wordsmith.social/jonbeckett

The words aren’t coming at the moment. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m not going to let that stop me posting something to the blog though, even if it is no more than a literary exhalation of sorts.

If I’m honest, I can’t quite figure out how tomorrow is Thursday. Where did the beginning of the week go? Life, work, and everything in-between seems to have conspired to suck the air out of the universe around me, and spin the hands on the clock from the moment I’ve climbed out of bed on a morning to the moment I’ve collapsed back into it at night.

I’m tempted to repeat the line from the typewriter in “The Shining” (I’ll let you look it up).

I will admit to being distracted by the news all week – stealing glances at various international reporting websites. I suppose the over-riding question on my mind is how none of the inner circle surrounding the lunatic at the centre of the news has been brave enough to do anything about him yet.

Maybe expecting even a small minority of people to question the status quo is asking too much.

Let’s be honest – we live in a world where a huge number of people say they believe in some form of “creator” when challenged. I’m willing to bet a significant proportion of them have questioned what they have been told to believe at some point in their life, and yet they have not done so – because it would either hurt somebody’s feelings, rock the boat, cause an argument, or whatever...

All it takes is enough people to look the other way, and look where we end up.

Originally written on 28th February

It's the last day of February today. Where in the world did February go? I'm sure it was only Christmas last weekend. Is this how life works? A slow acceleration until you're not sure how old you are, or how long it's been since you last saw so-and-so?

I sometimes hear a song on the radio and remember being somewhere listening to it. A moment decades in the past. How does our brain do that? How does it record fleeting images so perfectly? Perhaps it's doesn't. Perhaps it only records enough so we might fill the blanks in with rose tinted imaginings.

Anyway.

I'm tired. As you might gather, given the lack of daily nonsense eminating from my keyboard, I've hardly touched the ground for the last few days. Work is ramping up, the kids are back at college, and the house is returning to the continual churn of washing dishes, washing clothes, and tidying up. The usual.

I've been thinking about getting my running shoes back out. I need to do something. Something away from this desk – this room – this house. I need some fresh air, and some sights, and sounds. I can't remember the last time I met up with any friends. I need to do something about that too.

Ok crikey. It's almost midnight. I should go brush my teeth and dig the book back out I've been reading for the last few nights. After watching “A Fire in the Sky” with my eldest daughter, I've been filling my head with all manner of ludicrous stories about little grey men with almond shaped eyes. I'll probably give myself nightmares.

Maybe a cup of tea before bed might be an idea.

While taking a break from work this afternoon, I have taken it upon myself to begin ripping the stock photos out of my blog and replacing them with my own. I have good reason.

It turns out people have been both uploading photos they do not own to creative commons photo sharing sites such as Pexels and Unsplash, and removing photos from such sites before pursuing those using them and demanding royalties.

The obvious solution is to avoid using stock photos.

While it's going to take some time to walk backwards through blog posts swapping the photos out, it's better than the prospect of dealing with the photographic equivalent of a patent troll.

People ruin everything, don't they.

In other news, I'm still watching the news – or rather, watching a number of news streams and trying to balance the various versions of stories being reported. It's incredibly frustrating that journalists are paid to write with bias, and will often distort, fabricate and manufacture “truth” to suit their own narrative.

Don't even get me started about social media – where you can trust very little at all. I found myself wondering this morning if the world might not be a much better place if artificial intelligence was brought to bear on the content people share – to check the veracity of claims and score them accordingly.

How would an artificial intelligence determine truth though? We live in a world where millions of people disagree entirely about the most basic tenets that society rests upon – a world where the vast majority accept the concordant news stream generated by algorithmic timelines as truth and fact.

My middle daughter moved up to the “senior” rugby team today. She turned 18 back in January virtually unnoticed until the ladies team were missing several regular members, and a coach turned her gaze toward my other half a few days ago.

“Your daughter is 18, isn't she?”

The following minutes saw a very fast fast interrogation of the rulebook – to determine if an 18 year old could legally “play up”.

And that's how we found ourselves standing on the touchline of another rugby pitch today in biting wind, freezing temperatures and driving rain, cheering her on.

At the end of the match her team-mates surrounded her, hugged her, raised her up, and posed for numerous photos together – as a team. In the clubhouse a little later they volunteered her as one of the players of the match, which entailed downing a pint of something alcoholic while the rest of the team and the supporters cheered uproariously.

What a difference from the teenage girl team she has played with in recent months – where rebellions against each other and their coaches have swept across supposedly secret WhatsApp groups. Finally a team – where everybody respects each other, supports each other, where the coach is listened to, where nobody talks back, and where an entire team has your back.

It was strange in a way – seeing her being accepted into the fold. Many of the senior players have known her since she was little – they have seen her grow – seen her mature as a player, and a person.

It felt like letting go. Not in a bad way. It felt like “we've done our job – now it's up to her” – and there was a huge amount of confidence wrapped up in that.

As we left the rugby club to head home for showers, baths, hot food, and a quiet evening, smiling faces clapped shoulders, shook hands, and shouted after us. It feels like the beginning of a new chapter – both for our daughter, and for our family.

After going to bed somewhat early last night, you might think I would have woken early this morning – and you would have been wrong. I slept like an absolute log for about eight hours, and struggled to wake up when I finally did scrape myself out of bed.

After a shower, a shave, and pulling on some clean clothes, I've been pottering around the house all day doing chores – throwing clothes through the washing machine, folding dry clothes, and picking up after the rest of the family. The task was quite easy earlier – they were out watching a rugby match in the howling wind and rain. It's not so easy now – they have returned.

The pandemic has turned me into SUCH a homebody. There's nothing I like better on a weekend now than staying in the warm and catching up with chores, talking to friends, watching movies, or jumping down internet rabbit holes. I guess it doesn't help that the past week has been pretty full-on at work, and I know next week will be worse. I've come to value “down time”.

While messing around on the flight simulator for an hour at lunchtime, a friend asked what I would spend my time doing if I wasn't messing around with pretend aeroplanes. Without hesitation, I said “reading books, and writing”. I think the writing came as something of a surprise to him – outside of the circle of friends I have made over the years through the blog, nobody in my “real world” circle really knows about it. They used to – but I don't advertise it's existence on Facebook any more, and for many people it seems if somebody didn't post about it on Facebook, then it didn't happen.

While I sit on the edge of the various social networks – watching goings-on from a distance – I've become increasingly interested in the “Fediverse”. If you're wondering what on earth I'm talking about, it's the slow growth of social network that have no centralised server – they are “decentralised” by design – “federated”.

I'm a member of instances of Mastodon (similar to Twitter), Pixelfed (similar to Instagram), and Writefreely (similar to Wordpress).

I suppose the main reason I keep a copy of the blog outside of the big social platforms is just in case they ever pull the plug. It's my writing, after all. While I post to Substack and advertise it as the “place to find me” at the moment, it's mostly to take advantage of their wonderful email subscription functionality.

I think in the longer run there's a good chance I will end up hosting my own blog – much as I did twenty years ago. It's funny how the universe takes us on circular journeys, isn't it?

It's an hour into the working day, and I'm taking a coffee break. I've become terrible recently for working straight through the day without stopping. Invariably at lunchtime you will find me still sitting in front of the computer with a hastily made sandwich on a plate between myself and the keyboard – taking a bite inbetween typing.

Thankfully my calendar is bereft of meetings today – affording me the chance to “clear the decks” – to spend some time organising thoughts, planning, and to perhaps get a little ahead of the game.

I have the computer connected to the bluetooth speaker in the corner of the room – it's belting out an Elton John compilation album at the moment. He's singing “I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues” – I can still remember the first time I heard it – on a Saturday morning children's TV show called “Number 73” about thirty five years ago. Isn't it odd how particular moments stick in your mind.

I remember first hearing Tori Amos while getting ready to go to college one day. She was promoting the “Little Earthquakes” album, and the video for “Winter” played during a breakfast television segment. I bought the album that weekend, and played it to death. She was the subject of a huge interview in “Q” magazine a few months later – titled “Hips, Lips, Tits, Power”.

Just think how much useful information could have been stored in my head if it hadn't become filled with the songs of Tori Amos and Elton John, and the countless brat pack movies I watched on-repeat during that period.

Anyway.

Coffee break over. Time to get back to work.

I've been sitting in the dark of the junk room in front of the computer for quite some time now – wondering where the words are going to come from this evening. Sometimes they don't.

Having been away last week, catching up with work projects over the last few days has been something of a scramble. I'm only too aware that I'm terrible at multi-tasking – and given the complex nature of my work, it's easy to make mistakes.

I'll get there. Slowly. I'm leaning on the bullet journal quite a bit to plan, organise and remain somewhat mindful of things that need my attention throughout each day.

Like I said – I'll get there.

Since returning home the weather has been spectacularly bad. I delivered lunch to my other half yesterday in the rain, and got soaked through to the underwear. This morning I fetched washing in from the line that had been left out in the rain, and got soaked again. It's almost like the weather man has something against me.

(“The weather man” is a childhood memory from a “Rupert” story book, where the weather was created by a man that lived in the clouds, operating vast and complex machinery)

While sitting here in the dark, a radio station is playing “Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong”. I'm trying to remember which movie it was used in – “An Officer and a Gentleman” ?

While talking to a friend yesterday, a few movies came to mind that I've not seen for years – among them “Some Kind of Wonderful”. It's one of my favourite “brat pack” movies, along with “Pretty in Pink”, “The Breakfast Club”, and “St Elmos Fire”.

Ah crap – now I'm going to have to go and find “Man in Motion” by John Parr – the title track from the “St Elmo's Fire”. Great song.

While emptying my head about movies and music of the era, have you seen “Red Oaks” ? It's a series on Amazon Prime about a young man working his summers at a country club in the US during the late 1980s. It's kind of wonderful.

A cover of “You Raise Me Up” just started playing on the radio. My brain makes all kinds of connections from it – to Josh Groban, and then on to Idina Menzel (who performed in “Chess” alongside him about ten years ago). All routes eventually lead back to Idina Menzel...

Ah crap – I'll be listening to “Seasons of Love” from “Rent” before we know it. Have you heard the original cast recording done for charity during the Pandemic? It's wonderful – following the link below:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgE6OyVdHZI

It's been a long day. A long, cold, windy, wet day.

We went to watch our middle daughter play rugby, and to help out with some of the jobs involved in making a rugby match happen. For me, this comprised standing at the entrance of an overflow car park in a reflective orange tabard for an hour – in bitter cold and driving rain. My youngest daughter came with me and entertained in ways only she knows.

Oh, the fun we had counting cars into and out of the car park while trying to keep track of how full it had become. Who needs expensive video game machines to while away an hour?

After refuelling in the clubhouse, courtesy of a cup of tea in a paper cup and a sausage sandwich, we headed back out into the rain and watched the game – keeping the official match score sheet along the way.

Once the match finished – after having spent the better part of three hours in the rain, which had now seeped through coats, hats, gloves, scarves, sweaters, trousers and underwear – we helped with the clear-up too.

Something struck me while wandering back to our car. There were 18 kids in the team today. Potentially 36 parents. Less than a quarter of that number turned up, and of those only myself, my other half, and another mum helped with anything. Between us we set the pitch up, staffed the car parks, kept score, helped cook food for the players, and took the pitch back down. It didn't occur to anybody else to help.

I thought many hands were supposed to make light work.

After getting home we stripped off the wet clothes and dug out fresh, warm, dry clothes before collapsing on the sofa with hot drinks. The washing machine has been running ever since.

We finally ate this evening at 8pm. Washing up was done by 9pm. Sunday has gone, and we're all tired.

Somebody asked me earlier if I might be watching the “Superbowl”. I'll be amazed if I'm still awake in half an hour, let alone the early hours of tomorrow morning.

I'm sitting on the train, heading east across the country towards home. Thankfully the trains and replacement bus services have connnected so far – hurtling me across the countryside at quite some speed. In contrast with my journey west last weekend, the beginning of this journey was somewhat more chaotic. I stood crammed into the corner of the first train of my route, wondering what on earth was going on.

The green army. That's what was going on. Plyouth Argyle football club were playing at home. Young people from all over the south west were travelling to Plymouth by any means possible to support “their team”.

The coach and connecting trains ever since have been mercifully quiet. During the spring or summer this journey is very, very different. You get on the train near London, and it swoops along the coast towards the south west – crossing famous viaducts along the way that have been made famous in countless movies. During this winter they have been moving sections of the line away from the ocean – away from crashing waves that have caused damage for many years.

In half an hour I will arrive at Reading, and change trains once again. An hour after that I will be walking home from our local railway station – dragging the bag behind me that has seen a remarkable amount of the world. It's been to the USA, to Germany (many times), to Turkey, Spain, France (again, many times), Ireland, Egypt, Scotland, Wales... the list goes on.

I'm looking forward to seeing my family now. I'm a little apprehensive of the mountain of chores I'll walk into, but they aren't really important – they'll get done soon or later. I'm also looking forward to my own bed, my own computer, my own coffee, and a hundred other things. Even though I'm pretty much self sufficient, it's surpring how many things you start to miss when removed from your normal routine – especially after the past few years where you haven't set foot outside the house for weeks at a time.

One thing is certain. Tomorrow morning I'm pulling my running shoes back on. It's been far too long – particularly after witnessing the situation my Dad now finds himself in. No excuses. I've done it before, and I can do it again.

It's the final evening of my stay with my parents. For the past two weeks my brother and I have stayed with them to help out – to take the pressure off my Mum while my Dad has recovered from a viral infection that resulted in a hospital stay.

I leave tomorrow.

This evening I made enough dinner to freeze the leftovers into a number of pots for future meals. Meals my parents won't have to think about making. Healthy meals. I have no illusions that as soon as I leave they will be back eating chips.

I'm going to have to try not to think about that. I've done what I can.

The journey home will take about five hours if all the trains connect. Back to a world of clothes washing and tidying up – but also a world of smiles from my teenage daughters, of stories of the week just gone, and plans for the future.

While talking with my parents over the past week the difference between their world and the world of my children has been defined in quite stark relief. Where my parents are now elderly and reminisce endlessly about times past my children are filled with hope, longing and plans for the future.

I find myself in a strange limbo between the worlds of young and old – an automaton in the vast machinery of the universe – going around in circles, throwing money into a bottomless hole in the ground, and getting nowhere fast. Along the way I record stories that I will one day bore my children with.

Maybe through writing the blog I can just hand the manuscript over to them, and tell them “here – read this – then you don't have to listen”.