Through the looking glass

Sonnet
Ceasing,
briefly,
to be hard
on myself

I am a living Ozymandias,
The trunk still yoked to legs that force the tide
The lips egg smooth, the sneer a mobile alias
Where intellect and moral power reside.
My verse is latent but my prose takes flight;
My uncombed hair, my brow, my Caesar’s nose
Match acts and thoughts to arms in that stern fight
Against inertia and the clichéd pose.
Women I fear but with that gift I earn
Some passing loyalty, some low regard,
Polite approval for my comic turn,
A welcome unexpected picture card.
It cannot last; ahead I see decay,
The legs detached, the sand, the eggs mornay.

Note: What kind of a name is Bysshe?

Novel progress 11/12/09: Ch. 8: 642 words. Chs. 1 - 7: 33,000 words. Comment: Sonnets bog you down

The road not taken. But let's imagine...

A week before I became sixteen, when hangings were still public and packs of wolves roamed the Dales, I started work. Forty-four years later I retired. Two years of freelance followed as I waited for Mrs BB to join me in retirement. End-to-end scribbling except for two years repairing RAF radio equipment and perhaps an accumulated six weeks spent looking for work. But suppose I'd done something different?

Ian Jack, Guardian columnist and former editor of Granta was reflecting on an alternative life as a plumber. A craft with none of the basket-weaving associations the word so frequently attracts: intellectually and manually demanding (think of central heating systems), useful to society, well-paid, independent. I would be a bad plumber but that's because I lack training and experience. With them I might still be a bad plumber. But it's an interesting thought. How about you?

Jack ends his piece with the most English of questions: How would you feel if your daughter decided to become a plumber? Ah, England.

Novel crib as promised. Provisional title "Searching the Daily Telegraph".
Andrew Hatch, fortyish, divorced, tumbles from production engineer to welding consumables salesman. Loses job, exposed to the chill winds of Thatcher Britain.
Clare Lowther, fortyish, from wealthy family, physics at Wadham, stratospheric IT management jobs. Unsatisfactorily married (three-year-old son) following quixotic gesture to present spouse. Unemployed, looking for change. Both meet (not necessarily carnally) under unforeseen circumstances and in unfamiliar environment. CL - Physical details: thin rather than slender, no bust, slightly elongated face, small upwards curving mouth which appears to emphasise two central incisors, large dark-ringed eyes, curly hair cropped close with some grey, competent and confident (sexually and professionally), impatient with idiots, breathy voice.

A thousand faces

Soon the novel will require me to be plausible about women's make-up.

Such technology! Such techniques! Masochistically shaped eyebrows. Pornographically shaped lipstick. Blusher (On and off like a traffic light?) The deliberate wickedness of eye-shadow. Foundation that wots not of foundation garments. Gloss like lubrication. Lashes heavy with soot. Cheek contours with colour gradations. Spangles. And where does make-up end? On the jawline? Just underneath? Round the back?.

More important: what's it like to have two - or more - faces? I speak as someone who fears barriers between himself and his self-imagined image. An incautiously bought trilby, quickly discarded. Tight shirts. Even an abhorrent wedding ring, especially if it no longer slides off. Yet a woman may transform herself with lipstick alone. Smudge it for pathos. Sharpen the outline for ruthlessness.

My criteria for feminine looks belong to the era when make-up predominated. I failed to respond to Julie Christie and her tousled naturalness. I am sidelined, emasculated but fascinated.

Novel progress 8/12/09. Ch. 7: 4463 words (finished, unread). Chs.1 - 6: 28702 words. Comment: Hatch: bright light and darkness.

Caveat emptor

Sonnet – My written self

My written self takes to the boulevard,

No dozing couch, no thick-thumbed oyster eye,

No raddled failing sense of self-regard,

It smiles, is welcomed, waved to, seen as fly

My written self can help and sympathise

Unburdened by my masculinity,

Can speak with tongues and even improvise

A risky link with femininity.

My written self is sleek and plausible

A world aside from knobbled northern clay

Sneak-thieving, seeming quite adorable

But seeking love without intent to pay.

I am both things: the skills, if such they be,

Within the hulk of incapacity.

Last night: A modern piano - absolute yet unostentatious

virtuoso technique - a piece composed for just that instrument.

Yamaha, Stephen Hough, César Franck’s “Prelude, chorale and fugue." Turned mi backbone to jelly.

Novel progress 3/12/09. Ch.7: 333 words. Chs. 1 - 6: 28,702 words. Comment: Hatch in The Big Apple (make that Crab Apple).

As I take up my sledgehammer

Making a metaphorical garden shed. Cut down a tree to make one of the corner posts. Too short so cut down another. Start squaring tree trunk but break off to mix concrete for base; work again on trunk and find concrete has set in mixer. Discard; mix more. Decide suddenly on walls half brick, half timber. Lay bricks and find concrete base is incompatible with brick pattern; adjust base with sledgehammer. Decide to re-orient the shed through 90 deg...

No it isn't a garden shed, it's a novel. And the above is a behind-the-scenes analogy about why that small para appears at the end of recent blogs. Some people who read this blog know the background; others deserve an explanation. Eight years ago I wrote about 7000 words of a novel and decided in September this year to resume. Three of my incomparable "links" volunteered to read what I'd written, one was more or less forced to. The judgement (albeit expressed much more politely) was it was saveable crap. The 7000 words were re-written, given a cautious thumbs up and more has followed.

I had hoped to pass out succeeding chapters to the links but, after a shaky start, I had to renege. Plot developments kept on forcing me to re-shape the tree trunk, and apply the sledgehammer. When I'm more confident I have something that's half permanent I'll try and resume.

The plot concerns the plight of a production engineer who has the misfortune to be working during the Thatcher era. This is intertwined with a contrasting story about... well I haven't told anyone about that yet. An interesting sideline is the potential race against senility this project represents. May I remind everyone I'm 74.

Novel progress 28/11/09. Ch.6: 0 words. Chs. 1 - 5A: 22,938 words. Comment: Hatch returns.

Horrible to die in Indiana

Recently I mentioned my four near-death experiences but forgot the fifth. I was en route from Pittsburgh to Wheaton, Illinois, (25 miles west of Chicago) accompanied by a Pittsburgh colleague who had, in retrospect, a terrifying theory. Expressways, thru-ways, and interstates are less crowded in the early hours so why not drive then? By 3 am we were reduced to 30-minute stints to ensure one of us didn't just give up the ghost and fall asleep at the wheel.

What did wake us up was a loud bang at about 80 mph. I knew enough not to jump on the brakes and it seemed to take quarter-of-a-mile to come to a halt. Distant inspection revealed flames licking a burst rear tyre above which was the fuel tank.

The sequel to this is dull I'm afraid but relates to something many ignore. Given I was lucky it was a rear and not a front tyre I take tyre checks quite seriously. Especially on our long journey through France to the Languedoc villa. Because the load changes from our normal two persons to five the recommended tyre pressure rises significantly from 33 psi to 42 psi. And because garage gauges are often defective I have become a connoisseur of the portable variety.

The traditional silver one pushes a piston and needs to be positioned carefully; it's also worth having several goes. The one with a digital read-out is difficult to mate with the valve but is more accurate. The tubey-dialish one has yet to be used but I have great hopes. Dull, I know, but then it's so yesterday to cartwheel over the Armco.

Novel progress 27/11/09. Ch. 5: 6932 words (Read. Satisfied.) Chs. 1 - 4: 15,288 words. Comment: A grand improbable love story (not Hatch for now) rises and topples over.

A blogger redeemed

Two hundred and ninety-eight posts ago Works Well set out to turn technology into a cantata, a Hawksmoor church, a Blake couplet. Camshafts that resonated with plainsong, printed circuits spilling out free verse, Brancusi in a power drill. Against which the sound of the Fireblade would be heard throughout the land.

As any fule know it didn't happen. And the author of this quixotic venture found himself tarnished by a misinterpreted text, seen as low-brow, incapable of responding to J. K. Rowling, frequently laddish, a curtain where there was need of light, celebrant of the obvious, prophet of polystyrene rather than fine thoughts. Desperate references to Sterne and Messiaen failed to alleviate his condition and he was for ever type-cast: a man preferring a pacemaker to a real heart because he liked watching the wheels go round. Suspected of spending too much time in his shed.

A condign fate for one who set out to steal virtual fire from Microsoft. But lately, disappointed and forced into contemplation, he has recognised a form of redemption. To his circumscribed world has flowed enlightenment. About language, cooking, flowers, ordnance, parenthood, the plastic arts, the deep waters of medicine, life in remote parts, forgiveness, encouragement, jousting. At his age he will not change but he can be touched.

It is over a month early and the tone is suspect but if I were to send out a Christmas card this would be a likely prototype.

Novel progress 25/11/09 (Working titles: The ruined con-rod. Or Con-Rod. Or The Connecting Rod. Or how about something based on bearings?). Chs. 1, 2, 3, 3A (Interlude), 4: 15,288 words. Ch. 5: 6136 words. Comment: Huge chapter, not finished yet.

More self-flagellation

Granddaughter Ysabelle, now doing politics at Leicester, left traces on my computer. A second hard drive allowed her to play "The Sims" without risking my files. But grandson Ian and I formatted Bella's HDD (ie, swept it clear) and installed a Linux operating system.

Changing an OS is like switching your lungs from oxygen to some other gas (methane?). Or keeping a shark and a herring in the same aquarium. Early misinformation left us unable to access Windows XP on the other HD and we needed help. Eventually the chosen Linux (Ubuntu: after an African ethical concept emphasizing community, sharing and generosity) was taken aboard and the only problem is Ubuntu doesn't switch off. Why did we do this? Ubuntu is free, it avoids defects inherent in Windows and it's the techie sort of thing you'd expect me to do. More when I've time.

DELUSION Apart from casting me into the world scarce half made-up, my secondary school was also pretentious: it was never "Oh come all ye faithful" but always Adeste fideles. Years later I profit from this. As I do the drying-up I sing Cantet nunc aula caelestium pretending I understand Latin. A delusion, I know, but we all need our crutches.

WAY TO GO In "The discovery of France", recommended by Lucy, Graham Robb describes how Christians purged paganism by carving dolmens and menhirs into crosses. Paganists struck back and "Yah, sucks boo" ensued when an iron cross embedded in stone was struck by lightning and when a local priest was killed by a falling rock. Secular de-deconsecration was better: mapmakers mounted metal trig points on the crosses. French pragmatism!

Novel progress 20/11/09 (Working titles: The ruined con-rod. Or Con-Rod. Or The Connecting Rod. Or how about something based on bearings?). Chs. 1, 2, 3, 3A (Interlude), 4: 15,288 words. Ch. 5: 2972 words. Comment: More of the same grind