tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-268262922009-12-01T04:22:51.148Z<i>“Days and months are travellers of eternity. So are the years that pass by. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth till they succumb to the weight of years, spend every minute of their lives travelling. There are a great number of ancients, too, who died on the road. I myself have been tempted by the cloud-moving wind---filled with a strong desire to wander.”</i>—Bashō.Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.comBlogger380125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-67350508825952391472009-11-28T10:12:00.003Z2009-11-28T10:35:20.199Z

The postman left a package which felt like a small book. Not expecting any such thing, I was delighted; then opened it, and was Deloitted. Deloitte Touche Tohmatsu is the current incarnation of a company I left in 1985, known then as Touche Ross & Co, Accountants. I was in their management consultancy, but now I’m their pensioner. In the five years I worked there, I always got a diary. The only

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-41785422059287392492009-11-21T23:39:00.012Z2009-11-22T07:17:20.945Z

After my last post, I’ve been drawn to philosophical speculation. How can we talk of one world, except in given contexts, such as world cocoa prices? How can you ask whether there is hope for the world? I would answer, “Whose world are you talking about?” So there must be, in that sense, a multiplicity of worlds, billions of them, which overlap to create this extraordinary illusion of a joint

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-1334633068052378162009-11-13T10:28:00.011Z2009-11-13T19:44:53.401Z

Children these days seem to discover “the world” at a very early age, if my small sample of three grandchildren is anything to go by. Before their fourth birthday, they know how to stretch on tiptoe and describe arcs with the furthest reach of their fingertips, chanting “big as the whole world” as a kind of magic spell, their eyes round with the wonder of it. But they don’t take it seriously.

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-61979162772030895892009-11-10T20:45:00.011Z2009-11-12T13:13:24.201Z

“When I was someone else, that I am not now ...” continued.Let us assume that each one of us contains multiple personalities. Vincent exists in the written word, is not quite the same as his author, who inhabits other dimensions never written down. Vincent is several persons, separated by time-slices, spliced together into fragments of literature.Here is a new garment fabricated from a

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-62115628062613849242009-11-06T06:59:00.018Z2009-11-06T12:34:04.668Z

“When I was someone else, that I am not now ...” this is worth investigating. So said Ghetufool, commenting on one of my recent posts. I agreed the phrase is worth investigating, and it took me back through history, that fascinating subject, both the human and natural kinds, and especially the mysterious parts that we don’t know.Sitting to write here while it’s still dark each morning, I’ve

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-41618387080775839372009-10-30T12:51:00.026Z2009-11-01T08:04:41.903Z

The usual illustration at top right of the post is missing, because I have no photo of the phenomenon I wish to describe, though I’ve seen it several times in recent days, for example from the upper slopes of the hospital grounds, where I can look down upon the town centre in the valley. Around it, hills touch the sky and sometimes a great bank of roseate cloud creates a false horizon on top of

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-49696994811312774322009-10-20T05:08:00.015+01:002009-10-20T07:11:49.417+01:00

What would it be like to be someone else? I suppose this is why we read literature, to see through others’ eyes, gaze into their souls. I like unusual views and the best way to find them in books is to avoid what’s popular today by delving into the past, or seeking out those who’ve chosen a solitary trail, previously untrodden.In ordinary conversation, we look for topics of common interest. In

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-59964303921524489042009-10-13T14:16:00.021+01:002009-10-14T05:08:44.060+01:00

Two years ago, when I’d just moved into this house and couldn’t get online, I’d go to the internet café on the Ledborough Road and compose a blog post in an hour. One post, “Being Ordinary”, is an example, perhaps the only one, and didn’t work out too badly. Where did that simple spontaneity go? Two years ago is distant like childhood— and close at hand like yesterday. The Ledborough Road—having

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-13752074916335711382009-10-07T08:16:00.017+01:002009-10-07T14:05:20.807+01:00

Odour, as complained of in my post Unseen Foe, has been replaced by order, after months of effort. The company responsible for sewerage has written a pleasant letter: “As you are aware our Engineer [—] has visited the site and carried out investigations. Our conclusion is that this is a private issue. Our sewers have been checked and we do not believe the odour is coming from them. It may be

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-83184251072416791612009-09-27T20:56:00.017+01:002009-09-29T21:17:22.283+01:00

It’s tempting with a digital camera to think that a picture is worth a thousand words, so you can just snap something and stick it in a blog, as if it had the power to capture the feeling which made you take the picture. But the camera’s just a soulless eye that delivers aspects of a scene without the accompanying birdsong and fresh morning air. Perhaps you have the empathy to pick up a

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-38719374860373110252009-09-25T15:46:00.005+01:002009-09-25T16:04:36.163+01:00

I wanted to sing the unsung, but the unsung has already been sung, by Fernando Pessoa, who I discovered via Comedies, Conjectures, making the whole blogging project meaningful and eternally validated.After a misspent childhood, youth, manhood and middle-age, I spend my remaining years redoing, reviewing, retracing my own footsteps so that now, ageless, I discover something I sought all those

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-44828816363655034952009-09-15T15:15:00.042+01:002009-09-16T10:12:47.323+01:00

Three years ago my son gave me a denim jacket carrying the Caterpillar label. He’d got it from someone sharing the same student lodgings, who had submitted a number of original designs to Caterpillar. They made a few prototypes and mine is one, perhaps the only one of its exact style in existence. I’ve worn it daily on my wanderings, despite its being a trifle long in the arms and body. No one

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-14794191753339661062009-09-12T12:52:00.019+01:002009-09-12T16:49:28.881+01:00

Deep within me, perhaps within you too, O brother, sister, fellow-traveller in this life! there hides a contemplative nun, who wants to do nothing in this world but observe its wondrous mysteries and pray for its wellbeing. It’s rather disturbing for a man to find this buried beneath his ingrained habit of action—to be always doing, whether or not it’s reasonable: action for the sake of it. I

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-77594208354030123492009-09-06T15:46:00.037+01:002009-09-08T02:39:59.423+01:00

Aerial View of San Francisco in the Fifties showing Coit Tower from avaloncm on flickrConsider the game of peekaboo. In England the mother says “Peep-bo!” when she reappears after hiding, and the baby gurgles in delight. Then she hides again, nothing elaborate, just ducks out of sight, and the baby starts to become anxious. “Peep-bo!” again. Eventually the baby is able to imagine her continued

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-17099019695819165132009-09-03T10:53:00.013+01:002009-09-03T11:24:39.002+01:00

For weeks, probably months, I’ve been bothered by a fugitive stench, hanging in the air at various places, various times, in the kitchen and dining room, not always the same smell. Every mammal knows not to foul its own nest and the sense of outrage at any fouling by others must be etched deep into our genes. As a boy I climbed the sandstone cliffs at Rock-a-Nore, overlooking the sea, to explore

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-16433112225192415932009-09-01T21:44:00.007+01:002009-09-01T22:33:05.736+01:00

It would be idle to inquire why Mr Razumov has left this record behind him. It is inconceivable that he should have wished any human eye to see it. A mysterious impulse of human nature comes into play here. Putting aside Samuel Pepys, who has forced in this way the door of immortality, innumerable people, criminals, saints, philosophers, young girls, statesmen, and simple imbeciles, have kept

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-28653908756794188742009-08-23T09:13:00.012+01:002009-08-23T16:50:50.200+01:00

My body is an instrument, both scientific and musical. I use it to discover the world through the senses. Meanwhile, it vibrates with its own frequencies, for no other purpose but joy and sensuous pleasure. “Body consciousness” needs what Wikipedia calls “disambiguation”. In the media, which is to say in the lowest common denominator of consciousness, it means such things as “Does my bum look big

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-80090538497543781262009-08-21T18:00:00.004+01:002009-08-21T18:08:09.451+01:00

I’ve taken a vow to post here daily, to discover what is happening to me. A million things hit my consciousness each day, so what can I mean? I shall write in accordance with blind compulsion, with no guarantee of truth, other than some poetic kind. “What do you mean by that?” “Dear reader, this is for entertainment only, not public confession! That is what I mean!”I awoke this morning disturbed

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-30660806668679610692009-08-20T13:09:00.011+01:002009-08-20T13:40:00.019+01:00

My life is a series of blessings, like a string of pearls. If a blessing is possible, surely it is bestowed, distributed, not hoarded by a miserly God. And if blessings occur, why should they ever stop? For a blessing by its definition is a supernatural thing. No obstacle stands in its way. So I take it as given that blessings rain down continuously, ready for me to catch in pan or barrel. The

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-26264928983541920752009-07-25T18:00:00.013+01:002009-07-26T08:18:09.214+01:00

The great thing about growing plants—flowers, fruit or vegetables— is that when you grow them close together, or allow random seeds to grow, they arrange themselves. They make accommodation with one another to catch the sun, and achieve a tumbling profusion, such as we may find in wild or semi-wild places. As for my backyard, I dug up some potatoes last Sunday and we had them for lunch. I can

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-30846782312482084572009-07-20T16:13:00.021+01:002009-08-01T15:14:51.597+01:00

I drafted this article five years ago and two years later promised a post on the topic:“I will some time tell here the story of my visit to the Mustardseed community in Jamaica, where I encountered a shining human being. Aged 21, she had been severely brain-damaged from birth and in consequence was no taller than a three-year old. She could not speak, she could not feed herself. Her twisted limbs

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-31127318361869664342009-07-14T14:59:00.014+01:002009-08-15T06:20:41.682+01:00

Mahatma Gandhi tells me I must be the change I want to see in the world. He didn’t say this lightly: you only have to look at his life to see he was deadly serious. Nor do I argue with him, though till now I haven’t bothered myself with consciously wanting any change in the world. It is too complex for me to impose my limited understanding upon it. Conscious of unintended consequences, I’m a bit

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-11456174754550476032009-07-06T15:26:00.015+01:002009-07-06T20:31:01.958+01:00

There is more to being a business consultant than leaving a trail of half-full coffee cups across your client’s office, marking the desks you have visited in the course of your investigations. Your notes also have to be written up into a report revealing valuable insights which, convention has it, your client’s staff could not have achieved by themselves.My task was to carry out a Risk Assessment

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-3960364161494726872009-07-04T21:02:00.015+01:002009-07-30T05:21:23.750+01:00

I had intended to take my well-trodden valley path, a fruitful place for broodings which I’ve several times captured and preserved by posting them on this blog. But a different plan revealed itself as I progressed. The first leg was walking with K to her work at the hospital, about a mile away. After we said goodbye I passed through the back gate on to the main road down the hill. At the front

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26826292.post-44778338583920447312009-06-24T09:32:00.004+01:002009-06-24T09:47:01.472+01:00

I ask myself why I don’t write here more often. Since January 2008, I’ve wanted to post something daily. What prevents? The biggest obstacle is some self-imposed rules, very constraining ones, so that however much I scribble, little emerges to see the light of day. The most important rule is to write from some kind of compelling intensity, preferably an exaltation. Anything less doesn’t seem

Vincenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18297306807695767580noreply@blogger.com12