To have carved on the days of our vanity
A sun
A ship
A star
A cornstalk

Also a few marks
From an ancient forgotten time
A child may read

That not far from the stone
A well
Might open for wayfarers

Here is a work for poets -
Carve the runes
Then be content with silence.


George Mackay Brown, 1996

I watched Alatriste this evening - and for its entire duration of two-and-a-half hours I marvelled how much the lead looked exactly like Viggo Mortensen (for whom I do carry a wee bit of a crush). As the credits rolled, I realised it WAS Viggo Mortensen. Epic fail! I badly need new glasses, How could I be so thick? My only excuse is that my attention must have wandered as much as the plot.

Moving on....

The film was visually superb, bringing to vivid life the squalor and the splendour of the times, and the plentiful fight scenes are authentically brutal in a way that Hollywood never dares manage. But plot-wise, it was a fragmented mess, mainly through having tried to condense episodes from five novels into one film. However, the characters and the of the period (Hapsburg Spain) were fascinating enough to make me curious about the actual novels by Arturo Pérez-Revete. I read his The Fencing Master several years ago and remember it as an interesting and elegant historical thriller - an Alexandre Dumas for the modern age.

Talking of Dumas, it's interesting to compare Alatriste's brutal moral ambiguity with the Three Musketeers' relatively merry swashbuckling. Alatriste is a better hero for our times than d'Artagnan, I think, we prefer the anti-hero nowadays.

Some days it’s hard to find much of beauty in the world. The News is a litany of greed, corruption and gloomy predictions for the years ahead. Outside, the weather is in sympathy with the zeitgeist: grey, dismal and dank. Of course, my mood may be jaundiced (literally) by the fact I woke up yesterday prepared to enjoy my five days of liberty from the work grindstone only to find myself blurry- and sore-eyed with conjunctivitis and I am not brave or stoical about such things – no, I whine and feel sorry for myself.

It’s very easy to forget the sunlight and the small pleasures as one plods through the darkest and most dreary time of the year, but I dislike to be constantly negative as I’m not a gloomy or demanding person by nature. I get restless. Generally, little things please me. So, while I have no intention of gazing at my navel and analysing the year gone á la reverb10 etc, I do intend to try and sift through the remains to see what happened, or more often – didn’t. I DO know it’s time to finally let go of some old dead-weight lumber I’ve been hauling about with me. I need to look objectively at what ‘creativity’ means for me, follow my spontaneous instincts and not beat myself up about the failures.

In short, I need to get my feet back on a path I’m happy to explore instead of hauling baggage carts up dead-ends. And if that means indulging the occasional impulsive and ill-conceived whim, so be it. It’s all part of life’s great weaving.

Aw heck. I feel a new muse trying to prise the playground gates open… just what I need - NOT!

So, I've had this last week off work and it's been a good time for me. I needed a reprieve from the dull daily mundanities that slowly wear me down like water dripping on stone. This has been my breathing and stretching time, and since even the gods have smiled on my leisure and blessed us with summerlike warmth and sunshine, I've been able to return to my daily commune with nature in the woods and winding lanes, even if only for this brief span.

My woods are russet and gold, filled with that peculiarly golden autumn sunlight that makes it feel like you're walking through molten honey. I've returned with stems of honesty's translucent seed-pods (some people think they look like silver coins, I think they look like full moons) and pockets full of cobnuts, pinecones, acorns and conkers.

I haven't been entirely lazy at home either. I've set in a good store of preserves made from the free harvest of the hedgerows, including some sloe and crabapple jelly, damson and elderberry jelly and rowan and rosehip jelly. Some of the jars will be given away as seasonal gifts, others have been carefully dated and stored in the wooden chest next to the damson gin and wild plums in brandy.

I have cut back old dead growth in the garden and cleared it away, That's always such a satisfying, even liberating, task. I suppose it resonates with some kind of symbolism. Anyway, the spiders were undoubtedly annoyed with me for ruining their careful constructs, but since I've noticed a new curtaining of cobwebs across the trimmed shrubbery this morning, I think they have resigned themselves with good grace.

I have been devilled by so much negativity this year, from the constant petty financial worries, the work frustrations, worry over friends and niggling little health issues. I can't say I've successed in banishing it all, since the causes and events are mostly out of my control, but at least I've managed to sweep some fresh air through the channels.

While I was buying a pint of milk in the Supermarket from Hell earlier today, I spotted a display stand of Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides DVDs. I realised that not only was it the first PotC film I hadn’t seen in the cinema then promptly preordered my own copy and awaited eagerly, but I hadn’t even realised it was out on DVD already. Even having spotted it, I didn’t buy it, and I haven’t even added it to my rental list yet. That’s how interested I am in it.

I think my love affair with Captain Jack Sparrow and his brand of whimsical piratical farce is over, without me ever noticing it.

Part of the reason is that while PotC 1 was fresh, funny and charming, PotC 2 was merely okay and PotC 3 was frankly a bore (except for Chow Yun-fat, but they killed his character off). Even the presence of Penelope Cruz, whom I adore, and the absence of Lollipop Knightley and Woodentop Bloom wasn’t enough to stir any enthusiasm in my jaded little soul for another dance round the same old merry-go-round. I am dismayed to hear that Depp is eager for a PotC 5… and 6… and 101.

Actually, I think I may be tired of pirates in general. I do love a good rogue, but anything that become ubiquitous and over-popularised and copied ad nauseam quickly gets tired, and I think that’s what’s happened for me here. It was just the same with vampires. I couldn’t stand the undead little fuckers even before Twilight and its plethora of teen fodder imitators blighted our cultural lives*.

I’m already looking ahead for something new and unexplored, for the next archetype that will set my pulse racing. I need a hero! He’s gotta be strong, and he’s gotta be fast, and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight. It would help if he was gay, and rich, and liked cats.

*Apologies to certain awesome vampires of my acquaintance, who are lively, inventive and complex enough to be worthy exceptions to my rule. They also have short tempers and a very painful bite.