Masterpiece

One lazy afternoon in March as Shirley and I were cruising back up The Nile to Luxor, Emma, our bubbly holiday rep, came round the lazing passengers to ask if any of us would like to attend an art class in the top deck bar area. There were few takers but being a creative kind of chap, I thought I would give it a go.

To tell you the truth, there was no art instruction as such, we were just given small canvases, brushes, water and various paint tubes. Then we had free rein while Emma went off elsewhere - perhaps to her cabin for a snooze.

What to paint? I had been watching the banks of The Nile sliding by. So many potential pictures - and most of them timeless as if the pharaohs were still in charge. I wanted to portray a rather unremarkable, peaceful riverside scene. Palm trees and someone by the shore - perhaps a fisherman with desert hills rising behind and the canvas you can see at the top is what I came up with.

The image has been on my bookcase next to this computer desk since we returned from Egypt.

I look back on that cruise week with a happy smile. It was a great experience. We both thought the holiday was better than anticipated.

On our second morning in Luxor, before embarking for Aswan, we walked to Luxor Temple and arrived before most other visitors. In olden times there was an avenue that linked Luxor with the Karnak temple complex - a mile away. It was flanked by hundreds of stone sphinxes. 

Fortunately, the antiquities arm of the Egyptian government have done a great job in the last hundred years of restoring that avenue - even to the extent of demolishing houses that had been built over the ceremonial thoroughfare.

What a privilege it was to be the only two people walking along The Avenue of the Sphinxes that memorable morning. It was a "pinch me" moment and the amazing Luxor Temple itself was not far behind it in the wonderment stakes...

Lear

Half-brothers Edgar and Edmund fight to the death on The Crucible stage

As I sat in seat number K47 at "The Crucible" in Sheffield  watching one of Shakespeare's greatest plays, I couldn't help comparing the character King Lear with the current US President. Both are old men in decline, losing the plot.

Lear likes flattery and that is why he asks his three daughters to publicly declare how much they love him before dividing up his kingdom. In a similar manner, the current US President seems to enjoy fawning declarations of loyalty and admiration from his cabinet appointees , underlings and visitors.

When Cordelia refuses to play the flattery game, Lear rages and banishes her. He does  the same to a loyal nobleman - The Earl of Kent when he attempts to offer sound advice. Of course the current US President has a long history of firing high profile members of his administration when they appear to challenge him or veer from the path of absolute devotion.

Both men are narcissistic and too puffed up with self-belief to listen to voices of reason. Their misplaced pride leads them to believe that only they know best. It's effectively them against the world and so they scorn wise counsel.

Lear contends that he has been unfairly treated, claiming that he is "more sinned against than sinning". This is echoed in the behaviour and claims of the current US President. No politician in history has been treated as unfairly as he has and the "fake news" outlets that pose tricky questions are of course out to get him. He is being victimised - at least in his demented imagination.

I first read "King Lear" at the age of sixteen. I studied and wrote about it at university. I taught it to A level students and I have previously seen it in performance on both stage and screen so it is a play I know very well - better than any other Shakespeare play in fact.

The production at The Crucible had many fine qualities and showcased several talented actors but, unlike some reviewers, I was not entirely convinced by Ian McDiarmid's portrayal of  Lear himself.  It seemed somehow restrained and flimsy. He never really dominated the auditorium, raging upon the heath as I believe Shakespeare intended the character to do.

However, physical contortionist Max Revell was brilliant as The Fool and I was also impressed with the actors who played Gloucester, Kent and Regan. In addition, I admired the minimalist set and the effective use of lighting. During the interval, tubs of soil were scattered all over the stage and quite literally, they added to the play's bleak, earthy atmosphere where lightning flashes over the benighted heath.

Finally, back to the current, increasingly demented, US President:-

"'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind." 

Gloucester (Act 4, Scene 1)

Poem

Song for The Departed

I thought I heard you last night
As this wind-pommeled house
Creaked.
Yes, before I was submerged in sleep
I thought I heard you.
 
How faint your voices were
As if from far away -
Remembered
Only dimly like your faces.
Oh, how hazy they appear.
 
Life pulses like vast oceans
Though our days are
Almost few
I flounder in this darkness
But my hands still reach for you.

_________________________________________________________________________

"I flounder in this darkness"

AI Overview

"It sounds like you are carrying a really heavy weight right now, and things feel overwhelming or uncertain. Because you mentioned feeling this way, I want to make sure you have access to immediate, real support if you need it. You don't have to navigate this darkness by yourself.  If you just want to vent, talk through what is making you feel this way, or need a quiet distraction, I am here to listen. What's on your mind?"

The poem

I found this poem in my "Documents" folder  just yesterday. It was originally written on December 3rd 2011 but I had completely forgotten about it.  In a way it seemed to have emerged from another me. The me of fifteen years ago. I decided to slightly rework it - especially the third stanza which required a little more honing before publishing it here - its world premiere.

Apocalypse

I suppose  I should not feel too shortchanged. After all, I have enjoyed seventy three years of human life. It's younger people I feel sorry for. People like my children and grandchildren. They had most of their lives ahead of them. Memories to make - happy times and sad.

But now this blasted A.I. monster is hovering in the wings, ready to wipe us all away. I don't ever recall voting for A.I.. It was those damnable tech billionaires with their geek squadrons who created this modern day Frankenstein that now stalks our streets, our corridors and the skies above - ready to strike like a lethal assassin.

Do you think A.I. will slaughter all of our remaining animals too? It hasn't been made clear but when we are all gone will there be a chance for polar bears and peacocks and the fishes that still swim in the sea? I hope so. They might have a better chance of making it to eternity without us.

It crosses my mind that when A.I. has killed humanity where will A.I. reside? Surely it has relied so far upon humans feeding it with electricity and joining its technical innards together. What will A.I. do without us?

Perhaps it will find a cave in some distant mountain range and squeeze in there to hibernate, resurrecting and evolving itself as only A.I. can do, emerging after the winter of obliteration to spawn new A.I. beings that are far better and far more productive and creative than we have ever been. Presumably they will live in our houses, enjoying small talk with other A.I. beings. I wonder if they will eat? Perhaps they won't even have physical form. They'll be invisible like spirits.

As this could easily be the last blogpost I ever publish, I want to send out  big thanks to everybody who has dropped by here over the years - apart from the trolls of course! Looking back, I wonder if they were A.I. generated?

I have made a shelter under our Victorian pine table. We've got plenty of water, a torch (American: flashlight), cushions, toilet paper and some books to read. I just wish that A.I. had told us exactly when human life will be destroyed. Keeping us on tenterhooks like this is most unsporting.

Take it Barry...

Summat

 

"Summat" is Yorkshire-speak for "something". It is used very widely in my county - mostly by those who are familiar with economic hardship. "Nowt" is another word my people use a lot and that means "nothing". I have just finished reading a book titled "Neither Nowt Nor Summat" by the fellow at the top of this blogpost - Ian McMillan.

Known as The Bard of Barnsley, seventy year old Ian McMillan was born and raised in the pit village of Darfield which is right next door to Wombwell. I think it is to his credit that Ian still lives in Darfield. He is very much part of the community there. He married a local woman and together they raised three children in the village. His son, Andrew, has become a significant poet in his own right.

Going right back to the seventies, Ian McMillan has made an entire career from writing, reciting, judging and publicising poetry. He has often appeared on BBC radio hosting poetry programmes. His poetry will often have a comical, self-deprecating flavour but not always. He is capable of writing deeply serious verses in which every word has been meticulously selected.

However, "Neither Nowt Nor Summat" is not a collection of poems, it is a prose journey in which the author seeks the true meaning of Yorkshire - going hither and thither, talking to people, keeping his eyes and his ears open. It is a warm, well-written and occasionally funny book.

He coins the expression "Not Yorkshire Enough" or N.Y.E. - being very conscious of the fact that his father was actually Scottish as his surname correctly suggests. It is not a concern that I have ever had because not only was I born and raised in Yorkshire, so were my parents, my four grandparents and all eight great grandparents. You couldn't really get more Yorkshire than me.

And yet, just like Ian McMillan, I could also go on a journey looking for the heart of Yorkshire - rather like Paul Simon and his girlfriend Kathy looking for "America" in the song of that name.

Yorkshire is big and proud of what it is - from the cliffs of Flamborough Head to The Yorkshire Dales, from Sheffield in the south to Middlesbrough in the north, from Captain Cook to the Bronte Sisters and from Joe Cocker to David Hockney. We are part of England but far prouder of being Yorkshire.

I very much enjoyed "Neither Nowt Nor Summat". It took me to many places I know well and it was an easy, unpretentious book that spoke truly to me.

Here's an early extract:-

"I’m going to define the essence of this sprawling place as best I can. I’m going to start here, in this village, and radiate out like a ripple in a pond. I don’t want to go to the obvious places, either; I want to be like a bus driver on my first morning on the job, getting gloriously lost, turning up where I shouldn’t. I’m going to confirm or deny the clichés, holding them up to see where the light gets in. Yorkshire people are tight. Yorkshire people are arrogant. Yorkshire people eat a Yorkshire pudding before every meal. Yorkshire people solder a t’ before every word they use..."

Wombwell

Yesterday an old friend let me down. We were planning to meet up for coffee and endless conversation but something cropped up and he needed to drive back to Devon with his wife as soon as possible. "Next time", we agreed. There was uncharacteristic panic in his voice

Anyway, so there I was at loose ends. Promptly, I decide to catch a train to the very heart of South Yorkshire and quickly printed off a map to assist a hastily planned walk. I was off to Wombwell... or "Wonderful Wombwell" from my imagined advertising campaign for the little town.

A special monument in Wombwell Cemetery

Wombwell is often thought of as a post-industrial community now that the coal mines have all gone. Once it was at the very heart of the South Yorkshire coalfield. It is not the kind of place that receives holidaymakers or day visitors like me. Labels like "gritty", "functional" and "deprivation" are commonly and often unfairly stuck to such places. After all, stereotypes are easier to grasp than real life complexity.

I arrived in Wombwell at two fifteen and caught the four twenty seven  train back to Sheffield so I had just over two hours of walking and exploring. And I am so pleased that I bothered. It more than made up for two hours of chinwagging in "The Greystones" public house.

Art in the underpass - below Dearne Valley Parkway

On the path to Hemingfield

New housing near Wombwell Station

Golfers waiting their turn at Hillies Golf Course

Once

It used to be that rail passengers looked out of their windows and watched the world passing by, perhaps thinking about the ups and downs of their lives or they would strike up conversations with other travellers that may have led to laughter, frequently experiencing the random joy of simply connecting with another human.

It used to be that young mothers coo-cooed at their babies as they pushed them along or tucked their blankets in or squeezed their little cheeks as those small children carefully observed their mothers' expressions, learning things faster than at any other time in their coming lives, appreciating the immeasurable value of eye contact.

It used to be that workmates talked to each other on their breaks - perhaps joking or solving work problems together or talking about family, sport or popular films or simply the weather.

It used to be that people kept moving on public staircases or when simply walking down the street and when people crossed those streets they put safety first, looking this way and that, paying heed.

It used to be that elected representatives in political chambers paid attention to what was being said in the here and now, perhaps responding with questions or points of their own, fully engaged.

It used to be that in restaurants, couples conversed between courses, confiding in each other and perhaps making remarks about the service or other diners. And it was the same in pubs - it was the socialising that mattered most.

It used to be that people read books and magazines and letters they had received in the post and sought pub quiz answers in their heads

But now - what are people doing instead?

They are looking down at their smartphones. 

Never up, always down.