Tuesday 18th September 2018 - Fatigue

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Four days since my last entry. Lax and undisciplined am I.

Feeling crushed by tiredness, I've become a bit of a zombie and have achieved zero recently, with crafting on hold and inspiration in short supply.

The socio-economic implications inherent in developing a new political system are vexing me. Unable to concentrate, I try to plant the broad notion into my sub-conscious before sleep, hoping it will do all the work the conscious me cannot. No joy so far. If a basic framework, at least, would evolve I'm certain that the fleshing out would come relatively easily. I'd like to take the ideas and either produce a work of fiction or my own grand manifesto.

Through the living room window, from where I sit,  my view is limited to the copper beech in the garden opposite, It shakes violently in short bursts, limbs akimbo in the blustery wind. There's still warmth in the sun, so much in fact that when combined with high humidity yesterday it became uncomfortable in the afternoon. Still, the last hurrah of Summer is to be savoured. We'll miss it when it's gone.

Friday 14th September 2018 - Autumn is Coming

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

The gradual descent into Winter seems tangible.

Today, even sitting in the garden, in full sun, requires a second layer of top clothing to ensure comfort, particularly when the breeze is blowing in from the North or East.

Small birds, tits and robins mostly, are frequenting the feeders again, to the annoyance of the pigeons who have held a virtual monopoly on the easy pickings since the start of Summer. The number of visitors has swollen noticeably, no doubt helped by a good crop of returning fledglings from the Spring matings.

The days are shortening quickly now as the Autumn Equinox approaches so post-dinner sojourns outdoors have ended.

Leaves and fruits drop from trees who've seen it all before, as they draw in their energy and rest beneath bark blankets.

Some welcome and embrace the new season; the jam makers, the game hunters, the football and rugby enthusiasts and the Christmas fanatics. I curse the faint light, the biting cold, the interminable wind and the spiteful precipitation. At least the beach will empty of holidaymakers now, traffic will move freely and there are those hot, slow-cooked dinners to look forward to.

Hoodie's on and I've moved to the garden to write. Dark clouds are rolling across what was a clear sky earlier and it's decidedly chilly. Stormy weather is forecast for the weekend and I fear we've lost the sun for a few days now.

I quite look forward to Fridays, the last day of the working week for most, even though I'm not 'employed' currently and may never be again. They do, I suppose, provide respite from the creditor 'phone calls and there are none on Sunday so my heart can tick with a more natural rhythm and the throat knots and stomach churns will abate somewhat.

As I consider the past week, I feel that matrimonial relations have improved slightly and I've returned to writing after a hiatus. Blog posts have been added retrospectively and links to these no-holds-barred musings have been posted on Twitter, where I'm active again in the #sixwordstory camp. There are more entries to copy to the blog and I'm chastising myself for committing yet more words to paper here but it just feels more natural and personal to use pen and paper.

In other productivity news, Wednesday's woodwork was missed through migraine but a brief willow weaving session garnered another bullrush for the garden.

Just added another couple of days' diary to the blog and was pleased to note that I only had one week left to transcribe. Unfortunately, it appears to be the most fertile week to date. Ah well ! Onwards and upwards.

Been pondering my synopsis that citizenship ought to be an option rather than an obligation. I've done some brainstorming and mind-mapping and it's fraught lwith issues and contradictions. I'm not sure if this is due to the limitations of intellect, a lifetime of indoctrination into the norms of the system or it's just an unworkable idea. I will return to this and write a blog post in due course (I think!). I should maybe research Engels and Marx and see how long it took them to write Das Kapital for reassurance, maybe.

I guess a forum to discuss 'ideas' of any nature would be useful. Maybe one exists already. If it doesn't I already have a name for a collaborative thought site: "THINGK TANGK".

Tuesday 11th September 2018 - Musings on Genius

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

There are those that walk or have walked amongst us to make mere mortals feel wholly inadequate.

I am certain that I could acquaint myself with many more if I could stand the mental torment but amongst those whose paths I've come across and who spring readily to mind include authors and broadcasters Stephen Fry and Clive James and scientists Richard Feynman and Stephen Hawking. S.F. and C.J. have had careers that span my mature life and I count myself fortunate to have followed the meat of both careers. S.H. obviously achieved popular fame with A Brief History of Time, an accessable but still difficult quantum physics introduction.

R.F. on the other hand was the subject of a Horizon (I think) programme a couple of years before his early demise which I happened upon by accident as a TV repeat or on YouTube. I recall him explaining some complex theory or other in such plain english that it was impossible not to be able to follow the thought processes. However, by the time he'd reached the end of his monologue I couldn't for the life of me remember where he'd started or how we'd reached his conclusion. Maybe, it's because the minds of great thinkers are wired differently.

What, then, is genius and how do those so endowed deal with it? I mean, how do they suffer 6 billion fools, where does the mental stimulation keep coming from and how are they able to release the energy of ideas?

Suffering fools is the most difficult for me to comprehend. Maybe it's as simple as never having known any different and they have developed systems of behaviour and the thought processes to enable them to dumb-down for interaction with us mortals. Afflicted with a high I.Q. myself (but not the 170+ of these gods) I find myself socially awkward, easily bored and endlessly frustrated by the stupid who seem to have been put in charge of everything.

The mental stimulation and release aspects are easier to fathom. They simply disseminate their original work through art, writing, lecturing and association with contemporaries.

How do we define genius? Da Vinci is universally held to fall into this category and it would be impossible to argue otherwise given the quantity and quality of work produced, much of which was years and even centuries ahead of it's time. But what of Van Gogh, an oft-called flawed genius? I beg to differ here. There is no evidence of the precociousness in youth generally associated with the label and frequently assigned to chess and musical maestros; Mozart springs immediately to mind and I've no doubt it applied equally to Kasparov, Fischer et al. Van Gogh on the other hand was a tortured soul , tortured by the folly of religious indoctrination whose focus became art and crutches were wine and women. It is easy to argue that he produced original and great art but this came from the intense focus of a damaged mind on a specific task - to paint what he felt.

But who am I to judge. I know I'm more Van Gogh than Feynman but without the focus or talent.

Monday 10th September 2018 - Alien State of Mind or Stephen Fry Saved My Life

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

I've woken today in the strangest, most alien state that I've known for years, and I do not exaggerate. I'm not prone to hyperbole, it's another of my pet hates as when TV talking heads refer to 'everyone' talking about or watching something or another when it's bleeding obvious they're not.

I am awake, alert, 'alive' and feeling 'normal'. I've just been in the garden, sitting beneath the crabapple tree, smoking and feeling calm and relaxed. I know this can't last and may only afflict me in the nicest sense of the word for an hour or two but it gives me such an immense sense of relief that I feel I must sit here and retrace my recent steps, in a probably vain attempt to uncover the reason for it. What has happened and what might I have done differently to bring about this strange state of affairs. I have my suspicions but mujst examine and consider each possibility in turn to draw any firm conclusions.

1. Medication - Lifting myself from the sofa I can tell by a glance at the weekly pill folder that Sunday night's doses were duly imbibed. I did skip Friday's allocation when I couldn't gather the enthusiasm to raise a tired body and mind from the reclined to reach for them but we'll probably discount this as a causal link.

2. Social Interaction - Della and Stephen visited us yesterday, as usual and nothing out of the ordinary in terms of discussion or revelation transpired. So, we'll park this one, too.

3. Diet - As normal coffee and cigarettes only this morning and it's now 10:00am. Yesterday, I prepared the traditional Sunday bacon butty brunch and ate nothing further until dinner later in the day; breaded pollock, chips and peas. Normal. A bar of chocolate in the evening, a fake snickers from Aldi or Lidl. Normal. Around 21:30 I had an abnormal bowl of corn flakes laced with raisins, demerara sugar and semi-skimmed. Unlikely but worth trying again is it not?

4. Exercise & Fresh Air - no significant amount of either. Discounted.

5. Personal Achievement - nothing to write home about. A disgruntled customer found fault with a locomotive sold on Ebay. A bit of ping-pong correspondence and a partial refund led to a satisfactory conclusion for both parties and preserved my cherished 100% positive feedback rating.

6. Mental Stimulation - now, here I have made a noteworthy change. Over the past 3 days I have been devouring Stephen Fry, not literary (sic literally) but metaphorically speaking. Over 300 pages of The Liar avidly consumed at every opportunity, even reading by LED light jafter dark when the others have retired to bed for the night. Is it too fanciful to start believing that exercising the old grey matter and a bit of escapism can effect such a change in energy and disposition? Healthy mind, healthy body to reverse an overused phrase. Since it is mental health that is the bane of my life and my consumption of literature has been minimal for so many years, the argument for this has some logic and is indeed persuasive. Or, it could just be wishful thinking. Either way, I still think it's the best 50 pence ever spent in a charity shop. Guess it's time to get back to the Trefusis and Adrian road trip.

10:45

Rude awakening time. The palpitations have been reignited. The clank of the letterbox and the fluttering thud of mail on the doormat is the portent of more doom and gloom. Dianne retrieves the deliveryand dishes out a whole pile of love-letter circulars from the bank. I'm encouraged to open them but have neither the mental fortitude  nor financial means to deal with them. I promise to open them later as I don't wish to lose the good mood. I'm lying, of course. The fragile mood has already taken a knock and I have no intention of darkening it further.

[Writing this retrospectively allows me to confirm that corn flakes are not a wonder cure for depression]

Friday 7th September 2018 - Private School

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

As usual, I feel that I've been lax with my writing but I notice it's only been 4 days since my last update, which isn't so bad for me.

It seems to have been a busy week one way or another, despite not much evidence of progress being made. Events of Monday and Tuesday are currently consigned to the mind's recycle bin and can't be readily restored. The passing of time isn't likely to aid their recovery.

Wednesday, however, is memorable though not miraculous. I attended the Men's Shed and made good progress scraping the garden varnish and detritus from the solid pine coffee table I've been rejuvenating. Managed to get a bloody war wound when the glass scraper I was using slipped in my grasp and we took delivery of our shiny new lathe, just prior to my early exit at 13:00 to collect Dianne for our regular D.I.A.L. meeting. I helped with constructing the stand before leaving but missed the christening of the machine later in the afternoon. I look forward to having a play next week.

Just remembered that Monday was a meeting with my 'work coach', a pointless and humiliating chore inflicted by a callous government [Ouch! Did I really write this?]

Thursday was more interesting. I signed up for and attended the first of 8 weekly sessions at Community Roots (Wild Haven) entitled 'Producing [something or other]'. It's all about manufacturing crafts to sell under the chaharity's banner. Yesterday, we spent our time learning to weave dragonflies and corn stalks whikch were more akin to bullrushes in my humble opinion. I guess it was enjoyable to the extent that I met and interacted with people in a relaxed, non-judgemental and friendly environment. I will persevere with this and look forward to the woodworking elements in future weeks.

Totally exhausted when I got home, I still managed to write emails to the utility companies, half promising payment of the outstanding accounts in the next couple of weeks. This being subject, of course, to Dianne's P.I.P. claim being reinstated and a lump sum back payment arriving.

Today, I feel as though I should be in the workshop producing but innstead I've picked up Stephen Fry's debut novel The Liar and read the first chapter. Sourced this from a charity shop for fifty pence a few weeks ago and opening it for the first time this morning lfound what appears to be the remains of the previous owner's breakfast inside the front cover. At least that's what I hope it is!

Unsurprisingly, the setting (or at least the background) for the book is a public school, though a prologue to chapter one describes a murder in Mozart's house in Salzburg, a place I visited on my own one day during a family ski trip in 1990. The first chapter gives no inkling as to the connection and simply introduces a few characters.

Reading it made me realise that I would have thrived in this environment; maybe not academically as there would have been others far more well read than I but as a personalijty. I would have undoubtedly fallen in with the rebellious, subversive crowd more easily than with the swots but the ideas, attitudes and experiences gained could only have shaped me for the better. Notwithstanding, of course, the need to attain a decent level of academic success to satisfy the scholarship requirements. If only I'd have applied myself to the interviewas concertedly as I had the entrance exams and not been so pig-headed about honesty at an early age Imight have achieved so much more.

Still no sales on Etsy but another loco and a couple of poistcards have gone from Ebay.

I've just re-read Monday's entry and note that I'm repeating myself here to some extent. Sigh!!

Monday 3rd September - Melancholy

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Feeling desperately melancholic today, so I'm puting pen to paper in thee hope of exorcising the demons. It sometimes helps.

It's one of those days when I want to be left alone, in peace with my thoughts and able to well up or even cry if I feel like it.

The craft fayre plan has hit the rails. I suppose it was ineveitable that the cash flow trickle would dry up at some point. The cinch point came last week. First, an unexpected (foreseeable I suppose) direct debit from the Paypal account for the annual FlickR subscription left the balance barely sufficient to cover the Ebay fees for the month and then the realisation that the upfront costs of attending organised fayres were greater than expected. Most ask that proof of Public Liabilijty Insurance be carried. The cheapest quote I could find was for 60 quid.

On top of that I need another £100 or so to pay for 'essential' items in my Ebay basket; padded envelopes, bracelet blanks, rust paint etc.

On the positive side, the sale of one of the remaining locomotives this morning helps a little. I can meet the Ebay fees for the month. I guess if turnover in the next week or two picks up, some forward momentum might ensue.

Had a mandatory Job Centre appointment this morning for Universal Credit even though I'm not required to seek employment whilst I continue to provide fit notes.

Anglian Water are chasing outstanding bills via recorded nuisance calls and E.On have similarly sent text messsages.

We still await the restarted P.I.P. payments following Dianne's successful appeal against their being stopped late last year. Once they are confirmed a backdated lump sum should allow us to clear the utility bills and I'll be able to instigate a claim for carer's allowance. At that point finances should be somewhat stabilised and maybe we can move forward. However, I'm at breaking point in the meantime; sad, helplessand dwelling on the futility of mere existence without purpose or hope of a bright future.

Thursday 30th August 2018 - An Epiphany?

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

I suddenly realised something about myself recently that I find quite profound. Why had it not occured to me before?

Planning and goal setting, which Id always felt were weaknesses, in fact aren't. At least in so far as setting short-term objectives are concerned. The issue which afflicts me is what happens once a goal is achieved.

For example, I wanted to be a computer programmer. Despite being told that there was no route in, from the role I was undertaking at the time, I managed to work my way through tht system and was duly appointed. I wanted to own and operate my own business. Roll up carpet cleaning and antique dealing and forex trading.

All these achievements filled me with satisfaction. However, I quickly became disaffected when the reality of the mundane, repetitive nature of things set in. I'm a junkie in need of the next fix.

You see, I have to constantly be trying something new and different. It's not a case of the grass being greener on the other side, it's an aching need for constant stimulation. I have a boredom theshold that is infinitessimally small and I have to believe that this a personality disorder that is the bane of my life.

I've often remarked in the past how much I envied those that are average. Average I.Q., average ambition, average earnings, average outlook and world view. Then, life would be so much simpler. Work 9-5, pay the bills, live in an average house, drive an average car, take family holidays on the Costa del Sol, work 40 years, draw an average pension and die peacefully at 78, without ever being overly concerned about the state of the world, the meaning of life or any of my other hopeless preoccupations.

My I.Q. is a curse.