The Quiet That Is Christmas

It is Christmas morning, once again. One of those days when every other Christmas seems to join with this one, making one continuous whole back to the beginning of time.

I seem always to wake early on Christmas day, perhaps a habit from childhood.

And the first thought to pass my mind is the quiet of the world.

Even the wind this morning is notable for its absence.

A blanket of quiet warming, and yet like snow holding the world in thrall.

Of course there is reason for the quiet, in many cases people have gravitated to family, it is after all almost the purpose of Christmas Eve to be the time when everyone is busy with last minute shopping.

And then, the quiet. The pause of much bustle. When even our thoughts can cease to think of too much beyond the moment, the significance of this day. And what it has meant in our culture for so many centuries.

It is perhaps the only day when such quiet blankets the world. Or at least, our world.

The absence of traffic, of people in the streets, it is almost as if should it be
Spring, we should hear the unfurling of leaves from their buds.

But it is not Spring, not in this hemisphere, and we are comfortable in our warm homes. And thoughtful for once about those that may not have the comforta that we can afford.

And so it is a time for consideration, for thoughtfulness, and for celebration of what we have and why we have it.

I am humbled at the quiet of the morning, so present, though it must be like this each day.  Although I do not perceive it such.

Perhaps it is that much more important that we should not be so aware of every day as if it were like this, for then it should not seem so special, when it is this day.

And we have had the opportunity to think all of our thoughts for this moment in time, when it is what it is.

For some of us the centre of our spiritual selves, for many simply a festival of shopping.

But for all, a time when time itself seems to stop, and then to start again. Something the poet TS Eliot called the still point of the turning world.

My Best Ever Christmas Present

Everyone will have their own answer to this question.

My answer came just the other day, courtesy of Kindle.

It is a simple fact that publishing has been transformed by the Internet, and self publishing no longer carries the same stigma that it might once have carried.

Although doubtless much that is published without the intervention of a professional publisher will be in serious need of some proper editing. And certainly could do with the marketing expertise that comes with the territory.

I for one am at one with the majority of people, that still foresee that genuine books, made of paper, and often smelling of age, will never be superseded by the electronic book.

Although it certainly does democratize the whole process of publishing.

Before I discovered the world of publishing for the Kindle, I had discovered the world of publishing using the Internet, and the technology that enables books to be printed when purchased.

There are disadvantages of this, not least of all the fact that the printing of such books has much to learn from the crispness of old  fashioned typesetting.

As someone that in a previous life did learn how to operate an old offset lithographic printing press, I speak from personal experience of the joy to be gained from that magical process, whereby ink is transferred from a metal plate to paper.

However, the Kindle exists, and a new market for words, and for the reading of them, which is a skill that should be encouraged in every possible way.

And so, it is possible these days to download an application that enables most computers and no doubt any other kind of handheld device that operates in the same way that a computer does.

So that they can read this kind of book, which is really no more than the capacity to read a PDF document.

And of course, such devices make it possible for large numbers of written works to be portable, and therefore read, in those moments in busy lives when it is possible to stick one’s head in a book. However unlike a book the device on which the written word is carried.

The Christmas present that I referred to earlier was my first ever payment in respect of a Kindle version of my own writings.

It’s not the kind of money that will suddenly transform my life, and in any case, I am not in a position to earn income, as I am severely disabled, and therefore supported through benefits.

I am therefore precluded from personally benefiting from the industry of my pen, which is how I still imagine my writing to be generated, even though the truth is far from this.

For some time now, I have been unable to hold a pen, nor even use a typewriter or a computer keyboard.

But as this is the age of the Internet, it is also the age of assistive technology, and I am able to type much faster than I ever could, through the use of voice activated software.

About five years ago, I received a small award from the Arts Council of England, in respect of my poetry.

And thus any income earned from my poetry, will be gifted to a local charity, the Queen Alexandra Hospital Home for soldiers, in Worthing.

One of my six or seven books is a special edition of my first collection of poetry, entitled 50 x 50: Useful Poetry For Troubled Times.

Although paper copies of this collection can be purchased direct from the Hospital, Kindle versions can also be purchased.

And as it is Christmas, it is not too late for this kind of present to be downloaded from the Internet, with payment being made in any of the usual ways.

As I have only just completed the complicated Google tax information, so that my Kindle bookshelf is now available for sale across the world of the Internet, any purchases can be made at just a moment’s notice.
I dare say that all that will be required is to search the Kindle store for my name, Stephen Page, and to find the correct person that is me.

The title of my first collection of poetry should be unique enough to enable my books to be identified. The other volume that I will mention by name is my collection of short stories, Mother And Child With other stories.

If my motives were simply to line my own pockets, I don’t think I would be so brazen in my suggestion that people reading this blog might consider purchasing any of my publications.

It is fortunate that the Kindle bookshelf offers the fraternity to read significant parts of any volume offered for sale, and anyone that is a member of Google Prime can borrow before purchasing free of charge in any case.

And so, this is my challenge. I have already had that first moment of excitement at receiving a portion of the purchase price, which I shall be passing on as I will any other payments from this source.

But it is nevertheless truly exciting to earn money in this way, and it would be most exciting for me to have others reading my work across the world.

First Steps

It is already that time of the year when our lives begin as it were to flash before our minds eye.

It is as if we are caught on an escalator, raising inexorably upwards, and no matter how fast we walk, we cannot return to the place from where we set off.

It is now just a week before Christmas, and inevitably, the holiday season will have us in its thrall.

For many people, this is the time of the year when we will feel most alone, although for many of us, we will be surrounded by people. Friends and family.

But nevertheless, Christmas inevitably leads to the close of one year, and the beginning of another.

And no matter how good or bad this year has been, we will certainly harbour thoughts about the coming year.

It has even been the case that one of the most successful stocking filler presents over recent years has been that which can be purchased as a last minute thought whilst standing in a queue waiting to pay for Christmas presents purchased in that store.

Whatever it has been called, more often than not, it has been a short reminder not to panic.

And panic is probably what most of us will be doing at some point over the next few weeks.

But most of us will find a way through, and we will confront those things that are sometimes at the forefront of our minds, mostly pushed firmly to the back of them.

In some respects, this has been exercising me as the last few days, and I have been reminded of how each year I have somehow managed to survive. Most of us will.

But this year, perhaps more consciously than ever, I am entering the fray with some semblance of a peaceful countenance.

I think the only way in which I can explain this is that I have paused to think, and given myself time to think a little about all those moments when I have most stressed myself.

And of course, survive I have, but we are capable of learning, and perhaps, under pressure, developing strategies for survival, just when it seems as if all is lost.

One simple phrase has been repeating itself to me, and I am not sure exactly how to translate it so that it becomes relevant to this period of time.

And I am not even sure where the original of my memory comes from, but most people will be familiar with it.

It is simply that a journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step, and I suppose I have been wondering how this might be expressed as a measure of time.

Something like a year will begin with a single day, or with a single moment of resolution.

However this either confronts you, or however you will find a means of surviving, the problem is an ancient one, requiring that we can reinvent ourselves again, to continue the lives we have made for ourselves, or at least adjusting the one that we have made so that it fits us more comfortably.

And so, good luck and my heartfelt good wishes for the Christmas season, whatever it means to you, and however it finds you.

Feed The Birds

Like so many people, I love the Mary Poppins film.

Not so the original author of the Mary Poppins books, PL Travers.

I am looking forward to seeing the recently released film that is based upon the differences between Walt Disney and PL Travers, Saving Mr Banks.

Having viewed a recent short documentary from the BBC about this forthcoming film, it has reminded me how much I love the section in the film where the old woman feeds the birds outside St Paul’s Cathedral.

This is a haunting song, and perhaps few people will realize exactly who it is playing the role of the Old Woman.

At the time of filming, she had been retired for a couple of years, and was living in a retirement home for actresses.

It seems that this was one of the few scenes in the film that PL Travers approved of, and Jane Darwell, the daughter of a railway president, born in 1879, began making films only when she was in her 30s.

Her name was changed from Woodward, perhaps because her family so disapproved of her working as an actress.

Walt Disney so wanted to cast her in this role that he personally visited her in the nursing home where she was living, and she was ferried backwards and forwards to filming in a limousine, just to sweeten the deal.

It is of course her last film role, and although we might not remember many of her numerous other roles, she was the winner of an Oscar for an Actress in a Supporting Role in 1941, In The Grapes of Wrath.

She also had a part in Gone with the Wind, in 1939, and her full list of films is very lengthy.

She has a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and though her part in the film is a small one, I cannot help feel that it is a pivotal one, providing a real sense of what Mr Banks, the father of the two children at the heart of Mary Poppins, fails to see right in front of his nose.

Although it is a lullaby, in the film, and perhaps could easily be simply passed over and forgotten, it is for me one of the most memorable tunes from this extraordinary film.

At the time of its release, in 1964, it became the most successful Disney film at the Oscar ceremony, scooping five Oscars.

It has been one of the most successful films financially for the Disney Corporation, so that they have named one of their technical companies after it, MAPO - in other words, Mary Poppins.

Strange how one small element in the story of a single film can link to serve many other films.

But then, I suppose that is the nature of Hollywood, that it is ultimately a small community in California, albeit with the capacity to encompass the world.

Doctor Who Regenerates

It has been difficult for anyone in the UK to miss the fact that Doctor Who has just celebrated its 50th anniversary.

It has done so in a quite extraordinary way, and as a child growing up in the 60s, there is no doubt that I am one of those children that cowered behind the sofa when the program showed, and it has been a formative part of my childhood and growing up.

And until very recently, I have been an avid viewer, only tapering off because I do not wish to be obsessive about any television at all these days.

But I have seen the 50th anniversary special, and I have been mightily impressed.

It is not an easy undertaking to tinker with a potentially lengthy future, and as Doctor Who has already racked up 50 years, and a dozen different Doctors, there is no reason to believe that it will not continue into the future.

And what has been achieved with this special edition has been quite remarkable.

Perhaps understandably so because of the unique nature of the series, and the high production values that in more recent years have been applied to it.

But what has been achieved with this special edition has been a rewriting of just about everything that is at the heart of the essential character of the Doctor, and this will doubtless have some impact upon future episodes.

I don’t want to go into the kind of detail that would mean that I would be telling the entire story, because that would be far too complicated.

And in any case, no doubt it will be possible for anyone that cares to do so to see the episode in question for themselves.

But what has been achieved above all is to remove from the personality of The Doctor a deep seated psychological blemish, that occasionally, would become apparent in his portrayal.

And by removing this blemish, he has been given new possibilities for future episodes and his motivations, such as might otherwise never have been possible.

This is a little like an individual undergoing psychoanalysis or counselling, successfully, and becoming a better person for it.

That it has been achieved in the context of a fictional time travelling character, whose popularity with children and adults alike is unrivalled, will no doubt have repercussions such as I cannot foresee.

But it is quite an achievement, and does make me curious as to how future episodes will differ.

But The Doctor has mean made better, in some difficult to summarise way.

Perhaps only echoing that biblical quote, physician heal thyself.

Letters To Juliet

It may be one of those truths which really are the case. Perhaps the story of Romeo and Juliet is known around the world. Everywhere that such a story of love can be told and remembered.

 it is also true that great art translates readily into other forms.

Or that the work of a genius like Shakespeare continues to inspire artists of other cultures and times.

Only recently I have discovered a particularly beautiful film which offers an insight into just this idea.

It is a film, made in about 2010, and starring Amanda Seyfried and Vanessa Redgrave.

At one level, it is a simple story of modern day love, and the tribulations that Amanda experiences when she travels to the town in Italy where Juliet lived, as far as the Shakespeare play is concerned.

Whilst in Verona, her fiance, a chef about to open a new restaurant in New York, becomes obsessive about visiting his potential suppliers.

In the words of his fiancee, he has suddenly become very Italian now that he is in Italy.

And so he disappears off to a wine auction, leaving his fiancee where she has become interested in what she has discovered about the house of Juliet.

Every day, this is visited as a site of pilgrimage, by lovers from across the world, who leave letters to Juliet, pinned to the wall of the house where legend has it that she lived.

The work that she has been doing in New York is as a fact checker for the New Yorker magazine, but she aspires to be a writer.

She has visited the house of Juliet, and watched as lovers of all kinds, some clearly distressed, pin their letters to the wall of the house.

And then, she observes that an Italian woman comes to collect the letters in a small basket every evening, and she follows this woman and discovers that the letters have not simply been removed and destroyed, but rather have been removed so that they can in fact be answered.

She is introduced to the four women who are the secretaries of Juliet, employed by the local authority to answer these letters.

They are fascinating women, dividing letters so that they can be answered by the appropriate person. One of them has been married to the same man for 60 years, one answers any letters that have a medical or some sense of loss connected with them, and is a nurse, and one has the job of deciphering the almost illegible ones, are the ones that are in a sense the most desperate.

A little later on that evening, Amanda’s character is sitting up serving the letters, and assisting one of the secretaries to collect the most recent batch of letters to Juliet.

As she is helping to put the letters into a basket, as is the custom at the end of each day, she happens to remove a loosened break in the wall of the house, and thus revealing a letter that has been hidden for 50 years.

Amanda dutifully brings the letter to the secretaries of Juliet, and reads the letter to them.

It tells of a young girl, that wishes to explain to the man that she loves, a local boy close to where she had been attending an art class in Tuscany 50 years previously.

Though she loved Lorenzo Bartoli deeply, she in effect has run away, after they had agreed to do the same together, because they loved each other.

Amanda asks if she can write the letter herself, to the address on the envelope in London, and she telephones her fiance, who is quite happy to stay and spend more time with his suppliers.

Amanda writes her letter, and posts it off that evening.

She spends the next couple of days with the secretaries of Juliet, and imagine her surprise when her letter has been received, the first notice of its having been received being the arrival of Clare’s grandson, who has sought out the secretaries of Juliet, in effect to chide them as to the raised expectations that the letter has excited in his grandmother, with whom he has travelled in response to the letter.

We are not made privy to the contents of the letter at this stage, although we do hear what it contains much later in the film.

And so begins the search by Claire for her long lost love, and Amanda meets Claire after she follows the grandson back to where they are staying.

Claire agrees that Amanda should accompany them, in spite of the protestations at first of the grandson.

Amanda’s background in checking facts, comes into its own when it is realised that they have a huge task ahead of them, in spite of the certainty in Claire’s mind that Lorenzo would not have moved away from the soil that he so loves.

Suffice to say, it is a most romantic quest to find Lorenzo, and I will give nothing further away of the story.

It is a wonderful reworking of the Romeo and Juliet story, in a way that is modern without losing any sense of the romance of the original story.

It is rare that I have been so moved by a film, and impressed by its simplicity.

And of course there is an extraordinary coincidence that makes me write this blog story.

A friend that has taken to regularly visiting me weekly on a Tuesday evening will not be visiting this Tuesday, tonight as I write this story.

Because he is on holiday with his family in Italy.

He did not know to where in Italy he would be travelling, only that he might be travelling to Lake Garda.

What is extraordinary is that in the film Amanda and her fiance are to visit Lake Garda, and I therefore realise that my friend is visiting Tuscany, and I am wondering whether when he arrives back he may have visited the city where Juliet’s house is to be found.

It would be quite extraordinary to discover that he has visited this same location that has provided me with such stimulus whilst he has been away for a short break.

Only time will tell.

My Life On Film

I recorded yesterday a film that I have admired for some time.

It so happens that it is a film shot on location on the island of Hoy in Orkney, the largest of the Orkney islands. It is separated from Orkney proper by Scapa Flow, an area of water that has for much of the 20th century been the location for the Home Fleet, very much the subject of this film, called The Spy In Black. It is an early work of Michael Powell, made in 1939 before he became better known as a filmmaker after he had teamed up with Emeric Pressburger. Powell and Pressburger films have become synonymous with quality British films, and many of their collaborations are considered among the finest of British films of their period.

When Michael Powell worked alone as a filmmaker, he was often fascinated with life in Scotland, and his personal output reflects this fascination.

This film is a good example, as it depicts accurately the life of people living in Orkney during the First World War, and the plot hinges around German attempts at placing a spy on the island.

In the event, this attempt fails miserably, as a counter-espionage plot means that numerous German submarines are sunk as a consequence of this failed attempt.

It is a fascinating film for me, as I am very familiar with the locations for the film, which is perhaps surprising, given that the area depicted is sparsely populated, and not perhaps a place commonly visited by tourists.

But it so happens that it is a part of Scotland with which I am very familiar, because for two years, I was responsible for the International Young Composers course, during which the composer Sir Peter Maxwell Davies invited young composers from across the world to spend a fortnight on his island home, learning from him by completing a composition that was performed by an ensemble of musicians from the Scottish Chamber Orchestra.

It so happened that I was the person responsible for organising that course, and for all of the arrangements that enabled it to take place.

As it was located on Sir Peter’s Island home, and since he lived close to The Old Man of Hoy, which is an important location in the film, this is unusually familiar to me as a location.

In the film, the German spy is intended to be the schoolteacher at Longhope, a small settlement at the eastern end of the island.

A small steamer delivers the schoolteacher to the island close to this settlement, and it is with some irony that I recognise the landing place, as it was the same landing stage at which an audience arrived to listen to the results of the composition course, held during the St Magnus Festival on the island of Orkney, of which Sir Peter was the patron.

And thus I would spend a fortnight or so myself at this end of the island, being hosted by a family that lived only a stones throw from that school house.

It is a fine film, and I am glad to add it to my collection.

Strangely, another film again that collection is a version of the Thomas Hardy novel, Jude.

Whilst I worked for the Scottish chamber Orchestra, I lived in Edinburgh, and it is a strange coincidence that the flat where I lived for three years, placed on the second floor of a block of four period apartments, was used as a location for that film.

In the story, Jude works as an apprentice stonemason, and the yard below my kitchen window, was used as the location for the stonemasons yard in the film.

In reality, it was a simple cobbled yard in which a garage provided services specifically to the owners of Citroen 2CVs, and strangely enough, I had cause to use this garage regularly, since I owned one of these vehicles.

And so, it is most peculiar to see this simple yard transformed into a set for this part of the film, but most gratifying to preserve this memory of my flat in Edinburgh.

I believe other parts of the film used Edinburgh for its locations, as it provides a wonderful period setting for an 18th-century town.

An Unlikely Visionary

It doesn’t take much by way of learning about science, to have come into contact with Boyle’s Law.

What is less well known are some of the details of this man’s life.

When Robert Boyle died in London in 1691, he left behind in his personal papers an extraordinary document, which today is kept at the Royal Society of which Robert Boyle was a founding member.

It is a list of 24 things, almost unrelated until you appreciate something of the context of the man that Robert Boyle was.

Robert Boyle is remembered today as the founder of modern chemistry, and he is certainly remembered by his fundamental law, that every student of science will appreciate and understand.

This list that was found in his personal papers is a list of what Robert Boyle believed would be things that science would contribute to the world, and 22 of the 24 things mentioned have indeed come to pass.

When it is remembered that he was writing towards the end of the 17th century, and the list included things such as the notion that we would be able to swim like fishes, prolong life, and take to the air and fly, you can begin to appreciate how much of a visionary this man was.

It would be nice to think that we could all leave behind in our personal papers something for those surviving us that would be as prescient as this list has proven to be.

I don’t think this would ever be the case, and neither do I truly feel that this is a cause for any concern.

For we are all visionaries in our own way, although it is perhaps the case that few of us may never stand in the place from which we can communicate what it is that we may see in our visions.

It is as if we all have a place to stand, but those of us that can find it, and equally also find our voice, and an audience to hear us.

Are simply exceptionally rare, or lucky perhaps.

But somehow, learning about this extraordinary visionary man of his time, and of his visionary sense, I have found to be liberating and inspirational.

And all of this was presented in the context of one of the most enlightening documentaries that I have seen from the BBC, delivered by Prof Brian Cox, from Manchester University.

He is a physicist, and possesses the remarkable capacity to be able to communicate complex ideas in the simplest way, and in a way that is memorable.

Inspirational stuff.

Every Breath We Take

We take for granted. But perhaps we shouldn’t.

I’m not usually given to irrational concerns, but there is one concern I have which might be described as such.

But even a simple education in science will equip every person undertaking it with the straightforward knowledge of how much on a knife edge, is the fact that we live on a planet that has an oxygenated atmosphere, and perhaps more important, is able to retain it.

The sun we rightly consider to be the reason why we are all here, and in the latitude where I live, in the United Kingdom, I am able to benefit from temperate seasonal variations, neither too hot in summer, not too cold in winter.

If we did not have the protection of our magnetic poles, that same life giving Sun would quickly strip what atmosphere we have from our planet.

And soon to follow would be any trace of water in the oceans, which modern science tends to agree, has been the source of life itself.

And of course is the means by which water is recycled through weather systems so that in most parts of the world, sufficient fresh water falls so that it ultimately can become a source of life giving sustenance, for both plants and animals.

But much is wrong with those systems that sustain life on this planet.

And I would do not seem too cranky if I were to express concern at the rate at which vast forests are being destroyed, on a daily basis.

Quite simply, though it may have taken millions of years for these systems to have been generated, it is far too easy to imagine that we may be close to a tipping point, when sufficient has been broken of what is required for all of these interconnected things to begin not to work sufficiently.

It does not take someone with a Hollywood imagination to consider what outcomes might be likely.

It is all too straightforward to imagine the kinds of disasters that might come to pass before all of life became impossible as these systems begin not to work.

As I begin to write this blog, I make no apologies for sounding perhaps like some doomsday predictor, but as I outline these things, I begin to wonder if my fears are not as irrational as I might have imagined.

Perhaps we should all take some responsibility for not simply taking every breath for granted, and though it might seem unpalatable for the air that we breathe to become a taxable commodity, perhaps we might more seriously consider ways in which we can achieve some sense of stability in the manner with which we take advantage of this planet.

The alternative, quite simply, is unimaginable.

A Theory of Everything

I have used the often unreliable World Wide Web for much research concerning the area of quantum mechanics.

In one of my recent searches, I came across the notion that Buckmaster fullerenes, or buckyballs, may well have provided the essential seeds that have created life.

Such a leap of imagination is rather interesting to me. That somebody with probably far more intensive training in this area of knowledge should have even considered this notion is fascinating.

But then this notion is not so far fetched, once examined just a little.

Because on the one hand, the buckminsterfullerene is after all a varietal form of the element carbon, in the same way that diamond or graphite are different kinds of carbon. The name of this particular form is an homage to Buckminster Fuller, quite simply because of its shape similarity to the geodesic domes that he was fascinated by.

It seems likely that this kind of carbon atom does occur naturally, even in space, although it was first created artificially and identified by modern scientists in 1982 or thereabouts.

Interestingly, quantum entanglement is precisely that spooky at a distance relationship that Einstein himself talked about in the early part of the 20th century, when he was theorising about the nature of the universe in his relativity theories.

It seems that this particular form of carbon offers the possibility of faster than light connectivity between buckyballs, since the spooky at a distance collectivity appears to be instantaneous.

If this does hold out the prospect of multiples of the speed of light, which would be the only explanation if some external connection were to be the cause of this relationship, then some extraordinary possibilities seem to open up.

In my understanding, it is additional electrons which appear to be the reason for carbon atoms to be organised in this form.

And since electricity, perhaps particularly that form of electricity which is fundamental to life itself, which requires the movement of electrons, then perhaps quite simply everything that has generated electricity when it once lived might have left its footprint on the world, in some way that might find a spooky connection with other complex life forms.

This might seem unbelievable, if I wasn't virtually quoting Einstein himself.

But whilst all of this is on the surface at least semi-scientific, I have already hinted that my approach to this subject is at least partly motivated by my interest in creative writing.

If there is such a spooky and mysterious action at a distance involved at an atomic level in things, not only does it open up all kinds of scientific possibilities, such as faster than light travel.

And one of the major areas for research in quantum mechanics lies in quantum computing, to provide faster than imaginable computing options.

Yesterday, I watched The Forbidden Planet, a film which is celebrating its 60th anniversary this year.

In the opening sequence, it is clear that the means of motion use by the spacecraft is based on quantum theory, which is the means by which its rate of travel achieves faster than light speeds.

Very little explanation is needed for the story to be compelling, and in the human world, just as in our capacity for sight, our brain will fill in the gaps without any problem.

And of course, interesting to an old cynic like myself, someone that wants dearly to believe but finds it difficult, the existence of such strangeness at a subatomic level does open extraordinary possibilities for a consciousness that perceives everything at all times and all places. And interestingly, it is clear in the story of The Forbidden Planet that belief in God is still essential and central to being human.

Perhaps life is something so special that it has been seeded by an allotropic form of carbon, that exists throughout the universe and can be the catalyst, in the right circumstances, for the development of complex carbon-based lifeforms.

You Have Mail

I am a great fan of film. On an external hard drive, I now have a collection of more than 700 movies, recorded from broadcast, and thanks to the nature of digital recording, with all traces of advertisements removed.

They are simply stored in alphabetical order, although I have occasionally mused about whether they might be placed into separate folders containing different categories of film.

But I have restrained myself from undertaking this kind of exercise, although I do enjoy imagining numerous sometimes unorthodox categories, over and above the obvious ones.

One such category might be the way in which certain films have entertained an audacious approach to American history, almost inventing a history that has never existed. This might include the National Treasure films, and Sahara, but there are as many sub categories as can be identified by anyone with personal predilections for subject matter.

Another exercise that I tend to practice in my imagination is to identify almost genealogical links between films, as if to identify which might have preceded the other and made it possible for a certain story to be told in a certain way.

This is entertaining, for myself, but is not necessarily something that would be of interest to a wider audience.

One of my recent new acquisitions is the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan romantic comedy You Have Mail.

I have only recently viewed it properly, and of course it could form a useful addition to those films that explore the way in which the Internet has become a means of communication in society, and how indeed it is transforming the way that we communicate.

In my own case, it has made me suddenly realise that there is a parallel with the way in which I write this blog on a regular basis, aiming to communicate my thoughts not to one individual, but as it happens to an extraordinarily worldwide audience that is always surprising me as to the range of countries in which English is clearly a shared language.

I am a particular fan of what might be described as ‘chick flicks’, and I am certainly much less interested in violent adventure films and have no interest in horror at all.

I am equally interested in observing the second-hand value of films, although these days I try to minimise my purchase of actual DVDs in cases.

It is always interesting to discover films that have retained an exceptionally high value, often much higher than the original release price for a modern DVD.

Bargains are to be found, and I have a friend who regularly combs the shelves of several town centre second-hand stores to discover where perhaps such bargains can be had.

Film is a fascinating reflection of social and cultural interests, and my interests are definitely those of an armchair anthropologist.

Digital Footprints In The World

Like so many people these days, I am fascinated by my family tree, and as a consequence, I have a subscription to one of those sites through which you can research records and build your tree.

But today, I was able to research something that was as equally fascinating as anything that my ancestors might have revealed.

I have the kind of subscription that enables me to discover any mention within newspapers and other more general media.

And this afternoon, I simply did a search on myself.

I found the results very interesting, in that this simple search made me realise how much we leave traces of ourselves in the modern world.

And since many of the traces of that we leave, are left within that part of the world that is is described as the public domain, we may not realise the full extent of the traces that we leave when we are making them.

In other words, nobody asks permission for certain kinds of data before it is revealed for the whole world to see.

Or at least that part of the world for whom it is a matter of course to be able to access the Internet and to make subscriptions to those kind of organisations that make this data easily available.

It is a sobering thought to discover the extent of these digital footprints, and I suppose in my own case, this has been most obviously through the fact that I have been a Director registered at Companies House on several occasions, almost always as the Director of a charitable company, and this in no way represents me as someone that has had a successful business career.

I suspect that many of us remain blissfully unaware of the extent to which we leave traces of ourselves in all kinds of contexts, not least of all in the United Kingdom through being registered to vote at a particular address.

Simply being on the electoral roll is sufficient for our place of residence to be listed, along with all of those also registered at the same address.

This is good news for anyone wishing to find or locate someone that has no reason to hide their tracks.

And it will constitute an interesting social history record for those in the future, wishing to undertake research as to who was living where and when, at some point in the future.

For I suspect this information will outlive most of us about whom it discourses.

Once a footprint has been made in this digital world, I suspect it is virtually impossible to remove it.

Quantum Entanglement - Towards A Theory Of Everything

I was always interested in science as a young man, and until I had to choose my A-levels, the sciences were the subjects in which I excelled.

I even confided to my mother that I wished to study to become a Doctor, something which she would never let me forget.

Especially after I chose to study arts subjects at A-level, and then went on to study Philosophy at University.

Now Philosophy is a respectable subject for study, especially when the University were I went to study it was University College London. One of the Russell group of universities, and certainly one of the best in that country.

However, there is no doubt that Philosophy is not a vocational subject, and from my mother's perspective, I believe she was always left with a sense of disappointment that I had not achieved the promise that I had shown as a young man.

The truth is simply that I wished to stop learning more and more about less and less, and to be able to study a subject in which I might genuinely contribute something that would benefit humanity.

The jury is out, as they say, and as I approach the point in my life where I am likely closer to my death than my Youth, perhaps I am better able to judge for my self whether I have succeeded at all.

Anyone looking closely at the list of my blog entries will become quickly aware of the scope of my interests. Which is very broad.

As to whether I have contributed anything unique to the world, that is for those that come after me to judge.

Perhaps my proudest achievements are my three self published volumes, two of poetry, and one of short stories.

In so much as I have little faith, these are perhaps more art a guarantee to me of immortality than anything else.

The simple fact of having to lodge copies of these books at the National Copyright Library, guarantees me that. Irrespective of any sales that may be achieved.

And the fact that the hardback copy of my first collection of poems has been placed in the local history collection of the county council gives me further cause for pride, where my book is rubbing shoulders with works from Shelley, Kipling, and Balzac.

I am under no illusions concerning the reasons for its inclusion in this collection, since it incorporates an essay about my meeting Dame Vera Lynn at the Queen Alexandra Hospital Home for soldiers, both of which are of sufficient historical importance to have guaranteed my volume of poetry inclusion within this collection.

The poems in this special edition are dedicated to Constance Gladys, Marchioness of Ripon, someone that in spite of her death in 1917, is still fondly remembered over at the Hospital across the road from me in Worthing.

It is a simple fact that towards the end of her prematurely ended life, she was one of the principal forces behind the way in which a century on, the Hospital still functions.

However, in despite of my disablement by multiple sclerosis, I have not given up by any means.

And through my blog in particular, I still strive to write thought provoking short pieces that may well continue to receive page views long after my death.

And indeed my next blog will take as its subject something that may well contribute in its controversial way to a subject that could well find its full flowering centuries after my death.

Which will be quantum entanglement. A subject that I have only recently begun to study as an amateur, but which I believe is a subject on which I could postulate theories as adept as someone studying physics might.

My reasoning for this is somewhat connected to my study of philosophy at University College, since my interests let me to take a particular interest in the European moderns.

An examination of the philosophy of the European moderns can just as easily be pursued by an examination of literature, such as the writings of Jean-Paul Sartre.

Since the theories concerning quantum mechanics are very much theoretical constructs, I would argue that an interested amateur might develop substantive theories as much as might be developed by someone engaged in practical experimentation.

And so, I shall be developing my thinking, and submitting it in this blog for others to comment upon, should they wish.

The Strange Truth About Dinosaurs

The Horizon documentary series on BBC Television continues to be informative and thought provoking.

This week, an extraordinary program threw new light upon every schoolboys fascination, Dinosaurs.

A woman that has been researching dinosaurs, in particular tyrannosaurus rex, for many years has shed new light on this most iconic of all Dinosaurs.

Based in Montana, which is apparently the most likely place in the United States for T Rex to be found, she has been the first person ever to be able to determine the gender of a dinosaur.

And by so doing, also beginning to change everything we thought we knew about these antediluvian creatures.

Since they did not survive beyond a cataclysmic asteroid impact 65 million years ago, it has been impossible to determine much about the structure of these creatures, and in particular because of the lack of any soft tissue surviving in the fossil record, it has been impossible to say how they have been connected if at all connected in evolutionary terms to other creatures.

Certainly the accepted wisdom has been that it was the death of the dinosaurs that enabled mammals to evolve into the most successful creatures that led ultimately to Mankind.

Strangely, however, this Dinosaur specialist has transformed our taxonomic appreciation of the dinosaur. Incredibly, she has been able to retrieve soft tissue from inside the mineralised fossil bones of a T Rex by dissolving the mineralisation content of a small piece of bone in acid.

Inside one particular kind of bone she then discovered a kind of material that can only be found in birds.

Given the fact that we already know that dinosaurs laid eggs in nests, this confirms that they are indeed the oldest ancestor of birds.

It seems that they did also possess hollow bones, just as we are used to conceiving of in birds, and with the potential to analyse soft tissue, although extremely degraded, it has been possible to observe with microscopic assistance, something of the cellular structure of dinosaur blood for the first time, confirming it seems that they were just like birds red blooded.

Analysis of the DNA may be partially possible, from an examination of material that has been preserved within the long bones of these creatures.

But before we get excited about the prospect of eventually making truth of the Hollywood romance, determining the entire dinosaur genome may have been made virtually impossible thanks to the contamination of the best likely specimens by treasure hunters.

It seems that the best specimens might have come from Mongolia, and specifically the Gobi desert.

This has been a desert since the time of the dinosaurs, but since the most complete skeleton of a T Rex was sold at auction some years ago for $7.6 million at Sotheby’s, treasure hunters have been pursuing this best lucrative possible treasure. And thereby making it almost impossible for an undisturbed and uncontaminated discovery to be made.

I was stunned at the implications of this documentary.

As a child, I was as fascinated by dinosaurs as children today, and this confirmation that they seem unlikely to have been birds of a most extraordinary scale is quite remarkable.

Although there has been over the years theories that modern birds are the remaining descendants of dinosaurs, this is the first time that I can recall ever having to consider that they were all birds.

Perhaps unlike what we see today, but it is startlingly terrifying to consider that dinosaur behaviour might have been bird like in terms of flock and group behaviour.

The Bird Man On My Doorstep

I have been fortunate to have lived in some of the worlds most visited cities.

For three years, I lived in Edinburgh, and before that, for a year in Glasgow.

And then, for 10 years I lived in Leeds in Yorkshire, perhaps not on the itinerary of every international tourist. But at least the home of one of the U.K.’s great opera companies, Opera North. For whom I had the privilege of working, not as a singer, but in its education department.

And so you can imagine my delight to have discovered that yesterday I was simply a stones throw from a truly international event.

Perhaps not up to the standards of some of the events I have been accustomed to, but certainly international.

And so I trundled in my electric wheelchair the several hundred yards to get a view of the pier in Worthing, which is the focus of this particular event.

Which it would be possible to say has its origins back in the 15th century, when a man first dared to contemplate that he might strap on wings and fly like a bird.

That man of course was Leonardo da Vinci, and there were not too many in his mould at this particular event.

It has of course become almost a grand joke, or perhaps an excuse to jump legally off the pier into the sea. In the height of summer.

And we are after all having a summer in Britain this year. This is almost enough to make anyone jump off a promontory into the sea.

But it is here on my doorstep. And it may be an unlikely international event, but it is here. And like the proverbial mountain, since it is here, I may as well climb it.

Fortunately for me, in these days of political correctness, space is set aside for people in wheelchairs to view the grand spectacle from the Lido, not perhaps as spectacular as the one in Venice Italy. But nevertheless, an outdoor bathing spot on the coast, with a balcony that is reserved for us wheelchair users on this occasion.

It’s quite a while since I felt as special as this.

And quite a while since I have simply relaxed by the sea, listening to the relaxing sound of waves slapping the beach below. Quite spectacular.

There is a £30,000 prize, should a flight actually succeed. And the festival is divided into a section open to all, and a section for the more serious competitors for the prize.

In truth, it really is simply a spectacle of eccentricity.

And perhaps the prize money would be easily paid should some form of actual flight take place, simply for the publicity it would generate.

Oh, to be in England, in the Summer!

Restoring Humanity

I had an unusual conversation today. With my carer.

It was only unusual to the extent that, perhaps sensibly, not every conversation that we have feels with hindsight as if it might change your whole life.

In some respects, everything we do or say should have the capacity to represent who and• what we began and are as people. As human beings.

But of course, in the modern world, it is not typical that we reveal ourselves always honestly and with clarity.

The conversation was at one level simply concerning an advertisement for promoting the numerous ways in which it is possible these days to watch television. Using portable devices that have in the last couple of years changed mobile telephones into multi media devices connected by the Internet so that they can receive television, and to be connected to social networking sites, from virtually anywhere that we find ourselves.

This is all in simple terms a natural progression from the simple technology of mobile telephones.

 But as the conversation developed, we began to talk about the way in which it is on most impossible to engage in a one-to-one conversation without the other person responding to the insistent demands of their communication device.

If for example they receive a text message, or some notification of something trivial from their social networking friends.

A little later in the afternoon, I have had in effect a continuation of this conversation, in the context of a discussion about the way in which people are losing their basic human communication skills, as they become more and more dependent upon these communication devices.

Devices which are often a consistent and continuous means of connection to our network of friends, but at the same time as they provide a continuous connection, to that network of social contacts, they have begun to trivialise the way in which we communicate and remain in contact with our friends.

There is a very real sense in which there is a danger that these devices become a substitute for the face-to-face communication and contact with which we are all very familiar.

 But with which perhaps inevitably we will begin to lose our competence with. It is not difficult to perceive the rapid development of these communication devices as something that is getting in the way of what has for decades been the normative behaviour of most people. To talk and to listen to others and by so doing to share ideas with other people.

Perhaps it is simply that human behaviour is evolving as rapidly as this technology is developing.

This week, a good friend of mine experienced the loss of his handheld communication device, quite simply it got fried, so that its overnight charging submit deprived him of his only means of communicating with the world, because he had one of these devices that connect to the Internet, and enable all of his social interaction.

And the management of his diary, via the Internet.

Sudden loss of this device becomes a disabling event. As he had become totally accustomed to make most of his social contacts through this single means.

And so, suddenly, in my afternoon conversation about just this subject, the idea came to me that perhaps there is a need to rescue humanity from itself.

To restore those more basic means of human interaction, which are already suffering as a consequence of these technological devices.

I learned a new word this afternoon, which describes this process of somebody not paying full attention to a conversation, because they are trying to answer a text message at the same time as they are participating in a human conversation.

When I heard this word, it struck me immediately that it was in reality simply a euphemism for what otherwise we might think of as somebody simply being downright rude.

And my first thought was, that we should call this thing what it really is.

Rudeness. Because that is what it is. Not slubbing.

How Important The Bees Are

I have written on many occasions inspired by viewing Horizon documentaries on the BBC.

I have seen another one recently, that has given me much pause for thought.

Quite simply, it was about a phenomenon which is virtually global, and which may affect almost every human community.

Although for most people, this will come as some surprise. It is a problem that has been almost invisible, and although scientists are working hard to discover more about its causes, it is a difficult problem, and one for which a solution is not immediately obvious.

Perhaps by September of this year, 2013, a little more may be understood about what exactly is causing this problem.

There is research underway for which the results may become clear as soon as September.

The problem is Bees. They are just about the only insect species that provides an important source of nutrition for people, by way of honey.

But this insect is suffering numerous problems.

I had not quite appreciated the scale of the problem, nor indeed the significance of this tiny creature, so often perceived as a pest when we encounter it in our homes, or at a picnic.

But the truth was underlined in this documentary, when the staff at a television company were given for breakfast one morning what they would be able to eat if there were no bees to pollinate crops. Food items that we simply take for granted.

Such as milk, any kind of fruit, virtually the only staple that we would be able to grow in any quantity would be wheat.

Almost everything else is pollinated through the intervention of the bee.

Perhaps the most significant obvious problem is the virus that is affecting hives throughout the Western world, thanks to a small mite that spreads the virus.

Once it affects a hive, it can often spell disaster, with complete colony collapse.

The cause of the problem that infection with this virus causes is not obvious, and there may be other issues that are causing difficulties for the humble bee.

Changes in agriculture seem to be the most likely culprit, so that it is far more difficult for bees to find sources of pollen from which the bees manufacture honey, that supports their colony, as well as providing this most nutritious food.

One study of pollination using students armed with paintbrushes indicated that the financial cost of what bees undertake as part of their life cycle free of charge indicated a potential cost of almost £2 billion for the UK economy alone.

And the practicalities of this are not without significant problems in themselves.

It may be that the virus interferes with the sensitive means by which the bee navigates across large distances to find its source of food.

Or the complex ways in which the bee communicates with other members of its colony.

Studies of the way in which these tiny insects travel large distances to gather pollen have involved actually replacing tiny antenna unto them, so that they can be tracked by radar systems.

Some of the weedkillers regularly used in modern agriculture, particularly the neo- nicotinoids, may disrupt the capacity for bees to be able to return to their hives.

The only encouraging sign within the program was the fact that hives placed in urban centres seem to be flourishing, only adding to the mystery as to why these insects are suffering such problems.

And indeed many of the wild species of bee, as distinct from the cultivated honey bee, seem to be suffering less of a systematic virus problem.

But this is a serious problem.

And yet another occasion when the lifestyle that we take for granted in the modern world must be questioned as to whether it is sustainable, on a planet where it seems every life form has some interdependency with every other, and human communities are beginning to grow unsustainably, dependent upon a lifestyle which seems to create as many problems as it solves.

It is ultimately humbling to think that something as small as a bee could be such an important factor in the creation of food in nature.

I look forward with some trepidation at hearing the results of study is underway, which may perhaps/some greater light on the causes of this particular problem.

The Philip Glass Ensemble - Koyaanisqatsi

I like to think of myself as a poet.

Perhaps this is an ambition shared by many people, for whom capturing ideas in words - perhaps fewer words than might otherwise be the case if simple prose were used - so that complex and original ideas might be communicated.

In more recent times, my creative writing has shifted naturally towards prose, and I am actively engaged in writing what will be my second novel.

My first I wrote when I was around 30, and it took me the best part of a whole year to write.

But then, writing a novel is never going to be an easy task. Whatever its quality.

Put simply, a novel is simply an extended work of prose, and its completion is as much a matter of discipline as anything else.

In this I can speak from experience, and even though few people even know of the existence of this piece of writing, those that have seen it, have said kind things about it.

More recently, I have taken it out of its now digital draw, and dusted it off metaphorically, and one of my carers, an avid reader, has read it over the Summer with a view to my editing it with the assistance of an external eye, and thereby completing it.

Whilst poetry has the benefit of brevity in most cases, if a novel consists of say 150,000 words, and my personal writing tariff for this second novel is 500 words per day, working six days a week, making 3000 words per week. The maths as to the time it will take simply to write it is not difficult to work out.

Editing and no doubt rewriting parts of it will now doubt add considerably to the time it takes.

500 words a day is a good manageable target, and most weeks I achieve what I have set out to achieve.

Sometimes I will take time out, but I miss not writing my tariff. And I have currently written almost 88,000 words. Perhaps about half of what I feel will be a sufficient total, to tell the story that is in my head and heart.

Strangely, this blog entry is about poetry. A form of poetry that is quite exceptional and unusual.

It is about a film, that is over 30 years old, and which to my knowledge, is almost the only example of its kind.

Because it is a full length film, one hour and 20 minutes, and part of a trilogy of films that were created over the course of more than 20 years.

They are an unusual trilogy of films, and probably most people will never have heard of them let alone seen them.

Because they are after all rather different from what we have come to expect of this medium.

Because they do not have a typical narrative, nor do they have actors or performers.

They are almost entirely without words, though they have a strong soundtrack, by composer Philip Glass.

And some aspects of the music are composed to words, although these words do not of themselves constitute by any means a narrative.

The title of the first film is Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out of Balance, which is a native American word which is broadly translated by way of an introduction to the first film as life out of balance.

It is a remarkable achievement, and I suppose I feel fortunate to have seen the first film in this trilogy when it was first released in the United Kingdom in the early 1980s.

This coincided with the time that I was at university in London, and I suppose as a young undergraduate student, I was more willing and open to attending something that was not exactly a roaring success at the box office.

Although it did apparently make a small profit for the filmmakers.

It is one of the great benefits of the Internet, that it is possible to discover information about something as obscure as this film I believe still remains simply by searching on Google.

This week, I watched the first film in this trilogy once again, or perhaps it would be more truthful to say that I have listened to it.

Because whilst it is obviously something to be watched in its entirety, it is an  o aural experience as much as a visual one.

And I was reminded of the fact that I have had the great pleasure of having seen the film projected in a concert hall with the soundtrack played live by The Philip Glass Ensemble.

An unusual experience in the United Kingdom, which took place because I happen to  live close enough to  Brighton to have attended a concert performance given by Philip Glass himself, with His Ensemble.

I have never heard so many Californian accents in one room in Britain in my life.

Apparently, the tickets sold out within 20 minutes of being on sale, and it was only the fact that a close friend bought three tickets in order to take me along as a present that I was able to attend.

It is one of those privileged experiences that I will always treasure.

But I would encourage anyone who is able to to gain access to a copy of this film, which is I believe now available on DVD, after many years of wrangling over copyright which kept it out of print.

I have never seen the second and third films in the trilogy, though I do have copies of them.

One day, I will certainly devote the time needed to catch them, as I am sure they will be worth it.

Consumed By A Black Hole

We understand very little about black holes.

Their existence has been determined primarily as a theoretical construct, part of the theorising of particle physicists trying to determine the ultimate nature of the universe.

But theory is about to be added to by observation, as cosmic events are set to take place that will be visible from Earth during the next several months, events that have their origins in the mists of time, becoming visible as a consequence of a physical separation of around 26 million light years.

This Summer, it seems, what it has been possible to observe using radio telescopes from Earth will make it possible for scientists to see what happens as matter is consumed by a black hole.

There is apparently a black hole at the heart of most galaxies, and our own galaxy, the Milky Way, is no exception.

In the constellation of Sagittarius close to the heart of our galaxy scientists have observed as a gas cloud, possibly the debris from a decayed star that has reached the end of its life, is about to enter our own black hole.

This process is vividly described as feeding, and already deep space observations have identified fluctuations in x-ray emissions that have been attributed to the consequences of matter entering into this black hole.

It seems that the temperature of the matter is raised by millions of degrees, and as a consequence, it has been possible to observe massive fluctuations in it the emanation of x-rays as vast quantities of energy have been released.

The kind of energy equivalent to millions of times that emitted from our own Sun.

Scientists are expecting the consequences of this feeding event to be visible from Earth over the next several months, and it is expected that we will learn a great deal about the life cycle and perhaps functioning of black holes.

All of this is extraordinary stuff, almost impossible to comprehend within the constraints of our understanding of events at the far reaches of our potential for observation.

But it is food for thought. I am already beginning to try to contemplate as a writer just exactly what these kind of events might signify from a purely fictional point of view.

Black holes have often figured in science fiction stories as a means of enabling travel between different parts of our universe, and in truth, these imaginings are just as valuable as the theoretical constructs of particle physicists.

The extremes that have been conjured in the theorising concerning  black holes is rather extraordinary.

Most schoolboys will be familiar with the concept that a black hole generates the kind of extremes of gravity such as to make close observation completely impossible.

Even if we had developed the kind of space travel that has been the subject of film-makers imaginations for the past 50 or so years.

It will be interesting to keep up to date with the abstruse world of those observing these events, using the kind of observational techniques which seem of themselves almost to be the subject of science fiction.

Whatever the case, this Summer seems set to be interesting for many reasons.

And it will be worth trying to appreciate what we think we understand about this most arcane area of study, for what light it may shed on our appreciation of the nature of the universe.

Sea Monsters Really Do Exist

I don’t watch every television documentary about the Natural world by any means.

But like most people, I am always interested to discover something new about our understanding of the Natural world.

And just recently, BBC showed a remarkable documentary about the search to obtain footage from deep beneath the Oceans of giant squid.

These have been thought to exist, because of the stories that have been told for centuries by sailors, and in more modern times, by the occasional discovery of specimens that have usually washed up dead on beaches somewhere.

The evidence has been quite compelling that there has been some credence in the stories told by sailors of having seen entire ships pulled beneath the waves by giant squid, and additionally it has been observed that some Sperm Whales carry the kind of scars that indicate that perhaps they have been involved in a deadly struggle with such a creature.

This was an extraordinary documentary, and usefully without adverts on British BBC television, it falls nevertheless compelling in its sense of drama.

Quite simply, it focused on an expedition to seek out the giant squid, just off one of the islands of Japan, in what were described as pristine seas, u un-spoilt by any form of pollution, and with depths commensurate with what has been theorised about where such a creature might be hidden.

It was quite amazing to see a professor that has devoted around 40 years of study to this particular animal, accompanying a varied expedition of specialists in all kinds of fields associated with ocean depths.

The craft available to the scientists included two distinct machines, capable of diving to around 1000 feet.

As well as thisa third machoperate as a simple remote camera, capable of filming for up to 30 hours continuously at great depths.

Armed with all of this technology, the team set off for an area of sea from which the larger quantities of squid had been recovered.

It was helpful to be told from the outset that the expedition would be more successful than anyone could have hoped for, this knowledge not distracting from the sense of expectation as to what might be captured.

What was quite extraordinary when images were first captured was the drama of the Actual images.

First with successful images was the remote camera, which brought back images from a depth of 600 feet that showed distant passing shots of something resembling what was being sought.

And then, one of the techniques to be used by the team was introduced, that the Prof had given up one of his valuable frozen specimens so that it could be liquidised and used as a simple signal lure, telling any squid within sensing distance that a female was in the area.

This liquidised juice was then released into the sea by a simple form of syringe, fitted to the front of one of the diving vessels.

Each of the two primary vessels were equipped with Excellent All Round vision, and with special high-definition cameras that had been developed exclusively for this use.

The results when they came were extraordinary.

And as special as the actual confirmation of the existence of such an extraordinary creature was the sense of Revelation experienced by the elderly professor, seeing for the first time in the flesh a creature he had previously only seen in the form of dead specimens, or part specimens.

It is quite sobering to be reminded that we can still be so amazed at new discoveries in the animal kingdom.

I suspect that these images have been seen by many people that subscribe to things like the Discovery Channel, but this was my first opportunity to see such an extraordinary documentary.

And I am sure it will not be the last!

The Hidden East End

I was brought up in the depths of the East End. My father was a stevedore in the London docks, and my mother lived through the London Blitz until she moved away to do war work. In a munitions factory. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I moved away from where I had been brought up when my father took early redundancy from the docks in 1969, one of the first wave of men leaving professions that they had lived for. In my father’s case, for 44 years.

My mother had always wanted to become a seaside landlady, and she realised her ambition, and to his credit, my father complied.

We therefore moved to Bournemouth, and I received a first class grammar school education. But I returned to London to go to university, and in my second year at University College London, the godless college in Gower Street, and in my second year I moved from university rooms in a shared house opposite the university itself, to live in a housing in the East End, not quite where I had been brought up, but nevertheless back to my roots.

Opposite the large block that the co-operative was set up to manage, there was a church, St Mary’s, and for a year I learned to ring the bells in St Mary’s. It was St Mary’s at Bow, but not the St Mary’s. That is in the city, and the one that if you are born within the sound of its bells, you are a Cockney.

And so I was a member of the USSR, the union of secular and socialist ringers. Sometimes I think visiting the pub after a session learning to ring the church bells was as important as ringing the bells.

I lived in the co-operative for several years, until I moved to Yorkshire to further my connection with cooperatives, but this time, to work within a co-operative not just live.

But when I lived at Bow, I Worked for about two years in a local pub, where I felt completely immersed in a culture that was very particular to that part of London.

Every Friday, we had a lock in, in the days when pubs really did close at 11 PM. But from 11 PM until about 1 o’clock in the morning, a pub pianist would entertain with his own particular brand of risque comedy and extraordinary piano playing.

I became very friendly with Jimmy, the pianist, and he always promised that he would show me something of the real East End. And one day he did, when he took me on from the pub to his next gig, which was in an illegal drinking den, at Limehouse, where a boxing gymnasium was suddenly transformed to a late Friday night Speakeasy.

I don’t think I have ever been quite so drunk, and I took with me a friend from university. I don’t think either of us remembered much about that night.

My journey to and from the pub was short but took me past a small local community centre, on which there was a blue plaque, commemorating the visit from Mahatma Gandhi in about 1937. It was the same centre in which Profumo worked for almost 20 years, cleaning the toilets as payback for his disgrace after his affair with Christine Keeler.

It seems as if everywhere in such a community there is history to be discovered.

Just up the road from where I lived, just past Mile End, there is the Blind Beggar, where the Kray twins shot and killed Jack the Hat McVitie. And a bullet is still in the wall over the bar.

A stones throw away is Cable Street, famous for when the Black Shirts led by Mosley were stopped by dockworkers from marching through the East End Jewish Quarter. I like to imagine my father, who would have been around 20 at the time, to have been one of those dockworkers.

It is just around the corner from Wiltons Music Hall, an extraordinary survival which has now been being restored and is once more a venue for performances. Even before it was properly licensed, it was used as the atmospheric set for numerous film settings, and I was fortunate to be able to attend a private party to celebrate the 25th anniversary of The Sixteen, and they performed a 16th century Oratorio from Venice.

History is everywhere if you look, and I suppose I was fortunate to visit my roots and to be able to see just a little of what still lies beneath the surface.

Rewriting History: The Most Reviled King

Coincidences can be very striking sometimes.

Only recently, I recorded a fascinating documentary programme, entitled enigmatically The King In The Car-Park.

This concerned the recent discovery in the centre of Leicester in middle England of the bones of Richard III, the last English king to have died in battle. And perhaps the most controversial historical Royal ever.

The controversy stems from the fact that he came to the throne of England in the 15th century in a most roundabout way.

And historical accounts, and indeed the history play written by Shakespeare concerning the life and death of the King paint him as a vile tyrant that killed his two young nephews in order to seize the Crown for himself.

Shakespeare was writing a century after the death of this King at the Battle of Bosworth.

And the history books give an account of this king that was to all intents and purposes written in order it seems to justify the rights of the Victor at the Battle of Bosworth, who became King of England in Richard’s place.

Henry Tudor had apparently a very slender right to the crown of England, and since history is written by the Victors, it seems that the stories about this most reviled of Kings may have been doctored so that he was painted to be a villainous and untrustworthy candidate for Kingship.

The major coincidence I referred to earlier is the fact that one of my carers, that is keen on reading to me whilst I eat my meals, has recently purchased an unlikely treat from a local charity shop.

This is a detective story written by somebody who goes by the pseudonym of Josephine Tey.

Written in 1951, a simple Google search has indicated that this mystery/detective story has been hailed as one of the best detective stories ever written.

Quite an honour, and perhaps not easily granted.

But granted in this case by an organisation made up of peers of the writer, who perhaps can be well trusted in this matter.

It is one of five stories under this pseudonym that the authoress wrote with at its heart an English policeman of the old school, recuperating in hospital after having broken a leg whilst chasing a villain in the course of his duties.

Simply to keep his mind occupied whilst he spends time in bed in hospital, in 1951, a friend brings him a number of old prints.

Because he is a Detective, he cannot help but be interested in the faces of the people portrayed in these prints, one of whom is Richard third.

From that point on, we are drawn into the investigation this policeman undertakes, firstly as simply a hunch that this man does not look the kind of character to whom are attributed the crimes that after his death on the battlefield were laid at his door.

And so he begins to examine all of the historical evidence on the assertions about his crimes.

Mainly that he murdered his two nephews, sons of his own brother, over whom he was at first the Regent and Protector after his brothers’ untimely early death, after which he supposedly declared himself the King in his place.

A further coincidence (and of course, they always come in threes!) Is that the BBC has been televising a series entitled The White Queen, which seems to be inevitably moving towards this historic struggle between the Plantagenets and the Tudors.

We haven’t yet completed the book, but it is proving to be a fascinating read, and the documentary programme is in itself fascinating, in that the skeleton of this King has been discovered under the tarmac of the local social services building in Leicester. The most inauspicious possible site for such an important body.

Until this time, lost to history.

It seems that there is a surviving DNA match for this dead King, someone of Canadian parentage, and working quite innocently though aware of his hallowed origins as a furniture maker somewhere in the suburbs of London.

It is a fascinating story so far, and it is still unfolding.

A reminder if one were needed that indeed history is written by those that win victories in battle, and that we must be careful before we accept even the most stylishly presented histories, and you can’t get much more stylish than to have your story told by Shakespeare himself.

Watch It All Before You Judge

I recorded a film over the weekend, that I have seen before.

Although when I first saw it, I saw it only partially, several times. And had already decided that I did not consider it worthy to add to my collection.

The name of this film is unimportant, but the significance is that it was only when I did eventually see it from start to finish did I realize quite how good a film it is.

Of course, the same is true of so many things, we can so easily close our minds to them before we really have what they are properly before us.

It was fortunate for me that a good friend had the persistence to recommend the film to me, and to insist that I overcome my prejudices and see the film as a whole.

The net result is another addition to my ever growing collection of films.

Perhaps it isn’t the greatest of films, but it is so much better than my initial prejudices had taken it to be.

It is a fairly early film as a producer in the output of a prolific filmmaker, and in some respects, provides a useful insight into the role that this filmmaker must be playing.

Because it reads in part as a means whereby he is able to provide opportunities for younger filmmakers, perhaps by providing access to a cast that has used in other films.

But it is always helpful to see the breadth of a film-makers work, whether as a  director or as a producer.

As in some respects, this film seems to contain elements of other of other films, explored from subtlly different points of view.

Not A Dead Parrot Sketch

The humor of the Monty Python team is probably appreciated by a worldwide audience.

This I am sure does not depend upon a sophisticated understanding of English as a language.

Much of their humour is very visual.

Although as someone in their early 50s, my childhood was very much the time when Monty Python was being aired on British television for the first time, I saw very little of the original broadcasts.

It was not until I was much older that I have come to appreciate their style of humour, and find it extremely funny.

And of course, one of their most well known comedy sketches must be the dead parrot sketch.

It is so familiar to most people that I will not even contemplate providing a description here, confident that most people will instantly know exactly what I am talking about.

And one of the extraordinary things about this particular moment in cultural history is that it is possible to simply locate and play such snippets of television history at the press of a button.

And most people, as I was made aware this very morning, can simply access the Internet from their mobile phones.

For me this morning, it was my failure to be able to recollect the name of a poet. But I was able to remember one of his most famous collections, A Shropshire Lad.

In a matter of seconds, it was possible for my carer to discover that the forgotten poet was AE Housman, and it was possible to be reminded of one of his most famous poems almost instantly.

This is truly an amazing thing. Cynics might say that it will mean that we will lose the capacity for memory of any kind quite quickly, as everything that we need to recall can be obtained online almost instantly.

Personally I plan to retain my capacity to remember things, whether it be moments in history, snatches of Shakespeare, or indeed other anecdotes that I wish to retain for conversational use.

But all of this of course is simply a preamble, so that my blog article this morning, concerns a strange sect that I recently discovered.

I am a dog lover, and my dog is regularly walked by a dog lover that has recently purchased an African grey parrot.

This was an expensive animal to purchase, and some might think twice about spending such a sum on something that may well outlive you.

Because I believe the lifespan of an African grey parrot can be as much as 70 or 80 years.

So, if a reason for updating ones' will were needed, this is definitely one of them.

The strange fact that I have learned from the proud new owner of this parrot is that avocado is a parrot poison.

I had not known this, and although I was aware that chocolate is similarly dangerous for dogs, perhaps there will be many other species specific toxins that I am not aware of.

This did remind me of the fact that the tomato and the potato are both close relatives of the Deadly Nightshade, a common hedgerow plant in Britain.

And since I have that kind of mind that still retains useless facts, I suddenly remembered how the South American Natives had given potatoes to Sir Francis Drake, who then brought them back to Britain to give to his Queen, Elizabeth I, in the hope that they would be poisoned by them.

The natives themselves would not eat the potato, unless it had been carefully and ritually prepared by priests, which I believe involved cooking for fairly extended periods.

Of course, the modern potatoes that we purchase for daily use have been bred to be relatively harmless.

But it's still remains the case that green potatoes should not be eaten, as they are harmful.

We have in English the proverb that one man's meat is another man's poison, but I had not quite translated it to the idea that avocados should at all costs be avoided by parrots.

The Other Invasion: Always Forgotten

In the emotional outpouring that accompanies memories stirred over the D-Day landings, it is often forgotten that it was not the only invasion that brought about Victory In Europe.

That other invasion is less well publicized, though just as important, and highly significant in that it created the pincer movement that so distracted the German
High Command, and led inexorably to the defeat of Germany.

My own father took part in that invasion, and the campaign that preceded it.

He was a Desert Rat, fighting Rommel in the desert war, part of the Eighth Army under Montgomery, and indeed it was a famous ploy of the British, to persuade the Germans that it would be from here that the major part of the invasion of Europe would come.

And so Sicily was well fortified, and equipped with troops, at the expense of Normandy.

But the invasion of Sicily did take place, shortly after D-Day itself, and troops from North Africa fought their way up the leg of Italy, burying many of their comrades on the way, often finding fierce resistance at such places as Monte Cassino.

It is perhaps quite typical of the British Tommy, the equivalent of the American GI, that they should have created a poem about themselves, which for its first six or seven verses, comes across as a mocking accusation that these soldiers were really simply dodging D-Day.

But in that final verse, they talk about the truth that none would care to discuss with their families later, and my father never did.

That the price of this second invasion was high, especially at such places as Monte Cassino.

But as Italian resistance faltered, and units were rushed to the aid of the beleaguered northern troops, it became possible and indeed imperative that this second invasion be successful.

And so the self-deprecating legend grew of the D-Day Dodgers, many of whom like my father would have already fought at El Alamein and Tobruk.

But they did their bit, and the war finally ended.

My father had a varied selection of stories that were suitable for general consumption about his experiences during the war, but those around him quickly tired of these sanitised anecdotes.

And thus he probably appreciated the company of his peers, in the life that he led after the war. He was a pigeon fancier, and this solitary pursuit was perhaps shared by many others that had a similar experience, to be spoken about only rarely over beers during meetings of the pigeon fancier’s club.

My father never did wish to travel abroad after the war, she always would say that he had done enough traveling.

And indeed he had.

When he was finally demobilized he was in Palestine in 1948, and that was no easy posting.

And he did not even have to enlist. As a dock worker in the Port of London, he had worked in what would have been a reserved occupation.

But Dock workers flock like pigeons, and in 1940, a whole blend of brothers relented and joined in the war, perhaps having more choice over their destinations because of their willingness to enlist.

My father joined the Royal Engineers, and if he ever achieved a promotion from the ranks, he lost it just as quickly, probably because of drunkenness, another characteristic of dockworkers.

He did hint occasionally at spending time in the glasshouse, army slang for detention after minor misdemeanors.

But the truth has died with him.

He died in 1998, leaving my mother as an elderly widow, with little social experience. Her man was not exactly well prepared for civilian life after what he had experienced in eight years of service.

And they had only married in 1938.

My mother’s war service was equally stretching in its way, so that she became a munitions worker, and later a Capstan Lathe Turner. At least this work took her out of the London Blitz, as she had been living in the East End of London.

My mother is still alive, at 94 years of age made of strong stuff. All those years of severe rationing have probably contributed to that strong mix.

Survive the war, and the aftermath is just another campaign for which you have been well prepared.

Death Is Without Scruples

I was reminded this morning of the early death of Anthony Minghella.

That he died so young, at the age of just 54, is one of many tragic early deaths.

The reminder this morning was my receipt of the latest brochure advertising the forthcoming season at English National Opera.

Just a few weeks before his sudden death, I saw his production of Madame Butterfly when it was first staged at English National Opera, which must have been in 2006.

This was not the last opera I was to see at ENO, last year (2012) I saw a matinee performance of The Magic Flute.

The journey has become quite difficult for me as I have become increasingly disabled, although perhaps I should be grateful that death has not become a shadow on my horizon.

It is a fortunate fact that multiple sclerosis does not necessarily mean a shortening of lifespan, although it certainly does mean a change to what is possible.

Anthony Minghella first came to my attention when I heard an early radio play, entitled Cigarettes And Chocolate.

I still remember this, many years after I first heard it, and although I believe it has been repeated on the radio (Radio 3) I cannot remember when I first heard it, nor when it was repeated.

Like his films and indeed his opera, his work has been memorable in so many ways.

Films such as Truly Madly Deeply, and The English Patient.

I believe he was also responsible for the screenplay adaptation of The Talented Mr Ripley, and for directing the television film version of the No1 one Ladies Detective Agency, broadcast by the BBC shortly after his untimely death.

I am always moved to remember people whose lives I feel have in some small way been entwined in my own, although in truth with Anthony Minghella the connection is slight and vague.

My friend Richard is on the music staff at ENO, and he was the pianist for rehearsals that led to casting for the original production.

Also, the writer of the original No1 Ladies Detective Agency story, Alexander McCall Smith, is someone with whom I have worked when I worked in Edinburgh for the Scottish Chamber Orchestra.

As the orchestras’ Development Director, I arranged for players from the orchestra to work alongside the music ensemble that the author was then involved with, as a parent who had begun to play an instrument many years after first having been taught when at school.

The ensemble was called the Really Terrible Orchestra, the RTO, and gave much fun to the children and their friends of those adults that played in it.

It was long before Alexander McCall Smith became a successful writer, and was able to give up his day job as the Prof of Medical Ethics at Edinburgh University.

I felt very privileged to have been involved with such highly skilled musicians whom I could provide opportunities for community engagement with, and I understand that after I had left the orchestra, Alexander McCall Smith has been invited to be the narrator of Peter And The Wolf.

It is a selfish pursuit, to observe the lives and deaths of those that when I was physically active I had some cause to cross paths with.

But it is one of the ways in which I console myself that I have lived a life beyond the world in which I now live.

My life is by no means over, and for that I am grateful.

Indeed, the limitations to my present life have perhaps sharpened my appetite for experiences that remind me of the sweetness of life, as opposed to the bitterness that could so easily be the choice of what tastes I still have.

What An Extraordinary Imagination

I have a collection of over 500 films, recorded using a digital hard drive recorder.

I used to keep my collection of films on DVD, but more recently, I have discovered that I can copy films recorded from broadcast onto a large external hard drive on my computer, thus saving me the space that so many DVDs take up. And indeed the cost of so many recordable DVDs.

Just recently, I have recorded a broadcast version of Minority Report.

This is an interesting vision of the future, and perhaps what is most interesting about it is that it was based on a short story by the American writer, Philip K Dick.

Other film fans may well recognise the name, for this writer has been behind some of the most iconic films of the last 20 years.

Although long dead,  Philip K Dick was also the writer behind Blade Runner, which many people may recognize this  as one of the most important films about the future, and a fairly  early film for Harrison Ford.

In Minority Report, the future imagined is one in which murder can be predicted by a number of extraordinary individuals, called Pre-Cognitives.

Blade Runner is of course about a future in which powerful humans are cloned for the kind of dangerous work that it would not be possible for straightforward humans to undertake, and a Blade Runner is somebody whose job is to ensure that these extraordinary human creatures do not ever come to Earth.

Their elimination is described as “Retirement”, and Harrison Ford is one such policeman.

It is quite amazing that so many incredible stories came from the imagination of one American writer, but they did.

I suspect there may be other stories that I have yet to discover have their origins in this man’s imagination, and it is truly astonishing that one person. Being able to have such insight into the possible future.

Of course, Philip K Dick is not alone in possessing this skill of imagining an extraordinary future.

I suppose what is interesting is that his work should have become translated as it has to the world of modern cinema, in which so much more is achievable by virtue of computer generated images.

CGI is in itself a quite spectacular means of making tangible what can only be imagined, and films can be made today that it would have been impossible to contemplate making at any other time in the history of cinema.

Perhaps as a consequence of this blog article, I shall research the work of Philip K Dick a little more carefully, just to see if there are other stories of his that I ought to know about.

Life Planning

I have been plagued recently by unsolicited telephone calls.

Mostly sales calls, trying to sell me something that I do not need, particularly as I am severely disabled.

In some respects, this is one of those infringements of personal space that are so much a reflection of the freedom that we are so proud of.

But on the other, they are simply an example of companies trying to make sales in difficult circumstances.

I feel for the poor salesman that no doubt often work on commission, that are given "leads" to follow, and their monthly pay cheque will be a reflection of their capacity to obtain sales, or to at least gain the opportunity for a sales person specially trained to obtain access for a face-to-face meeting.

Which no doubt will result in the unsuspecting householder buying something they do not need, perhaps because of the way in which the salesperson has been so thoroughly trained.

I almost fell prey to this myself recently, when somebody was trying to arrange for somebody to call concerning life planning.

On the surface, this seems to make perfect sense. In effect, to pay for one's funeral at today's prices, through an insurance policy that will preserve whatever estate one has for the benefit of one's family.

The carrot in this case, was assistance in completing one's will.

It just so happens that I am considering updating my will, and I almost fell prey to the notion of having someone visit to explain the benefits of this to me.

Having read the leaflet I subsequently obtained, I realised quite quickly that although it was difficult to find logical Fault with what was proposed, this was not something that I need worry myself with especially given my limited income.

It is a simple truth that when I am dead, the last thing that I should be concerned with is the cost of my funeral.

And so I have cancelled this potential meeting, but nevertheless, I have been made to think about this notion of life planning. Meaning, what after my death.

Now the only significant aspect of positive thinking that can be derived from considering this issue is that notion of the bucket list. What do I wish to achieve before I kick the bucket.

Quite simply, all of us could profit enormously from a greater focus on making good use of the time we have.

We have a saying in English, and possibly it will translate to most other languages, that they are only two certainties. Death and taxes.

My days of considering those things that I might wish to achieve that involve travel or spending money are long gone, and in some respects I do not - I cannot - afford to regret this fact.

But I can and I am acting on my deep held ambitions to leave something of my self to those that outlive me.

For anyone that has my blog over the last year or so, she will be aware that I have published two volumes of poetry, and though I still write, using voice activated software, I have recently decided that it is prose and not poetry for which I wish to be remembered.

I wrote my first novel when I was around 30, and I have never sent it to anyone for appraisal in any way.

But recently, at the age of 52, I have dusted it off, and read it over, and decided that it is after all not that bad. For a first try.

And so I have shown it to one of my carers, who is an avid reader, and she has agreed with me. That with careful editing, it will make something worthwhile.

And since the world of publishing has changed so much in the last 10 years, there is not the same stigma associated with self publishing.

And so for the last three months or so I have been working doggedly on my second novel, sacred places. The first four chapters of which I published in my collection of short stories a couple of years ago.

And I have already written a detailed synopsis of a third novel, which I will not look at again until I have completed the second.

And so, every day I write 500 words, which using voice-activated software does not take too long.

And as I have become accustomed to using this assistive technology, I can claim that it allows my prose to follow the natural rhythms of speech, which is no bad thing.

And so, I am working hard to complete this challenge to myself. Can I write these other two novels, in such a way as to be readable and of interest to the general public?

The simple truth is, no one will know unless I complete my task.

It is perhaps unusual for a writer to turn to prose after poetry, perhaps the example I immediately think of is of the novelist that wrote far from the madding crowd, Thomas Hardy. Who in his later life, wrote beautiful poetry which is often sought more highly of that his novels.

But for me, the choice is made. I wish to be remembered as a novelist, not as a poet.

Only history will speak for truth.