Some time ago I wrote a blog about how my dog tends to bark in prime numbers.
In the morning when she is let into the garden, she runs the length of her domain and barks as if to reiterate that she is the master of her territory.
It was of course a playful piece, drawing upon the way in which a Hollywood film, Contact, uses the fact that prime numbers do not occur naturally.
However, watching a BBC documentary recently, has reminded me of how shortsighted sometimes we can be when it comes to observing the world around us.
The documentary was about much more than simply the capacity that some animals have for using mathematics.
But it is sobering to realise that something as simple as its a honey bee can measure the angle of the sun in the sky, and communicate through this information the location of food that may ensure the survival of the hive over winter.
It was claimed in the programme that the waggle dance, which is the means by which one bee can communicate to others this information, is hardwired into the genetics of the animal.
This may be so, but it is no less amazing that a simple insect is capable of measuring the angle of the sun in relation to the horizon, and also the distance from the hive, two pieces of information which together are sufficient to locate a source of food.
It is fascinating to become aware of how complex and diverse nature can be, and although the programme was by no means simply about the way in which animals make use of mathematics in their survival.
This revelation was one of many that came about because of the way scientists have been observing complex behaviour in a range of animals.
Though there may not be some arcane significance to my dog barking in prime numbers every morning, it does demonstrate the importance sometimes of paying attention to what we can learn of the world around us beyond ourselves.
Wednesday, 5 February 2014
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
The Best And Worst Of Us
Films often explore ethics and morals.
Quite recently, I watched a film that seems to have examined one extreme of what it is to be human.
Looking at the very worst of what we can imagine to be the consequences of our progression as a race. Not wanting to accept the limitations placed upon us by the lives we lead.
The Island is quite a recent film, and supposes that in the near future, techniques of cloning have been developed that enable those with sufficient resources, money, to purchase duplicates of themselves, that can be used for the transplantation of organs, should an accident occur, or disease threaten the life of the ‘sponsor’.
This kind of medical development is not as far-fetched as we might think.
What is interesting about the film is the way in which the cloned ‘property’ is kept unaware of its purpose and fate, as a means of ensuring that the organs contained within the clone have the kind of resilience that millions of years of human evolution have given ‘ordinary’ people.
The ethical issues involved in keeping to protect people alive simply for the purpose of use as spam parts is well presented.
The clones are kept in an isolated location, where the live their lives as innocent childlike beings, convinced that they are the survivors of a contamination that has destroyed the great majority of the human race.
A lottery is used to determine which of the clones might be transported to the mythical island as the film’s title, which is reckoned to be the place from which the Earth will be repopulated by those that have ‘survived’ the calamitous contamination.
But what the businessmen that have created this financially rewarding experiment I have not taken into account is the notion that the clones might develop something of the personalities of the people that they have replicated.
And one particular person, played by our hero, discovers a flying bug, a butterfly, he begins to question what he has been taught to believe without question.
His curiosity leads to him discovering the fate of lottery winners, as they are euthanised after their organs are harvested.
And when someone that he has against the rules become a little too friendly with is chosen for “relocation” to the island, he makes a desperate bid for freedom, and the two of them escape into the outside world, that they expect to be severely contaminated, but isn’t.
With the threat this poses to the business of providing clones that genetically match their ‘owners’, a hunting party is in hot pursuit of these naive escapees.
They head for a modern futuristic Los Angeles, expecting that confronting their sponsors will result in them achieving some kind of safety.
But of course it is not as simple as that.
Our hero interestingly has started to develop the kind of memories that his wealthy sponsor has developed, which means that he inexplicably is able to drive at speed, knows how to operate this kind of high-speed machinery.
It becomes a fight for survival, when his sponsor reports his arrival to the pursuing hunters.
But in an unexpected twist, it is the sponsor that is gunned down, mistaken for the clone, and suddenly the tables are turned on this morally doubtful business.
Since his clone has been destroyed by the pursuing hunters, he is taken back to the facility where the clones are kept isolated from the world, and just as the disreputable business is about to eliminate several generations of product, manages to free the entire population of clones.
The film ends with several hundred naive clones, escaping from the isolated plant where they have been kept and misled their entire brief lives.
It is impossible not to draw parallels with other failed attempts at eugenics, and whilst there is no complete resolution of what happens next, this is not necessary.
It is enough that the failed contravention of everything that is good about humanity has been ended.
Interestingly, the day after having watched this film, I watched a much older film, Accidental Hero, in which a very different perspective on what it is to be ethically and morally human is presented.
In this film, Dustin Hoffman is a small time crook, who by accident of fate saves 54 people from certain death when their aeroplane crashes on its way across America from the west coast.
Dustin Hoffman is an unlikely hero, and he flees the scene of his heroism.
Because one of the people that he has saved is a television journalist, the action takes on a search for the hero of the day.
Through an accidental misplacing of one of his shoes, when the television company offers a reward of $1 million for the identification of the hero, an indigent friend to whom he has given the one shoe that he retained claims the reward.
What follows is a humorous at times series of events, but the end is somehow resolved, when he is able to agree with the mistaken hero that he can blackmail him, ensuring the future education of his young son.
The film finishes with a tantalising moment when the accidental hero is explaining to his young son what really happened, whilst they are both at the zoo.
The film finishes just at the point where a mother has screamed that her daughter has fallen into the Lions enclosure, and father says to son, “watch my shoes”.
Seen together, the two films represent the extraordinary spectrum of possibilities, for human action to be ethical and appropriate, what we might hope of ourselves or others, and what we would wish to be not even conceived as possible.
Quite recently, I watched a film that seems to have examined one extreme of what it is to be human.
Looking at the very worst of what we can imagine to be the consequences of our progression as a race. Not wanting to accept the limitations placed upon us by the lives we lead.
The Island is quite a recent film, and supposes that in the near future, techniques of cloning have been developed that enable those with sufficient resources, money, to purchase duplicates of themselves, that can be used for the transplantation of organs, should an accident occur, or disease threaten the life of the ‘sponsor’.
This kind of medical development is not as far-fetched as we might think.
What is interesting about the film is the way in which the cloned ‘property’ is kept unaware of its purpose and fate, as a means of ensuring that the organs contained within the clone have the kind of resilience that millions of years of human evolution have given ‘ordinary’ people.
The ethical issues involved in keeping to protect people alive simply for the purpose of use as spam parts is well presented.
The clones are kept in an isolated location, where the live their lives as innocent childlike beings, convinced that they are the survivors of a contamination that has destroyed the great majority of the human race.
A lottery is used to determine which of the clones might be transported to the mythical island as the film’s title, which is reckoned to be the place from which the Earth will be repopulated by those that have ‘survived’ the calamitous contamination.
But what the businessmen that have created this financially rewarding experiment I have not taken into account is the notion that the clones might develop something of the personalities of the people that they have replicated.
And one particular person, played by our hero, discovers a flying bug, a butterfly, he begins to question what he has been taught to believe without question.
His curiosity leads to him discovering the fate of lottery winners, as they are euthanised after their organs are harvested.
And when someone that he has against the rules become a little too friendly with is chosen for “relocation” to the island, he makes a desperate bid for freedom, and the two of them escape into the outside world, that they expect to be severely contaminated, but isn’t.
With the threat this poses to the business of providing clones that genetically match their ‘owners’, a hunting party is in hot pursuit of these naive escapees.
They head for a modern futuristic Los Angeles, expecting that confronting their sponsors will result in them achieving some kind of safety.
But of course it is not as simple as that.
Our hero interestingly has started to develop the kind of memories that his wealthy sponsor has developed, which means that he inexplicably is able to drive at speed, knows how to operate this kind of high-speed machinery.
It becomes a fight for survival, when his sponsor reports his arrival to the pursuing hunters.
But in an unexpected twist, it is the sponsor that is gunned down, mistaken for the clone, and suddenly the tables are turned on this morally doubtful business.
Since his clone has been destroyed by the pursuing hunters, he is taken back to the facility where the clones are kept isolated from the world, and just as the disreputable business is about to eliminate several generations of product, manages to free the entire population of clones.
The film ends with several hundred naive clones, escaping from the isolated plant where they have been kept and misled their entire brief lives.
It is impossible not to draw parallels with other failed attempts at eugenics, and whilst there is no complete resolution of what happens next, this is not necessary.
It is enough that the failed contravention of everything that is good about humanity has been ended.
Interestingly, the day after having watched this film, I watched a much older film, Accidental Hero, in which a very different perspective on what it is to be ethically and morally human is presented.
In this film, Dustin Hoffman is a small time crook, who by accident of fate saves 54 people from certain death when their aeroplane crashes on its way across America from the west coast.
Dustin Hoffman is an unlikely hero, and he flees the scene of his heroism.
Because one of the people that he has saved is a television journalist, the action takes on a search for the hero of the day.
Through an accidental misplacing of one of his shoes, when the television company offers a reward of $1 million for the identification of the hero, an indigent friend to whom he has given the one shoe that he retained claims the reward.
What follows is a humorous at times series of events, but the end is somehow resolved, when he is able to agree with the mistaken hero that he can blackmail him, ensuring the future education of his young son.
The film finishes with a tantalising moment when the accidental hero is explaining to his young son what really happened, whilst they are both at the zoo.
The film finishes just at the point where a mother has screamed that her daughter has fallen into the Lions enclosure, and father says to son, “watch my shoes”.
Seen together, the two films represent the extraordinary spectrum of possibilities, for human action to be ethical and appropriate, what we might hope of ourselves or others, and what we would wish to be not even conceived as possible.
Thursday, 23 January 2014
An Excellent Lunch Companion
I recently discovered that a poem I wrote in commemoration of the death of writer Francis King was still available on the PEN website.
English PEN is part of a worldwide network of writers, and the fact that my poem was accepted at all I considered a prestigious honour.
Discovering it is still alive and available for perusal three years after it was written and sent when I had received news of the writers’ recent death at the age of 88.
Francis King was someone that I only met briefly, but I am sure like many, meeting with him has remained in my memory. He was an excellent lunch companion.
Few people can have so many interesting anecdotes drawn mostly from a life well lived.
His circle of friends was extraordinary, and when he mentioned someone that he called Morgan, it took a later gentle reminder that he was talking about EM Forster, a writer that most of us will have heard of, but few will count as close friends.
There is the generational thing, of course. Francis King was of an older generation. A very different generation, in which being homosexual was itself considered criminal.
Impossible for most people to understand in these very different times.
And he moved in a circle where he knew WH Auden, he of the famous funeral poem from Four Weddings and a Funeral.
It is ironic that my life should have crossed with that of Francis when it did, and that I should have even been able to write that poem in honour of his memory.
That it can be viewed on the English PEN website is an added bonus, but it reminds me that I have written many poems in the context of Humanist funerals, some of which are published in my collection, 50 x 50 -Useful Poetry For Troubled Times.
It is not so much that I have a particular fascination for memorial poems, but simply that I had a Humanist Celebrant friend for whom I wrote to order a number of such poetic expressions.
I suppose I had, and still have, the time to be able to respond quickly. Funerals of course are never planned far in advance.
But this is certainly the most prestigious opportunity to have the last word.
My style as a poet lends itself perhaps, unpretentious, and when I worked closely with my humanist celebrant friend, she was grateful to have someone at that could take a simple narrative of someone’s life, and frame it within blank verse, that came across as a poetic expression of those things that had been communicated to me.
This facility of mine became the focus of my application to the Arts Council of England for a small grant. The first and only time that I have received funding from this source for my own work.
I mentioned in the poem I wrote that was simply entitled Francis King CBE that he had been generous enough to have read some of my poetry and commented positively on it, and said that he would write on my behalf to the Arts Council. It was how he himself had started out as an author, in very different times, with the receipt of an award from that body.
But Francis spent most of his long life working for the British Council, often overseas, and he had a particular liking for Japan.
Which was something we could talk about, because I had the good fortune to travel to Japan when I worked as the Development Director for the Scottish Chamber Orchestra.
My week in Japan is one of the highlights of a life that is far more constrained these days, and such travel would simply be impossible these days.
But I am glad to have done it when I could, and in some style too.
It is a simple fact that when you work for a National orchestra, that when you stay abroad, you stay in five-star hotels. And a size star hotel in Japan is quite an experience.
But that lunch with Francis King was an excellent one, and he was an extraordinary raconteur.
Francis King CBE
The family has gathered, the struggle ceased
but sadness should not cloud the day.
Your life must end, but it has been long
and filled with so many friends along the way
who have already sung their song.
I like to think that you will soon be drinking tea
with many of them, Japanese style
- and how you will admire the waiters!
You were kind to me, and read my words
for which I am so grateful. Better still
you said you liked them, and wrote as much
to those that gave you your first start
for which I'm truly humbled.
But then, you are a gentleman, and a nearly-knight
though a sword, in truth, wouldn't suit you quite
for it would clash with your convictions.
The conversations over tea
would be well worth overhearing.
Such a literary gathering it will be
and a library's worth of worthies.
Besides, so many shelves across the world
will keep your memory fresh
for you chose for your profession
one in which death is only the beginning.
English PEN is part of a worldwide network of writers, and the fact that my poem was accepted at all I considered a prestigious honour.
Discovering it is still alive and available for perusal three years after it was written and sent when I had received news of the writers’ recent death at the age of 88.
Francis King was someone that I only met briefly, but I am sure like many, meeting with him has remained in my memory. He was an excellent lunch companion.
Few people can have so many interesting anecdotes drawn mostly from a life well lived.
His circle of friends was extraordinary, and when he mentioned someone that he called Morgan, it took a later gentle reminder that he was talking about EM Forster, a writer that most of us will have heard of, but few will count as close friends.
There is the generational thing, of course. Francis King was of an older generation. A very different generation, in which being homosexual was itself considered criminal.
Impossible for most people to understand in these very different times.
And he moved in a circle where he knew WH Auden, he of the famous funeral poem from Four Weddings and a Funeral.
It is ironic that my life should have crossed with that of Francis when it did, and that I should have even been able to write that poem in honour of his memory.
That it can be viewed on the English PEN website is an added bonus, but it reminds me that I have written many poems in the context of Humanist funerals, some of which are published in my collection, 50 x 50 -Useful Poetry For Troubled Times.
It is not so much that I have a particular fascination for memorial poems, but simply that I had a Humanist Celebrant friend for whom I wrote to order a number of such poetic expressions.
I suppose I had, and still have, the time to be able to respond quickly. Funerals of course are never planned far in advance.
But this is certainly the most prestigious opportunity to have the last word.
My style as a poet lends itself perhaps, unpretentious, and when I worked closely with my humanist celebrant friend, she was grateful to have someone at that could take a simple narrative of someone’s life, and frame it within blank verse, that came across as a poetic expression of those things that had been communicated to me.
This facility of mine became the focus of my application to the Arts Council of England for a small grant. The first and only time that I have received funding from this source for my own work.
I mentioned in the poem I wrote that was simply entitled Francis King CBE that he had been generous enough to have read some of my poetry and commented positively on it, and said that he would write on my behalf to the Arts Council. It was how he himself had started out as an author, in very different times, with the receipt of an award from that body.
But Francis spent most of his long life working for the British Council, often overseas, and he had a particular liking for Japan.
Which was something we could talk about, because I had the good fortune to travel to Japan when I worked as the Development Director for the Scottish Chamber Orchestra.
My week in Japan is one of the highlights of a life that is far more constrained these days, and such travel would simply be impossible these days.
But I am glad to have done it when I could, and in some style too.
It is a simple fact that when you work for a National orchestra, that when you stay abroad, you stay in five-star hotels. And a size star hotel in Japan is quite an experience.
But that lunch with Francis King was an excellent one, and he was an extraordinary raconteur.
Francis King CBE
The family has gathered, the struggle ceased
but sadness should not cloud the day.
Your life must end, but it has been long
and filled with so many friends along the way
who have already sung their song.
I like to think that you will soon be drinking tea
with many of them, Japanese style
- and how you will admire the waiters!
You were kind to me, and read my words
for which I am so grateful. Better still
you said you liked them, and wrote as much
to those that gave you your first start
for which I'm truly humbled.
But then, you are a gentleman, and a nearly-knight
though a sword, in truth, wouldn't suit you quite
for it would clash with your convictions.
The conversations over tea
would be well worth overhearing.
Such a literary gathering it will be
and a library's worth of worthies.
Besides, so many shelves across the world
will keep your memory fresh
for you chose for your profession
one in which death is only the beginning.
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, 21 December 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 16 December 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 4 December 2013
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.
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.
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