Hegemony

hegemony: n. Leadership, especially by one State of a confederacy. (The Concise Oxford Dictionary, 1977 ed.).

I used to wonder what that word meant. Admittedly my dictionary is an old edition but it has taken on a new meaning over the years since 1977. I think it's because the Chinese used to use it a lot to complain about Soviet expansionist policies in the dark days of the cold war, and they also used it when talking about American influence in other cultures. Too many Macdonald's hamburger joints around the world became the symbol of 'American hegemony". The symbol of too many shite hamburgers being sold also but I digress. Anyway, are we bothered?

I was reading this on Harpowoman's blog the other day and she made me think of how I feel about America. I seem to be drawn to the subject more these days and I think it needs some consideration. I lived in the US for a year from October 2002 to October 2003. The first six months our office was in New York on W.34th Street just opposite the Empire State Building. What a fantastic place to go to work. I lived in Hoboken, NJ, birthplace of Frank Sinatra which some call a mini Manhattan. Every morning when I got out of the PATH station and turned into w.34th I would remind myself to look up and enjoy the view of that beautiful building. You will not, I told myself, take this for granted. All around me were NYC's famous landmarks; Macy's, Broadway, the Flatiron Building, 5th Avenue, Greeley Square, Yellow Cabs, New York's Finest, Keen's Steak House, Irish Bars owned by real Irish. I used to imagine looking down at myself from a height as if I was watching the realtime movie of my life. How could you avoid that feeling in New York. You see the place so much in movies that to me it was like walking through a movie set. I loved it.

We moved after six months in New York to Houston, TX. What a fucking awful place. But wait, stop here! Pull over! It's an Irish pub. The Harp on Richmond provided a welcome as warm as the Playwright on W. 35th. The Guiness was fine and although you had to drive to get to the place my apartment was only ten minutes away. But that's not the best part. The Blues. Man they had some great blues bars down there. The Big Easy was great. They had blues almost every night of the week and occasionally they hosted the monthly jam of the Houston Blues Society. There were many others; Cosmo's, The Sherlock, The Cosmopolitan. There was never a night when I couldn't look up the listing in the local free paper and find somewhere to go and listen to the blues. I was in hog heaven, to coin a phrase.

One Sunday I happened to see that there was a gig on in Mr. Gino's down on the southside. From four PM it said. Now the south side of Houston, outside of the Loop is not my natural habitat. I'll be honest, you could get mugged down there and that's not because most the people around there are black. No, it's because some of them are bad. Anyway, going on the premise that God looks after naive Scots and dingbats (both categories into which I fit) I motored down there and parked nearby a scrappy looking building with a neon sign, doing no good in the bright sunlight, indicating Mr Gino's. Inside was dark and cool and a five dollar cover was extracted as I crossed the threshold. There was a four-piece ban playing on stage and on guitar was an old guy I later learned was Mr. I.J. Gosey. The band were great and the people dancing were a sight to see. You know that kind of get down dirty dancing that looks so cool to uptight wee Scottish guys like me.

I stood at the bar and enjoyed a few beers and the guy behind the bar, Mr. Gino (for it was he) was really friendly, and the beer was the cheapest I had enjoyed since arriving in the US. So after a while I loosened my grip on the bar and wandered over to where I could get a better view of the stage and the dance-floor. I think it's fair to say old I.J. Cosey (pictured) is ever so slightly elderly, but man he rocks. They played all that good old stuff, and tunes I'd never heard before and the joint was jumping. I was on my own and being the only white person around, except for the keyboard player who I'd seen playing before with another band, I guess I kind of stuck out. But nobody bothered me and I eventually I thawed out and just enjoyed the atmosphere. When I.J. and the band had wound up Mr. Gino introduced me to them which was really nice. I went back a couple of times after that but by then my time in Houston was winding up and my live blues life was coming to a close.

Fond memories which contrast with other aspects of the US which I hate. The bad does not in any way outweigh the good but boy I can get riled when I think about how some Americans view the rest of the world. And (don't get me started) when the call themselves the "finest nation on earth", or the "greatest country in the world" I could boak. And it's not just people with over-muscled necks who say this. Politicians, so-called fucking statesmen say it as well. What do they think they are? That kind of ignorance of the rest of the world just used to take my breath away. Now I'm used to it and almost come to expect it from a nation who could elect a President (Leader of the free world? Don't make me laugh) who once declared that the person he most admired in history was Nolan Ryan (he's a baseball player). The thing is a large number of Americans don't give a shit about the rest of the world because as far as a lot of them are concerned it hardly exists except as some kind of irritation that they need to just ignore and it will hopefully go away. It's not isolationism, it's ignorance. And all that indoctrination that goes on about honour to the flag. Oh say have you seen that star spangled flag wave ... There's so many stars and stripes around the place it's like the people are brainwashed into flying flags. It's not patriotism, it's zomby-ism. You know what they should do with flags. Burn every last one of them, Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes and fancy yellow fuckers with rum barrels and palm trees on them from wee far away places in the Pacific. People should be actively discouraged from standing behind flags. We should not be standing behind anything, we should be out there embracing each other.

Imagine there's no countries,
It isnt hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace.
(c) John Lennon

OU TMA 06 Religious Studies OR History of Science

This TMA is a choice between these two subjects. A 1200 word essay is required and I'm way behind on the studying. I reckon I'll plump for the Religious Studies question which is:
How far do you think observing a religious activity, such as a festival, can help you to understand the part a religion plays in the life of an individual or a community?

Now so far I what I'm thinking is this. 'Read the question'! See it's not about religion per se, or a religious activity, or an individual, or a community. It's about how far I think the mere observance of a religious activity can help me to understand the part a religion plays etc. So we're separating the study of religion from religion itself. OK it's blindingly obvious to you lot but it helps me if I spell it out in front of me like this before I get my teeth into it.

So where should we proceed from here? Well tonight is Monday and there is usually live jazz on in the pub downstairs, so I think that is where I will proceed. In the meantime I want you lot to study this question carefully and give me your answer in not more than 1200 words. And NO TALKING! For god's sake Lingo Slinger pull your skirt down, we can almost see your breakfast! Twenty Major! Put that cigarette out or I'll have to tweak you. Clairwil! Leave Nogbad alone! Do stop snivelling Nogbad, it's pathetic. No Larnach, you can not sit next to Bluefluff. Yes I know she's your friend. No Bluefluff you cannot sit next to Larnach. Now heads down people, I'm off to the pub. Barker! You're in charge.

The Real Reason For The War In Iraq

I want you to imagine a pipe. It’s a big open-ended pipe and here’s how big it is. It’s so big that Shaquille O’Neal can stand inside it wearing a top hat. In metres it’s 2.4 m diameter or, for you Americans, it’s 7 feet 10 inches. Now, let’s get Shaq out of the way because we don’t want him to get injured, because down this pipe we are going to send crude oil. This crude oil will flow at a speed of 3 m/sec or 6.7 miles/hour, a fairly fast running pace, and it will fill the whole diameter of the pipe. So this is what I want you to visualise, a pipe 7 feet 10 inches diameter flowing full bore with crude oil, every minute of every hour, of every day of every year, on and on without cease. It flows like a river, it gushes continuously, it roars forward, a cataract of black oil. Just imagine what that oil would look like as it cascaded out of that pipe. Think of the sheer ear-drum shattering noise, the earth-shaking vibration, the awesome power of it.

The quantity that flows through this pipe is 10,178,711 barrels per day. Every day, on and on. This is, on recent average, the amount of crude oil that the US imports every day, continuously, year after year, and the trend, rather than decreasing, in these days of worrying middle east politics and global warming, and so on, is increasing. Of course there is not a single pipe. There are a number of them, from Canada for example, plus the oil imported, largely from the Middle East, by the huge tankers that berth at LOOP off the coast of Louisiana, and at the offshore lightering areas off of Galveston, plus the smaller tankers, relatively speaking, berthing at shore facilities on both coasts. The US in fact only produces just over 5.5 million barrels per day, so it relies on imports for about two thirds of its needs.

Now let’s add this up in cash. We need to keep it on a daily basis because if you try to think of it yearly it’s just crazy. Let’s say a barrel on average costs $50. In fact today it’s about $65/barrel. So 10,178,711 times 50 = $508,935,550 per day. Have you got that? Half a billion dollars a day! That’s what’s flowing out as the crude flows in. Now I believe the US has a trade deficit of about 49 billion dollars. That’s about 100 days of crude oil imports, actually it’s a lot fewer than that if we keep to a realistic oil price. Is anybody making the connection here?

Of course the US needs energy to produce goods and to keep the economy moving, but does it need so much that it hurts? It hurts the economy and it hurts the environment. It seems perverse to me. And do you know what is really perverse? If a US politician wants to make himself unelectable he just has to stand up and say that gasoline is too cheap and that there is a crying need to put more tax on it and to consume less.

And here’s the real truth behind the war in Iraq. GW Bush has no idea how to run the country without this huge oil consumption. In his term imports have continuously risen to these levels, and they just keep on climbing. And now this and this.

The growing economies of India and China are taking more and more out of a finite supply, pushing prices higher and creating supply problems in the medium to long term. Where does it end? The gloomiest scenario is a world economic collapse and further turmoil in oil producing areas such as Iraq. It’s not too far fetched to say that Iraq is only the beginning unless the American public wakens up to what is going on, and unless American politicians start telling the truth about how vulnerable the country is to depend so much on imported oil. While Bush is in power? Fat fucking chance. You need more? Read all about it here.

Now think of the torrent of oil flowing today into the US, over 10 million barrels a day, and picture it slowing, stuttering, trickling and then .. stopping.

A Love Of Language

Rendition (noun). Interpretation, rendering of dramatic role, musical piece, etc. (Concise Oxford Dictionary).

Some people call me pedantic. Now I take some pride in that. It means, to me, that I pay attention to detail, that I like all my commas in the right place, that I don’t like unnecessary apostrophe’s, that I like words spelled correctly. I like that in me. What’s wrong with wanting to be correct? What’s wrong with having a love of language, and wanting people to have some respect for it? And this love of language extends to wanting other people to mean what they say, especially politicians. But they are devious bastards those people. Their deviousness knows no bounds. They will take a word, a perfectly innocent word, and give it a meaning that none of us will ever have imagined could be associated with that word.

How can anyone do that? How can anyone just stand up at a meeting and say:
“You know, Mr President, I think that it’s a wonderful idea, but what we’ll do,see, is just to keep it sweet with the media people, if they ever get to hear about it (har, har!) is, we won’t call it ‘transportation of suspects to another country in order to torture them and cover our tracks’, see that’s just too many words. No, we’ll give it a simple title that couldn’t possibly offend anybody. Let’s say, I know - rendition!”

Rendition! You’ve got to hand it to them, the devious, black-hearted fuckers. This is a word that reminds people of a poetry reading. How far away from torture can you get! It was bad enough when poor old Dan Quayle tried to tell a class of school kids that potato ended in an ‘e’, but this is beyond an outrage. They are fucking with our language and they can not, they must not get away with it. This is what we used to tut-tut about in our superior free-thinking, western liberal way when the Soviet Union was extant. Wake up for fuck’s sake! Especially you people with the vote in the home of the fucking brave! A lie is a lie. And the biggest fucking lie of all is that Iraq had something to do with 9/11. No, that's just an insinuation they want people to believe, the biggest lie is that they are in Iraq to free it from terrorism, to give the people democracy. If it wasn't so tragic you would have to laugh, but if they keep repeating their lies in language nobody understands anymore, they'll get away with it.

Listen to language. Listen to language like this:

And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son ?
And what'll you do now my darling young one ?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin'
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner's face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I'll tell and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'
But I'll know my songs well before I start singin'
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
© Bob Dylan

Social Anthropology

I've got to admit that I like"Irish" pubs. And I mean, by those inverted commas, even those whose only claim to Irishness is a Guiness tap. For example I was in one in Rijeka last week called The River Pub and it was full to the brim with all that shite that you'd never see in any self-respecting bar in Dublin. You know the kind of thing; old pressing irons and broken sewing machines, copper kettles and saddles and any kind of a thing that looks vaguely rustic, not to say rusty. Well that was the River Pub, choc-a-bloc with "Irishness". But here's the thing. On the wall upstairs was a huge picture of Winston Churchill. Now I'm no expert on Irish history but ... well you get my drift. Anyway the whole place just looked fucking stupid, but I liked it anyway. It wasn't even owned by an Irish person, it was owned by a Croat and the barmaid had not a word of English, or Irish I'll bet. But the place had a nice atmosphere and the music was good old rhythm & blues.

And then I get to Trieste and find out that there's an "English" pub. The "London Pub". Now what kind of a shite name is that. Anyway it does serve good Guiness and there was the best selection of malt whiskies on the gantry that I've seen outside of Glasgow. So we tried some, and then we tried some more, in the interests of scientific research you see. And we discovered a very strange thing. That no matter how much we hated this "English" pub, and no matter how much we absolutely detested the fact that they put so much fucking herbs on your steak that you couldn't eat it, that we began to like this place too. And the barman, who last night was the surliest bastard you could ever hope to punch on the face, was now just the nicest person who ever graced this good earth. And he even gave us a scarf, courtesy of Guiness, to keep the cold wind at bay while we wound our way back to the hotel. Now is that not amazing?

TMA 05 - He's Pulled Out The Big One!

80% for TMA05! Can you believe it? It's true dear blog readers. I have surpassed my own highest expectations and now sit astride an average of (let me see, times that, divided by thingy) 68%! Now I know you all knew I had it in me but I have to say I'm chuffed to bits with this mark. It just goes to show, there's the odd little nugget among the dross. And it does give one a boost for the work ahead. The next modules are on religion; bring it on.

Actually the next modules are intriguing and, given the time to concentrate, I should find them interesting. Unfortunately (getting my excuses in early) I am travelling to Trieste tomorrow and I'll be there until maybe middle of next week, which means that work will be getting in the way. It's almost impossible for me to sit down and study in a city that's new to me. The least I'll have to do is find out where the Irish pub/s is/are. All in the pursuit of the my ancillary studies in social anthropology of course. I'll keep you posted.

It's Done & Gone!

For better or worse, it's gone. So what was my answer to this? Well you know I can't give away too much. The OU takes a dim view of people publishing TMAs on websites or such so I'm going by the rules ... but! Well I can give you a few hints.

The first part:
Discuss the relationship between individual freedom and social responsibility as represented in the Social Contract by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Well, piece of piss. You just read the thing and you discuss it. You look a bit fucking loopy though, sitting alone in a room declaiming to no-one at all, but that's what you got to do. And then you put it down on paper, as it were, via your keyboard. And you conclude, as any right thinking individual would, that Rousseau was one mixed up muddahfuggah. But you can't write that down because they would take an even dimmer view of that; so you make something up. To the effect that Rousseau believed that an individual can be free, and live according to his own needs and desires, while at the same time obeying the rules and laws of the state, as long as that state is based on legitimate authority, i.e. not a king's assumed authority. Well that was the gist.

So how about the paintings? For a start they are different in context and in content. The first, the David, is a clear representation of a scene taken from the story of the founding of the ancient Roman republic. Let me guide you here to improve your education to the level of mine. And here. So it's an ancient story which can easily be seen as an allegory for the contemporary events of David's life, vis. the French revolution.


This picture by Friedrich is a different sort of a fellow altogether. It may, or not, depict a scene from the artist's imagination or it may be drawn partly from memory or some other source. It is, though, my impression that this is a very personal statement. The picture is not meant to provide an overt message, like the David, but rather to invoke a mood or state of mind. There is a melancholy air about the work but it's very enigmatic. Very, I would say, open to the individual viewers interpretation, rather than presenting a clear message from the artist.

Please don't think I have any confidence that my view on these two great paintings would carry much weight with any half educated art historian, but I hope I make a reasonable point.

Now it's Friday, the week-end starts here. Out for a pint tonight, and then I'm visiting Rijeka over the Saturday and Sunday. Vidimo se! By the way there is a fantastic fine art web-site here. The images are large so if you've got a nice big flat screen monitor, enjoy!

I Only Look Worried.

Where do I begin? TMA05 due in on Friday and not a fucking clue.

(a) "Discuss the relationship between individual freedom and social responsibility as represented in The Social Contract by Jean-Jacques Rousseau."

And that's only the half of it! The other part is:
(b) How far is it appropriate to bear the same concepts in mind when considering Jacques-Louis David's Brutus and Caspar Freidrich's Wanderer Above The Sea of Fog respectively?

I feel like a fucking wanderer above a sea of fog myself! I'll tell you how far it is appropriate, mate. Not very. But they don't want that, do they? No - you've got to waffle on for 600 words for part (a) and another 600 fuckers for part (b), checking the word count every two seconds while you circumlocute like Stephen Fry with a drink in him; till you don't what you've said but the verbiage count is spot on. And there it is, padded out with shite like 'the dichotomy presented to us has to be resolved by intellectual analysis' and 'when we consider, as consider we must, the metaphor within the metaphor'. Should be good for a bare pass. What more could we ask for?

Charles Kennedy Resigns.

So Charles Kennedy has resigned. While this is some kind of a sad conclusion to his reign as leader of the Liberal Party it is also an important waypoint in his battle with alcoholism. And in the end that is the more important matter. I believe that he was doing himself and his family no good by trying to cling on to a position which could only bring more pressure on him, and thus increase the likelihood that drink would regain the upper hand. When it comes down to it there is every reason for those closest to alcoholics to be pessimistic about a successful outcome in their fight against the demon drink. I have witnessed at close hand the losing battle, over a long long number of years, of a close relation against alcohol addiction, and it is totally demoralising to be close to such relentless self-destruction. There are, of course, those who do prevail and I fervently hope that Charles Kennedy will be one of those.

It is not entirely surprising that Charles Kennedy tried to live up to what he saw as his duty to the party. I believe he is that rarest of politicians, a man of great integrity, and therefore he put his party before self. It was a mistake, but that is in the nature of the illness he is fighting. Lack of judgement comes hand in hand with alcohol addiction. Now that he has made his decision I hope that the press and the public will give him credit for his bravery and his integrity, and the space to find some healing. And let us not forget the quality of the man. He has been a Member of Parliament since he was 23 years old. He is yet only forty six. He'll be back.

New Year Resolve.

This is the time of year when we all should resolve to do better so, not to let the opportunity pass by, here are my resolutions:-

• I will stop contemplating my navel and concentrate on other more attractive ones.
• I will pay more attention to the whereabouts of my glasses.
• I will walk away from people who look at my shoulder or close their eyes when talking to me.
• If someone does that interrogative inflection when they are actually making a statement to me I will kick them in the balls.
• I will drink less alcohol and more milk.
• I will blog at least twice per week.
• I will read more books.
• I will give up pocket billiards except during business meetings.
• I will stop saying ‘fuck’. No I fucking won’t.
• I will not engage in sadism, necrophilia or bestiality, because that would be like flogging a dead horse.
• I will be better organised for my Open University course.
• I will be nicer to people who are important to me.
• I will weigh 4 kgs. less by June.
• I will lower my golf handicap by 4 strokes.
• I will campaign tirelessly to eradicate unnecessary apostrophe’s.
• I will avoid cliches like the plague.

So I'm doing my bit. Are you doing yours?

Animals Kneeling???

Someone, you won't believe this but I swear it's true - someone found my blog by doing a Google search for, and I quote - "west country poem about animals kneeling"! Now I'm a liberal kind of bloke. I believe that there is room on this planet for almost all the various shades of wierdo that you would be likely to meet but; what kind of a sick mind would dream up a poem about animals kneeling! And what kind of a sick mind would want to read it. So I did a quick Google search myself and, my God I can't believe what I saw! These people need help, and it's not confined just to the sheep shaggers of Aberdeen. By the way, does anyone know the full text of this poem, out of curiosity?

Meanwhile - it's the time of year when we should all be planning our New Year's Resolutions. I want you all to think about this because that's what the next post will be about.

Why Does Mary Have To Be a Virgin?

We went to Mass yesterday. It was the vigil Mass for Christmas. Anyway this time of year, like no other, there is heavy emphasis on the virginity of Mary the mother of Jesus and I ask myself; why does this have to be?

If I point you to some internet-based information from the BBC then this is about the only page you will find on this subject, from a Google search, which is not apparently written by a bunch of ranting lunatics. On the BBC site you will find the following:-

The Gospels of Mark and John and the letters of St Paul do not mention the Virgin Birth. It is only included in the later Gospels of Matthew and Luke, although both give very different accounts. Professor James
Charlesworth says: "Should we take it literally, symbolically or metaphorically? Christians lineup behind every one of those".

If Mary’s pregnancy was not divine, who might have been the father of her child? As an unmarried mother-to-be, Mary was in a perilous position – Joseph could have had her banished or even stoned to death. But, according to the New Testament, Joseph was a good man and he did not abandon his young fiancée.

Historians have looked for reasons to explain Joseph’s loyalty and sympathy towards Mary. One second-century historian claimed that Mary was actually the victim of a rape by a Roman soldier called Panthera and, indeed, many women at the time would have been raped by soldiers. However, that story is much more likely to have been circulated falsely in an attempt to discredit the growing Christian movement.

Biblical historian Mark Goodacre concludes: "The Christian in me wants to say that it is quite likely to be God because I like the idea of a wonderful, miraculous birth – something supernatural … happening right there at the origins of Christianity. The historian in me does have some problems with that and does wonder
if Joseph is the better option."

Now the above is quite rational and does not try to come to any forced conclusion. So why does the Catholic Church insist that Mary was a virgin? Take this extract from the Catholic Catechism:-

People are sometimes troubled by the silence of St. Mark's Gospel and the New Testament Epistles about Jesus' virginal conception. Some might wonder if we were merely dealing with legends or theological constructs not claiming to be history. To this we must respond: Faith in the virginal conception of Jesus met with the lively opposition, mockery or incomprehension of non-believers, Jews and pagans alike; so it could hardly have been motivated by pagan mythology or by some adaptation to the ideas of the age. The meaning of this event is accessible only to faith (my italics), which understands in it the "connection of these mysteries with one another" in the totality of Christ's mysteries, from his Incarnation to his Passover.

It seems a little forced to me, and it goes on:-

Through the centuries the Church has become ever more aware that Mary, "full of grace" through God, was redeemed from the moment of her conception. That is what the dogma of the Immaculate Conception confesses, as Pope Pius IX proclaimed in 1854:
The most Blessed Virgin Mary was, from the first moment of her conception, by a singular grace and privilege of almighty God and by virtue of the merits of Jesus Christ, Savior of the human race, preserved immune from all stain of original sin.

Again, is this not a contrivance. "Through the centuries the Church has become ever more aware..." It's balderdash! It is either evident or it isn't. If it was not then fair enough. I personally do not believe that the story of Christ has to depend on the fact or otherwise of the Immaculate Conception. His teachings do not depend upon it. So why construct this legend, this myth. What purpose does it serve? Let me say right here that I have not (yet) read The Da Vinci Code. I haven't had time but I believe it fleshes out the argument that the whole issue of the Immaculate Conception is a vast conspiracy in order to cement the concept of male superiority in the Church and thus in society. You can let me know.

My basic problem is that I don't believe in the virgin birth, and I want to know why I should have to. Is there anybody of rational mind out there who can answer my question without saying "It's a mystery"?

TMA 04 History - Result! Yesss!

Well now gentle readers, I know you've all been on tenterhooks since I posted my script on Robespierre, my History TMA 04. I was too. I had to ask for a postponement I was so behind, and so last week-end I spent two days just hanging around my apartment in my shorts getting stuck in. And it's paid off. 74%! Is that not amazing. I am stunned. I can only presume one of two things, either (a) I am a genius or (b) the good Dr. Clench is so intoxicated with the holiday spirit that she is giving out presents to idiots like me. Since (a) is out of the question then it must be (b) - quod errat demonstrandum. Or maybe I'm a genius.

Can we keep up this momentum? Who knows, we shall find out in due course. Anyway I want you to do something for me. I've already had some kind comments from Straddle Pipping Reel, who is also doing this course. That was great, and by the way good luck to her (I think she's a her), so if you've had your mark for this TMA let me know how you got on. And even if you're doing something different in the OU let me know as well. Good luck and hope to hear from you in the comments part below.

High Flight - by John Gillespie Magee Jr.

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of; wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sun-lit silence. Hovering there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air;
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark nor even eagle flew;
And while, with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God

This poem, which I've known and loved for a long time, is featured in the Writer's Almanac this morning. Garrison Keillor reads it in the kind of downbeat manner which is at odds with the sheer exhiliration of the piece. Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee Jr. died in a training accident in December 1941. The poem was sent by Magee in a letter to his parents about three months before his death with the note; "It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed. I thought it might interest you." The scribbled poem was "High Flight."

Whenever I read this poem I always think of Magee's parents. He was only nineteen when his plane crashed, in England, in a training accident. You can see from his picture that he was a handsome boy. And how gifted he was. To lose such a beautiful child must have been truly devastating. Why do I dwell their loss? I suppose that it is because I have two sons of my own. My oldest is about a year older than John Magee was in 1941, and the younger boy is just fourteen. And it's every parent's fate that, whenever we reflect on such tragedies, be it airmen in war or schoolchildren abducted by evil men, or any of a million other terrible things which could befall our loved ones , we feel these as though they are happening to our own. Glimpses of horror visit us and we push them away before they overwhelm us. And then we want to hug our children to us and tell them we love them and just ... be careful, OK! And they look at us as if we are the child and tell us not to be silly, and they walk out of the door and down the street as if they own the world, like John Gillespie Magee Jr. owned it in September 1941.

I'm Reviewing The Situation

I received a comment from Straddle Pipping Reel (What the handle refers to, fuck only knows.) on the subject of plagiarism. That's not the situation I'm reviewing by the way. I'll get on to that in a minute. Anyway, plagiarism is not something that bothers me. This blog would provide meagre pickings for anyone looking for OU glory. They're welcome to it. Anyway, if you have come on to this blog because you are an OU student and you are looking for inspiration then please feel free to critique my posts. That's what they're their for. If you are an OU tutor or any kind of a high heid yin then your advice would also be welcomed. As for the rest of the mince that I throw up, have a go at that as well if you like. Just don't take it too seriously.

I've been thinking about these various posts that I've been doing and, to be frank, I'm a bit bothered. I think they were starting to go in the wrong direction. Too serious, not enough laughs, too up my own arse, if you get my drift. This is a journal, as well as place for me to fuck around in. And a place where I can practice the act of writing; not the art, the act.

Some of you may notice that I have edited out parts of previous postings and I have removed one altogether. I did this because I want to feel relaxed about what I do here. It's meant to be fun after all.

I'm going back home for the holidays now. I won't be back in Dalmatia until the New Year. You all have a nice holiday if you're having one, and if you're not ... then don't.

TMA 04 - History - Robespierre's Journal

We were asked to come up with an 800 word essay on the following extract from Robespierre's journal. It was written in autumn of 1793.

"Principal measure of public safety. it will be necessary to send through all the republic a small number of strong commissioners, armed with good instructions and above all good principles, to reduce public opinion to unity and to republicanism - the sole means of ending the Revolution to the profit of the people.

These commissioners will above all concentrate on discovering and inventorying men who are worthy to serve the cause of liberty. To purge the surveillance committees, we must produce a list of all their members, their names, occupations and addresses ....

We must revise the list of the leaders of the counter-revolution in each locality ....

Overturn the decree of the municipality which bans the saying of the mass and vespers. it does not have the right. It is a source of trouble."

Hardman, J. (ed.) (1999, 2nd ed.) The French Revolution Sourcebook, (London, Arnold, p. 198)

The questions were -
What kind of primary source is this .... ?
Particular words or phrases requiring elucidation.
What can we learn with respect to Robespierre and the French Revolution, distinguishing between witting and unwitting testimony?


I hated doing this at the start. I was under pressure at work and could not concentrate on it. Once I was able to give it the necessary time though, I enjoyed it; almost, but not quite as much as my last on the Colosseum.

Fuck This For A Game Of Soldiers

Actually the title of this post has nothing to do with what I am going to write. Why do I say that? Well, because at this moment in time (waffle) I have no fucking idea what I am going to write. The OU course is going badly at the moment. Work is taking up all my time and something happened on Monday that has been at the forefront of my thoughts at all times of the day. It was very upsetting and the result has been that I cannot concentrate on a thing. It's receding into the background now and hopefully it will die a natural death in due course. So - what to do?

There's a Tutor Marked Assessment (TMA) due in on Friday on the French Revolution and I've hardly done any work on this part of the course so far. I am so busy at work that when I come back to my apartment at night I just want to relax or, when things get too fraught (like on Monday) go out on the screaming piss. It's hardly conducive to good studying.

I was worrying about this because, having made a decent mark in my last TMA, I wanted to keep up the momentum. I knew if I cobbled something together at the last minute for this it would be shite. So I girded my loins and called Dr. Clench. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello Matilda, it's West Coaster"
"Oh! Hello West. How are ye getting on?"
"Oh, it's going fine. I'm very busy and I'm trying to keep up with the studies and you know the work is frantic at the moment we're right in the middle of a .."
"You need more time for the TMA."
"That would be great Matilda, just through to next Monday."
"Well, I'll let it go to the following Friday. How's that?"
"Brilliant!"

You know, I don't know how I ever had a downer on the old bird. She's first rate. The trouble is that, as I said, this part of the course is about the French Revolution and I've just got no interest in the thing. Bunch of fucking plebs chopping the heads off a load of poofs with powdered wigs and rouge on their cheeks. I think I'll just crib the whole thing off the internet. And that is what someone is doing on my site! I was looking at my stats and one of the search phrases was "Critically evaluate the relationship between form and function in three aspects of the design and construction of the Colosseum."

That is precisely the phrasing of the question for the first part of TMA03. I wonder if whoever looked at my page just cut and pasted it and called it his/her own work. Do people do that? They do, don't they, the plagiarising bastards. Oooh-er!

Good Advice

Lingo Slinger, in response to my below request was so nice in giving me some advice. I'm going to lay it out here and try to give my honest response because it touches on some fundamental issues regarding what I want from this blog.

• You have great opinions on things, you have a great way of communicating, and are more insightful than most... You also have (as displayed in this post) a sharp sense of humour, a confident wit about you. That's the aw shucks I'm blushing part over. It's nice of Lingo to say these things. Such positive feedback is worth a lot.
• I do think that the OU stuff might be a bit heavy for the average blog reader. It is very interesting, but could perhaps be a bit much for some. She's right here. I was thinking, if I stick with it (and I have time) that maybe I should open up another blog just for OU stuff and simply put down the start of an essay here with a link to the whole piece on the other blog. I don't have time at the moment to do this but I might in the future.
• Here's some ideas:Expose yourself - photos, personal stories and experiences. This is the tricky part. I shy away from exposing myself (sound like a failed flasher, don't I!). There are personal issues, deeply personal, that I want to explore but I'm afraid to start, to fess up.
• Opinions on current events & news or just things in general that you feel strongly about. Who's got the time! Of course I feel strongly about current events. Tony Blair's a cunt because he's in the pocket of that other cunt G.W. But they have teams of PR people and spokespersons (Isn't that the people who follow Lance Armstrong in a van in case he has a wheel failure?). And the last truly decent leader of the Labour Party was Michael Foot and he got gutted by the press, and all the honest men and women who could have made a difference are dead: Mo Mowlam, Robin Cook, John Smith, Donald Dewar - real people who didn't give a shit for image makers and spin doctors and focus groups and all the rest of the shite that politicians think they have to surround themselves with. Current events! Fuck current events.
• More photographs - you, your fam, your friends, your environment. I use this to get in to another environment. Maybe I'm creating a parallel universe where - no scratch that. Parallel universe dreams are bullshit. There is only one and we are stuck with it. Anyway my universe mostly is work, and this will not be about my work.
• Desert Island type themes. Used to be Roy Plomley but now Sue Lawley on Desert Island Discs ask their guest to choose eight records, one book (they've already got the Bible and the complete works of Shakespeare), and a luxury to ease their days stranded on a desert island. It's marginally more interesting than Gardeners' Question Time on BBC Radio 4.
• Poetry Interpretations - ask others for their interpretations. Good idea. I'm not any kind of expert. English literature is something I want to get more involved with. It would be good to exchange ideas and I should positively seek opinions, rather than just make comment for the sake of it.
• New words - scour the dictionary for new words and post one every day (perhaps in conjunction with a post) to give your readers a healthy dose of vocabulary. Old Horsetail Snake does this so well. I'd feel such a fake. I like words though, and improving my vocabulary. OK, I'll think about it.
• Short stories or poems written by you. This needs time and when I was doing the OU short course in Creative Writing I could just post my work straight on to the blog. Long term project.
• Short history lessons & links to interesting things found on the net. I'm reluctant to come on all pedagogical (today's word - see new words above) but if it flows naturally from what I'm studying then fair enough. Interesting things I have found on the net. Mmmm. Do you mean like this?, or this?

Dylan Thomas - A Perfect Website

I have always liked Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. His use of language is fantastic with alliteration overload and onomato-(check dictionary)-poeic streams of words conjuring up a psychedelic picture of an imaginary small town in Wales, long before psychedelia was conceived.

To begin at the beginning:
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.

So to find this website was wonderful. And wonder of wonders! You can listen to the original BBC production of Under Milk Wood with Richard Burton as the narrator. To listen to that voice with it's rich mellifluous Welsh accent reading this masterpiece is bliss itself. There's lots of other audio including Thomas reading his own poems.

Sheep!

I mean they are so boring, all they do is stand around all day nibbling grass. There's not an interesting thing to say about sheep, unless it's a recipe for a nicely cooked leg of lamb, washed down with a full bodied French red, say a St. Emillion 2002.

Anyway, dear readers, I have been looking for some feedback on this blog but despite the number of visits I get, admittedly not a huge number, there is a distinct lack of social intercourse. (saving your presence Lingo Slinger). Now I know that you readers of West Coast Ramblings are sophisticated, intelligent, people (otherwise you wouldn't be reading this, right!) with busy lives but I really would appreciate the odd comment or two just to be reassured that my modest output is mildly stimulating...Or not, now that I come to think of it.

If you believe that this blog is the most odious pile of shite that you have ever had the misfortune to come across then please say so. This will have the immediate effect of transforming my epistles into heavenly dissertations on the subjects which are closest to your hearts. How exactly this will come about I don't know but I'll think of something. Anyway it would relieve the tedium somewhat so don't be shy.

Trouble is, at the moment I am not (although I should be) heavily engaged with my Open University work. It's a rather deep study of the methodology of the study of history. Now I'm sure that most lively minded people would agree that history per se is interesting. If you are not interested in history then please leave. Fuck off! Go! Out! Begone! But (I know I've asked you this before - can you start a sentence with but?) the study of the methodology used by historians (please hang on - you have taken all this trouble to get here) is about as boring as going to mass. So the point I am making here (yes, yes, please get to it - a reader) is that I do not have enough material relating to the OU and therefore I need to tap the old brain cells to keep up the blog. Please help me out. What direction should I take with this - random ramblings - more poetry stuff - less introspection. Tell me.

A Funny Blog

Please read Old Horsetail Snake. This blog is funny and touching in equal measure. And it's where I got this quote from Robin Williams:

"See, the problem is that God gave man a brain and a penis, but only enough blood to run one at a time."

Open University - Introduction To The Humanities

My result arrived this morning for TMA03 which I posted on Nov. 27th. 60%! A good pass I would say. Anyway I'm pretty satisfied with it. The tutor, Dr. Matilda Clench, is a pretty strict old bird and she doesn't give away much. I know we've had our differences in the past but that's all water under the bridge now. I think we're rubbing along pretty nicely now. The thing is I know I could have done better. I posted the thing too quickly. You know how it is, you've laboured manfully ('laboured personfully'? I don't think so) on something for ages and when it's done, you just want to get it off you're back. Take my advice (I might even take it myself). Sit on it, even for just half an hour, if you can, and then make sure you have it right before submitting it. My piece was all there, it just could have been ordered better, perhaps tightened up a little. It would have been worth the extra effort.

It has been a beautiful day here in Dalmatia. Lovely and sunny all day. And perfect conditions tonight for the kick-about on the five-a-side park. We lost 7-4 or something. The Ollie was our best man. We were up against it though, with Pizza Paddy and Jimbo in the opposition. Our side was me (The Old Crock), The Ollie (v. good, even if his was a rugby school), Farmer Giles (almost as useless as me), and Tommo (Young Croatian Poser). Despite that it was a good weekend for sport. Rangers have now failed to win in nine consecutive games (fuck them). The Blue Hoops won, keeping up their promotion challenge. Croatia won the Davis Cup, and Monty won in Hong Kong.

I'd better get to bed now and try to rest my aching muscles. I'm sure I'll have siezed up by tomorrow evening.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I love this poem. To me it is so musical. It rhymes effortlessy (although the second line looks a bit contrived) and the rhythm of the metre (iambic tetrameter) makes it ideal for reading in a kind of sing-song, perhaps Welsh, accent. Richard Burton or Anthony Hopkins would be perfect readers for this. The sussurations of the lines -
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake
- clearly echo the wind and soft fall of snow through branches. What, we wonder, is he imagining that lies in the wood, what temptations does he turn from? The woods are lovely, dark and deep. This is such a sensual line, perhaps hinting at physical passion. But he must be faithful and press on, he has promises to keep. The repetition of the last two lines seems to speak of a terrible resignation. There is a clear echo of these feelings in The Road Not Taken. Perhaps he speaks to all our mid-life crises, or is that just me.

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-----------ooo000ooo----------------

I have put this poem up because I have just been listening to Adventures In Poetry on BBC Radio 4. The programme or, as you Americans would say, program - was very listenable and included fragments of an interview with Frost himself. One contributor, Jay Parini, was especially pleasant to listen to and he highlighted how ambiguous the poem is. The penultimate line seems to sum things up neatly; it's all about the road "less travelled". But is it? Look back at how he stresses early on how very much alike the roads are - took the other, as just as fair and also Had worn them really about the same, and again both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. He couldn't make it more clear if he was banging you over the head with a book, could he! So what's he doing at the end? I shall be telling this with a sigh. He's telling "this" meaning the following:-
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by - But he's being disingenuous. The narrator knows that when he tells 'ages and ages hence' of his life he will pretend, with a regretful sigh, that he had choices which made all the difference, but he really didn't. The truth is in the third stanza where, with some false bravado he says:-
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
But acknowledging the truth that:-
.....knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

Way leads on to way. We think we have a choice, but sometimes our path is marked out for us. I think that's the message of the poem. Isn't that right, Irish?

It was published in 1916 when Frost was about forty two. He died aged eighty nine.

Open University - TMA03 Classical Studies

It's been a struggle I must say. Now I've posted the thing, and it's two days late. The tutor did say she would allow us to post it over the weekend so it should be ok

Critically evaluate the relationship between form and function in three aspects of the design and construction of the Colosseum. Not more than 300 words.

Why were the games important for the Romans?
Not more than 900 words.

It's Snowing in Dalmatia

It's the kid's last night. He goes home tomorrow. I have really enjoyed his visit. We went to the movies tonight, to see Oliver Twist. I think he enjoyed it. It was snowing quite heavily when we came out of the movie theatre. We both liked that; snow gives a magical quality to a place, especially to this town which doesn't get a lot of it. We walked through the snowfall, looking up at the snowflakes falling earthwards, trying to catch them on our tongues, getting that flying upwards feeling that you get when all the flakes are rushing towards you. When we got to Kristjans we had hot chocolate, it seemed the appropriate drink.

We talked about great snowfalls we had had back home., how last year had been a white Christmas, how we loved it that we had a coal fire and could come in out of the cold wet snow to a blazing fire. Isn't that the most beautiful, loving, thing a person can do for you? To get up earlier in the morning than you and light a real coal fire, just so that you can climb out of bed and go through to the living room and see its heart-warming glow.

He asked where we had got our sledge and I told him how my grandmother had brought the 'Flexible Flyer' back from the U.S. in the nineteen fifties. It's not what it used to be but then, neither is the snow these days. Sometimes life is good, like tonight.

Trip to Solin (Roman name Salona)

We went to Solin today, the kid and me. I was looking for the remains of the Roman amphitheatre, he was just going along as it meant a ride on the scooter and, if I was feeling relaxed, a chance for him to go solo on it. We pulled off the road where a sign indicated that the ruins were to be found, but it turned out that the site was spread out over a very large area and we wandered around, wasting a lot of time before we came across the actual amphitheatre.
There it was in all its overgrown and ancient glory. The sun shone down on the verdant grass of the arena and, in the path of the gladiators’ entrance, a game of Croatian boules (locally called boče) was going on between two teams of local men. The sight of this ancient game, possibly introduced into Croatia by Roman soldiers, being played with wooden balls was strangely affecting. If it were not for the branded tracksuit tops of the players, and the assortment of cars parked nearby, we could have been back in time, two hundred years or more.
If you look east from Solin you can see the hilltop fortress of Klis. I was up there once. If I could revisit that scene I would, but life is not like that. The afternoon was over and the sun was sinking over the hills to the west. We climbed back on to the scooter. The kid held on tightly to my jacket and we headed back home. Are we close? Of course we are.

People Are Nice

I always like to think the best of people. I know that sounds, to some ears, naive but that's the way I am. Some of us live in a society these days where people are afraid to stop and help someone stranded by the roadside, for example with a car breakdown, in case they get caught up in some gruesome scenario where they can later be accused of assault, or where they get assaulted themselves by the people who are supposedly 'needing help'. It's very sad, and goes against the values that should be the building blocks of any decent society. What is society, other than the recognition that our lives, our individual lives and the lives of those who are near and dear to us, are intertwined with, and interdependent on, other people in the wider community? To me it is self-evident. A community cannot function; a country, its people, its economy, cannot thrive and grow without the communal efforts of the ordinary citizens. Within this belief it is implicit that we must have an optimistic attitude to others. This is also important for our own individual happiness and well-being.

Now this is not to say that we should open our doors to all and sundry, and let every freeloader and sponger walk all over us. Of course there are bad people in the world who don't give a shit about society. Of course we are in danger from criminals and all kinds of ne'er-do-wells. But do the bad people outnumber the good? Do their numbers even constitute one percent of the total? Who the hell knows. I'm not going to talk statistically because I haven't the faintest notion of what the statistics are, I just know what I know. And that is that a lifetime's experience tells me that most of the people I meet in my journeyings, and most of the people I know, are decent people. And it's good to recognise this because I also meet the kind of person who is too eager to generalise, who without even a pause for thought would tell you that "They're all criminals in that place/town/country/wherever" or "They're totally ignorant those Bosnians/Americans/Australian Aborigines/Germans/white/blacks/old age pensioners/whoever". And I just hate those Jeremiahs who are just so negative you've got to get out of their company as quickly as possible before you start to feel like hanging yourself, or just smothering them with the nearest cushion. So when something nice happens that confirms my faith in the fundamental goodness of people then I should celebrate it and also tell others. And in that way I make a small contribution towards making sure that the Jeremiahs don't succeed in poisoning all of our lives.

I had picked my son up at Dubrovnik airport and it's a 220 km drive back up the coast. There was the most horrendous rainstorm, it was just monsoon-like. As we were going through Makarska, about three quarters of the way home, I drove too fast into fairly deep water. The electrics got flooded and the car conked out. I managed to re-start it but once we got clear of the town it finally gave up the ghost. What to do? I phoned a taxi driver I know and asked him to come and collect us, and he agreed but it would take him an hour to get down to us. Shortly after I had talked to him a car pulled up beside us and a young woman shouted over asking if we needed help. She had two other people in the car, also female, and she had no reservations it seemed about stopping with an offer of assistance. I thanked her and said that help was on its way.

After another five minutes a car going in the opposite direction stopped and two guys came over. They gave me to understand that they were mechanics and perhaps they could bring some expertise to bear. They did try and sort the problem on the spot but to no avail. They then phoned a friend who had a wrecker truck and he came and picked us up. Now he was going to take us to his garage and try to fix us out but I asked him, with a rustling motion of my thumb and forefinger, how much he might charge to take us all the way home. He offered to do this for seven hundred kuna. Fine, I said, let's go and in the meantime I phoned back to my taxi driver and asked him to return to base, I'd settle his bill later. And so the tale ends happily with my son and me arriving in time for a formal dinner at the town's best hotel.

This is not the first time I have experienced such willingness to help from strangers in Croatia. Again it was a car thing. My friend's engine was over-heating. A car mechanic came over to us, saw the problem, took us to his place, spent almost an hour searching for and fitting a thermostat valve, and got us back on the road. And he charged us nothing. Now isn't that how society should operate. People are nice, they really are.

Open University - Results from TMA02

Well the first results are in and they are:
Art History - An analysis of An Allegory of the Vanities of Human Life - 13/25 - 52%
Literature - An analaysis of the Keats' sonnet 'When I have fears that I may cease to be' - 14/25- 56%
Music - Appreciation of an excerpt from Petrushka 'First Tableau: The Shrovetide Fair' - 12/25 - 48%
Philosophy - Arguments; valid, sound, and inductive. - 20/25 - 80%.
Overall - 59%.

Well, fuck me gently. 59%! I don't know how I feel about that. I reckon my Art History offering was worth a little more than a measly 52%. I looks like I just scraped through on that. Do you think that's fair? Look below at my post on November 1st and tell me. Did I not cover it well? And the tutor doesn't even know what a shawm is. She put a question mark next to it!

The music only got 48%, which is all I deserved. I was just waffling and repeating myself on that one, plus I didn't really study it. And only 56% for literature. It was hardly worth my bother, trawling through every web site I could find on Keats' sonnets. And then 80% for the philosophy question. 80% for a load of old bollocks! Anyway, in fairness (What am I saying!) I hardly studied at all for the thing so I suppose I got what I deserved. I'm hardly studying at all for the next one, wasting my time as I am here bitching about it. Bollocks to it, I'd better get off and do something.

Being Chained to the Village Idiot

"Owning a penis is like being chained to the village idiot." I read that on someone's blog the other day. I wish I had said it. Well, now I have.

So, what else is on my mind. Well, the OU stuff is grinding along. At the moment it's a study of the Roman Empire with particular focus on the Colosseum. So far we've been reading on the origins and function of this famous amphitheatre and, I must say, it has been quite interesting.

Those gladiatorial games were awesome, and gruesome, productions. "At the hundred days festival given by Titus at the Flavian amphitheatre (Colosseum) in 80 ad, on one day 5,000 wild animals of various sorts were exhibited, and 9,000 tame and wild was the sum total of the killed (over the hundred days) ... " These inaugural games in the Colosseum are said to have involved "fights of up to 3,000 men in a single day". (Quotes from sources in the OU published course material).

The scale of it is mind boggling and it begs the question; who was in charge of production? maybe that's where the great blockbuster film directors like De Mille and Spielberg and Peter Jackson get their directing genes. If you think about it, there must have been their equivalent in ancient Rome. It wasn't just a bunch of mindless animal torturers; someone with great project management skills and an eye for theatre had to be orchestrating the whole gory business.

The course raises questions on how we view these events from a twenty-first century perspective. Was it all just mindless gore and crowd-pleasing bloodlust, or was it more complex? A way of keeping the Roman populace contented while controlling crime and rebellion? It's easy to be moralistic and condemn the barbarity of the people who staged such events, but modern liberal high-mindedness is not useful when studying events of two thousand years ago. For the Romans, to kill wild beasts was to protect mankind. Criminals and Christians during that period were regarded as having put themselves in the position of outcast. The games were a way of dealing with capital punishment, and the crowd could ameliorate their sub-conscious guilt by giving the criminals a "fighting chance". Some modern "enlightened" societies deal with capital punishment in a different, but equally self-deceiving way. Executions are carried out behind closed doors, out of sight and largely out of mind.

Good Blogs

I don't have a lot of time to read other blogs. I don't even have a lot of time to spend on keeping this one up to date, but. I do like to skiff through to the 'next blog' just taking pot luck on what I'll find. So it has to have an immediate impact to make me stop and look and read it properly. That why I like Lingo Slinger , she's always funny and to the point.

I came across Emerald Bile last night and I was rocking with laughter. Especially reading What The Fuck Is A Bagel! It reminded me of a time when I was stuck in this hotel in New York where they didn't serve you a decent plate of bacon, sausage and egg in the morning. All you got was coffee in a paper cup.. and bagels. After a while you just hate the things.

So then I found Twenty Major - Still Smoking In Irish Bars. It's a blog from the other side of Dublin from the one you'd be familiar with. I like it for the story-telling, and it's funny.

These people are good. I wish I was half as good. Anyway, if I can't be very creative right now, being a tad tired, I'll give credit where it's due and get the fuck out of here.

Is There Anyone Listening?!

No, I don't mean you. My millions of blog readers can relax, I 'm not having a go at you. If I did then I daresay the West Coast Ramblings Blog Readers Association, or WCRBRA as it is more familiarly described, would send me emails of objection at my impertinence, casting aspersions at the good character of the dedicated blog reader etc. etc. No, I repeat, it is not you it is the Open University. What the fuck is going on! I've been faithfully logging on, day after weary day, hoping for some sign of life from the on-line tutorial group to which I am attached, and which is under the tutorship of one Dr. Matilda Clench. Now I'm not an expert on tutorial groups but you would think, would you not, that it would, at a minimum, resemble a group? Yes, no? This lot are so invisible that they resemble nothing so much as a bunch of terminally shy geeks, too backward to punch a few bland phrases onto the surface of their human-machine-interfaces, and then send them serverwards so that we can all marvel at the vacuous drivel they are only just capable of producing. I mean I do my best, I really do; trying to draw them out of their miserable shells, but, to no avail. As for Dr. Clench! I know this for a certainty; She's not getting anwhere near my haemorrhoids. If she was the last doctor in the world I wouldn't trust her to lance my boils. Three emails I've sent her and not one reply, not one! Well I've had it. I have taken action. A quick inquiry to the student support mob in Embra and they were right on to the staff tutor for the Arts Faculty. He immediately sent back an email reassuring me that he would look right into it. Decent sort of chap. That's what we need, more men about the place instead of all these wretched old women with hardening of the bloody arteries. Got to go now, the Colloseum awaits.

Tutor Marked Assessment - The Open University

I am about to blow my reputation as an erudite student of the humanities right out of the water with the following. This represents the answers to the philosophy questions in Tutor Marked Assessment 02 in my course. It is, I will say in my defence, a level 1 course and therefore we mere students are only expected to skim the surface of the deep well of philosophical thought and knowledge that has been passed to us from Pluto, Socrates, Descartes, Nietsche, and others too difficult to mention.

The questions were about - What is an argument? - What is a sound argument? - What is an inductive argument, as opposed to a deductive argument? - and so forth. And you can see from the below the expert grasp I have on the subject. Now I know what you're thinking. Surely, you are saying to yourself, surely this is the work of a thousand monkeys sitting at a thousand typewriters, or perhaps it is the work of just one monkey and a spell-checker. No, alas, no. It is I. Now the study guide I have open here beside me poses the question, Why study philosophy? And it answers itself by telling us; "One important reason for studying philosophy is that it deals with the fundamental questions about the meaning of existence. Why are we here? Does God exist? What is art? Why is there a monster under my bed?" And so on. So having grappled with these questions, and having practiced pacing up and down with our hands behind our backs for hours on end, we were given this assessment. I cannot tell you how relieved I was. I was afraid they would ask us - Could our lives be a dream?- or something. I had even started to formulate an answer to that one. I goes like this:
If my life is a dream and I wake up then I will exist in real life and therefore my life cannot be a dream. On the other hand if my life is a dream and I do not wake up then my life is a dream, or I am dead. On the other hand if my life is someone else's dream and they wake up then I am dead also. And on the other hand (that would be the fourth hand, wouldn't it) if my life is someone else's dream and they don't wake up then I hope it's a wet dream. 'S a fucking nightmare really!

An Analysis of a Poem by Keats

WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE
JOHN KEATS

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

The repetition of the word ‘when’ has the effect of making the reader want to read on to discover the answer to what happens ‘then’, while the repetition of ‘before’ increases this sense of tension. The use of ‘never’ seems to lead the reader towards expecting the worst, and the mood is gradually blackened until at the end there is a feeling of desolation and fatalism.

In the octave the poet is reflecting on the transience of life; how his talents may be prematurely stilled, and how he may never experience the true nature of love or ‘high romance’. This inward reflection in the octave turns, in the sestet, to an outward statement directed at his love (‘fair creature of an hour’) expressing fear of love’s loss. The turn between the octave and the sestet ‘And when I feel..’ signals to the reader that the questions asked in the octave are about to be answered. Finally, the with the words ‘then on the shore’, the poet tells us how he comes to terms with whatever fate holds for him.

The rhyming of ‘brain’ and ‘grain’ emphasise the poet’s talents while, in the second quatrain, ‘face’ and ‘trace’ emphasise the poet’s skill at capturing nature’s beauty. The tone of the third quatrain is downbeat with the sadder sounds of ‘hour’, ‘power’, ‘more’, and ‘shore’.
The poet’s message in the final couplet seems to be that he will put no great store by transient fame or shallow love, and there is an acceptance of whatever fate will bring, with the emphasis on thought and solitude.

Now, the above is what I wrote for my Open Univerity analysis of this poem by Keats but what, dear reader, do I really feel? Well, you've got think, haven't yer, that the 'fair creature of an hour' - 's a hooker i'n'it. I mean stands to reason du'n'it! I know short time usually means thirty minutes but after he was waxing lyrical for a while it prob'ly took up the hour. She was prob'ly right browned off, prob'ly she was thinking 'I hope I shall never see thee more. You're doing me out of my bizness, you are. It's so brisk these days if I had anuvver pair of legs I 'd open a branch in Peckham', and you're lying back there going on about the faery power. I knew you was a poof straight off'. All poets are, stands to reason'.
Am I right, or am I right!

An Allegory of the Vanities of Human Life

This is 'An Allegory of the Vanities of Human Life' by Harmen Steenwyck 1621. As part of my OU course I have to write a descriptive account of this. Now as a self-styled 'bloke' I have almost never visited an art gallery and rarely on purpose so; how about this then:-

At 39.2 cm high by 50.7 cm across the objects in the picture would be rendered slightly less than life size and, allowing for viewpoint and perspective, the proportions would appear realistic. The perspective gives us an angle of vision low down, at just above the height of the table, as if the viewer is seated at a slight distance from the table contemplating the objects.

The objects are bundled together to the right of the frame, except the shell which seems to balance precariously on the left front edge of the table. The skull is prominent at the front of the composition, two thirds from the left and two thirds from the top. This placing makes the viewer focus on the skull, and then the eye drifts outwards taking in the other objects.

The picture is lit from above and to the left, as if from a high window. The light comes down in a shaft rather in the nature of a spotlight, highlighting the objects and leaving the rest of the picture dark. The room and background are bare and sparse, almost cell-like. The painter is saying ‘Look at these things. What do you see?’

The tonal range is wide, giving the objects a realistic and dramatic aspect. The colour range is mostly browns and gold, autumnal colours. The pink cloth is a counterpoint, perhaps to remind us of the gaiety of life in contrast to the more serious symbolic imagery.

The objects are: a lute, a shawm, a flute, two books, a dying taper, a shell, a Japanese sword, a chronometer, and a flask. The musical instruments symbolising the pleasures of the senses; the books, learning and knowledge; the sword and shell, wealth; the snuffed-out lamp and the chronometer, the transience of life; the skull, death.

Ramblings & The Time Traveller's Wife

I'm back. I could rattle on about how pissed off I am with my work but I won't. Suffice it to say that Croatia is a nice place to be as long as you don't expect anyone, in the work environment, to be organised. There are very many first class engineers, technicians etc. in this country but there seems not to be the requisite number of good project managers, at least not around the job I am involved in.

But (Can you start a paragraph with 'But'?) I have decided that this blog will have nothing to do with my work, rather it will be somewhere I can come to get away from work. So, what to write about? Well the obvious thing to reflect on just now is how badly I am prepared for the first Tutor Marked Assessment which I will have to submit to the Open University. This is solely because of my work (sorry) commitments and I am seriously questioning whether I have bitten off more than I can chew. On the other hand I can hang in and force myself to get it done and hope for the best. We'll see.

But books! Now there's another thing. I have just finished reading The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. I can't praise this book highly enough. I am not an enthusiast of science fiction or fantasy. I like stories which are strongly character driven but also rooted in the real world. I can thus identify with and/or empathise with the people in the story. This was something different. A perfectly laid out narrative told in the first person by the two central characters, Henry the librarian time-traveller and Clare, who he meets when she is six years old and he has travelled back in time from a point in the future when he is already married to her. When he meets her in real time, when Clare is twenty and he is twenty eight, he has not yet travelled back to her childhood so he does not recognise her. She, however, recognises him and the story of their relationship develops from this point. The time travel aspects are so logically laid out that you are never confused and therefore you can concentrate on the lives and relationships of the central characters. I will quote one reviewer from the Amazon.com website

".... the story is written so well, so touching, so heart-breaking at parts, so loving. Reading this novel was such a joy for all the emotions it made me feel. Most books published nowadays just do not do that to me. This one made me feel. And it was such a great reading experience. What all great books are made of. Wonderful."

I could not agree more. Look forward to Ms. Niffenegger's next book with keen anticipation. If her creative talents are not all expended by this tour de force then we should be in for another treat.

I'm going to be away fora while

Look Guys,
I'm going to be away for the next seven or eight days on business. Check back with me from the ist Nov. and I'll be glad to update you.
Best regds.
West Coaster.

CHICK LIT. PART - 2

This is too early in the morning for any erudition. I'm just out of bed and sitting here in my shorts without the benefit of a bath or a shave. Anyway, I just wanted to clarify for Lingo Slinger who said "I always though Chick-Lit was more lighthearted reading that was primarily of interest to a female audience... "

That's the thing about labels. Rachel's Holiday is marketed for the Chick Lit./Young Female audience with its frivolous cover illustration, and the quote from the Sunday Times review prominent on the front "A gloriously funny book". And I think it's fair to say that Marian Keyes would not herself spurn the Chick Lit label, after all it helps to sell the book. It is a funny book. There are laugh out loud moments in it and the quirkiness of the Irish dialogue is a constant entertainment throughout. And, of course, there are a lot of girlish references to boyfriends, hair, make-up, and clothes which makes it very accessible to a certain age and gender. That does not detract a whit from its central virtue. It's a good story. And that is important to me, and the fact that I am a fifty six year old man is neither here nor there. Except that the marketing types would exclude me from this book by deflecting my glance on the bookshop shelves toward a more 'manly' or 'serious' cover illustration, and that is a disservice to me and to the writer.

All this serves to underline that you can't judge a book by its cover, and we should all be wary of marketing.

IS CHICK-LIT ANY GOOD?

I want to say a little about what I'm reading just now. My friend The Writer gave me, some time ago, Rachel's Holiday by Marian Keyes. It tells the story of Rachel, a Dublin girl working in New York and on a downward spiral of addiction, hitting rock bottom and being compelled by forces outside of her own control to return to Ireland and enter a rehabilitation clinic.

I was gripped by this story. I thought it was so well executed and the characters, especially that of Rachel the central character, so well drawn. The story is written in the first person from Rachel's viewpoint and follows her from her admission to the residential clinic near Dublin, through to her release and redemption. There are flashbacks to her life in New York and visits in the clinic from her friends and family who are observed through Rachel's eyes as they tell another side of the story to that which Rachel is portraying to the reader. Needless to say Rachel is in complete denial about the seriousness of her condition and the reader is drawn skillfully on to her side, and is in a sense, complicit in her denial, for some way into the narrative. The author's skill is in gradually making us aware how wrong Rachel is, and this is revealed by degrees as various members of her family and her friends from New York are brought to confront her in the clinic. The author cleverly makes the reader become aware of the true nature of Rachel's drug and alcohol dependency at the same pace as Rachel herself becomes aware. There is no feeling of inevitably about the ending as Rachel faces various crises after her release from the clinic and the final chapter brings a satisfying conclusion.

The narrative cascades forward carrying the reader on a journey in turns swift and then more leisurely. The sheer bulk of the paperback at 625 pages makes one ask, before opening it, if it is not a deal too long. After one is drawn into the story however one is sorry when the journey finally ends.

This is so-called Chick Lit. I think that this appelation diminishes this book. A serious subject is treated with humour and with seriousness. Above all it is a good story. I don't suppose many people would label it as "literature" but that, to me, is irrelevent. Ultimately what most people, certainly what I want, is a good read with characters who are well drawn and who the reader will want to follow to see 'what happens next?'. This they will get in spades from Rachel's Holiday.

I have since read four other novels by Marian Keyes; Angels, Last Chance Saloon, Sushi For Beginners, and The Other Side Of The Story. While I enjoyed them all, I do not think that any of them are a patch on Rachel's Holiday.

A BAD MAN RAN AWAY – eTMA 01 - Part 1 – 9/6/05

This was a presented for my Start Writing Fiction course in the summer. I think the tutor liked this. This came as a surprise to me as I did not think it very strong. She said it was .. well I'll leave you to judge if you like it.

I saw the whole thing, Mum. I saw that man. I’ve seen him before. He’s just ordinary and fat and he looks a bit simple, and he’s got greasy hair. I don’t like him. He’s always coming round here in his car and Sandra says we’re to keep out of his way because he’s not nice. I saw his car coming round the corner. It’s a big red car and he’s got these big furry dice that dangle in the front window. You always see those furry dice on rotten old cars with rust all over them don’t you. When I grow up my car is going to be nice and shiny and white. I like white cars with that roof that comes down. And then this man’s car stopped in front of Mr. Singh’s shop. He’s nice Mr. Singh isn’t he and he looks funny with his big hairy beard and kind of popping eyes and he’s always shouting except when Mrs. Singh is in the shop and he’s dead quiet then and Mrs. Singh is shouting at him, but they’re always nice to me, and they always give me a sweet when I go in with you Mum, don’t they Mum. And then this man got out of his car and went in to Mr. Singh’s and I don’t know what happened then because I was too far away and Sandra came up and showed me her new trainers that she had just got that have got these sparkly lights in them when you walk. I don’t like them but Sandra was going – Oh aren’t they lovely – I think she was trying to make me jealous. And that’s when this man came running out of Mr. Singh’s and he had blood all over him and he tried to get into his car and it looked like he had forgotten he had locked it and he couldn’t find his key and then he ran across the street and then Mr. Singh came out of his shop and he was holding a cricket bat and he couldn’t see this man ‘cos he was running past me and Sandra and he was saying that bad word and calling Mr. Singh a paki and even I know Mr. Singh’s not from Pakistan so he really must be simple. Then this policeman came up and a big crowd gathered around Mr. Singh’s shop and I couldn’t see because there was too many people and Sandra and me went over and I heard somebody say – Is she all right? and then the ambulance came and the people stood back to let them in the shop and that’s when I saw Mrs. Singh and she was lying on the floor and the ambulance men were kneeling beside her and they had put this oxygen thing on her and somebody said she’d had a heart attack and now she’s dead but she can’t be dead because then Mr. Singh will have nobody to look after him. So she’s not dead is she Mum… Mum?

A Night In

It's a quiet night for me tonight. Last night was just too much; too much hilarity, too much jollification and too much drink. It started off as a civilised dinner at the Masline restaraunt off Marmontove with English John and The Writer, after which we de-camped to Kristijan's caffe-bar for a gargle. We've been in the habit of going there on a Friday night for a while and we recently met The Ollie there, so it was not a surprise to meet him again last night. It was a very pleasant evening with much friendly banter. I learned a new card game called Shithead and, coincidentally, my head felt like shit this morning, so I wonder if it had anything to do with playing cards.

I have spent the afternoon in trying to apply myself to Block 1 of An Introduction To The Humanities. I'm late into this and trying to catch up is difficult. Today I was reading about form and space in painting and perspective. I did find it somewhat interesting but I'll need to take it up again tonight in bed just to try and get more of it out of the way. This part I'm doing now should have been completed two weeks ago.

My studies were interspersed with visits to the kitchen while I made an enormous pot of soup. I like to make a lot and I can live off soup for dinner for the next week or so. Then I also had to sit mindlessly in front of the telly from time to time. My concentration span needs to improve if I'm going to achieve anything with the OU. I'm also learning a little more about blogging which is evidenced by the appearance of hot links on the page. I feel rather proud of myself.

There's a game of football planned for tomorrow. Dare I try it? It might be flirting with a coronary. We'll see.

An Introduction To The Humanities

This could be an introduction to the humanities of Split. That's a bit gauche, n'est pas? (Pretentious! Moi!). What I mean is that perhaps I could say a little of the characters I know in this town, just to take my mind off the intellectual maunderings of the OU course presenters.

For example -
"It is not simply illusion that the spectator assents to or agrees to entertain. It is not just the apparent transformation of the sheet of paper into a space with a sphere in it that holds our attention in such pictures as Russell's. Rather what is intriguing is the curiously paradoxical experience of seeing the paper as both literally flat and and imaginitively fathomless."

I mean, for fuck's sake! This is like Father Ted trying to explain perspective to Dougal by holding up a wee toy cow and saying 'very small' and pointing to real cows out the caravan window and saying 'far away'!

So, what's it like living in Dalmatia? I'm glad you asked. In the summer it's fine. The sun shines most of the time. The temperature is pleasant and it's only in late July through to late August that the humidity get's a bit uncomfortable. A few of my aquaintances congregate at the Backpacker Cafe and while the idle hours away. I might have gone to the flicks with them tonight but I decided to stay in and study. Now I'm doing this. I started to write about the people I have come to know here, the patrons of the Backpacker Cafe, but it was too hard-edged and I did not want to hurt anyone's feelings. Suffice it to say their is a disparate group of ex-pats who have made their home here, some permanently, some less so. They span the spectrum from writers (well one writer) to actors (okay one ex actor) to property speculators (a slack handful including the ex actor) to others who are just taking time out of normal life. As this is a kind of crossroads for people going into or coming out of Eastern Europe or touring south Dalmatia then there is a regular tide of humanity washing through all summer, so it's always vibrant and interesting. Once summer passes it's so much quieter. I hated last winter here at first. I arrived in February and it was truly miserable but, once I found a friendly pub it wasn't so bad, and then spring was cancelled and we leapt straight into summer in mid-May and life was good.

I'll see you later.

Thanks to 'Anonymous'

Well now, here's a pleasant surprise. I've got an audience; at least, an audience of one! 'Anonymous' kindly commented that I've got a great blog here and he's (I say he - could be she) going to bookmark me. Well stripe me pink! There I was in a hotel room in Palermo thinking - you know you should be keeping up this blog a bit more. And also admitting that I'm not producing the goods, creatively speaking, which is true and mostly due to the work and business life being a bit hectic at the moment. Anyways I looked at the blog to remind myself what I should be doing about it and, blow me down, there's a twinkling little '1' at the comments button. And what a pleasant surprise it was too. So, if a person is good enough to bookmark me then I should be good enough to give them something to look at - isn't it?

The thing is, and here come the excuses. I'm back in Dalmatia from Palermo and waiting for me when I got to the office was a large courier package containing all the good stuff from the Open University for my next project, viz: Level 1 'An Introduction to The Humanities'. The faint hope is that this might be the first step towards a degree, but that's too far down the road to get hung up about. Suffice it to say that with studying for the course and working full time it might be a bit of a stretch to promise to write creatively enough to satisfy the hopes of anyone who liked the foregoing posts. Which is just a cop-out really, isn't it. I know I should be at least keeping a journal. And there is no better place to keep it than here. But the question is begged, whenever I consider doing a journal on the blog; how personal can it be? Let's see what we can do. The least I can do is post the progress of my OU studies and this may interest those engaged in similar stuff to make encouraging remarks.

I did complete the 'Start Writing Fiction' short course and gained a pass mark and 10 academic points. I submitted 'The Right Thing' for my final Tutor-marked Assessment and, while it was successful enough, the tutor's comments made it clear that she did not feel it was a very strong story. There was a lack of tension, for example. It was clear from the beginning that the adoption would go ahead. Everybody liked each other, etc. etc. It was fair comment really and I took it on board.

So, at the moment I'm just back from the Palermo trip; There's a pile of stuff to catch up on at work, and another pile of stuff to catch up on from the OU. So I'd better get my finger out. And if you're wondering what Palermo was like, well I'll tell you. Boring, and littered with dog-shit, but don't let me put you off if you're intending to visit. There is a very good restaurant called the Lord Green and the wine was superb, so it wasn't all bad. I'm glad to be back in Dalmatia though.