Things change.

I have written here in a while. Not in nearly three years now in fact (I wish my brain didn't insist on thinking 'in fact' was one word, when will you learn!) If anyone missed this blog sorry it's been so long.

I guess the natural inclination is to give a long list of things that have altered in these circumstances, or, for those with incapacitatingly disorganised memories such as mine, to state random things that have happened, most recent things first. The new spell check function informs me incapacitatingly isn't a word, well it should be.

So things that have changed. I'll be getting married in a few months, all being well with the world. I guess that's predictable, if popular social media is anything to go by. Admittedly it will be a hindu-jewish affair, which is probably not so run-of-the-mill and has certainly not been without it's thought-provoking moments.

I look after little ones in the hospital, most days, in London, but soon to moving ...

And here are some things that have been made x

Reunions are tricky!
J

Doodling during the death list

One of the particular idiosyncracies of the hospital where I currently reside, eat, and work in is the 'death list'. The death list is the process in which all the patients who have died are read out and respective teams are asked to state where the death was 'expected' or 'unexpected'. The queerest  part of the process to me is the strange and unexpected responses people have. In most cases the expected deaths are received almost joyously, whilst those which are seemingly 'unexpected' are met with a mixture of surprise, horror, interest and general muttering. Personally I find there is an inexplicable desire to doodle during the death list. Strange feeling to think that one day I exist only as a list of personal details to be muttered about in a room of 30-40 strangers. Hospitals are weird.

Is it better to accept, account for, or overcome one's weaknesses?

Absences

I've not written for what feels like an age (and is probably at least  32,000,000 seconds). In that time I have had a fair few of those noteworthy moments that make you wish you were an elogant enough thought-former to string them together into some sort of meaningful sequence and tell everyone about it. Unfortunately, I'm mostly not, and as a result this collection of thoughts has withered almost to nothingness.

A small selection of things (in no particular order) have included: starting work, seeing a woman run over outside of work, seeing Iceland, sticking needles into people's backs/arms/eyes/feet/lungs/abdomens/necks, losing count of how many times I've said 'Im sorry', improving my hebrew (slightly), not improving my fencing or cello, and seeing many of my friends get married and have babies.

It hasn't been the easiest of periods, but I miss writing to you, and I promise to try and not forget to think here.

On writing

I dreamt last night that I was walking amongst some empty landscape. On the ground, as a far as the eye could see, there were books and papers and journals, pictures and paintings and pieces of music. Layer upon layer, some collected in piles or stacked up neatly, some torn or burnt at the edges. It was a misty place and completely silent. I was only able to walk slowly, as, in the absence of a path, I wasn't sure where to walk and didn't want to damage the papers under my feet. To begin with I explored each and every text or image, agonising over who they may be, looking for names or handwriting that I might recognise that might make me feel less alone. In some way every sheet looked familiar, everyone appeared to be a person that I might have known, perhaps a map even, but their presence did not make me feel any less alone. I became quite downcaste. Then, feeling that I should not waste time, I began enjoying the nature of experience, scrunching leafs of paper in my hands, tearing them between my fingers, throwing piles of papers up in the air and watching them slowly descend in the gloom. This invoked feelings of elation, complete freedom. As I sat down, short of breath on a large pile of accountancy notes, I understood that absolute emptiness that I saw. I took up a long receipt that extended for metres from my hand, twisting in a large helix further than I could strain to see. I took out a black pen from my shirt pocket and began to write, anything I could think of, as many digits of pi as I could remember, the names and ages of all the people I knew, small doodles of butterflies and flowers and mothers with babies. I kept going, on and on until my hand began to cramp and the ink in the pen became faint. Then I lay down and covered myself with the sheets of an old newspaper, reading on the sheets nearest to me that Marilyn Monroe will marry Arthur Miller and that Red Army troops have invaded Hungary, before falling back to sleep.

Not deserving of a title

Sometimes when I sit down with myself, to write or try to read, there is a feeling that when all the business, in the sense of busy-ness, is taken away, when completely alone, there is really nothing there. There is no voice to talk to amongst myself. There is nothing within to make me smile or push me forward. Strange, considering that looking on I'm sure it looks that I'm an entirely sensible, well-travelled, well-educated(ish) kind of person. It's hard to really understand that however you're feel at this moment isn't how you've always felt, and it isn't how you will always feel; that even in ten minutes time someone may come into the room and you'll have completely changed course. Not in an insincere way, not that you're trying to seem like a cheery amenable person. Just that you only exist when someone is there. Even now it doesn't seem reasonable to have had all the thoughts that have led to these words without any conscious conversation, just with them spilling out from some void. It really is peculiar.

When Keats is close.

When I have fears that I may cease to be well.
Well, I will cease to be,
Cease to be well.
I will cease.

When I think of all that I could have been doing.
When could I have been all that?
I think I could have been.
I think of all.

When I think of all the pain that I have caused you.
All that pain when I think of you.
I have that pain.
I have you.

Now I know of the time that slips away from us all.
Time I know now, slips away.
Now away from All.
I know now.

Colours

There once was a man
As I’m sure you well know
A man who emitted the brightest blue glow

He lived in a house
Number 475
All on his own without children or wife

On Sundays you’d see him
As he strolled of a morn
Along the streets lit with flaming argon

But he’d not say a word
Just tipped up his hat
Which was always in navy and never in black

Then one day he reached a house
Not seen before
Such peculiar hues from the windows and door

Not cobalt or teal
Nor indigo also
But some strange sultry sunset of what form he did not know

He stood for a while
Then rapped on the door
And there on the threshold appeared a beauty so pure

That he turned rather pale
A blue like the sea
And stumbled for words to say how she could be

Such a colour as rosebuds
In the first light of day
And nostalgic memories of frolicking play

He looked quite so ill
That she grew rather anxious
And invited him in with a welcome so pious

That he loved her that moment
And could think nothing else
For the light she reflected was Beauty itself.

So soon were they married
Without a moments postponement
Twas aft that they realised of colour’s importance

For he was a blue man
And his wife was quite amber
And many a friend asked him why he did choose her

But regardless of time
The same answer did come
She’s the colour of saffron, she’s my beautiful sun

Regardless of reverence
His friends did persist
‘You’ll be the father of clowns’ they heckled and hissed

Twas true that a child
Borne of yellow and blue
Had never been seen, had never been knew

But what did that matter
What did that mean
Should a child be not loved if they come out as green?

And so it was true
On a warm summer’s morn
A beautiful apple-green baby was born

And how she was loved
Their precious sweet pea
And how she did growan into quite a young beauty

Was then that his friends
Did have to concede
That although an unusual plant they did seed

What grows with dear love
No matter of hue
Will surely be beautiful, worthy and true

שפה יפה

So there's slow but steady progress with the hebrew (and other things) here. Actually it's nearly time to go home!

שפה יפה - safa yafa - a beautiful language

שָׂפָה - safa - also means tongue

לְסַפֵּר סִפּוּר - l'sapa sipoor - to tell a story

So I know I haven't been using my tongue so much to tell any stories, but honest, I promise, I'll have it down here in no time.

חַג שַׂמֵחַ
(happy cracker time!)

קָדִימָה

I'm living in Jerusalem at the moment and trying simultaneously to understand the ins and outs of Acanthamoeba genomics and master Hebrew.

Whilst here it seemed a good idea to dig a little deeper into some of the words being learning, perhaps see some patterns, draw some insight, and maybe even remember them for longer than it takes to say 'how do you say such and such again'. Ah the joys of short-term cognitive impairment.

To this end, we shall begin with the first word: קָדִימָה (ca-dee-ma). It means forward. The reason that this word was necessary will become apparent. For now more about the word. Hebrew is nice in the that the roots of the words reflect the underlying meaning. Thus, from קדמ (c-d-m) we can form מִתקַדֵם (mit-ca-dem) meaning advances, progressive or liberal thinking, קְדוֹמַנִי (ca-do-ma-ni), meaning predecessor or foregoer, קִדמִי (cad-mi) meaning anterior.

And so to going forward. I've been here nearly a week now, with a home to go to still an outstanding issue, but there's a lot to do, a lot to see, and an awful lot to learn.

I see I saw

Squashed on the ceiling. My little fly. Your butterfly has flown.
I see. I saw. A horrible scene. Rubbish rules that refuse to be. I before e except after. Any time. A time. To be left or not to be. See you some other time. Time to forget what has gone. Time to get gone. Get out. Get in. Side by side. I see. I saw. A horrible scene. A vision now known, and yet still now unseen.

Musical Body

In the absence of inspiration on the paper writing front I thought I would compile a body out of music!

Brains
Bones (and elbows!)
Eyes
Noses
Lips
Shoulders
Stomachs
Livers
Kidneys
Ovaries
...or Testicles
Spleens
The waist down
Fingers
...and Toes!

please feel free to add bodyparts as you please!

Covered

As I washed my hands in the women's toilets today something happened that felt pretty special. Perhaps a novelty, perhaps a statement, perhaps nothing out of the ordinary at all really. A girl came and stood next to me. This girl works in the labs were I am, I've spoken to her many times, shared equipment, said hello almost every day. Like many of the girls in the lab she is muslim and wears a hijab and veil. It's not occurred to me that I now this girl without knowing her face at all before.

So as I stood washing my hands and wiggling my nose as if to prove it was mine (it's a strange habit) she began to take off the veil. It was perhaps the most beautiful process I've ever witnessed. She placed each piece of cloth on a hook next to the sinks and when she was finished she looked me straight in the eye with hers, and with smiling eyes she said 'this is the first time?'

'I guess it is the first time', I said with a wide hazy look. And there we stood, for perhaps a moment or two, face by face, visible to only each other.

I've heard it said that the cover is to separate men from their inherent weaknesses, to purify their thoughts through segregation from thought and desire. I'm not so sure I agree. Perhaps it is not about men at all, perhaps the purpose is to unearth some deeply lying bond between women, to make it so that we can see each other for the first time, in the women's toilets, in a lab, on a friday afternoon.

In the absence of senses

After the Valentine's blog, well let's say, crashed and burned, I can't even hope to predict what may come of this one but still.

This is my favourite poem of all the poems that I've read from all the books and subway stations and bits of paper that I've come across.

11011

a break of the skin; a faltering, a falling in. love is no disease. a disjointed appointment, emotion/commotion. each thought of her rushes to be next in line. this is my contentment, my confinement, the cell i made for myself. to bleed, divine; i forget that i fell. going nowhere first. among equals, this/i will/am last. i cannot fail to hope to please. in this cage i am unsurpassed. this ersatz jail. the me she sees.

The site from which it comes has a number of nuggets of brilliance. I love it, though I dare say it could be updated more frequently ;)

So pretty

Thought you might like this...

Dont eat them!

I recently put a pretty shoddy entry in for a competition set up by Mars. The idea was 'you get 3 mars bars, and make them into something'. Although it appears that the majority of people ate them (thus essentially making them into heat and various molecular bonds) some people made them into AMAZING things...

You might not know

I recently found a few things out about the physical world that you might like to know:

1. Socks, when put under the grill slightly damp, can melt and become completely solid upon cooling.

2. You can grow fungus (i suspect Penicillium) on margarine.

3. You can change the colour of earplugs by putting them in the washing machine in an appropriately coloured sock (ones that you haven't melted.)

In summary, I'm runnng out of socks and margarine!

That is all.

On engagement

No not that sort of engagement mother, please take off that ridiculous hat!

I've recently been fencing quite a bit. Fencing is really quite a strange thing i suppose. Mostly, on account of having a sword but simultaneously wearing enough protective clothing that a duel results in only minor bruising (in my case, perhaps not others'). You have to 'want' to hurt the other person enough to attack them or at least make them believe you will, but simultaneously you are safe in the knowledge that you really can't.

One principle that I've learnt over recent weeks is that of engagement. This refers to the 'the point at which the fencers are close enough to join blades, and have met one another in an encouter of sufficient proximity that makes an effective attack possible'. At this point, with blades touching, each can feel the others movements, and their motives. One may feel a confident and certain pressure, aiming to push your weapon away, but equally they too may feel the gentle submission of your blade that will allow their force to push his advance wide.

To engage is to propose an attack, not to make one and not defend against one. They say nothing in particular and acheive nothing towards victory or defeat. The provide only possibility. Possibilities are a wonderful. Even the possibility of being attacked (with or without a sword). Perhaps this is why I wish to be endlessly engaged and hope for nothing more than to be engaging perhaps once or twice in this lifetime.

And now... for balloons! Beautiful balloons! (more on this later)

Jew for renewal

A few weeks back I was driving through Preswich on a sunday afternoon after a regular cycle 40 odd miles on a tandem with a visually impaired guy on the back sort of sunday morning. I was feeling a little woozy so pulled over next to a park in Prestwich. Those who know Manchester will know that this is on the north side and is pretty heavily populated with a jewish population which once led a dear friend of mine to refer to it as a safari park. I still love her dearly, though i've never forgotten it. So whilst I was parked up, I noticed a group of orthodox jewish girls walking by.

Now, having not taken a picture of these girls, and having found mostly lewd pictures upon putting 'jewish girls' into google images, I can only explain to those who can't picture who i mean.

I've probably lost half the male audience to google images, at least temporarily, but I'll carry on anyhow. Firstly, don't get me wrong, this is not what every jewish person looks like, but there is a certain image that sits in my mind. It's a white shirted girl, with a long gray skirt and dark tights and shoes. Dark hair and eyes that look like the black is bleeding into the surrounding skin. Sombre and walking like there's somewhere to go usually. I've always been very interested in the girls I see that look like this, even though I've been seeing them all my life in various jewish quarters, synagogues etc. I've always stared at them for a little too long and felt a little strange afterwards. In the past the reason for this hasn't seemed so clear, but on this particular woozy sunday afternoon the colour drained from my vision and suddenly these girls stood in a perfect black and white picture. Just like my grandmothers, their mothers, the mothers' mothers. These girls that I see are my walking ancestors. They probably have mobile phones and T.Vs and Ipods, but they look just like the people I know came before me. It's a strange feeling, to be connected to someone and yet not understand them. Our ancestors aren't supposed to be here now, they aren't supposed to understand and experience the things we do. Mozart couldn't have heard his music played on a modern piano let alone an 80's synthesiser. So perhaps it is for this reason that I never thought that I would be in a country that, for all it's problems, is a place where people can visit ancient jerusalem any day of the week, where it's normal to keep shabbat, and where people can swear and chat and write rock songs in an ancient language.

Please work

I am so very very unfocused right now - this is what exists of my review of the influence of size in pharmacokinetic behaviour of antifungal drugs (yes i know)...

The variation in size ...A Haze Nitrite Vision...A Haven Ionizer Tis It ...must...write...something...

oh bugger it.