wordsmith.social/jonbeckett

The sun is setting on a busy day. I'm sitting in the junk room, trying to gather my thoughts while sipping a cup of black coffee, and listening to a “Paris Cafe” playlist on Spotify. I've just pulled on a zipped hoodie – combating the after-effects of having caught the sun earlier in the day.

My in-laws visited today. My brother-in-law brought power-tools to help construct a raffia fence along the edge of the garden. My mother-in-law accompanied him to oversee operations, and to watch the tennis at Roland Garros with me (or at least, when I wasn't cutting the grass, washing up, or washing up some more). We bonded over running injuries today – I showed her the lump on my achilles tendon, and she showed me her ankle – which apparently hurt, but looked fine. Thankfully my rugby playing daughters were not present, or it might have turned into a pop-up meeting of hypochondriacs anonymous.

While writing this, a Frenchman is expertly playing an accordian in quite the most wistful manner you might ever imagine. He has given way to a crooner singing about some disaster of the heart or other – I can't understand a word of it, so can only imagine the subject of his anguish. Perhaps his girlfriend didn't share her peanut M&Ms with him? (I would have been distraught too)

Anyway.

I have the week off work. The possibilities of how to spend the coming days are many, but I fear procrastination may defeat almost all of them. It's not that I'll waste my time off – I'll find all manner of interesting things to do – I just won't get around to many of the things I should perhaps have been doing. It's interesting how the most mundane rabbit holes become increasingly interesting when faced with doing anything productive instead.

The one thing I will do during the week is run.

As mentioned a few days ago, I've re-started the “Couch to 5K” programme – partly to support a good friend, and partly to avoid my backside establishing it's own gravitational force. I'm hoping that “Park Run” will be back up and running in the autumn – it will give me something to aim for – and something to do each weekend. If you've not heard of it, it's a pretty common international movement where parks organise 5K runs for all abilities – usually on a Saturday morning. You register on the park run website, get a barcode, and off you go. You can of course buy all manner of “official” merchandise – such as wristbands or waterbottles – or just print out the barcode and tuck it in your sock. Lots of people do.

I guess the attraction of doing an organised run is both to run in a group – where you get swept along by the crowd – and to have medical people on-site, should anything unfortunate happen – you know, like the town finding out you have no running talent. I'm pretty sure the town know I have no running talent, having seen me trudging the streets over the last few years – that's not the point of running though.

There's probably really good research on the huge release of endorphins after running. It's hard to explain – you often feel like absolute garbage during a longer run – especially if pushing out to a longer distance – but afterwards a huge wave of euphoria sweeps through you. Body chemistry is an amazing thing.

The sun is setting on a busy day. I'm sitting in the junk room, trying to gather my thoughts while sipping a cup of black coffee, and listening to a “Paris Café” playlist on Spotify. I've just pulled on a zipped hoodie – combating the after-effects of having caught the sun earlier in the day.

My in-laws visited today. My brother-in-law brought power-tools to help construct a raffia fence along the edge of the garden. My mother-in-law accompanied him to oversee operations, and to watch the tennis at Roland Garros with me (or at least, when I wasn't cutting the grass, washing up, or washing up some more). We bonded over running injuries today – I showed her the lump on my achilles tendon, and she showed me her ankle – which apparently hurt, but looked fine. Thankfully my rugby playing daughters were not present, or it might have turned into a pop-up meeting of hypochondriacs anonymous.

While writing this, a Frenchman is expertly playing an accordian in quite the most wistful manner you might ever imagine. He has given way to a crooner singing about some disaster of the heart or other – I can't understand a word of it, so can only imagine the subject of his anguish. Perhaps his girlfriend didn't share her peanut M&Ms with him? (I would have been distraught too)

Anyway.

I have the week off work. The possibilities of how to spend the coming days are many, but I fear procrastination may defeat almost all of them. It's not that I'll waste my time off – I'll find all manner of interesting things to do – I just won't get around to many of the things I should perhaps have been doing. It's interesting how the most mundane rabbit holes become increasingly interesting when faced with doing anything productive instead.

The one thing I will do during the week is run. As mentioned a few days ago, I've re-started the “Couch to 5K” programme – partly to support a good friend, and partly to avoid my backside establishing it's own gravitational force. I'm hoping that “Park Run” will be back up and running in the autumn – it will give me something to aim for – and something to do each weekend. If you've not heard of it, it's a pretty common international movement where parks organise 5K runs for all abilities – usually on a Saturday morning. You register on the park run website, get a barcode, and off you go. You can of course buy all manner of “official” merchandise – such as wristbands or waterbottles – or just print out the barcode and tuck it in your sock. Lots of people do.

I guess the attraction of doing an organised run is both to run in a group – where you get swept along by the crowd – and to have medical people on-site, should anything unfortunate happen – you know, like the town finding out you have no running talent. I'm pretty sure the town know I have no running talent, having seen me trudging the streets over the last few years – that's not the point of running though.

There's probably really good research on the huge release of endorphins after running. It's hard to explain – you often feel like absolute garbage during a longer run – especially if pushing out to a longer distance – but afterwards a huge wave of euphoria sweeps through you. Body chemistry is an amazing thing.

It's been four days since I last emptied my head into the keyboard. Almost unheard of. A good friend mentioned earlier that she needs inspiration to write – I replied that in the past writing has often been my happy place. I guess a part of that comes from the chaos that typically surrounds me, and the solitude required to write. Finding a quiet room, and an hour to myself can sometimes be challenging.

This afternoon I'm sitting in the peace and quiet of the junk room (when not being summoned to help lift heavy things, or reach high-up things). We were out for most of the day at the final rugby fixture of the season – a “friendly” about half an hour from home. It seems odd calling it the “final” fixture, because there have only been a handful since lockdown restrictions were lifted somewhat. I wonder what the trickle-down effect of the pandemic will be over the next several years – for a generation of young people, twelve months has essentially been erased from their lives.

I re-started the “Couch to 5K” running programme last week, and everything went well through the first two runs – then somehow on Friday I managed to pull a muscle while reaching down to a clothes basket while hanging washing out, and did something to the achilles tendon on my right leg. It's a bit swolen, but strangely hurts more while walking than it does while running. I'll try stretching it over the next few days, and do the next few runs very slowly – to figure out if it's getting better or worse. If push comes to shove I'll get out on the bike instead of running for a while.

I watched the first episode of “Breaking Bad” late last night. I'm not really sure why I stayed so far away from it in the past – I guess part of it might be because it deals with drug culture. I've known people who fell into that world – it's almost like a switch flicks in my head when the subject comes up, and I immediately lose interest. Seeing Bryan Cranston shout “FCK YOU, AND FCK YOUR EYEBROWS” was pretty funny though.

In other news an entire ant civilization seems to be trying to establish a foothold in our kitchen. Unfortunately for them we are armed with all manner of poisons – which are now distributed in “traps” at strategic locations about the place. It's difficult – the first instinct is to exterminate them on-sight, but we really need them to take the poison back to the nest to wipe the rest out.

Anyway. I'm rambling.

If I haven't commented on your blog for a few days, I can only apologise – I've been “out of the loop” for the last few days. I will be back. I always return. I just don't always know how soon.

For years I tinkered with all manner of productivity hacks – paper task lists, apps, websites, and so on – I even read some of the more famous books, such as “Getting Things Done”, and “The 24 hour work week”.

I spent years finding ways to fit more into each day.

It never occurred to me that I should have been looking for ways to do less – to achieve only what I needed to, leaving the remaining time free.

I think perhaps the lockdowns of the last year have brought into focus just how crazy the world we knew really was. We never stopped to consider that we might do less, because we never had time to – we were too busy running like mad to keep up with everybody else.

Nocturnal writing escapades are becoming something of a habit. It seems to take an entire day for the reflective part of my consciousness to find it's way from the labyrinth, pull up a comfy chair, and start talking to anybody that might listen.

Sometimes I have a lot to write, and sometimes very little. It very much depends on events of the day, I suppose – for the last year “adventure” has been somewhat thin on the ground. Life has been quiet.

I've often made sense of life by likening it to a “choose your own adventure” book – where you make decisions throughout each day, and they result in turning to given pages where the immediate future is foretold. While it's a nice idea, I'm not sure it always works. The real world seems to involve far more unpredictability that any scripted story could engineer. Perhaps the chaos is a natural product of everybody turning their pages at the same time.

Sometimes you arrive on the same page as somebody else, and discover each other through the stories of the days that follow. The plot for chapters to come is rewritten – shaped by nothing more than each other's presence. It's all rather marvellous.

Nocturnal writing escapades are becoming something of a habit. It seems to take an entire day for the reflective part of my consciousness to find it’s way from the labyrinth, pull up a comfy chair, and start talking to anybody that might listen.

Sometimes I have a lot to write, and sometimes very little. It very much depends on events of the day, I suppose – for the last year “adventure” has been somewhat thin on the ground. Life has been quiet.

I’ve often made sense of life by likening it to a “choose your own adventure” book – where you make decisions throughout each day, and they result in turning to given pages where the immediate future is foretold. While it’s a nice idea, I’m not sure it always works. The real world seems to involve far more unpredictability that any scripted story could engineer. Perhaps the chaos is a natural product of everybody turning their pages at the same time.

Sometimes you arrive on the same page as somebody else, and discover each other through the stories of the days that follow. The plot for chapters to come is rewritten – shaped by nothing more than each other’s presence. It’s all rather marvellous.

The Eurovision Song Contest was held this evening in Rotterdam. If you've never heard of it, it's the annual competition that launched ABBA into the stratosphere in the 1970s, and was the subject of the wonderful movie starring Rachel McAdams and Will Ferrell last year.

While I wasn't surprised at the outcome of the competition itself, I was surprised at the reaction to the outcome by a number of people I know.

Before getting around to that, it's worth noting that in my mind the Eurovision Song Contest has some significant problems.

Because of the number of countries now involved, “Semi Finals” are held – meaning many of the more original bands are filtered out by juries of “professionals” that select the finalists. Unfortunately those juries tend to vote politically – meaning that neighbouring countries vote for each other.

Thankfully half of the vote in the finals is made up by a public vote – which often redresses the balance – but it's too late for the bands that have already been removed from the competition by the afore mentioned biased juries.

There's a damning phrase about committees (called juries in this case) – “designed by committee” often means the end result is a watered down mess that nobody actually wanted, but they are willing to live with if it means they don't have to do anything more.

Getting back to the actual subject of this post, I headed to Facebook and Twitter after the competition finished, and started reading people's reactions. I was stunned.

“The winner was terrible – nowhere near as good as (insert winner from 30 years ago)”

“Everyone in Europe hates us – what do you expect?”

“Most of the music was terrible – nothing I would ever listen to!”

“Did you see what half of them were wearing? I would be embarrassed!”

I could go on – for quite some time.

I suppose I'm just surprised (and not surprised at all) about the blinkered, insular view that seems to be so prevalent throughout a wide cross-section of people here.

So many people seem to think that their opinions are shared by the majority, because they are shared by the small circle of people that re-inforce their often bigoted, prejudiced, narrow minded, racist, sexist, or outdated opinions on music, fashion, style, culture, and everything in-between.

The social networks have a part to play in this of course – I've written about this before – about the algorithmic timeline surrounding people with concordant views. It's dangerous. Unless we are challenged, we do not learn or grow. Plato wrote about it sixteen hundred years go in his “Allegory of the Cave”. It seems many people still haven't learned.

How do I turn this around?

Perhaps with the admission that our entry into the competition was really, really awful – and that I loved many of the more spirited, individual acts that performed throughout this year's show.

I just wish there were a few more people with open minds, and open hearts taking notice of the direction the world is headed, who might make a quiet stand against it with me.

The Eurovision Song Contest was held this evening in Rotterdam. If you've never heard of it, it's the annual competition that launched ABBA into the stratosphere in the 1970s, and was the subject of the wonderful movie starring Rachel McAdams and Will Ferrel last year.

While I wasn't surprised at the outcome of the competition itself, I was surprised at the reaction to the outcome by a number of people I know.

Before getting around to that, it's worth noting that in my mind the Eurovision Song Contest has some significant problems.

Because of the number of countries now involved, “Semi Finals” are held – meaning many of the more original bands are filtered out by juries of “professionals” that select the finalists. Unfortunately those juries tend to vote politically – meaning that neighbouring countries vote for each other.

Thankfully half of the vote in the finals is made up by a public vote – which often redresses the balance – but it's too late for the bands that have already been removed from the competition by the afore mentioned biased juries.

There's a damning phrase about committees (called juries in this case) – “designed by committee” often means the end result is a watered down mess that nobody actually wanted, but they are willing to live with if it means they don't have to do anything more.

Getting back to the actual subject of this post, I headed to Facebook and Twitter after the competition finished, and started reading people's reactions. I was stunned.

“The winner was terrible – nowhere near as good as (insert winner from 30 years ago)”

“Everyone in Europe hates us – what do you expect?”

“Most of the music was terrible – nothing I would ever listen to!”

“Did you see what half of them were wearing? I would be embarrassed!”

I could go on – for quite some time.

I suppose I'm just surprised (and not surprised at all) about the blinkered, insular view that seems to be so prevalent throughout a wide cross-section of people here.

So many people seem to think that their opinions are shared by the majority, because they are shared by the small circle of people that re-inforce their often bigoted, prejudiced, narrow minded, racist, sexist, or outdated opinions on music, fashion, style, culture, and everything in-between.

The social networks have a part to play in this of course – I've written about this before – about the algorithmic timeline surrounding people with concordant views. It's dangerous. Unless we are challenged, we do not learn or grow. Plato wrote about it thousands of years go in his “Allegory of the Cave”. It seems many people still haven't learned.

How do I turn this around?

Perhaps with the admission that our entry into the competition was really, really awful – and that I loved many of the more spirited, individual acts that performed throughout this year's show. I just wish there were a few more people with open minds, and open hearts taking notice of the direction the world is headed, who might make a quiet stand against it with me.

The greater part of this week has been spent submerged in an alien computer system – trying to make head or tail of how it works, how it hangs together, and how I might use it going forwards. There have been times when I wondered how far down the rabbit hole went – if I might see the surface again. This afternoon lightbulb after lightbulb switched on in the depths of my fragmented brain, and launched me back towards the surface. I suddenly have stories to tell co-workers, insights to share, and a brave new world to describe.

It's a relief.

It's amazing how much energy you expend when you don't know where you're going, or what you're really doing. Hitting google, textbooks, and discussion forums works to an extent, but the only real escape is via knowledge and experience – and they both have to be earned.

I'm shattered.

I'm finding it difficult to concentrate this afternoon. Having climbed to the top of the first mental hill of many I might face over the coming months, I'm wondering about downing tools for a while. It's difficult – I become my worst enemy at times like this. Now that I have reached the top of the first hill, I can see the next one. The temptation to set out towards it is enormous.

Perhaps I'll go and make a coffee.

The clock ticked past 1am some time ago. It's already Thursday morning. I'm playing the age old game of avoiding tomorrow while music quietly plays in the dark of the junk room. There is an empty wine glass alongside the keyboard – it held the remains of a bottle we opened several nights ago.

A line from a book comes to mind – “night is the hardest time to be alive, and 4am knows all my secrets”.

There's something about the night. Perhaps after our brain has been busy all day, it begins to unwrap increasingly disconnected content as the hours progress – mashing it together and forging new insights, thoughts, hopes, and fears.

Anyway.

It's late. I have work in the morning. I need to let my brain off it's leash for the next several hours. Let it dream, before presenting it with breakfast, washing up, email, and conference calls.