life in solstitio brumali

"A cold coming they had of it at this time of the year, just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and specially a long journey in. The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short, the sun farthest off, in solstitio brumali, the very dead of winter."

Selected Sermons and Lectures, Lancelot Andrewes

Happy Christmas everyone 

(1977 sketch by the Fool for a never completed Nativity scene)

life on the hill (XI)

Now then. I'll need a few rolls of chicken wire, some metal poles, and a few planks and slates for the coop … (and to keep the Begum away in the city for a couple of days to allow construction to proceed undetected and unimpeded). Piece of cake.

(Oh, and some old countrywoman to kill the chickens when the time comes to add them to the pot –  I'm OK with guns, but knives leave me in a cold sweat).

Post by Mother Earth News Magazine.

the soundtrack of über-coolness

While riding on a train goin’ west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon
Where we together weathered many a storm
Laughin’ and singin’ till the early hours of the morn

By the old wooden stove where our hats was hung
Our words were told, our songs were sung
Where we longed for nothin’ and were quite satisfied
Talkin’ and a-jokin’ about the world outside

With haunted hearts through the heat and cold
We never thought we could ever get old
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances really was a million to one

As easy it was to tell black from white
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right
And our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split

How many a year has passed and gone
And many a gamble has been lost and won
And many a road taken by many a friend
And each one I’ve never seen again

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain
That we could sit simply in that room again
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat
I’d give it all gladly if our lives could be like that

Bob Dylan's Dream, Bryan Ferry

King of cool pays homage to emperor of cool.

life lessons that are priceless – the morning after

«Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.»

Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis

life in space

I don’t know if you are aware of this, but a comet is coming. Its name is Ison, and it seems to be leaving a lot of people unthinkingly rejoicing. In the beginning I, too, was caught in the general excitement and began making my preparations for sky-gazing at dawn. Then I found a clipping of the March 30, 1985 issue of The Economist (that’s the thing about old geezers: we remember things from 30 years ago better than what we had for lunch yesterday):

Stop that comet

Allowing Halley’s comet to bring new disasters would be foolish

The world has enough threatening crises to confront without accepting yet another, Here comes Halley’s comet, a phenomenon that hás heralded catastrophes since befoer history began. Halley’s missile is now racing to earth at 73,000 miles per hour. It must be stopped, preferably by a pré-emptive nuclear strike.

A comet like Halley’s, some say, brought extinction to the dinosaurs. Others reckon it was the precursor of Herod’s slaughter of the innocents. In 1066, Halley’s comet was unarguably the harbinger of King Harold’s defeat. In 1456, Pope Calixtus III condemned it as an agent of the devil. And in 1910 – as it streaked across the skies of Sarajevo – Mark Twain, Tolstoy, Florence Nightingale and King Edward VII died.

Calixtus was right. With the power of nuclear destruction at its fingertips, the world cannot afford to risk allowing Halley’s comet to return in 1986. The credulity of comet-struck crowds in the third world will be exploited by unscrupulous politicians and holy men. Elsewhere, it will again bring vapours to our weaker sex. In 1910, women in Chicago boarded themselves into their houses to escape comet gás. People who last year bought more than 1m Boy George records and watched many hours of Dallas cannot be immune.

Annihilation aside, Haley’s comet will damage the world economy and the environment. Businessmen are busily preparing to turn valuable raw materials into comet memorabilia. Because much of the memorabilia will be produced in Ásia and turned to garbage in América, it will increase the strains caused by America’s worsening trade deficit as well as add to the pollution of the environment, both of which are undesirable in a mid-term election year.

Protection from such dangers is by itself worth the vast resources which a nuclear strike against the comet will require. But the endeavour will also leave lasting benefits. For peace, it will help overcome a psychological barrier facing the Geneva talks: instead of dismantling their hard-won missiles, generals will be able to see them off in a blaze of glory. For Dr. Strangeloves, the comet-stopping mission will provide real star-wars experience. And there is power to win.

Any nation willing to send the products of the best minds of a generation and a significant portion of its GNP hurtling into space to blast a ball of ice three miles across will be treated very carefully by its neighbours. The nation that hits the comet, at a distance of 37m miles, will gain new respect worldwide. Let next Monday be the day when statesmen take the first step towards a comet-free future.

And suddenly I’m not so sure. Obviously we were spared in 1986, but who’s to say we’ll be as lucky now? I am particularly worried about the vapours and “our weaker sex” bit. I mean, am I supposed to lock the women in the house – or to lock myself in? I could wish these respected publications employed better editors, to avoid leaving equivocal statements like that for poor, foolish readers to figure for themselves.

life lessons that are priceless – antifragility

“Suckers try to win arguments, nonsuckers try to win. […] More generally, for Mother Nature, opinions and predictions don’t count, survival is what matters.”

Antifragile, Things that Gain from Disorder, Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Or, what doesn’t kill you, heals you. Or, the importance of skin in the game. An exhilarating book even if one doesn’t quite grasp the whole of it.

life on the hill (X)

The beans are sprouting – European farm subsidies here I come.

the soundtrack of longish life

Hi hello wake from thy sleep
God has given your soul to keep
All of the power that burns in the flame
Ignites the light in a single name

Frederick name of care
Fast asleep in a room somewhere
Guardian angels [line a bed]
Shed their light on my sleepy head

I am a threshold yearning to sing
Down with the the dancers having one last fling
Here's to the moment when you said hello
Come on my spirit are you ready let's go

Hi hi hey hey
Maybe I will come back some day now
But tonight on the wings of a dove
Up above to the land of love

Now I lay me down to sleep
Pray the Lord my soul to keep
Kiss to kiss breath to breath
My soul surrenders astonished to death

Night of wonder for us to keep
Set our sails channel [out] deep
After the rapture two hearts meet
Mine entwined in a single beat

Frederick you're the one
As we journey from sun to sun
All the dreams I waited so long for
Fly tonight so long so long

Bye bye hey hey
Maybe we will come back some day now
But tonight on the wings of a dove
Up above to the land of love

Frederick name of care
High above in sky that's clear
All the things I've been dreamin' of
Are expressed in this name of love

Bye bye hey hey
Maybe we will come back some day now
But tonight on the wings of a dove
Up above . . .

Frederick, Patti Smith

How would you like to have a song named after you (in a manner of speaking) by the queen of NY punk? Respect.

life lesson that are priceless – the appeal of hills

"I suppose I have always rather fancied the idea of having to take to the hills […] when barbarian hordes overrun us […]. 
I think I should enjoy it."

The Shooting Party, Isabel Colegate

life on the hill (IX)

Few sights are more satisfying, I find, than a tractor putting some ordnung on a messy piece of land.

The soil on the Hill is mainly clay and stones – hard, fissured and dry in summer; boggy and slippery in winter, clinging to one’s boots in layers till they resemble a pair of sticky, leaden snowshoes.

A plant prospers there in the wild, the false-yellowhead (Dittrichia viscosa), along with thistles, giant reeds and all sorts of weeds. And the thing about weeds is that – like icebergs (and library mice, I am told) – there are hidden depths to them: extensive radicular systems which positively thrive on stress. In other words, the more you weed on the surface the stronger they get.

The solution is to keep at it – relentlessly. But also to work the land so the topsoil eventually becomes more inviting to sweeter more delicate grasses and flowers. This takes the form of a man in a tractor coming in twice a year, towing a tilling implement to break and scarify the soil, though in the beginning it did little more than keep throwing up stones – small, medium, large, huge. At one point, a backhoe even had to be engaged to remove the very largest ones.

But for the rest it was a case of Mr Villa Real, the aristocratically named tractor driver, driving and occasionally turning back in the seat, imperiously pointing down his nose at the more bothersome ones, for the Fool, trudging behind in a sea of mud, to pick up and pile on top of the others by the side of the field (did you say "gentleman farmer"? Yeah, right). The first couple of years it looked like there would be no end to it, and it nearly killed me – a brace of stents inserted in the nick of time kept the juices flowing, but it could just as easily have been game over.

But eight years and sixteen tractor drives into our tenure, there is light at the end of the tunnel. A couple of weeks ago Mr Villa Real and I (by now fast friends, united in a common endeavour) sowed the first crop on the Hill: just four rows of broad beans, as an experiment. We hope it will be the harbinger of great things to come (there is talk of sweet peas, potatoes, asparagus – and on another tack, if I manage to catch the Begum unawares, chickens and ducks and geese. And bees). So, here’s hoping!

Nature is all very fine and dandy, but never lovelier than after a bit of judicious tinkering by men in tractors and fools in boots.

the soundtrack of unrequited love

You are a splendid butterfly
It is your wings that make you beautiful
And I could make you fly away
But I could never make you stay
You said you were in love with me
Both of us know that that's impossible
And I could make you rue the day
But I could never make you stay

Not for all the tea in China
Not if I could sing like a bird
Not for all North Carolina
Not for all my little words
Not if I could write for you
The sweetest song you ever heard
It doesn't matter what I'll do
Not for all my little words

Now that you've made me want to die
You tell me that you're unboyfriendable
And I could make you pay in pain
But I could never make you stay

All My Little Words, Magnetic Fields

life on the hill (VIII)

All those who talk Spring up as the only season of birth and renewal, behold what the advent of Autumn and a few inches of rain do to the Hill. A beautiful pale green carpet sprouts overnight (and the pine needles turn a brilliant emerald from their usual drab grayish-green, and the box sprouts new shoots, and even the leaves on the deciduous trees recover some colour before going golden and being shed for the winter).

The wildlife becomes more active, too. Yesterday, as I was checking the coq au vin gently simmering in the oven and pouring a glass of Douro red for lunch, the call of a buzzard sounded much closer than usual, causing me to look up just in time to catch one streaking past my window not 50 feet from where I stood.

Later, as I left in the scooter for my German lesson, there it was, perched on the woodshed. Apparently a juvenile, clearly unused to humans and machinery, bobbing and weaving hesitatingly, unsure of whether we were friend or foe. In the end it defiantly stood its ground, letting me ride quietly by without taking to the air. When I looked back just before exiting the gate it was still there, poised and regal, proudly having conquered another new challenge in its young life.

Mega, as kids say.

academic life

"Der Apfel ist gelb. Die Sonne ist auch gelb. Die Orange ist orange und der Baum ist grün und braun. Der Schneemann is weiss und das Wasser ist blau. Der Kaffee ist braun und der Schwein ist rose."

After three weeks intensive study, and despite the best efforts of the Lehererin, the sum total of the Fool's abilities in the "marvelous language of Goethe" (as they say) is confined to the knowledge that an orange is, indeed, orange (and a pig pink, and a few similar pearls of wisdom).

Reading The Magic Mountain in the original? Something tells me it ain't gonna happen.

life lessons that are priceless – nostalgia

In the bridge stood the old earl of Buckingham
He was thinking of tits and of sucking 'em
As he watched the stunts
Of the cunts in the punts
And the tricks of the pricks that were fucking 'em

Anonymous limerick

the soundtrack of wishful thinking

So you're wishing that you never did
All the embarrassing things you've done
And you're wishing you could set it right
And you're wishing you could stay the night
But then I go again, wishing never solved a problem
If you wanna get it big time, go ahead and get it get it big time

So I think I can solve all my problems by myself
Nevermind, nevermind, nevermind, nevermind
And you think you can solve all your problems by yourself
Nevermind, nevermind, nevermind, nevermind

Oh, give it, give it, give it, give it, give it
Until you just can't give no more
Oh, give it, give it, give it, give it, give it
Until you just can't give no more

Oh, give it, give it, give it, give it, give it
Until you just can't give no more
Oh, give it, give it, give it, give it, give it
Until you just can't give no more

Tightrope, Yeasayer

Wishing not to have done embarassing things. Yeah, tell me about it.

life lessons that are priceless – the deceptive sexiness of restraint

Unexpectedly, he made a sober


success


with his self-published book


of decorous confessions.

It eschewed turmoil in the


bedchamber


and coarse descriptions


of disarranged clothing,

but confided reminiscences —


a bird


which he’d stolen from a gold


cage;
 a love message intercepted;

a trespassing glance glanced,


and the dénouement:


the day when he took her hand

and, with slow avidity,


stripped her white kid glove


from her warm, willing fingers

Decorous confessions, Connie Bensley

life on the hill (VII)

The joys of living in a small village – the local council send you birthday greetings. Charming.

life on the hill – illusion v. harsh reality

The Fool’s usual garb for working on the Hill is a disgrace – torn jeans (work-torn, not surgically cut and frayed in some high-fashion shop), ancient baggy (and permanently dirty) T-shirts, a polyester mechanic’s smock in a vile green shade, work boots from the general store.

I don’t care.

Indeed, between you and me, in my more delirious moments I even entertain illusions of affecting a certain floppy-chic sexiness.

That is, I used to. But then I overheard a conversation (its tone carefully pitched, I am certain, to be accidentally overheard) between the Princess and her Grandmother – “I see Father as a perfectly lovely gentleman, like Grandfather was, always smelling of lavender, in a tweed jacket and a smart tie. There’s nothing sadder than those old men trying to look young in T-shirts …”

So much for sexiness, then. I only wonder if the hint was meant to be acted upon as of now, or if she will allow me another year or two of sweet illusion.

the soundtrack of the stranded sailor

No foreign pair of dark sunglasses will ever shield you from 

the light that pierces your eyelids, the screaming of the gulls

Feeding off the bodies of the fish, thrashing up the bay till it was red,

turning the sky a cold dark colour as they circled overhead.

He swam out to the edge of the reef, there were cuts across his skin,

saltwater on his eyes and arms, but he could not feel the sting

There was no one left to hold him back, no one to call out his name,

dress him, feed him, drive him home, say "Little boy it doesn't have to end this way".

He announced their trial separation, and spent the night in a Park Beach Motel bed,

a total stranger lying next to him, rain hitting the roof hard over his head

She said "What's the matter now lover boy, has the cat run off with your tongue?

Are you drinking to get maudlin, or drinking to get numb?"

He called out to the seabirds "Take me now, I'm no longer afraid to die",

they pretended not to hear him, just watched him with their hard and bright black eyes

They could pick the eye from any dying thing that lay within their reach,

but they would not touch the solitary figure lying tossed up on the beach.

So, where were you? Where were you? Where were you?

The Seabirds, The Triffids

So much for the myth of a woman in every port

the soundtrack of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin

Though wary of being branded an enthusiast, in the Johnsonian sense – or an anorak – I often feel a case could be made for these being the best historical novels there have ever been.

However, an argument could equally be put forward for their exclusion from that canon, on the simple grounds that they require at least a modicum of nautical knowledge and sailing instincts to be fully enjoyed – thus preventing large parts of the world’s population from understanding their depths, and subtleties, and gentle humour.

Certainly I never recommend them to landlubber friends. No disrespect, but we all have our literary limitations – my own particular bugaboo, for instance (I'm sure I have many others), is a complete inability to get to grips with The Magic Mountain, “Thomas Mann’s opus about curiously symbolic people in a curiously symbolic sanatorium in the curiously symbolic Alps” (Russell Baker dixit). And I have long since stopped being ashamed or feeling guilty about it. Fuck Thomas Mann.

So, landlubbers, enjoy the Locatelli (mentioned right at the beginning of the first novel, though the specific piece mentioned seems to be inexistent – a slip by the author not caught by the editor. The one above serves to get the mood). 

But forget O'Brian. Read The Magic Mountain, instead. I am told it's a marvellous book.  

culinary life

One has a House, one has cousins – they are bound to meet. In other words a day is bound to come in which one will have to feed the brutes.

Problem is – even if you keep the invitations to first cousins on your father's side, and only about half of them can come on any given day –, there's lots. In the end, a round dozen answered the call (like the Apostles, only with 3 women in the mix for a slightly less misogynous, more modern balance), plus wives/husbands (and a couple of girls and babies from a different generation who sneaked in, and whom I affected not to see – and since we can sit 28 comfortably to dinner, the sum total of 26 was still all right).

In these belt-tightening times a substancial rice dish was the best value for money the House could come up with as a main course. Apperos, cheeses, salads, drinks and desserts would be brought by the guests, according to a detailed table worked up by Mano Velho (in PowerPoint no less).

So, rice. The first thing you have to do, of course, is to get yourself an electric rice cooker – and no, reader, it's not at all like a Bimby. Rice cookers merely ensure the rice will end up properly cooked and loose, comme il se doit, without one having to be watching it all the time. The cooking proper of the other ingredients is done in pots and pans in the traditional way. (So keep any booing and accusations of lazy cooking to your dear selves, please).


To the recipe, then (I should write "receipt", as the late great Jennifer Patterson would have it, but I fear the larger readership would think it an error, so I'd better keep to the lowest common denominator …):


For 25 adults
About 5 or 6 cups of uncooked long grain rice 
About 2 kilos (4 or 5 lbs) of fresh sausages
About 2 medium bowls of mixed seeds and nuts (I used shelled pumpkin seeds and slivered almonds)
2 large carrots, diced
Red bell pepper, cut into strips (2 large handfuls)
2 large portions of uncooked fresh button mushrooms, sliced
2 handfuls of shredded cabbage leaves (any crisp kind of cabbage)
Garlic to taste

With a 2-litre cooker one needs to do this in two separate batches. The instructions below are for one batch.

• Fry the sausages in a large nonstick frying pan (no need to add fat), pricking them with a sharp knife as they bloat in the heat, to let the fat out, turning occasionally, until they are well browned (with the skin partly charred). Take off the heat, and cut the sausages on a board with a sharp knife into 1 cm (half-inch) pieces. Reserve (and reserve the fat in the pan).
• In another frying pan dry-fry the mushrooms until they become chewy and have shed almost all the liquid. Season lightly, drain (discard the liquid), and reserve.
• Turn on the rice cooker and cover the bottom in a generous quantity of extra virgin olive oil, and about half the sausage fat. Sauté some garlic in the cooker, then add half the pepper strips and half the seeds and nuts, and sauté some more. Finally, add 2 1/2 cups of rice and mix thoroughly, until the rice is well coated and slightly translucent. Add half the cut sausages, half the mushrooms, and 2 1/2 cups of water. Season, mix well, and cover. 
• The electric cooker can now be left to do its own thing unattended. Only be aware that it's very quick – the rice will be cooked in less than 10 minutes – and that perhaps 5 or 6 minutes into the process you need to add 1 of the diced carrots into the mixture. Cover again and let the cooker finish the job (a switch will trip, and the cooker will go from cooking to heating mode). Uncover, add half the shredded cabbage, and cover again. Leave on heating mode for another 10 to 15 minutes before turning off the cooker. This way, both the carrot and the cabbage will be only just tender enough, but still very crisp. Mix the cabbage into the rice before serving.

Repeat with the other half of the ingredients.

You can prepare this a day in advance (indeed there are those who say you should, and certainly rice dishes tend to become better overnight). Turn each batch into a large oven dish, cover in cling film and store in the fridge. About an hour before serving, put the dishes in the oven at 100ºC, covered in foil. Serve hot. 

For an old editor of cookery books, I realise there are lots of "abouts", and "handfuls", and "large portions", and "generous portions" of ingredients, and precious few precise measurements. But that's the joy of the occasional cook, not bound by editorial rules or the dictatorship of the printed page. Besides, one can change the quantities of ingredients (and even the ingredients themselves) to taste (except the ratio of rice-to-water, which is strictly 1/1 and don't let anyone tell you otherwise). The amount of rice is proportionately less than one might imagine for so many people – indeed I made a third batch to be on the safe side, but two proved enough (though bear in mind that there were lots of cheeses, bread, nuts, side salads – and gallons of drink –, to be had beforehand, so that will have taken some of the edge off the cousins' hunger before they actually sat down to eat).

Enjoy.

the soundtrack of mid-life

I could take all the crazy out of you
That's what I loved you for
Take away all the orange, greens and blues
That's what I loved you for

Take a look at me
You think it really could be that easy?
I mean, take a look at me
You think it really could be that easy for you?

I know about guys, I know where they live
And you're just the same
The ones that matter fight against themselves
But it's so hard to change

Hey, I could love you
Take all that love away from you
Hey, I could love you
Put you in this box I've made for two

So you could take all this craziness out of me
That's what you love me for
Well, I don't mean to laugh, but if you know all this
You must be halfway there

Well, like that dress tonight, you won't know
As it falls from you
Turn around and it's winter, darling
Look in the mirror and it won't be you

So you're an old, old dog
You've been around the block
So many times and it's the same old turns
Same old feelings straight down the line

Yeah, I can love you, grab that leash and drag you
To a place you'd never know
I know where my bones are buried
May take me a while, but I'd find my way home

Buried Bones, Tindersticks – Stuart Staples with Ann Magnuson, vocals

The fatal attraction of trying to change the one you love. A widespread delusion.