Self-Winding · A Sort of Progression

I leave the warm room that smells of clementines,
Leave crumbs and empty glasses, nutshells on the floor.
There are echoes of carols, fire-shadows of ivy on white walls.
I blow out the candles, red and green in jars,
Their curls of smoke scented with spice and pine,

Pick up used story books and late-delivered cards,
Watch tail lights vanish down the drive.
Old clocks tick time away; jewel lights outside
Blink steadily beneath the winking stars.

Out into a Christmas night where the dark is singing,
But not with angels.
Distantly a tawny calls, then flies a little further on
And calls again.
I stand quiet and feel the world turn.


A Happy Christmas to you

Friday 2p.m. Men, about a dozen, are gathered round the cricket club bar, the air is full of smoke, tables up by the dart board are covered in buffet food under plastic wrap. The host comes forward, he offers wine and welcome then turns back to the bar. This Christmas party for his workers will also include a few women who have not yet arrived, apart from me.

At a small round table behind a vast glass of Guinness sits a balding chap, sweet-faced, sixtyish, grey suit, gold signet ring - "Ah, is dat you Anna? Come here, come here, and you are a beautiful soight, give us a kiss, sit down now by me here. Sure I have the luck of the most lovely woman in the room."

"Hello, Paddy, indeed you have the only woman in the room. As usual. You're looking very good yourself. How's life?"

"Not so hot, Anna, bloody terrible to be honest. Not much work about and what ya get is mostly the drains just now. Then I've been back home to Cork this last fortnight to bury me Ma - she nearly made the hundred. Just faded off."

"I'm so sorry. Did you have a wake for her?

"Oh yah, yah, a good one too. She was somethin, my Ma, she loved the whisky, three bottles a week she took and she was puffin away right to the end. We had a good one, yes. Sure, I come out of it and went right off to sleep on the bonnet of me car. Good wake."

"I'm glad you kept up your reputation, Paddy. How's your wife?"

"Let's not talk about that, can I get you another? Don't move now I'll be back"......."Ah, that's good stuff. Smashin to sit here talkin, you're a lovely woman, now hold my hand now, we Irish must stick together. Was it the Molloys you were from? Tipperary was it? Lovely women, Tipperary. Do you like the horses? Are you with anyone just now?"

"Yes, he'll be down in a little while. But we can have the craic for a ..."

His eyes swivel; in a rush of cold air, a young woman comes through the door, jeans and high-heeled boots, white puffer jacket. She settles on a stool by the bar.

"Ah, now I think I'll get a refill, will you excuse me, Anna...."

"A Guinness please, Roy. Hello there, aren't you sight to behold, a lovely young thing, let me get you a drink now and if you're nice I have a tip for Sandown tomorrow..."

To soothe my current word aversion I've had a bit of fun looking at pictures. Jonathon Jones of the Guardian started his list on the Blog last month with the first twenty of a projected fifty art works that he suggested should be seen face to face before you depart this earth. The public's choice has subsequently been made and published over there.

Naturally I was tempted to think up my own. In this picture set are twenty artworks - the much loved ones that sprang immediately to my mind rather than rather than pinnacles of world art. Thus my list is not definitive but suggestive and I have been interpretive of the original Guardian concept. I have annotated them and given dates and locations. I enjoyed it a lot. It would be great if you could do your own list, or perhaps mention a few that you would choose in the comments box.

I am weary of words, and mostly of journalism, its chatter, review, criticism, self-analysis. Old stuff rehashed, trends, innovations, prognostications, exposes, blamings, mea culpas. Piles of words, mountains.

On my chairside table was a stack of half-read newspapers, clips clasping torn-out articles to read later, print-outs from web pages, tonight they all went in the bin, unread. I took a slug of supplements in to dinner; A.A. Gill on Monty Don, Toulouse-Lautrec re-reassessed, Snowdon on Snowdon on Snowdon, Cantona as film star, Rod Liddle beliddleing, ethical Christmas gifts, me and my cancer, Clint and Jude, D&G, LBD, and living in Second Life. I wanted none of it, none. I did the crossword.

I sat down at the PC and fell, like Alice to some mad playground, into Will Self's writing room. Another hell-hole of words.

And why should I add anything at all to the sum of it, what have I got to say? Sod all. I have just spent a week finishing off the last chapter of a small book of memoirs now ready for the local print shop; and twenty-six letters, plus a ziggurat of Christmas cards that I posted tonight. Now, I put my hands to the keyboard and say to myself, "Write something." Well, I'll be buggered if I will.

As the surrounding garden trees get larger they appear to be advancing towards the house. Birch & oak that seemed comfortably to scale only a year or two ago now look threatening, especially when I have been hearing forecasts of 100 mile an hour January gales. We are sacrificing light to greenery and squirrels play tag and set up home where once all we saw were clouds and sunsets.

As the low autumn light drops behind the pines after midday, we are in shadow. I sometimes feel like la belle au bois dormant, (more, la pas trop mal au bois dormant) - expecting brambles to curl round my ankles as I'm washing the windows. If the branches get much closer I'll cross my arms on my breast, sleep and wait for the Prince to arrive. He might fit it in on his way past here to Sandringham - he has been spotted from time to time.

But it's not a prince I need, it's a woodcutter and about £600. I'll have to have four or five taken down - including my lovely birch that scatters leaves of glittering gold coin into the autumn sunlight. I'm about to talk to the two chaps who tackled the big fir a while ago. One must be careful, felling oak, it's much frowned upon by tree preservation bods; we will only thin out the smaller ones, the big boys are already protected.

Immediately, though, it is sufficient pleasure that the last oak leaves have fallen and I may look out as I peel the spuds to see blue space and the effects of sunshine lighting bare yellow poplars by the river. The seven horses next door reappear too and it's enjoyable to watch them roll and canter in their enclosures. The two greys look so romantic in the wind with their manes and tails flying - excellent steeds for a prince, should one prove necessary.

'Learning how little you knew, back when you knew it all.' Robert Brady on re-reading the classics.

'Photos always carry many meanings. The first meaning for the viewer is the associations which the syntax of the photo and its apparent subject matter, call up in him or her. A good photo will have also have a message which can be poetic or political and a natural grace which conflicts with the subject matter or enhances it.' Michael Hughes.

True Stories is his absorbing set of portraits, each with its story. To achieve something like this would be the summit of my ambition. (Link via Mark)

'According to Jo's description of Cape Cod Morning (1950) in the record book, Hopper had been painting fields in September with a 'blondish housewife (appraising early A.M. weather) in pink cotton dress.' She noted that the 'painting went off speedily...' She claimed: 'It's a woman looking out to see if the weather's good enough to hang out her wash,' prompting Hopper to rejoin: 'Did I say that? You're making it Norman Rockwell. From my point of view she's just looking out the window, just looking out the window.'

Detail from Annie Proulx' exquisitely written essay on Hopper. There are more highly palatable essays at her website. I treat myself to one from time to time. Graham gave her to me, for which I am always grateful.

Leonid Pasternak: At The Window: Autumn 1913
There's another good window painting The Night before the Exam at the foot of the linked article.

It was nearly a case of one deceased blogger last night. I use an enormous rechargeable torch which tells you when its battery is low. Hens locked up, I walked down the drive to put a note through a neighbour's door. In the silent, starry night I dawdled back gazing upwards. Something moved in the wild patch among the willows, I brought up the torch and switched on. A raucous, loud voice shouted right under my nose "Do not use, do not use, recharge, recharge." My heart stopped, I ran involuntarily (into the hedge) and screamed. Damned thing, it almost did for me this time.

Speaking of which, we went to a funeral today; I've had so many rehearsals that I'm getting to be an aficionado. The poor performance that most clergy put up on these occasions is beginning to make me very cross. I don't want a lecture on my salvation, I want focused attention paid to my friend who has come in front of me for this last time.

I despise the blatantly bored cleric who drones on about how my friend hasn't really gone away, we are not children and such textbook platitudes do nothing to console. I want to hear a little about a life, or a personality: doesn't have to be much, just some mark to signal who is leaving. Then, because I do believe, I am happy to pray and sing with the best. The most marvellous service I ever attended was a Humanist funeral at which a layman presided: every moment reflected some facet of the young woman who had died, all wept, but in our hearts there was a sweet satisfaction that we had done her justice.

To lighten up, we went to Casino Royale on Monday and it was everything the critics promised; pacey, intelligent, edgy, different. The Bond stereotype that has always made me yawn was gone; instead, there was a good script, action using real blood & sweat, above-average acting and, well.....you know.

Children's jokes from Radio 4's "Ha ha art".

- What do you call a surrealist wearing boxing gloves. MohammeDali.

- Van Gogh to friends who offer to by him a drink "No, thanks, I've got one ear."

- Mona Lisa is in court for GBH. She claims she's been framed.

- A man is refused entry to a function by a security guard.
"I am an artist, you must let me in."
"Sez who?"
"Cezanne."