a gesture seen before you meant
to ask for dandelion and burdock stew
is rarely found wound in such balls of wool
with which we wind around our brilliant heights
where we alone can put the world to rights

The end of the kick?

2007-06-29T23:56:00.001+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Postscript

And so the publishable diaries of my time in Bulgaria come to an end. With more of a whimper than a bang, it must be said. Though, as I have noted a couple of times, it is my understatement that often takes my breath away in retrospect. The records continue after this date, but not in a form easy to manage or communicate.

But in case you have missed any highlights so far, my adventures led me to:

witness the election of the first non-socialist government since the Changes;
breathe a lot of chlorine;
get stuck in a snowbound train in the middle of the Balkans;
sit through risks of explosion (nuclear and otherwise);
get used to vodka for breakfast;
lose all sense of direction and hope in a dark, faceless housing complex;
spend a lot of time in the dark with no hot water or electricity;
impersonate a French diplomat;
receive vegetable insults from the Turkish police;
find a different sense of direction and hope in a different faceless housing complex;
direct a school play at the 670-seat city Opera House.

That's not a bad list for the first year. There is a very basic Google map that marks a lot of the places involved.

Following the petering out of normal service in the diary department, I would go on to visit my colleague in Varna, spend a month recuperating in the UK, and then return to Bulgaria for a year in Veliko Turnovo. In this wonderful university town, I would lose one love but find another; finally get around to visiting Romania; have glandular fever misdiagnosed as syphilis; and ... but let's leave those stories for another day.

29 June 1992

2007-06-29T23:55:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Monday 29 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Trying to sort my life out! Luggage, documents, coffee, brain. Domestic day. Washing, packing, waiting for phone calls."

Domestic stress

2007-06-28T17:43:00.000+03:00

Here we go again. Proof positive that I am not a domestic animal.

In Finland, where men seem to carry at least three power tools and an adjustable spanner around with them at all times, I feel exceptionally unhandy. I can usually change a light bulb. I can sometimes replace a fuse. I can very occasionally wire a plug. And that's about it for DIY. Except for the rare weekends spent fixing, unfixing, and refixing jigsaw furniture from Ikea.

So now I'm stuck. This month, not only has the safety lock on my front door decided to jam*, but I have a wasps' nest on my balcony. Like, uh oh! That's not good, right? My balcony refuses to blossom with soothing, scented flowering plants, and has started to churn out vicious stinging insects.

I've read a lot of advice. Get the right spray. Only approach at night. Do not stand directly underneath. Wear protective clothing with gloves and elasticated wrists. Um.

The wasps' nest looks small. Even smaller than my domestic ego, in fact. Nevertheless, I think I'll pay a real man and be rid of both of them.

*Addendum
The lock has been successfully replaced by a hideously healthy looking man, younger than me, wearing smart overalls, and driving a very shiny van. My bank account is now minus an arm and a leg for the pleasure.

28 June 1992

2007-06-28T17:35:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Sunday 28 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Drove with my French neighbour to see the rock monastery at Ivanovo. Shut. But lovely, peaceful surroundings. Lots of caves cut into sheer rock faces.

Lunch at the Fisherman's Hut [a fish restaurant by the Danube], then coffee with JP and L. Then home and sleep!!!"

27 June 1992

2007-06-27T19:23:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Saturday 27 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Coffee and beer with L, and a long gossip. Plenty of rest was needed, but instead most of the day was spent with three rampant kids from the play, in town on a 'picnic' (sic!) doing a coffee, ice-cream, and coca-cola crawl. One of them had a keyboard and sang. She was the lead in the play and is very talented.

Badminton. Beer. Bed."

23-26 June 1992

2007-06-26T21:47:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Tuesday 23 June to
Friday 26 June 1992
Sofia/Plovdiv, Bulgaria

"Night train to Sofia arrived 6am Tuesday morning. Nothing to do except hang around with the drop-outs at Sofia Central Railway Station for a while.

Eventually got to the British Council after a prolonged stroll around the Park of the Soviet Army by the Orlov Most (Eagle Bridge). Graffiti: 'Punk's Not Dead'. Arranged money and waited for M, who never came. Phoned Plovdiv: he's with a couple of friends who are on holiday at Slunchev Bryag (Sunny Beach) and had forgotten our arrangement. He'll come on Wednesday.

Sofia crawling with tourists, so no hotel space ... so I phoned my violinist friend. This led to another weird evening - at a party with the Spanish Ambassador, no less! - after an afternoon beer at the Hotel Vitosha. Very swanky.

M, girlfriend, and two friends arrived Wednesday morning. Then a tour of embassies for visas. The Romanians were very friendly but the French and Germans were overloaded with Bulgarians. Back to Plovdiv for a (sort of) meal in the old town, where the waiter virtually refused to serve us. On to a disco. Danced to Abba.

Thursday: wandered Plovdiv. Did the ethnographic museum (lots of old farming tools) and got caught in a massive thunderstorm with golf-ball hailstones. Sheltered under an umbrella. M now has two young girlfriends in tow.

Friday: 8-hour train journey back to Ruse via Gorna Oryahovitsa. Two men on the train arguing about Marx, America, Churchill, and the French government. A pity I couldn't understand it all."

What I will do this summer

2007-06-22T00:01:00.001+03:00

A certain breed of Finn greets midsummer, arguably the biggest national holiday in these parts, with gleeful melancholy. They can be heard to bleat that the days get shorter from now on and winter will soon be with us.

No, no, no! Midsummer is when summer begins. I'm still psychologically tuned to the British school holiday cycle, where work goes on into July and breaks for August. The best is yet to come.

So what will I do with my hard-earned days and cash this time round? Well, big plans are afoot. Last year I went west. This year I go east.

First up, towards the end of July, is India. It is maybe not the sort of place that I would normally consider, and maybe not the sort of place one should go alone. It will be the monsoon season: hot and damp. I've got my visa and have started my vaccinations. The malaria tablets come with a warning of possible psychotic episodes. Which may be handy when suffering from stomach cramps and being held to ransom by a taxi driver in the middle of the Thar desert. But two weeks doing the Golden Triangle of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur, plus other bits of Rajasthan, sounds so exotic, so unique, who could say no?

Second up, after a few days of recovery time in Helsinki, is Japan. I have amazed myself by going for a second destination that is likely to serve severe culture shock. Normally the flights are hideously expensive, but I stumbled on a package that includes the travel and six hotel nights for about half the usual price of an air ticket. It was a sign. It was to be mine. A week in Osaka. My August meditation will be Nipponese.

18-22 June 1992

2007-06-20T20:19:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Thursday 18 June to
Monday 22 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Extremely hot. At least two or three big thunderstorms every day. No lessons at school any more, which is a relief, but some work on correcting a few dictations for a short reference book.

The weekend was waterless in Ruse. Repairs were being done on a main pipe, so the city was without running water from 9am Saturday to 5pm Sunday. I wasn't told in advance. What fun.

Major night out with JP on Friday, culminating in dinner/drinks at the Hotel Riga. Bad head on Saturday morning.

No word from T. I'm pining away!

Payday on Monday and the train to Sofia on Monday night to meet M and go to the British Council. And to the Romanian Embassy for a visa."

17 June 1992

2007-06-17T23:26:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Wednesday 17 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"An almost tearful farewell to T this morning. She's off for two weeks to see her 'other man'. I must be mad. Maybe I'll be in England when she returns to Ruse. Who knows?

A massive thunderstorm right overhead at about 4pm. The first really vicious forked lightning I've seen. Hitherto it's been mostly sheet lightning, but this was ferocious. At least it cleared the air a little."

12-16 June 1992

2007-06-16T11:30:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Friday 12 June to
Tuesday 16 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Rehearsing all day Friday and Saturday. Performance on Saturday evening [at the Ruse Opera House]: fantastic. The lighting man wasn't easy to manage, but the sound worked OK and the lights worked on the night. The cast was fab! Lots of flowers (carnations) afterwards. Then time to relax. Much of Monday spent saying goodbye to the kids: end of term.

Big thunderstorms are now regular [rolling down from Romania and along the Danube]. Tuesday very hot still; the storms don't lessen the closeness of the weather. Mosquito bites everywhere. Creates tension."

11 June 1992

2007-06-11T19:59:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Thursday 11 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Last classes at school. Hooray! I never used to think of teachers looking forward to holidays.

It's summer! The fountains in the town centre have miraculously sprung into action, however worn out and broken they look. And a rather good brass band was puffing away along the café promenade. Extremely hot again after a couple of days of rain.

Play rehearsal, semi-dress, was good. The performance will be on Saturday at the Ruse Opera House!

Beer and juice with T by the Danube. How nice!"

From the archives, part 4

2007-06-08T21:25:00.000+03:00

The Post-Moderns: IV

Phoenix rising from the ashes
Had better stay awake.

New York houses this year promise
Fashions in phoenix feathers,
And the bounty-hunters gather
At the stake.

6-10 June 1992

2007-06-07T22:51:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Saturday 6 June to
Wednesday 10 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"One long round of work, work, work. Rehearsals much of the time; if not, then lessons. Trying to arrange a stage for the play is a nightmare. Will we have the opera house or not? They are working to principles of who's important [and trying to work out the importance of the formerly communist head of the English language school]. Ah well!

A little time to see T occasionally. Cinema, coffee, and so on. But I wasn't well on Sunday and she not on Wednesday, so no regular routine."

From the archives, part 3

2007-06-06T18:18:00.000+03:00

Wordvert

I feel dirty.

I lurk in dark corners molesting words.
I play with ideas against their will.
I force bad rhymes
into assonating hymns.
My grubby sheets of paper are stained
with the sordid passion of a restless thesaurasmic night.

I should be locked up.

Pathos is not a holiday destination

2007-06-04T16:42:00.000+03:00

In the film The Full Monty, one of the guys is told that one way to lose inches from the waistline is to wrap up in cling film.

We see him sitting in the garden shed, wearing cling film round his belly, and eating a Mars bar.

That is how I feel today.

From the archives, part 2

2007-06-03T12:15:00.000+03:00

For those interested in such things, the archives referred to in these posts cover the period 1989 to 2001, and have thus far existed only on paper. This one was entered for a poetry competition. It didn't win. Not even nearly.

Dear Judges

I’ve got letters.
I know words.
I’m a qualified poet, me.
It says so on this here piece of paper.

And my old history teacher - she’ll vouch for me.
I’m a professional, I am.

So where’s that prize then?

1 June 1992

2007-06-01T17:08:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Monday 1 June 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Morning rehearsal outdoors because the school hall was in chaos. Very hot, sticky, and mosquito-ey. The head being very unhelpful. Still no time/date for the play.

Afternoon beer at the Riga. Then marking schoolwork, and saw JP and T. Phoned by England. I haven't written for ages; getting lazy and Bulgarian!"

From the archives, part 1

2007-05-31T22:55:00.000+03:00

Lost poetry office

I caught an ambulance to hospital
in search of a poetry support machine.

In Accident–Emergency
the groans of my suffering poetry
were stifled under plaster poem of Paris.

In Intensive Care
they prescribed a bypass or a change of heart
but could not get my ink to flow.

In Physiotherapy
the stretching, reaching, grasping
barely moved my limp and lifeless vowels.

So I went to Lost Property.
Said “I have lost my poetry.”
Was given a ticket.
Opus one two five.
Was told to wait.

30 May 1992

2007-05-30T19:52:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Saturday 30 May 1992
Sofia, Bulgaria

"Arrived in Sofia yesterday for a British Council meeting. Unsatisfying, but polished off with a meal at the Mexican restaurant and vodka at a local Serbian dive. Today is the annual children's day festival at the NDK, so screaming kids everywhere.

Farewell to O, who's leaving Bulgaria. Train back to Ruse at 4pm, first class."

Writing Society, 'spy'

2007-05-29T23:20:00.000+03:00

Double agent

I spy, with my little eye,
Something beginning with me.

My ego-scrubbed glass of vanity hides
The urge that grows in you to disappear.

Leave behind an uncompleted story,
Steal my memories of sunblessed summer days.

Afternoons hot with transitory fire;
Mornings half-awake, embraced in your arms.

Side by side, hand in hand, finger on lips,
This time, at last, the veil drops from your smile.

I spy, in your little eye,
Something that ended in me.

A life not remembered

2007-05-26T21:11:00.000+03:00

A short while ago, good friends and fellow Prima Donnas keltanen and hannamime posted childhood images of themselves. As a dedicated follower of fashion, naturally I had to do the same.

I wish I could remember more about those days. I was born in Swansea and until the age of four lived on the Gower peninsula. (And although I'm four in the picture, it was actually taken on holiday at Loch Ness in Scotland.)

In theory it should have been an idyllic childhood: a small coastal town with a friendly local community, in an officially designated area of outstanding natural beauty. Family stories of that time are populated by kindly Welsh ladies called Mrs Jones, and feature endless afternoons running along wide, sandy beaches. Alas, I remember no stories for myself, just occasional images.

However, I do get sensory echoes of those times: the salty tang of the smell of the sea, and the plaintive cry of distant seagulls (the word 'plaintive' must surely have been coined specifically for seagulls). Even the primal feeling of unease in the gut as a storm brews somewhere over the water.

There are occasional faint reminders of these in Helsinki. Some seagulls certainly sing the same song. Others, however, are city scavengers that do not provide the same romantic resonance as the ocean-goers circling high overhead. Furthermore, the Baltic Sea, although noble in its own way, is brackish rather than salt. The air is not fully flavoured with the sea in the manner of my childhood.

I don't do watersports and I don't care for hours of roasting on the beach. But for deeper, less explicable reasons, sometimes I feel that, at the heart of my subconscious, I want my seaside back.

Ain't enough poems round here no more

2007-05-24T23:28:00.000+03:00

Incomplete in simile

There is no source for 'love you like';
There is no like a love like ours would be.
Just half a glance, a hare's breath touch,
Will feed my soul in its captivity.

I reach for you, ephemeral;
That half-smile could be taken either way.
Your presence whets my fingertips,
Which tremble as you say you may not stay.

Your voice recedes, I die again.
The room screams out the pain your absence rips
Into my heart, my pith, my core,
Now strangled by the ache of unkissed lips.

Then 'love you like' dies on my tongue,
Denied the air to whisper in your ear.
It brings no rhyme. It won't reflect.
The mirror it has wished does not appear.

Luvvy stuff

2007-05-22T21:12:00.000+03:00

Slowly, the adrenalin recedes. There are some shows that one is happy to leave behind, and there are some that one wishes to carry along as a constant companion. The Bald Prima Donna is going down in the latter category. It was a buzz.

It was, of course, a big thrill that we had full houses at the end of the run. And although we started on low audiences, this did have one happy side-effect: the incomparable sight of charnel doze launching onto the empty front seats to yell 'cock, fowl, duck' at the surprised inhabitants of the rows behind.

It's sometimes difficult to put a finger on exactly what makes the journey of a production worthwhile, but on this occasion let's point to the nub with a public appreciation of my wonderful cast. I know at least half of them will be reading.

Thank you, people! You are and were all fabulous. Big hugs to every one of you.

Transience is one defining aspect of live theatre. This one, for sure, will live on in dreams. In the nicest possible way.

21 May 1992

2007-05-21T23:23:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Thursday 21 May 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Normal lessons at school, then a very 'exciting' staff council meeting. Tempers running high over an attempted rape on a school trip. The deputy head claims it was not really school responsibility, and no action against pupils or accompanying staff would be taken. High drama.

Hot afternoon. Evening rehearsal. Two British teacher colleagues arrived at midnight for a quick stop-over. They travel to Bucharest tomorrow."

20 May 1992

2007-05-20T19:25:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Wednesday 20 May 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"A strange start to the day. After the 11th form leaving ball last night (not invited), some of the 11th formers were barricading the school, being drunk, and not letting anyone in. All good clean fun. Some of the staff were hyper-tense about it, but apparently it happens every year.

Test for the 8th class. 125 essays to mark. Dinner at JP's. European football on TV.

Found an absolutely enormous dead cockroach that had tried to get into my kitchen from the balcony. Fortunately my protective spray had seen to it. Sprayed a bit more."

15 May 1992

2007-05-15T20:42:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Friday 15 May 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Hot again. Lots and lots of horrible mosquitoes everywhere. Nasty. Some domestic stuff and then took T out to dinner at the Riga. Very pleasant meal.

Just going to bed when RB phoned and invited herself and two other female friends around to my place for drinks. Continued until 5 am. Weird."

Two bits of an amateur director

2007-05-14T22:45:00.000+03:00

Acres of forest have been sacrificed to writing about theatre directing, and I have little to add that is original. But a small part of this occasional amateur theatre director's blog will be given over to two things that, for me, make the restless nights, knotted stomach, greying hairs, and dark hours of self-doubt almost worthwhile.

First, I like to work with people rather than technical effects. It's my personal taste, and as I do this stuff in my spare time, I don't see why I should be forced in a different direction. The plays that I have directed with The Finn-Brit Players reflect this preference: Absent Friends by Alan Ayckbourn, An Inspector Calls by J.B. Priestley, The Bald Prima Donna by Eugène Ionesco, and a number of original works by fellow group members. They are different genres of theatre, but they live primarily through actor, character, and interaction. More technical aspects such as lights, sound, costume, set, and props elevate these, but do not become a spectacle in their own right.

This is because I get my jollies by trying, sometimes helping, occasionally managing, to feed stimuli and ideas into an actor's process of creating a stage being. It may result in a character, caricature, or another form of stage presence, but it should be a living organism, at ease with the rest of the theatre piece.

I realise that this may sound terribly pretentious, but I feel that if I can establish a solid frame for the work, then the actor will produce something more dynamic, more real, more 'them' than anything that I could impose. The biggest challenge occurs if an actor's creation clashes with the balance of the piece as a whole, but with a sensitive actor that leads to a joint exploration of possibilities rather than a battle of wills. And when an actor clicks, and the stage being starts to form independently, that is a magical part of the creative process. It cannot be forced at any particular moment. It often comes when unasked. And it is very special.

Having said that, the second thing that gives me a kick is one of the more technical issues, and that is the creation of a space.

Being a somewhat itinerant group, we get to do quite a bit of this. We arrive at a venue. There is clutter. There may be boxes of cables, stacks of chairs, and remnants from other people's productions. We start work by poking around a bit. Gradually, an area is defined. A couple of lights are hung or focused. If it's a black box, some seats are arranged. Then, at a moment that it is almost impossible to define, you look up to find that the space has woken. It is alive. It recognises your presence. It has become a theatre.

Usually it is late in the evening. Usually the only people around to witness this are a handful of stage crew. But at this point, if you're lucky, it is finally possible to know for certain how the work from the rehearsals will fit into context. The space becomes an ally.

I have a suspicion that matching the two elements that I have picked out here is a key to avoiding much of the friction that can occur during a production. If an actor creates a character and then finds that the space does not support their work, it can be terribly frustrating to feel that several months of creative effort needs to be reshaped in maybe just a few hours. On the other hand, if a crew member gives life to a space and helps it to breathe, an emotional bond is formed with that space. If an actor then arrives with demands rather than appreciation, it can feel as if a stranger has violated a sanctuary. Mutual respect is essential: cast, crew, and space. Even, every now and then, director!

But so much for theory. Come and see the result.
Eugène Ionesco. The Bald Prima Donna. On now.

11 May 1992

2007-05-11T20:04:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Monday 11 May 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"Phew! What a scorcher!! Hot, hot, hot. People in the streets wearing noticeably fewer clothes. Skirts are much shorter, shirts much looser. But many of the macho-male-types cannot be parted from their oh-so-trendy black leather jackets, greasy shirts, and tight-bum trousers. Swagger. Urgh!

Bought some records from the shop: classical music at 3 leva (7 pence). Pop cassette of a Bulgarian group, Atlas, at 35 leva (88 pence).

T came round this afternoon. Unwelcome news about a 'boyfriend' she's known for three weeks. Um.

Dinner with JP at Leventa and a beer in the television tower café above the town, looking over flat, foggy, dark old Romania."

Paper, scissors, and the hand of fate

2007-05-09T20:20:00.000+03:00

A bit of Bruce goes Dada

Red wine by the bucket, please!
Minibar key; crisp, unbreathing sheets.
Oh, go back to sleep you dirty git.
Assert your apathy!

The prince remained sceptical.
Collaborative acts of unspeakable kindness.
Illiterate solder-bunny of an engineer.
His handkerchief had pictures of Smarties on it.

Slightly bemused post-coital breathlessness.
The nervous clatter of travellers.
In Finland, the anarchists are organised.
An old trick; once bitten, twice shy.

If the oil was cheap enough.
Teenage girl aroma of roses and half-chewed crisps.
If mushrooms go mouldy is that cannibalism?
Switch the orgasmabot to multiple.

"Kiss me and I'll wake."
New meaning to teaching your granny to suck eggs.
Pete was drunk on an ism.
Cognac to wrap it up and help me sleep.

Scraps of unwritten prose lay lifeless.
Caesar salad at an airport hotel.
"Onanism?" Roger raised his head.
Blair would sell a peerage to his granny.

8 May 1992

2007-05-08T22:14:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Friday 8 May 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"A lazy morning at last. Some shopping. T was due around at 1pm but had to go to the dentist. Rearranged date to 6pm and had a lazy afternoon, too.

We went on a round of 'na gosti' [as a guest] visits in the evening. One man's opening gambit to me was 'I think you made a big mistake in Cyprus, didn't you,' followed by 'Why do you make getting visas so difficult,' and 'You made a real mistake letting those Indians and Pakistanis in.'

He was an English teacher but had never been to Britain. Cyprus, yes; Cuba, yes; Britain, no.

Said goodbye and went home bemused."

Writing Society, 'connection', edited

2007-05-01T11:11:00.000+03:00

My gustatory muse

For years without these senses on my tongue,
I had forgotten what it was I missed.
In joy, my body gives in utterly,
My whole enraptured being sighs with bliss.

A sensuous surge of taste calls back the past,
Caresses and entices, teases time,
And links me wholly to a savoured name.
I knew it then and now I know again.

The tastebud urge is unrestrained in greed.
There's nothing else to see, hear, smell, or touch.
With all my nerve-ends lost in childhood's lust,
One final flake of chocolate slowly melts.

30 April - 3 May 1992

2007-04-30T23:06:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Thursday 30 April -
Sunday 3 May 1992
Sofia and Ruse, Bulgaria

"IATEFL Conference, Sofia, in NDK. Stayed at the Hotel Hemus, just up the road, which was quite pleasant. Big names in EFL wandering all over the place (Rinvolucri, Harmer, Haycraft, et al.). Opened by the British Ambassador, cultural attaché, and Bulgarian prime minister Philip Dimitrov. Quite an occasion.

The buffet meal vanished in minutes - many hungry teachers! - and many queues everywhere, but generally quite good. Some interesting sessions.

Came back with RB and my violinist friend on the 'Blue Danube' express on Saturday. Saw some UN tanks and trucks on the railway: going to Cambodia maybe? Spent Sunday lazing around a very hot Ruse. Lunch in the Panorama restaurant at the top of the Hotel Riga. A spectacular view of the Danube plain and Romanian bits and pieces."

The nightmares have begun

2007-04-29T10:14:00.000+03:00

Short-range forecast: expect disturbed sleep patterns and erratic behaviour.

Every time I direct. About two weeks before opening. Half-waking at three in the morning. Panic-struck delirium. Convinced that I should be at rehearsal ... paying for licences, buying props, finding missing stage crew, hanging lights ... selling set, banging nails into actors, and teaching tickets how to sing....

Eugène Ionesco. The Bald Prima Donna. Opens 12 May.

Eat your greens

2007-04-28T21:35:00.000+03:00

Although I have never considered myself to be a political activist, there are one or two things that occasionally go on in that area of my brain. The poll tax was one. The second Gulf War is another. Here's a third.

Books that have influenced my life, part the third: McLibel, Burger Culture on Trial, by John Vidal

It may sound hypocritical coming from someone who currently works for a global corporation, but this is the book that opened my eyes to the view that unquestioning belief in the rightness of market forces is an unsustainable madness, and that this madness is particularly grotesque when it hits the quality of the stuff that we put in our mouths.

The book describes what happened when one of the world's largest companies felt the itch of a couple of environmental activists handing out pamphlets outside its front door, and decided to scratch the itch with a libel case. The two protesters refused to shut up. The case initially lasted for seven years, and has been followed up plenty more since that. If you haven't read about the whole saga, it is fascinating stuff.

Of particular interest to me was a description of and partial transcript from a section of the court case in which the company defended a description of its product as "nutritious" on the grounds that it "contains nutrients". So can a glass of tap water.

These days, as far as food shopping is concerned, if there is an organic alternative easily available, I usually go for that. And although I do eat fast food in a number of places, including some burger "restaurants", I have not eaten at McDonald's since 1989.

Writing Society: 15-minute exercise

2007-04-27T09:39:00.000+03:00

The task:
Write a piece containing the words
'bubble-gum', 'tart', and 'compensation'.
Time limit 15 minutes.
This is what I came up with.

Chance meeting

Crouching, tear-stained
In the darkened alley,
With the silence that only
4 a.m. can bring,
I hear the sound of
Bubble-gum approaching.

I peer with blurry gaze.
Fishnet stockings loom.
Bright white handbag swings.
Tight-perm wig, scarlet lips,
Jacket a shade of strawberry tart.

Our eyes meet.
Fellow outcasts.
Both move on.
The wordless tryst,
A single city heartbeat,
The only compensation.

26 April 1992

2007-04-26T09:21:00.000+03:00

A Kick up the Balkans
Sunday 26 April 1992
Ruse, Bulgaria

"A very hot day - Orthodox Easter Sunday. A lengthy morning coffee in blazing sunshine in a very crowded square. Later on a party at T's place. It went on quite late and I stopped over, as the flat was on the outskirts of town. Too much home-made wine for the good of my stomach.

Quite jolly."

Note:
Even avid fans of D.H. Lawrence may have difficulty reading between the lines of this vastly understated entry. One or two people may get an inkling of what's going on in this impenetrable text if I mention that the party was held somewhere in Housing Complex 'Friendship 3'. The rest of you can just guess.