Through fiction to reality

 

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF LUIGI ALFREDO

Night Train to Lisbon, by Pascal Mercier, is one of my favourite books. Some time after I first read it we booked a holiday in the Portuguese capital, which prompted a reread and a list of locations mentioned. As part of our trip I made a point of seeking out some of these, and felt a sense of physical connection to the central characters of the novel, a way of making their thoughts a little more real.

Tomorrow morning (at some disgustingly early hour...) we head off to Naples for the first time. The choice of destination was arrived at through various factors to do with price and convenience, and to go somewhere we hadn't been before. It was a late decision, a sudden urge to go somewhere different, and the booking was only made on the 17th of this month. Three days before that we had watched the first episode of an Italian TV detective series, Inspector Ricciardi (Il Commissario Ricciardi in the original), and found it interesting. On the 17th we watched the second installment, having booked our holiday, and only then twigged the connection - the series is set in the city we were heading for, albeit in a 1930s scenario.

Since when we have watched an episode every evening, viewing the finale last night (there are fourteen episodes, of around two hours each, spread across three series). Those daily visits to that (fascist dominated) world gained added interest from knowing that we would soon be walking along the modern version of those scenes. (The series was largely filmed in the city itself.) By the end of our viewing we had formed emotional attachments to several of the characters, and here is an opportunity to keep them going. So a part of our thinking now includes taking in some of those sights which cropped up in the drama (our hotel is, coincidentally, located on a street that gets several mentions) and seek out that same sense of connection mentioned above. The streets of Luigi Alfredo Ricciardi. But without the shadow of Mussolini's thugs...

On being different

 

PEOPLE LIKE WEIRD

I was wearing this tee shirt a couple of days ago. Most days I have some kind of logo or wording on my chest and nobody says anything. So what it it about "Stay Weird" that draws comments?   Twice I had someone say how much they liked it, and this has happened a few times before. No other shirt I wear garners the same level of reaction.

People like weird. We all crave difference, to some degree or other. Something that takes us out of the normal routine same old places, same old thinking. It can be a small change, like a new recipe, or something bigger, like exploring a new city. But how weird do you want it to be?

The Thesaurus offers up these alternative synonyms for Weird. Lots to choose from. And the truth is that one person's normal is another's weird. Your personal 'weird' is very much a contextual concept, deriving from your own experiences of growing up and the life you've found yourself living. So maybe that's why people like the shirt. They can see their own 'weird' in it, without any explanation required. We all have a part of ourselves that likes the idea of being a bit weird, having some part of us that is different to others. It might be wearing colourful socks. It might be going out dressed as a character from fantasy fiction. But all that matters is the feeling that it's your own little individual quirk, one of the things that makes you unique. So be your own weird.

Who put the lights out?

 

SKY DRAMA

No, not the TV people, but that thing up above that's been bright blue for a few days. And the big yellow shiny thing, purveyor of heat and light. Scotland melting. Gingers hiding in basements. Taps aff and lobster skin. Ice cream sales rocketing. Tempers faltering. Who needs the Med?

And then last night. Bedroom lit by flashes, resounding to rumbles, from that self-same sky. Sitting at my desk this morning, straining to see the words on the page in front of me, realising that the only way I could see the keyboard was from the light of the screen. This at 08.30.

Two hours further on now, the light has returned, there are blue patches in the clouds above. The internet full of videos of the storm, the neon jolts flashing above Arthur's Seat. Now just memories.

Nature provides us with drama. I just wish humankind wasn't doing it's worst to up the melodrama...

(Photo nicked from Reddit, but credited as being from last night.)

They 'know', do they?

 

ADDICTIONS

Addicts are manipulative. Often cunning, their desperation not to be 'found out' leads them into behaviour designed to hide their addiction from others, especially those closest to them. Be it drugs, alcohol, gambling or whatever, the stories of partners and spouses who have been the subjects of long term deception by the person they live with are countless. While this article is primarily about addicts of substance abuse, much of it applies to other addictions too.

This BBC post gives information about the items Peter Murrell purchased through his embezzlement of SNP party funds. Do you notice a pattern, a rationale behind the list? A sense of purpose? Some way of improving the person's life in the long term? Because I can't. The list provides no rational motivation. Unless. You see it as addiction. Shopping addiction. Trying to live a pretend life. Then you can see some reason for it all.

And why, as an addict, he could be so good at concealing what he was up to. There was a multi year, multi million pound police investigation, which found evidence that Murrell (and only Murrell) had been involved in the deception. But the allegations are still rife that others, especially his wife Nicola Sturgeon, must have been involved. Refer back to my opening paragraph...

Of course the allegations are largely politically motivated, or coming from those, like Joanna Cherry, who have a grudge to exercise. The loudest voices are from the far right, but it's noticeable that the fascists of Deform are also the first to shout down talk of investigations into the financing of all parties. Hmm, their proven links to Putin couldn't have anything to do with that, could they?

The accusers tell the world that they 'know' Sturgeon is guilty. And probably John Swinney too. If I think I know something it's usually because I have some evidence of it being true, so have these people been guilty of withholding evidence from a major police investigation? Or is 'know' shorthand for 'wish it was true that'? Because if wishes made things true mine would mean we didn't have seventeen fascists sitting in our national parliament. But there they are, including the grubby Thomas Kerr, and their presence and constant hate speech made the recent racist knife attack here seem somehow inevitable. This is what fascism brings. Along with a total disdain and lack of understanding of mental illnesses, like addiction...

The Crackerjack connection

 

THE MIND MOVES IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS... THEN FORGETS ALL ABOUT IT

My brain made a random (and initially incorrect) connection yesterday. It was 10 o'clock, precisely. On a Friday. Suddenly the jump was made. It's Friday, it's 5 o'clock, it's Crackerjack. Why? I've no idea, as this was something I hadn't thought about in decades.

For those not in the know, Crackerjack was a children's TV programme. A variety show with comedy, sketches, music, and quizzes where kids from the audience took part. My incorrect link was that the time would have been 5 to 5, and not 5 itself. But, at that moment, the only other thing that came to mind were the names of 2 of the presenters, who ran the show during the period of my childhood, the sixties, when I would have been watching - Leslie Crowther and Peter Glaze. Beyond that I recalled nothing of the detail of the format or content.

I mentioned this sudden memory to Barbara and she was off... so many other details, other people who appeared. She remembered the cabbages, which kids who answered questions wrongly had to hold. How could I forget that? But it's a blank. Even reading the Wikipedia entry for the programme didn't jolt any real memories, other than knowing it was one of those shows I tried not to miss when I was a wee kid. So how come she remembers this stuff, and I don't?

This has come up before, that she has so many detailed memories of growing up, whilst much of mine is fuzzy, uncertain of periods and places, full of inaccuracies and doubt. She says she can recall something that happened when she was 3. I might have some early memories, but I think most are actually suggestions, stories I've been told later. My first real memory, I can place reasonably accurately, was around the time I turned 5, when I fractured my left wrist.

This has happened to me elsewhere, that realisation that others have far greater clarity about their early years than I do. A decade and more ago someone organised a reunion of our primary school class, so ages 5 to 11. I recalled most names and some faces of my classmates. I could remember the school itself, and that for our final year we moved to a new building. I could just about recall a couple of the teachers. But that was it. Yet so many there brought up arcane details of teachers and their habits, games played, lessons taken, projects we did. I sat back and listened and none of it really registered, or parked genuine memories. One of the guys had become a music teacher at the secondary school I had switched to, and asked me to sing the school song. While I didn't even know there was a song... So the memory fog continued into my teenage years.

Is this common, or am I the odd one out here? Do most people have these detailed memories of growing up, that I seem to lack? And if so, where lies the source of my failings? Is it being an only child, meaning I never had anyone to discuss stuff with? There weren't really any close friends either. Do shared memories survive better than those experienced alone? Does discussion implant the image in the brain?

I don't find any of this disturbing. It doesn't make me sad, just curious. It's too late to ask anyone, so I'm happy in my ignorance. The only person I know from those times I met at school at age 14, and we didn't really become close friends until we were adults. So there's only a bit of shared school stuff there, nothing really wider.

Maybe I don't have sufficient curiosity in my nature? Or I lack the necessary sentimentality? Does it matter? There were events in my past that shaped me, even if I can't dredge them up now. It's all in the past. But I do remember that Leslie and Peter made me laugh.