I don’t think I’m alone,as a creative person, in having utterly failed to fill the pandemic lockdown with a meaningful career defining response to these strange times. I’ve drawn,painted and sketched. Written obviously. My Magnum Opus is,so far, eluding me.
My Mistresspiece is missing.
It will come as no surprise that I am utterly disappointed by this definition of Mistresspiece.
An outstanding example of female beauty.
What utter bollocks!
A Mistresspiece is career defining creative work by a woman.
It stands alone and is not in my opinion mistress + piece, after masterpiece.
Rant over , time to continue the pondering about my missing Mistresspiece.
To be fair, a missing Mistresspiece is just a symptom of Lockdown Ennui. Expressed by so many people who have failed to do tasks or achieve goals, during Lockdown, that has previously been excused as a failure because of time constraints.
There is something going on in my studio. I doubt very much if it is the Mistresspiece. It hovers somewhere between collage and Palimpsest.
It is an attempt to get down in 2D the swirling thoughts of Pandemic Insomnia, which in turn seems to involve a return visit to those complex and often sinister repetitive dreams of childhood.
Pondering was not the only thing I started on Day 1 of lockdown. A small clothing research project started.
With hindsight it had all the makings of the sort of research idea that should have been quietly binned early on.
All my non wardrobe clothes are kept in a chest of drawers in the spare bedroom. With no likelihood of guests I decided that as clothes were worn and washed I would store them on the bed. Then after lockdown I would know which ones never got worn and I could bag them up for a charity shop and I would have sorted them organically.
While I can allow pondering to go on I think this experiment failed from day one because it was a bad idea. Judging clothes usage from one of the most unusual period of my life has given me a clear idea of how to make a spare room look messy and very little else.
The piles of clean clothes stand on the bed like those towers of pebbles that are found on beaches and other pebbly places. Most of them have their tops removed where folded underwear was quickly removed to be worn.
Proper winter clothing remains, a wooly, dense reminder that late March was the last time I needed more than one set of clothing for socialising and existing in the outside world.
There are a couple of bright piles from early on when putting on a bright jumper or t shirt lifted my spirits artificially when the reality of a life in prolonged Lock down was difficult to process.
Because the weather was so good almost as soon as lockdown started I needed summer clothes to take my daily exercise dog walk.
I’ve improved my positional memory immensely, by knowing more or less when specific things were last worn and in which pile it can be found .
Handbags lay on the bed, unused, alongside gym clothes. When Joe Wicks YouTube exercise videos or dog walks are the pinnacle of fitness you can pretty much do it in anything. I wonder when a Handbag will feel essential ever again.
Somewhat madly I have put on, liked, but currently not essential, garments to go to the supermarket simply to save them from staying in the cupboard and facing the clothes equivalent of the last trip to the vets for a loved pet.
Not that charity shops are reliably open to receive my organically selected rejects.
Packing my bag for my first weekend away from Cornwall has made me realise this experiment had got to stop. There are about two bags of clothes left in the chest of drawers to go to charity shops if I stick rigidly to my own guidelines . I’m not sure it was worth the effort. They may just be clothes not required in a Pandemic.
Some blogs just write themselves. I warned that blogs written this week would probably be composed sitting, in comfort, on a sofa whilst watching recordings of Glastonbury Festivals of the past.
Three pieces of serendipity have mapped this blog.
1. It is being written on a Wednesday, which as you can see from an old poem suggests that “Wednesdays child is full of woe” ( I am not a Wednesdays child)
2. It follows PP#104 which is about the word desolate which is officially inclined towards woeful.
3. Mark Radcliffe, the DJ presenter of the BBC’s archival coverage for Glastonbury 2020 introduced me to a new word.
Kenopsia- The forlorn atmosphere of a place that is normally bustling with people but is now abandoned.
I’ve delved into the same material and come up with some words that slip perfectly into future Ponders. For now I present my current woeful favourites.
Anticipointment. The realisation that the excitement and expectation of an event are greater than the reality.
This word is a true slap-down for an optomist, she wrote, pessimistically.
Monachopsis. Subtle maladaption. The sense that you are not quite in the right place.
Like a seal mum who lumbers onto land to endure the discomfort of birth and its after-effects in an environment that makes her clumsy and not quite in control.
Knowing that she will become graceful and confident again when she and her pup can glide back into the sea.
Zenosine. The sense that time keeps going faster.
I can only add Zenosine+P
Where exactly did Pandemic Ponderings #1 to #105 go.
July 1st already, utter madness.
Thanks to the BBC and Mark Radcliffe for fueling this blog with a new word used in their Glastonbury coverage.
The research for the blog has taken me to some intriguing places and gave me the perfect ending to blog PP#105.
Diligence and the internet led me to someone called the ‘ Disappointed Optimist’. Fact checking for accuracy got me this far.
Desolate is a word that it is tough to love, but, love it, I do.
Boardwalk at Dungeness
Growing up I knew it as a descriptive word for geographic or meteorological phenomena. There is no coincidence that the flat lands of East Anglia and the sea mists that roll in off the North Sea are as much a memory of my early summers as sun drenched bucket and spade days on beaches.
When people enquired after a day out on the Essex coast my parents would describe a mist- harmed, beach day as ” all a bit desolate ” but I had had a great time so I never realised the negative connotation. My excuse for finding a sad word, not sad.
Battersea Power Station
I’ve jogged through life not really associating desolate with bleakness. The French word désolée = sorry, has also been a victim of my false up- beatedness about this family of words.
It is only with adulthood and an understanding of mental ill health or depression that the gravity of the word desolate has anchored itself in my mind . A person who is missing and possibly at risk of suicide is described as ‘ desolate’,when being discussed.
Looking towards Devon, River Tamar, Cornwall
In Pandemic Pondering #101. I described the desolate story of a World War One, casualty.
I used the word deliberately and advisedly because of the circumstance of his death.
Have I rehabilitated the word in my mind. Is it now properly recalibrated to the sad end of my word spectrum.
Pill Creek, Saltash
If I’m honest, not entirely. I still find pleasure in places that could well be described as desolate or bleak and more curiously they make me happy.
This weekend is normally one to enjoy the pleasures of live music on the TV. An oxymoron if ever there was one. In 2020 Glastonbury was cancelled because of Coronovirus restrictions so anyone with a love of contemporary music festivals was obliged to get their Glasto fix via the BBC. I’ve not managed to get tickets ever in the modern iteration of Glastonbury so this is my normal level of attendance.
The benefit of this curated trawl through the archives is that, so far, I’ve not experienced a set that hasn’t brought pleasure.
David Bowie’s 2000 set is a current stand out , for all the expected reasons and also because it was never before broadcast in full. It also features an Under Pressure duet with Gail Ann Dorsey his bassist for more than 20 years.
A woman who is every level of cool that I am not.
Because much of Glastonbury is filmed on very familiar stages, that change little over the years, it is easy to forget that these are archived performances not fresh recordings from this year. It’s only when performers light up a cigarette on stage that there is a sudden realisation that time has passed and that even rock and roll must abide by some rules.
Glastonbury will be available on iPlayer in the UK for the next month. I may have to do an awful lot of jobs, and blogging, in front of the TV.
A rope bridge, currently closed, so no irritating people on it to ruin the image.
Saturdays newspaper devoted the magazine to many sports personalities and other types of celebrities talking about their ‘Lost Summer’.
Mr Bronze Turkey, grateful to see a few visitors after 3 months with no-one looking at him.
I realise I have not been prepping myself towards something momentous, that Covid -19 has taken away from me, and of course I’m not in any way famous but I don’t see mine or anyone elses missed moments as Lost
Quiet contemplation for a small person with a pathway to herself.
Life has just taken it’s own path as it always does, regardless of Pandemics. The next three months in the Northern hemisphere are Summer 2020 and obviously Winter 2020 in the Southern hemisphere. Not what anyone anticipated but valuable just the same.
Dicksonia Antarctica , more than 120 summers, many of them ‘different” to expectation.
The pictures illustrating this blog are definitely a gain. Covid-19 and its restrictions have given us many reasons to ‘ Seize the Day’ not too far from home. Summer Gains 2020. All pictures taken at The Lost Gardens of Heligan, during its Social Distancing phase. Calmer, quieter, a little wilder and still lovely. https://www.heligan.com/explore/gardens/jungle
Restricted opening to comply with social distancing but gorgeous in its own way.
@theoldmortuary had a bit of a Sunday snooze .Having a guest author for PP#100 was a great chance to step back and have a think. As many parts of the world ease out of Lockdown it could have been a good place to stop but the virus is still out there with no sign of a vaccine. The pandemic is not over so neither is the pondering.
Better later than never this little blog is about a sailor from World War 1. The sea being a bit of a theme on the cusp of PP#100
I found a plaque recording his story at the Lost Gardens of Heligan today. Charles Dyer was one of twenty gardeners who had worked at Heligan before WW1 who ultimately lost their lives as a consequence of that conflict.
Charles’ story is a little more complicated than many. This plaque tells his story.
In 1918 Charles was hospitalised at Chatham Naval Dockyard. One day he put on his uniform and walked out of the Dockyard never to be seen again. He was listed as a deserter and his family were shamed and deprived of a pension.
2 years later a body was found in a wood close to the dockyard. It was identified as Charles by his wedding ring. He was taken off the deserters list, his family granted a pension and his body was returned to Mevagissy Cemetery and given a Commonwealth War Grave headstone.
I’ve aged some photographs I took today to illustrate this desolate tale.
Naturally the first thought that comes to mind when we think of seafarers and the waterfront are long and bitter campaigns of industrial action.
But this term has its roots in the 18th century when life at sea was lonely and cruel (for example, though it seems hard to believe today on some vessels the supply of chocolate biscuits would be exhausted before the ship had even lost sight of land).and harsh punishments were handed out to offenders. But seamen sometimes got together to fight their bad conditions. They would then strike the sails of their ships – which means to lower them – so preventing the ship from leaving port until their grievance was settled.
Swinging the lead
A person who pretends to be working when he is doing nothing, or claims to be ill when there’s nothing wrong with him, is said to be ‘swinging the lead’.
Before today’s sophisticated navigational equipment, seamen used to find out the depth of water by dropping a lead weight, attached to a tins, marked rope, to the bottom of a waterway.
Some lazy sailor, would take as long as possible about it. They would swing the lead to and fro several times instead of just dropping it straight into the water. Behaviour unheard of in the VPCM but quite common in certain sections of the POMC.
On Your Beam Ends
When you are absolutely out of luck, out of money and out of much else besides, you are said did to be ‘on your beam ends.’
It’s a phrase borrowed from old nautical times. A wooden ship depended for stability on its beams- the timbers that ran across the vessel, holding the sides in place and supporting the deck. A ship that was wrecked or so badly damaged that it was lying on its side, was ‘on its beam ends’.
Not enough room to swing a cat
When an estate agent describes a house as ‘ compact’ what she probably means is that – there is ‘not enough room to swing a cat’.
The ‘cat’ in this centuries -old -saying is not a furry tabby but the dreaded ‘nine-thronged whip, known as the ‘cat o’ nine tails’ that was used to punish sailors. The punishment always took place on the open deck because below in the cramped living quarters there was ‘not enough room to swing a cat.’
For those keen students of history this explanation will evoke a memory of Winston Churchill’s famous observation, ” Don’t talk to me about the Royal Navy, it’s all Rum , sodomy and the lash.” Fortunately for those us from the Merchant Navy, the experience of the seafaring life wasn’t quite as traumatic as there was no lash and even the rum was rationed.. as for the other pastimes we mainly did jigsaws and painted water colours.
Between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Somebody who is in a very difficult situation and is liable to be in real trouble whichever course action. he chooses is said to be ‘between the devil and the deep blue sea.’ The devil in this case is not ‘Old Nick’ but the heavy wooden beam which used to be fixed to the sides of ships as a supporter the big guns. It was called the gunwhale and was a very difficult place to get to, calling for great agility on the part of the luckless sailor ordered to that position. One slip and … splash He was literally between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Ship-shape and Bristol fashion
In the fifteenth century, Bristol was one of England’s most important ports, its biggest sea-faring claims to fame is that John Cabot and his three sons set off from Bristol in the reign of Henry VII to discover Newfoundland.
Survival on such perilous journeys in those days meant that the ships and equipment had to be in perfect working order. The men spent many hours making sure this was so. Anything that was well prepared neat tidy, and efficient therefore came to be known as ship-shape and Bristol fashion.
To Cut and run
Formerly anchor cables on sailing vessels are made of hemp. If a naval warships at anchor are in danger of enemy attack and needed to make a speedy departure, the crew would not take the time to wind in the anchor as this could take several hours but would simply cut through the cable and then let the ship run before the wind.
In the doldrums
depressed, low in spirits
Early in the 19th century in the doldrums was used as a synonym for ‘in the dumps’, depressed. Later sailors borrowed the phrase to describe the region of sultry calms and baffling winds within a few degrees of the Equator, where the north-east and south-east trade winds converge. Here the progress of sailing ships would be greatly delayed for many days, their crews becoming frustrated and demoralised . Hence their feelings provided the name for the area.
Lassie
In itself. Lassie is not a nautical term, but the name of this famous Collie has an interesting connection with maritime history.
The first British battleship to be torpedoed by a German submarine was HMS Formidable, sunk just off Portland Bill in the English Channel in 1915. A few hours after the sinking, some fishermen found the body of a seaman that had been washed ashore in Lyme Bay; they carried it to West Bay and laid it out on the floor of the Pilot Boat Inn, and out of decency covered it with a tarpaulin.
However, the dog belonging to the landlord of the inn kept pulling aside the tarpaulin and licking the face of the dead seaman. Despite every discouragement, the dog persisted until the landlord was forced to see for him self what the dog had apparently known all along, that the seaman was not yet dead. The man was revived, and that is the end of his part in this story. Eventually, though, the incident inspired the famous film featuring the collie who won the hearts of millions of children the world over for her bravery, loyalty and intelligence.
The point of this anecdote is that the dog was named after the survivor of the sinking of HMS Formidable, John Lassie.
These are just a few examples of the thousands of words and expressions that were coined by our gallant seafarers
Cornwall is a surfing county. The mythical seventh wave exists in the hearts and minds of many who visit here. The seventh wave is supposed to be the best and strongest wave of the sequence. The science behind the 7th wave is pretty conclusive that it doesn’t exist, even accepting that sometimes it does, because wave strength is affected by wind, tide and the profile of the underlying beach. Randomly that sometimes is the 7 th wave but not predictably so.
Cornwall has done pretty well during the Coronovirus , reporting far lower levels of patients and deaths than the rest of the country. However Science and virus spread modelling suggests that the region might be worse hit by the Second Wave.
But just like the science behind the non existence of a 7 th wave phenomena ,The science behind the existence of a 2nd Wave of Coronovirus is also ignored as people flock to beaches ignoring social distancing advice and the fact that Covid-19 is still out there.
With this in mind I too am abandoning science to explore with gay abandon the world of another wave word. Confident that I am not risking anything by doing so.
An earlier blog mentioned my favourite word in Greek.
Flisvos- the sound of lapping waves.
English has something almost as gorgeous.
Susurration- a whispering sound.
It is also an onomatopoeic word. It sounds as relaxing as the action it describes.
I’m gifting you the above link of waves on pebbles , firstly as an apology for yesterday’s musical earworm and secondly to gently introduce you to the nautical theme of Pandemic Pondering #100.
Rarely in England is Spring considered a season in the sun. Spring 2020 was an exception and along with Lockdown I think I’m going to miss it.
I stole the title from a 1973 song Seasons in the Sun which is a pretty melancholic song. In the 1973 iteration by Terry Jacks it is sung from the perspective of a man who knows he is about to die, he says goodbye to those close to him.
The original version by Jaques Brel was also melancholic, but told from the perspective of a man whose heart is broken by his best friend having an affair with his wife . The man with the broken heart believes he will die of it.
For those of you with an interest in Cardiology there is a broken heart condition called Takotsubo Syndrome.
Anecdotally people do present with all the symptoms of a heart attack and are seen in a Cath Lab days after someone they love has passed away. On rare occasions after their loved one has attended the same Cath Lab.
The 1973 version of the song became anthemic in my small Essex town during the seventies, when two teenage boys were killed in a road accident. The link below is the Terry Jacks version, should you care to share my earworm.
Today I was earwormed as I cut down and disposed of the poppies and alliums that lit up the days of spring. The poppies in particular became a local landmark. Which is in part why they have had to go. They were looking pretty shabby this morning.
They will live on in other gardens next year.
So much pondering from clearing a rough area of its faded poppies.
The alliums also took a one way trip to the compost bin.
Both can show off one last time to finish off this blog.
Some blogs just write themselves. I warned that blogs written this week would probably be composed sitting, in comfort, on a sofa whilst watching recordings of Glastonbury Festivals of the past.
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