Eat Me

An appreciation for someone, who has a generous heart and is clearly generous with her time as well. It is a sort of Ode to the Chocolate Brownie.

Known as @Mozartsgirl on Twitter, Rachel has two blogs; and yes you won't get any prizes for guessing that she's a Baker (noting the capital 'B'). These blogs are:

"Mozartsgirl's Blogspot"

and

"Brownies for Mozart"

Oh, and one final thing, you might not have noticed, she is a fan of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Wolfie to his friends, which does of course include Rachel.

In the course of a couple of months she sent to me, at her own expence, two large boxes of her brownies - the first were walnut based, the second revelled in the glorious title of "Peanut Butter Swirls". I hesitated at the thought of peanut butter based chocolate bronwies at first, but my hesitation was only momentary. As soon as the box was unsealed, the aroma hit me and I was in dreamland! You might not be surprised, therefore at a few references to "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland".

I hope you enjoy the poem: "Eat Me"

~~~~~

Child-God: Model for our Future... or Victim of our Failure?

A couple of weeks ago, my eldest daughter delivered us a grandson. This added to our tally of grandchildren; we now have a grand total of two: a granddaughter and a grandson.

It turns out that I found myself greeting the arrival of each of my grandchildren into the world with equal awe; with equal emotion and equally special feelings. The birth of our first, a granddaughter, two and a half years ago, moved me to write my first poem after thirty years in a sort of 'creative desert'. For the arrival of my grandson the week before last, however, it may seem a little unkind, perhaps even unfair to confess that, at first, I felt my response was a little muted, perhaps somewhat underwhelming, because we had already been there two and a half years ago. So was this to be expected?

I don't think I had any expectations. My daughter and son-in-law, to their credit, apart from the fact that my daughter, in particular, had been extraordinarily tired after a few days of significant sleep deprivation, didn't bring any emotional baggage to the occasion of our arrival on his seventh day in the world; we were simply greeted in their usual way and... well, there he was in his Moses basket. I think I had just left my mind open to influence, without being afraid of expectations, with no particular air of excitement, no requirement to get excessively jubilant about the event. I just wanted to see what it felt like.

I wasn't to be disappointed.

When I say there was no expectation, it has to be said that I had a pretty good idea that a poem would be expected, and so I duly delivered one. 'A Lion is Born' was posted in 'My Poetry Library' the day before our arrival. So all seemed well, in a sort of very British, understated way; that is until a day later, when, for various reasons, I came to hold him for a few hours. This moment produced an unexpected depth of feeling; it moved me, profoundly; but not any more so than I can remember feeling when I held each of my own three children, in their first hours of life; and no greater feeling than my granddaughter had precipitated two and a half years before. But this was different somehow, almost, no, not almost... it felt like a spiritual experience!

Now, before I go any further, I need to say a word or two about religion and my own leanings.

If I were asked to describe my religion, I suppose I would have to be honest and say that I am nearly an atheist... but not quite! I was brought up as an adherent to the Church of England, not fire and brimstone stuff, just straight forward middle of the road, dutiful church attendance every Sunday and, as a choir boy, donning the surplice, cassock and ruff playing, or singing my regular part in the rituals of church and later school choirs. The other side of me evolved in my early twenties, when I'd left home. As a student metallurgical engineer, the more analytical, scientific if you like, but definitely philosophical facet of my thinking emerged, which enabled me to take a view of religion and religious belief systems as a very broad church, so broad in fact that I began to envisage the religious world as if from a helicopter, hovering at a considerable height above the earth (the psychologists among you will probably be able to attach a certain psychiatric condition to this perspective - please let me know if you do!).

This view brought me to where I am today; a position, which combines a touch of angst that derives perhaps from a guilt born of my early indoctrination - and I mean indoctrination in the most benign sense of that word, not the sense that produces zealots and suicide bombers - with a feeling of calm acceptance of a human condition that will always have a need for some kind of belief system, for a faith, particularly when things are not going well for us; and particularly for those people born into extreme poverty that those of us, who live in the relative luxury of the western world, can only try to imagine. Such feelings as these have, since the dawning of our time, been responsible for the great legends and mysteries, particularly those associated with the stories of Jesus Christ and Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Unitarian Universalism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism, Manichaeism, Mazdakism, Mithraism, Yazdanism, Zoroastrianism, Confucianism, Shinto, Taoism, African diasporic religions as well as a host of so-called new age religions, amongst many differing systems that have evolved over the ages of man.

So, it is the story of Jesus' entry into this world, as a babe in arms, that is for me more a point of reference that helps me draw a comparison to help my understanding of this experience; it is a narrative that helps me explain my feelings, rather than one which says that I've let Jesus or God into my life in some dramatic life-changing way and, whilst this is always possible, it is not the case at this point in time. The baby Jesus was probably a very sweet, heart meltingly beautiful looking baby, perfect in every conceivable way.

This brings me to the crux of my story: Perfection.

It's simply the story of a deep insight, which I am certain will have been experienced by countless individuals, throughout our history, who have ever held a new born baby in their arms. Perhaps this is elevated by the famous Christmas narrative about Jesus' birth just over two thousand years ago. It is an insight nonetheless that I didn't expect; clearly an illumination of the capacity that is built into the human condition, that provides the strength to bind us together, to protect us against antagonistic forces and, above all else, to give us hope that the perfection we perceive in a new born child is somehow attainable, or retainable in later adult life; at the very least, it can act is a goal that we should seek, a light that should guide us through life, always aspiring to emulate this perception: the possibility of perfection in the human spirit.

It is probably the crux of the story of Jesus, that it records the fact that he died to absolve the rest of humanity of their sin and corruption. I would like to offer my interpretation of this process. He was born perfect, but in later life, increasingly committed to his mission, he became corrupted, but I don't mean that he turned bad! This was symbolic of the great strength that he appeared to have, by which he was able to absorb the corrupting influences of imperfect men, as it were, in exchange for giving them a better outlook, a more divine, less selfish, more giving character and able to go on and teach the Christian doctrine to others.

No great revelation there then, but one that always bears repetition; reinforcement. It is another philosophical observation that I have made in my life that the more you give of yourself, not only in the process of helping others physically, but also mentally and emotionally - particularly emotionally - the more it takes out of you and the more you have need to rest and refresh your spirit; to refill the fuel tank. I imagine Jesus, as a man, was probably.. if you'll pardon the use of modern vernacular here.. 'wasted' after giving so much of himself, because doing what he was reported to have done for so long would have caused weaker men to break down, emotionally. It is no wonder that he wandered off into the desert on his own to recover and renew his spirit. Any one of us, who lead busy and stressful lives can surely identify with our own human fragility.

So I had changed my grandson completely and, with his new set of clothes, he lay in my arms for the best part of the evening, whilst my close family sat and talked and watched television together. He went quiet even as I changed him and, although he had another brief bout of crying, he then remained quiet for the rest of the time that I held him, relaxing in my arms in a way that signalled complete trust and contentment. That complete trust and contentment was both awesome and infectious; in some strange way, it renewed my faith in myself and humanity.

I need to tell you that I am not in any way exaggerating the depth of feelings that came to me through this experience; there is no poetic embellishment here; it is told just as it was. I hope you will understand this feeling or will at least be able to relish it one day. 

Defining Debt... Wilkins Micawber

(Warning! reading this blog post could seriously damage your mood, so readers be aware that you do so at your own risk!)

It has to be said that I have, for many years, been preoccupied with the balance sheet; my own balance sheet, in particular, but everyone else's including the world's in general. This is not to say I am a boring accountant, because I am not; far from it. I would never have been cut out to be an accountant; it bores me quite frankly. Finances for me, like DIY, are something I deal with out of necessity. I am perhaps more of a Wilkins Micawber, that fictional Dickensian character in "David Copperfield", who was known for his chief characteristic of being "someone who lives in hopeful expectation", and who, out of his own debt, promulgated what has become known as Micawber's Law: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen pounds nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds nought and six, result misery".

A few years ago, I came up with a quote for my children, in the vain hope that it might infuse them with the beginnings of some sort of financial common sense, that fairly quickly developed a 'tumbleweed' reputation; a response that was... well, "la-la-la-la-la, boring, Dad!" It simply said: "you don't get rich by spending money".

This is seemingly in contravention of the consumer economic model for growth and prosperity, which, in recent times, propelled us from the Thatcher years of economic recovery (the 1980's) to where we got to in 2007-08. Constant growth in GDP and consumer spending was the goal, the punitive consequence of which we are having to live with right now. We consumed our way out of a potential financial melt-down at the end of the 1970's, but back into another one... now! Without getting myself into the murky waters of economic theories, which I am completely unqualified to do, the one thing that sits on my mind constantly is the business of credit, or, I should say more correctly... debt!

It would appear - and we are increasingly becoming aware of that fact - that the 'boom' of the past thirty years has been built on it; credit, borrowing, loans, mortgages, credit cards, store cards, all the stuff of debt; and this seems to be true, wherever in the scheme of things you are placed, whether as an individual household or as a nation. It starts with personal debt, that you and I accrue, because we buy a house, a car, a television or two, a holiday, another car, a three piece suite and so it goes on. All built on the assumption that we can accrue debt with apparent impunity. In my lifetime I have seen the advancing nature of the individual's ability to get their hands on 'easy' money. At the beginning of my conscious adult life, there was a attitude that said, if you want something save for it, then buy.

When I first bought a house, of course we had to borrow the money, but we could borrow no more than two or, at most, two and half times our combined incomes, which was deemed to be a sensible level of debt and in proportion to what we could afford to sustain. We certainly could not borrow on a mortgage to by a car, a three piece suite; anything other than bricks and mortar. This was because, at the time, a mortgage would offer modest tax breaks, particularly if you borrowed with an associated endowment insurance policy (thereby hangs another tale of woe!). But this all changed at some point in the late 1980's, whence we suddenly found lenders not placing restrictions on what we could use this money for; that is money that we borrowed on what at one time used to be called the 'never-never'; twenty five years to pay it back, made it seem cheap and of no consequence. So the accrual of debt began, with a vengeance.

But who is to blame for this mess? Who indeed. The key to answering this question lies in your own stance with regard to personal responsibility. Before I offer my own opinions on this question, I am reminded of a couple more quotes:

"Don't go around saying the world owes you a living, the world owes you nothing, it was here first" 
~ attributed to Mark Twain

"Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country" 
~ J F Kennedy

So who is responsible? In short: we all are. Why? Because we spent more than we could pay back, we defaulted on loans too often. We succumbed to greed. Whatever, it is our fault!

But yes it is more complex than that. It has many complicated causes, a number of which, it could be argued are outside our control; or are they?

Now, I am no bastion of virtue when it comes to managing money, because I have run up my fair share of avoidable debt at some points in my life; there are mitigating circumstances, not least when under pressure to feed young mouths, to feed the landlord or the money lender and the meter. But, whatever the apparent pressures... and I will qualify this by saying that there are always needy exceptions to the rule e.g. those whose misfortunes are truly not of their own making, those who are disabled in some way or have been dealt  a seriously bad blow by the hand of fate... other then these, we will almost always have a choice. 

We can choose whether or not we want to keep up the the Jones' next door, whether or not we can afford to do so; we can always choose whether we move up to a bigger house, a better car, the latest technology; we can choose. If you are not one of those who are truly unfortunate - and you do know your lot, so don't pretend - there is no point in complaining how hard life is, if you are still able to keep dry and warm, feed yourself and breath! We don't need all of these luxuries, to which we have become accustomed; some of them are nice and we need to cheer ourselves up every now and then, but we don't need that exotic holiday abroad every year; we don't need that gas guzzling four-wheel drive that comes into its own for only one week every year; we don't need to drink the amount of alcohol we consume every week, or even the cigarettes we smoke every day. I could go on, but, what this amounts to is that a majority of us in the First World have the capacity to choose, the freedom to determine what we spend our money on and, beyond the necessities, whether we spend it at all; in other words we can choose to cut our coats according to the cloth we have.

What about the Banks, I hear you ask! What about all of those huge international conglomerates, whose interests are best served by growth and enabling mass consumerism and whose every action is made to ensure they grow bigger and more powerful; what can be said of their part in all of this? I say yes, they are responsible for enabling and encouraging excessive debt over the past few decades, by means both subtle and direct that have encouraged personal debt and dependence. This became very evident over the past ten or fifteen years as personal debt reached an all time high and personal bankruptcy with it. Governments, not least our own in the UK, but also right across the rest of the developed world, could have done something, albeit electorally unpopular, but they could have imposed some regulation, put some anchors on an over-heating economy before it melted. If a simpleton like myself could see that the bubble had to burst sometime, then I'm damned certain that there are at least a few people in powerful places who could not only have seen this coming but also begun to do something about it, slow it down, regulate it; that's what we elect them for isn't it?

For the past several years, at least since my children started to become more independent, this household for one has, as much as possible, been offloading debt, certainly not taking any more debt on, trying to live within our means - and with only one income that is still challenge enough, but we are trying nonetheless. 

As a post script to my earlier (boring) epithet, "You don't get rich by spending money", in case you should wish to understand me better, it should be followed by the statement: "better to save it first for something your want... or invest it".

I think it's time for a seed change in the way we think; in the way we educate young minds to manage their financial lives. Otherwise what will happen...? We are screwing with their futures. 
What do you think?

Storm, Damages and... Leaves

It was in the midst of a short conversation, with a particular Twitter friend and very capable poet (Twitter ID @Fumanchucat), who lives in New York. Hurricane Irene was blowing its way up the East coast and heading for the big city creating an undercurrent of fear and trepidation in the minds of everyone there. This was such that evacuation plans were being made in preparation for the expected structural damage and the flooding that would follow the high winds.

Rather randomly, if you'll pardon the momentary distraction from the theme of this post, it's title gives a passing nod to the title of a book in our possession, which represents a significant contribution to the art of punctuation. "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" is informative, amusing and recommended for anyone who has an aspiration for writing properly punctuated English language.

Anyway, this Twitter conversation! It went as follows: -

Fumanchucat: "Hurricane update: Boring! Y A W N..."

Poetjanstie: "What! No armageddon, no deafening fury of satanic proportions, no blood-curdling screams for mercy, no flying cars...!?"

Fumanchucat: "Irene is one boring chick, lemme tell ya'.."

Poetjanstie: "Isn't there even a slight breeze?"

Fumanchucat: "Some leaves are putting on a show but no shake, rattle and roll"

I imagine, if she'll forgive me for saying this, that she is one dour, but very erudite New Yorker, whose feathers don't get ruffled easily! She makes me smile and sometimes laugh and writes some pretty damn good poetry to boot, which you can find here.

That phrase "Some leaves are putting on a show..." immediately stuck and I suggested that it looked like the makings of a poem, thinking that she might take it up, but all she said in reply to that was "Go, John, go!". Now either she was telling me to push off, or that I should write the poem. I prefer to think it was the latter, so I did that!

In spite of the tongue-in-cheek light-hearted nature of this poem, my thoughts still remain now and for the coming days and weeks with the families of anyone who was lost in the wake of this powerful storm and for the immense damage it wreaked on its journey.

So, this poem is not only for Lady Fumanchu, who is responsible for inspiring it, but also for our other particular friend, writer and poet, Joe Hesch (Twitter ID @JAHesch), who kept up a running commentary of the storm's slightly more damaging passage through his neck of the woods, a little way further out of New York, in Albany.

Above all, we and I'm sure they are grateful the storm didn't do as much damage as was originally predicted, which brings me neatly to the point of the poem.



Leaves

Some leaves are putting on a pretty show

They said we have to expect a maelstrom soon
an armageddon to blow away the moon
And telling us to pack our bags and go.

We waited long and into wee small hours,
our lives to change, last minutes in our wills.
The fear and dread is palpable, and fills
imaginations with dreams of satanic powers.

Meanwhile the leaves, with neighbours unaware,
are whipping up excitement on the lawn
as foliage twists into a dancing fawn;
a largely missed delight, 'cause no-one's there.

But, somehow, when all is said and done
as lawyers sharpened pencils to prepare
for claims and litigation... nightmare!
the weather's playing games and having fun!

Instead of blowing gales, disaster trails,
it whispered to the trees and leaves "don't worry…
we'll have some fun with just a little flurry”.
So leaves put on a show; there were no rales.

© 2011 John Anstie

Twenty Nine... Too Young to Die

(Remembering Sergeant Ian McKay VC)

My son turned twenty nine this year. So too did his best friend and namesake, who is currently serving with the RAF on a four month tour of the Falklands.

I was writing an e-Bluey to my son's friend (that is the modern digital means of communicating with service men and women, around the world, by that organisation known as the BFPO - British Forces Post Office). In this I had written some news and inserted the first of my two articles on the London riots, "London's Burning...". Whilst I was writing this e-Bluey, I remembered an event that led to a young Army Sergeant sacrificing his life to save others in the battle for Mount Longdon on 11th/12th June 1982. His heroic deed that night lead to his being posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross; the highest military award for gallantry. This very moving story is told here.

The fact that I worked for a few years with his younger brother, and therefore came to hear about Ian's fate through him, makes this story resonate more powerfully; as does the fact that my son and his best friend this year turned twenty-nine years of age, the same age that Ian McKay was when he died. That the Falklands war, short as it was, began and ended twenty-nine years ago is coincidental, albeit a little spooky. So at the time of Ian McKay's death, the Falklands war was at its height and shortly after came to a conclusion. For the two and a half months of its duration from April to June of that year, it almost completely took over the news.

This combination of facts, feelings and memories are responsible for the poem, which, I think was accompanied by more than my usual degree of feeling on the subject. I still find it hard to read without choking a little, even when I was still focussed on constructing it.

For poets, who may be interested, the poetic structure and rhyming scheme were chosen deliberately, being strongly influenced by Alfred Lord Tennyson's epic elegy "In Memoriam A.H.H.", which was written in four line stanzas, with a rhyming scheme ABBA, throughout its length. Incidentally, "In Memoriam" comprised of one hundred and thirty-three separate sections, each of which contained anything from three to thirty stanzas; well over two thousand lines; phenomenal! Whilst we are in the mood for coinciding numbers, it has to be said, the seventeen stanzas in my poem took less than seventeen hours to write, but, whilst it is neat, it is not associated with the seventeen years it took Alfred Lord Tennyson to complete "In Memoriam", which was published in 1850.

The title of my poem chose itself before I started writing it. It was originally "At Twenty Nine", reflecting the age Ian McKay was at the time of his death. I shortened it because it had a better feel that way.

I hope you enjoy reading the poem, "Twenty Nine".