My favourite african song Translation
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Letters from Ward 1 . . .
The book which we'll continue to read in bed when I get home From chapter 2 of the book we're reading: Mix of dialects in an old Caribbean country ---likely Jamaica I just found this after a cannula had been removed The other side From my bed I can see my own private washbasin and… Continue reading Letters from Ward 1 . . .
First letter from Ward 1
Below you'll find our current reading book, which will be resumed as soon as I no longer need to be luxuriously immured in Stoke Mandeville Hospital. — click title to read on ... By my bedside: looks like an old-fashioned bicycle basket Selfie showing washbasin and own wetroom Here's my swing-over bedside table showing my… Continue reading First letter from Ward 1
In the bleak midwinter
On Christmas Day 2022 I recall a walk near home in Advent 2006
The Origins of Speech, according to Wittgenstein
THE BROWN BOOKI Augustine, in describing his learning of language, says that he was taught to speak by learning the names of things. It is clear that who-ever says this has in mind the way in which a child learns such words as "man", "sugar", "table", etc. He does not primarily think of such words… Continue reading The Origins of Speech, according to Wittgenstein
The Gift Horse
Why do I have to be so like my grandfather? He bought a cheap Ford in 1935 and didn’t give it up, just replaced parts as necessary, till his younger daughter in 1967 (my mother's sister Peggy) told him time was up. Then he drove her VW Beetle till, in his late eighties, he managed… Continue reading The Gift Horse
Meeting myself
last night's dream: I have just dyed my hair orange: a sort of coppery burnt-sienna. I have decided to take up smoking again after all these years, so I leave the house to buy half an ounce of Golden Virginia and some rolling-papers. Do they still sell tobacco in half-ounces, I wonder. Perhaps I will… Continue reading Meeting myself
Vincent van Gogh
What is it to be oneself? "V" commented on my last, à propos Vincent van Gogh, thus: He was being himself and being well-adjusted to society and his personal circumstances. He became a victim too. Being oneself doesn’t immune anyone from insanity. Well, actually being oneself doesn’t really mean anything. Doesn't mean anything? Sure, it… Continue reading Vincent van Gogh
Angelic omens
At 8am I heard the refuse collection lorry. I dashed out, for I hadn’t wheeled out a bin to prepare for its arrival. One of the men saw my plight and kindly came back to empty it, so that was pleasing, till I discovered I had locked myself out: no mobile phone, no money, no… Continue reading Angelic omens
Root and Flower
I am drawn to the root of my existence, but it's hidden. If I dig it up to try and take a look, the plant will be disturbed. But then there is the possibility of writing, which is why I'm doing this now. The flower is the root's expression, its way of interacting with the… Continue reading Root and Flower
Altering the past
Heavy rain outside the house at sunset A friend points out that the reason I am not getting many comments here is that I don’t reply to many of them. I appreciate them all and am excited to receive them. They are helpful and encouraging. What’s my excuse for not responding lately? Well, the impact… Continue reading Altering the past
The Holy Ghost
Image from The Blake Archive To Paul from Vincent continued. And also to Jim. I felt uneasy after my last post, as if something had been left out. I continued to add comments as afterthoughts, but that did not fix the unease. Have you noticed that barely an hour goes past in our waking life… Continue reading The Holy Ghost
To the Reader
What you see started off as playing with the Blogger software, to see what it could do. So it’s an experiment, but not limited to technical stuff. What I write may be fact or fiction, anything I freely choose; until you add a comment, and it may be a dialogue. Who knows where it might… Continue reading To the Reader