Thoughts and What Have Yous

Still reading old diaries off and on; more off than on now because my trials and tribulations of long ago follow me into unquiet dreams as well as causing me embarrassment at reminding myself what an unhappy idiot I was, endlessly regurgitating, in great detail, all the reasons why I should have brought that period in my life to an end but never quite having the courage to do so. There were times, there still are, when concentrating very hard I can find myself not altogether unintelligent. Maybe I just wasn't concentrating hard enough.

However, it was all a long time ago. The entry which made me exclaim that nothing ever changes is from the days between Christmas and New Year 1980/81 and runs as follows:

"I'm reading JB Priestley's 'Festival at Farbridge' and some of Louisa Casey's (a character in the novel) reading of the state of people's minds really resonates with me. She says "what's wrong... is just that we don't feel enough. There isn't enough richness and joy and glory in our lives. We're all living this flat sort of existence... if you were glad, you'd light up. Hardly anybody does. How much gladness is there about? Life ought to be wonderful...  instead mountains of misery ... Even all their betting and boozing and sex are dreary, just another kind of routine."

Well, it resonated with me then and it resonates with me now. Priestley's character speaks about the 1950s. Has much changed? I don't think so. Sure, we can blame a lot on the pandemic, even so, it's been a long time since I saw anybody light up. Me included. Is it age which turns the world grey?  What causes us to light up? Falling in love? Winning the lottery? How do we get 'enough richness and joy and glory' into our lives? How do we enjoy ourselves during a period of mingled unhappiness, anxiety and boredom?

I seem to have devoted much of my life to wishful thinking. It was Ellery Queen of all people (yes, yes, I know it's not a real name) who said "No-one outside the realm of fairy tales ever scaled a mountain by standing at its foot and wishing himself over its crest. This is a hard world, and in it achievement requires effort."

Not bad for a whodunnit and how true - wish I could get that bit into my head and live up to it.

This post incorporates a question I have asked in some form or other many times before; I suppose I have reached the age when one doesn’t realise how often one says the same thing and doesn’t really care. One of the many compensations of growing older.

So, anyone, how do we get the joy back into our lives? What works for you?

Midlife Crisis

 It’s only now, when midlife has long passed, that my midlife crisis is hitting me. ( Google says that Midlife crisis” may be another name for the grief, exhaustion, and anxiety that can affect people for a prolonged period between ages 40 and 60. The origins may be physiological, emotional, or societal.) When I was in early midlife my attention was on surviving. Now, in old age, for the first time, motivation is lacking, targets and goals have vanished and there is a panic-stricken feeling that time is not only passing too quickly but also being wasted. Could that just be the effect of Covid? 

I would love to be able to boast that all the idleness under Covid has encouraged me to broaden my horizons, to give serious time to serious reading, to watch critically acclaimed TV programmes, to catch up on concerts, plays and philosophical discussion, documentaries and improving lectures, all widely available digitally. What riches there are to be sampled, what depths to be explored.

No, sadly, what I have done is broadened my bottom instead, sitting for hours, watching endless repeats of ‘Midsomer Murders’ and ‘Morse’ and ‘Poirot’. Yes, I have spent many hours reading, book after book, mainly novels, but of the calibre that needs almost no engagement of brain cells :’Mary Stewart’, Angela Thirkell’, 'Georgette Heyer’, ‘Marcia Willett’, ‘A. Mc Call Smith’, ‘Barbara Pym’, and others, whose names I have forgotten. Whenever that diet of 'warm bath’ literature has become too cloying I have picked up slightly more demanding non-fiction but for the life of me I have not been able to choose the option of reading Kindle-downloaded writers like Hilary Mantel, H. Jacobson, Garcia-Marquez, Sebastian Faulks, or Ian McEwan. I have a highly acclaimed production of Checkhov’s'Uncle Vanya’ recorded, ditto several series of ‘Deutschland’. They are all awaiting less fraught times. For now I need that warm bath escapism. 

I recently had an email from a former blogger who still reads blogs but no longer writes herself, saying that she felt a little intimidated by me, because: " You are so articulate, possessing an air of intellectualism and, with your considerable and impressive knowledge of literate, poetry, art and theatre; your husband, a Classical musician; your friends, most of whom seemed to be cultured and well educated, made it a little daunting to leave a worthwhile comment.”

Well, did you ever! Dear commenter, I don’t know if I am flattered but, if you are reading this, you will have been disabused of your false impression of me for good by this post. Intimidated, Goodness, Gracious Me.

As for further reading material, I picked up my March 81 diary last night, which had the following gem:

“A silly clot from the Gas Board came on Monday. He pronounced our Ascot Boiler unsafe for use. It is now an offence to use the thing. We know all about the danger from gas fumes and we are all quite careful about using the bath or shower, always leaving the window open. Nobody wants to die there, after all. Still, I suppose there will be a letter soon, giving instruction on future use. The silly fool trod in Kavli’s (the cat’s) toilet tray and tipped the whole mess over his shoes. He wasn’t particularly friendly when he came, he was even less friendly when he left."

I found some good advice easily adaptable to pouring over old diaries in "Finding Henry Applebee” by Celia Reynolds:-

"If you want my advice, kiddo, Uncle Frank once told him, you’ll do as I do and think of the past as a casual acquaintance: warmly, but not to the point you want to invite it over for a beer every other night of the week. “

Well said.