Is yours under-used?

This is a tapeworm. It may have meaning

When all other diversions – telly-watching, advanced cakery, tree pruning, over-the-garden-wall conversation, drinking oneself into oblivion, reading novels that are beyond us, being cruel to our nearest and dearest, pretending to understand quantum theory – have turned into dusty, dried-up riverbeds we are left with that final and most  private resource: thought.

Most times it begins accidentally. We are reminded of a single fact, although, without the faintest idea of its meaning, I am tempted to say factoid. Sounds more profound, doesn’t it? It could, if I let it, be the starting-pistol signal to a line of thought. But I won’t. I’ve half a mind to be philosophical. Or do I mean philological?

Whatever.

The fact (-oid) may take any form. It could be a person, a word that grabbed our sense of rhythm, a sensation within the gut, a foreign incomprehension, the taste of a passion fruit, an event in history (Yeah. This is a great opportunity to explore The Don Pacifico Incident. But somehow…). Rejection by a member of the opposite sex who should have been grateful for the opportunity. Dadaism. A sin committed in youth. A conviction we are uglier than ever we thought.

Anything. And the process of thought may take us in any direction. Like as not, though, the first response will probably be propelled by one of Kipling’s “six honest serving men”:

… they taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When.
And How and Where and Who.'

The cliché stepping stone would now be to provide an example but that’s the easy way out. What’s fascinating about thought is the process itself. The fact that each move along the way presents us with the same infinity of possibilities. Thus Susan Sarandon may metamorphose into the instincts of a tapeworm. In the blink of an eye.

This would be the result of uncontrolled thought, day-dreaming. The alternative would be controlled thought, whereby we try to profit from our ability to think, forcing it into useful revelations. Understand we’re talking about thought, as opposed to mere problem-solving. Being driven by the belief (hope?) that – ahead – there are flattish stones waiting to be turned over leading us to a miraculous understanding, say, of why the scale of C-major seems inevitable. Even pretty. And which could explain why our head occupies a space at the top of our spine.

There’s lots more to say but if I could be granted a wish I’m hoping you'll break off from Tone Deaf and try out this process yourself. As to some extent I did when I first arranged the words: “When all other diversions – “

 

Why blogging still counts

Just read a review of a book analysing friendship. Why, out of all the book reviews that slide into oblivion, unread, did I slow down the avalanche and start concentrating on a subject potentially woffly? The answer lies at the heart of blogging and I’ll get to that… perhaps.

More truthfully I was propelled backward in time, to my salad days when I got paid for doing journalism. More precisely still, I’d been visited by a journalist’s golden benison, a solid kick-off line; here goes:

It’s important to say what friendship isn’t. Sloppy writers may equate it with love; they shouldn’t. Lovers often spend time at each others’ throats, friends less so. Love is passion, friendship is fun, forgiveness and felicity; and, on the whole, friends aren’t linked by that other f-word. Lovers tend to operate in the present tense, friends reflect a lot. Lovers hate gaps between meetings, friends may actually profit from year-long absences. The differences between love and friendship are most notable when friendship happens between different genders. I could go on.

I don’t have too many friends: as a presence I’m inclined to get on others’ wicks. I favour unpromising subjects for conversation, ask too many probing questions, punctuate long periods of showing-off with startling – though happily brief – bouts of unexpected shyness, am bad on social etiquette, pedantic about language and am probably unjustifiably confident with regard to science.

All these failings and more are evident in what I write but then reading allows more control than being part of conversation. As a result the majority of my friends (It’s no great sum, I assure you.) are from those who have commented, and still do, on my blog. Most of whom I have never met but whose qualities I treasure.

In fact friends may often be regarded as distant to each other when observed by an impartial observer. In my case distance is reality and not mere judgement. Foreigners in fact. For me Brexit is a wound that still bleeds.

Why I'm in profit

No, it's not mine; I have a much
better developed hippocampus

That familiar noun – the brain – has at least two meanings: 1. The squishy entity that resembles baking dough based on suet. 2. A location in the human body where unparalleled feats of inter-communication occur even among the most inert of Trump voters. But did you know that the brain also underwent its own evolution just as far-reaching as the process whereby our ancestors crawled laboriously up the beach and shed their flippers for pairs of arms and legs? But not exactly in the blink of an eye.

In a two-part series which started yesterday on BBC2 Professor Jim Al-Khalil summarised the 600m years during which the cerebral equipment of an average mud-hopper eventually manifested itself, much improved,  in 2025 in the person of, let us say, J. D. Vance. Not only that but there were show-and-tells.

We saw a tiny living worm blessed with the most primitive brain presently extant. This Model T brain not only existed way back but actually worked; lab experiments demonstrated it could differentiate between left and right, making it superior to a large percentage of the folk in the county where I currently live.

It only took another 100m years – give or take – for another milestone to be reached: the faculty of imagination, notably to envisage possible future events. Allowing the user to plan to his/her own advantage.

And it’s here that I leave the prof. and become personal. BTW those Brits who have a smart TV may watch both episodes on I-Player, one of the rare advantages of living in these embattled islands.

Imagination! (And yes, the screamer is justified.) It’s presently active in the shreds of tissue I call my mind. After a hiatus lasting several years I’ve managed to resume writing my novel Rictangular Lenses (Misspelling intentional.) The word count, an auto-feature of Microsoft Word for those who asked if I used my fingers to help me arrive at this total, has risen from 65,000 to 70,000.

And I'm presently working on this bit: X (a woman) has put information in front of Y (a guy) wondering if he’ll arrive at what would be a desirable conclusion; Y (a typical guy) is struggling but won’t admit it. For me it’s not just a question of laying out the facts and the deliberations, I have to make them entertaining. It’s a hard ask but I love it. 

It’s what I was put on earth to do.

Yeah, The Man With The Scythe may be just round the corner but XXXX him (count the letters); I’m happy imagining. And I'm thinking thank goodness the worm, the mud-hopper, various lizards plus one which learnt to climb trees, a whole slew of gibbons plus a figure in the fog that may be The Missing Link all took up the options they did. Retrospectively they deserve my gratitude and my hope is that they - like me – also experienced the sheer joy of creation. In the words of William Faulkner: bringing to light that which never previously existed.

Oh ye millions I embrace you (Quote: LvB)