For the last three weeks, I've been on my lonesome ownsome.
If nothing else, it gives me the chance to finish the balsamic dressing I
picked up erroneously in Lidl during the last Italian week. I wasn't wearing my
glasses, so I hadn't noticed that the concoction was spiced with some kind of
raspberry essence. The Good Wife, she of the hyper-sensitive nose that befits
an aromatherapist, spotted it at once. Neither she nor The Daughter would let
it anywhere near their delicate palates, but I don't mind it if diluted with
virgin olive oil. So I feel that I'm using my time alone productively.
To continue the saga of the fallen mother-in-law, she has
now been transferred to a cottage hospital in Keswick, so at least the absent
women folks are allowed to visit her – every other day – but no one knows when
she can return home. I'm far from confident that my kin can get back in time
for Christmas.
Being a man on his own, inevitably one receives invitations
from kind friends to come and stay or come and dine. Women, and particularly
women of an older generation, seem to think that within days I'll be living
like some hapless Dickensian character in domestic chaos with only bread and
water for sustenance. My mother-in-law enquires frequently about my well-being,
even conveying her thanks for allowing 'the girls' to go. I do try to be
reasonable.
In truth, I'm much more comfortable with 'pink jobs' than
'blue jobs'. The house may fall down around me and my desk is a mess, but I make
the bed, cook regular nourishing meals, do the washing up promptly and keep on
top of the laundry. Nevertheless, I've already dined with old friends and spent
a weekend away near Bergerac with newer friends, being shown around a part of
the Dordogne valley that was hitherto fairly unknown to me.
Of course, I miss my co-habitants a lot, but am quite
content on my own. I look upon periodic terms of solitude as a necessary part
of life's rich tapestry. And anyway, how can one be truly alone when a dog and
two cats depend on you for their survival? Being alone gives you a chance to
'get on' and 'catch up': two of the forces that drive me to keep my head down
and stay on the treadmill of life. More importantly, perhaps, you can please
yourself: follow your own rhythms and pursue your own activities without
reference to anyone else.
So, the alarm goes off and I rise promptly at six ten –
those ten extra minutes being a life-saver – in order to feed and water the
animals, stoke the fire, soak my morning coffee in the way that my friend
Winston taught me and make my hot lemon to take back to bed with Daphne. I
catch up with some promos on my MP3 player while reading and/or writing my
journal. Then I get up, perform my perfunctory ablutions and either have my
breakfast or take the dog out for a walk or cycle ride, depending on the state
of the weather. Once installed at my desk, I check the sports news and work on
whatever project, musical or literary, is uppermost on my to-do list. The
afternoons are generally given to dog-walking, yoga and cooking. I tend to make
meals big enough for three days, so I spend less time in the kitchen and don't
have to worry about spicing life with variety. I eat earlier than I do
otherwise because it seems to agree more with the rigours of my digestion.
Evenings, I watch something live or recorded on the box.
I've been making my way through Ken Burns' masterful 12-part history of jazz on
disc for the second time, and I've watched all but one of the winter walks:
half an hour of meditative commentary and stunning scenery. I retire to my bed
early to read and catch up with promos once more on my MP3 player. Daphne joins
me for an hour or so – until the moment when I take my glasses off. This is her
cue to jump off and head for her basket. I tuck her in, close the shutter over
the front door, turn the light off, wish the residents a happy and peaceful
night and return to my bed and my appointment with sweet, restorative Lethe.
So it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut might say. Solitude has its
pros and cons. On one hand, I can listen to music all around the clock,
including some of those more 'difficult' items by the likes of Sun Ra's
Arkestra, which might otherwise induce a look or a comment (even if very rare,
it has to be said, as my co-habitants are remarkably tolerant creatures, understanding
that I'm easier to live with if not deprived of my balm for the soul).
On the other hand, I have too much time and opportunity to
stare into the heart of darkness at the core of human existence. Joseph Conrad
understood that we need 'rivets' – the kind of mindless tasks that offer an
alternative to immersing oneself in this all-consuming darkness. Too much
reading and contemplation makes Mark a worried boy. Increasingly, I am smelling
something rotten in the state of Denmark. Looking out at the collective madness
that has gripped this world, I see a perfect storm of conditions that gave rise
to Nazi Germany: collective fear fuelled by media frenzy; removal of dissenting
voices; measures and legislation designed to curtail hard-won civil liberties;
rising inflation; the threat of financial collapse.
I received an interesting e-mail linked to the alternative
health review that we subscribe to. It outlined the eight criteria to identify
psychological torture at the time of the Korean War. At the risk of censure, I'll
use the masculine pronoun etc. for the sake of brevity. Isolation: to deprive
the victim of social support to render him dependent on authority; censure or
eliminate any information contrary to that provided by authority, and force
introspection; reduce any capacity for mental or physical resistance; cultivate
anxiety, stress and hopelessness by flooding the victim with worrying
information, and threaten even more isolation if he contemplates resistance;
offer the occasional reward or incentive in return for conformity and
submission; 'prove' the futility of resistance in the face of a more powerful
authority; debase the victim to a level of animal survival by withholding all
non-essential pleasures; reinforce submission as a habit with useless and
illogical directives. Ring any bells?
I've said enough. Any more and some Google-sponsored
algorithm will scan these words, spot a dissenter and take down this blog and
re-write my Wikipedia page (if I only had one). Anyway, I'd better get back to
hammering rivets into the rusting hull. Time to make another vat of butternut
squash soup. I'll sit at the supper table with a nice steaming bowlful, while
humming along to Duke Ellington's 'In My Solitude'. Suits me, for the moment.
Just so long as the moment's not too long.
