Touching Earth

Updated on 25th May 2024, our 19th wedding anniversary. Yesterday was a special birthday, so I made a special card: a photo from before we knew one another, and a reminder of a rather special holiday in south-west Wales —a cabin on a farm, surrounded by tame animals. I’ve left the words unedited: they seem so quaint today, just added more photos. The original post only had the two at the bottom, showing Karleen in my Ted Baker cap—I still wear it daily, not sure if it’s ever been washed.

I scribble ideas aimlessly, nothing wrong with that. But then I fall under the spell of supposing this will generate “creative writing”, whatever that may be; something from which value can be directly harvested. It’s better to think of it as rotten fruit, to be cast out and forgotten. Some time later we may discover seedlings, a few of which have promise: but not because we’ve cherished them and harboured hopes. We’ve let them go wild. Only then can they surprise us—or not. Or suppose my mind is a heap of disordered rubble. Somewhere within may lie the ore of precious metal. Thus, in all my human weakness the germ of fresh strength may be discerned. So let me look upon my failures, and my neighbours’, and the world’s, with indulgent affection. Within us gleams something which only needs to be brought out.

*it had everything we needed: bed, chair, cushion, a camping gas stove …*

I must always allow myself to fall out of step with the crowd. For otherwise the ideas in my head will parrot the world’s chatter, of which there is excess already. In withdrawal I can free myself from mental slavery, as advised by Bob Marley. I much dislike sitting at a screen, beating a keyboard tattoo. I want to compose with a fountain-pen, my favourite battered, hand-modified cheap Lamy Nexx, with Registrar’s ink, smooth paper (Optik® that doesn’t bleed through, with lines the right distance apart) in a wire-bound notebook that lies perfectly flat and folds back on itself. It is sensually satisfying, it preserves the moment of composition with all its vehemence or hesitation, its rush or calm.

Unfortunately, my handwriting is almost illegible. I can’t decipher all of it. When I’m gone from this life I don’t suppose anyone will try reading it, but the ink will last a long time. It’s waterproof too. That’s why registrars (of births, marriages and deaths) use it. And I can write daily, whether I’ve “anything to say” or not.

To action alone hast thou a right and never at all to its fruits; let not the fruits of action be thy motive. (Bhagavad Gita)

. . . and if I say that the greatest good of a man is daily to converse about virtue, and all that concerning which you hear me examining myself and others, and that the life which is unexamined is not worth living—that you are still less likely to believe. (Trial and Death of Socrates)

So I examine my life and prepare calmly for death, an event I assume is far away. But I’m one of those who takes an exceptionally long time to get anything done. I should not delay.

*Painting of Norberth Town Hall by Garg-oil: see also his other paintings of Narberth on Flickr*

We camped for a few days in Narberth, West Wales. The conditions were primitive, yet a stone’s throw from the old Town Hall, just behind the building with iron railings at the far right of the painting. We shared our paddock with a sheep, a goat and six hens, four of whom were sociable. The other two, with their refined black & white lacy plumage, stayed close together and delicately aloof from everyone. The goat was constantly looking for mischief. The sheep was just glad to be still alive. He was weary and weak in the legs, but followed the goat around like a devoted fan. His fleece was badly in need of shearing, but was partly shorn by the goat, who nibbled anything, including ivy, newspaper, the sleeves of your cardigan.

And yet all the animals were perfectly-behaved, gentle, seeking and giving love. Once a little dog found its way in and chased two of the sociable hens, who had a hard time of it, being forced reluctantly into the air, till I drove the dog away and its owner called for it from the other side of the tattered fence. Another time some little neighbouring children brought crusts for the hens but kicked the bold ones out of the way to encourage the shy ones. None of this caused lasting trauma.

I wonder if my conversations with the animals took me to a place beyond human language, for there were times I could just be with them and find in myself no thought at all.

friendship between old goat who happily eats anything including this ancient sheep’s wool. She kisses him for helping her keep cool in August

*this hen happily cleans crumbs from the porch of our cabin*

*Karleen wearing my Ted Baker cap, I still wear it today*

me and my leather man-bag eating fruit salad from a stall on the Esplanade. I still wear these clothes today. The man-bag sits on a shelf, unused for years. I’ve a much lighter one for travel these days

11 thoughts on “Touching Earth”

“In writing one can easily spoil the fun by pinning one’s hopes to the idea of harvesting the results.”

Yeah, that's a tough one for me. I'll have to remember that. I've never been big on just diddling around or just writing in a journal off the top of my head. Anytime I've tried, I've just ended up with a bunch of nonsense about nothing.

I've also never been big on sloppy rough drafts, although I've never been one to do multiple revisions either. I work through the material carefully, trying to get it right the first time. This, of course, goes against every recommendation I've ever heard on the matter, and I suppose it makes me a bit of an anomaly, but it works for me. If I had a really sloppy rough draft on my hands I would probably be too depressed by it to see any potential in it, and I would most likely end up throwing it away. That's all wrong, I know.

Still, I do have loads of fun with it, despite all the neuroses that I bring to the table. There's something calming about bringing all your obsessiveness to bear on something, like building one of those tiny, intricate, ships inside of a bottle.

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Never mind every recommendation you’ve ever heard. They’re probably all corrupted by the idea of harvest, measured in dollars, without even being aware of it.

Anyhow, that’s my recommendation. I’ll send you the bill privately, by email. PayPal will do fine.

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“So I examine my life and prepare calmly for death, an event I’m sure is far away, but I’m one of those who takes an exceptionally long time to get anything done.”

That is so pure Vincent. I love it.
And it sounds like you had a lovely relaxing time. And best of all, it seems to have put you in the mood to write again. (smile)

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So… Did you hear the meteor explosion?
I heard it was quite spectacular.

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Uh? When? What? Till you mentioned it I had not even heard about it.

But I love it when you said I had written something pure. You’ve put an ambition my way, which was never there before: to write nothing which is not pure. I think this will result in even less writing.

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Ah. Stuff and nonsense. Unless you are quoting someone else, everything you write is pure Vincent.

And for some reason now I “hear” your words in my head when I read it. And you sound like Ian McKellen.

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Yes, Vincent, these words you've spoken ring true: “Within us gleams something which only needs to be brought out.” Also, the thoughts you've written about before about not trying too hard. The less we try and the more we allow ourselves to spill unselfconsciously onto the page, the purer our thoughts will be.

Lovely photos.

I enjoy communing with creatures. My uncle has a friendly dog who likes to hop and jump when he greets visitors. When I visited recently, he gave me a few friendly barks, plenty of jumps and then he lifted his snout and howled in a way that said he was trying to tell me something. I howled back. I petted the dog and spoke to him and then we went and sat on the couch. He always puts his head in my lap and lifts his head to look in my eyes and I snuggle him and speak to him like he were a baby.

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Your writing is so very moving. I appreciate your thoughts and the beauty of your writing very much.

I adore the photo of your lovely wife touching the goat so lovingly.

This post made my day. Thank you.

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I absolutely adored this post, it had buoyant music running through it, a beat all of its own. The colourful images performed a great supporting role to the musical.

Animals can be very responsive, even sheep, especially if they are used to humans being around. There have been sheep who wanted petting particularly a tickle behind an ear, or a chat over the slate dyke and through the chain link fence.

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