Recursive Words

I’m probably going to be buying books I don’t need from shops I should have walked past.

For the last several years – since the children were old enough – we have escaped for a long weekend in the spring to visit a European city. Just the two of us. An escape from life, work, and whatever else for a few days – walking city streets, and wandering around museums, galleries, and bookshops – and perhaps trying out local food and drinks along the way.

This year we’re not going quite so far afield.

At some point tomorrow morning we’re getting in the car and heading off towards Hay on Wye – a small town in the Welsh borders. It’s perhaps best known for hosting a huge literary festival each year – where famous authors and publishers congregate to meet the public.

We’re not going for the literary festival – we’re just going because we’ve never visited. I’m reliably informed that the town is filled with bookshops. Those that know about the tower of unread books behind me will no doubt have started grinning – in the same way you might at a grand piano dangling precariously from a Harold Lloyd upstairs window.

So yes. I’m probably going to be buying books I don’t need from shops I should have walked past. We’ll also explore – go for walks – try out the local beer – find a quiet café or two. It would be rude not to.

Most of all, we’ll try to slow down. Switch off.

The last few months have been… a lot.

Of course the temptation – as all parents know – is to talk endlessly about everything going on as soon as you’re away from it. We’re going to consciously try NOT to do that.

If I can find a second hand Hemingway in the back of a quaint little shop in the middle of a small town in the Welsh borders, and sit in a quiet corner at the back of public house somewhere to read it and escape for a little while, I’ll be more than happy.

I can still remember my youngest asking “Why is Katie crying?” – I can remember my response too – “because some people are horrible”.

I’m watching the minutes tick down at the end of a three-day weekend and find myself wondering where the time has gone. In truth, it’s been a fairly quiet weekend. Sometimes, quiet is good.

I spent much of the weekend recording content for YouTube—test-flying in-development aircraft for software developers, doing “first looks” at various other new aircraft, and going on a mad-cap tour of the so-called “Deadly” and “Not So Deadly” bush strips in Idaho.

How do you tell somebody that with no prior idea of the subject matter that you’ve been recording a video about “bush strips”? Stop giggling – you’ll make me start.

The YouTube channel crossed through 40,000 subscribers this weekend. I didn’t even realise – somebody watching the live stream on Saturday realised and shouted it out. The kids are waiting for me to reach 100,000 after which point I think I get a plaque from YouTube.

Anyway.

This evening we escaped the house for a couple of hours before dinner and wandered to the local pub with friends. Somehow one drink turned into three. While catching up on what we’ve all been up to, the subject of running came up. I don’t think I’m going to get away with “not running” for much longer – quite apart from my conscience kicking one side of my head in, I now have peer pressure on the other side.

A wonderful friend in Cornwall re-started the “Couch to 5K” a few weeks ago. I might have to follow in her footsteps – I’ve not run for about 18 months. She’s doing amazingly well and is unwittingly serving as inspiration.

While writing this, Owl City has arrived on Spotify. Fireflies.

Talking of Owl City, I bought a Carly Rae Jepsen album a few weeks ago. She collaborated with Owl City on “Good Time”. Can you believe that was 13 years ago?

Tonight my friends were shocked, stunned and amazed to discover I don’t own a Katie Perry album (yet). I think the presumption originates from me taking the girls to see the Katie Perry movie back in the day – and returning home having liked it. I can still remember my youngest asking “Why is Katie crying?” (during the scene where her then fiancé dumps her minutes before going on-stage for a huge concert). I can remember my response too – “because some people are horrible”.

I should be getting ready for bed. Or fetching the washing in. A part of me wants to leave it on the line overnight, but another part knows that I’ll only have to fetch it tomorrow. I’m a bit of a bugger for keeping going and going and going to make tomorrow easier – but it never works because more crap arrives tomorrow – and every tomorrow.

“Every Tomorrow” sounds like it should be the title of book. Maybe the book I haven’t written yet.

I started wondering if there might be some way we could be somewhere on the internet together – being present without being present.

A few months ago I found myself sitting in the dark of the junk room in the dead of night, writing a blog post, and wondered how many other people were doing the same thing.

I started wondering if there might be some way we could be somewhere on the internet together – being present without being present. A place with little or no requirements or expectations – where people could hang out while writing, and share as little or as much as they want about what they are writing, what they would like to write, why they like writing, what they find challenging about writing, and everything in-between.

Tonight I built it.

A new Discord server came into existence tonight, called “The Midnight Writing Club” – with a simple URL that can be shared far and wide (please share it!):

https://bit.ly/jointhemidnightwritingclub

To begin with it’s somewhat sparse – and that’s by design. You’ll find a place to introduce yourself, a forum to chat with the community about whatever comes to mind, and a couple of “live” channels where you can talk, share your screen, or even share your webcam.

One of the voice channels it called “Quiet Corner” – so you can leave your webcam on (if you wish) while writing, but nobody can actually talk to you. A bit like sitting in the corner of the library. You can be present, without being present. You might find yourself sitting in a group of fellow writers (if the community grows), all writing, and somehow a little less alone than they were before.

It’s going to be an interesting experiment.

Click the link, and go visit!

How does a fifty-something grown-ass man walk up to a soft toy in the street, pick it up, and then explain it’s for him? That he felt sorry for it?

While walking home from town earlier today I happened upon a huge unwanted soft-toy of an elephant, sitting quietly at the end of somebody’s driveway, with a cardboard sign propped against it with the word “free” written on it.

I’m not quite sure why, but it really affected me.

The elephant had such a hopeful smile on it’s face. Suddenly my thoughts were flooded with happier times that might have been – of the elephant being loved by a child, holding pride of place on their bed, or snuggling up with the rest of the soft toys in a hopelessly untidy bedroom.

I almost went back for it – to save it.

But how does a fifty-something grown-ass man walk up to a soft toy in the street, pick it up, and then explain it’s for him? That he felt sorry for it?

While walking the rest of the way home I smiled at the predisposition I seem to have to anthropamorphise just about anything. I quite often find myself projecting emotions onto inanimate objects. I know it’s a bit mad. It could be anything from the mug at the back of the kitchen cupboard that rarely gets used and feels left out, to the book in the corner of the bookshelf that was never read and never got to tell it’s story.

It’s now twelve hours later, and I’m half tempted to go back in the early hours and save the elephant – otherwise I might not sleep.

The pizza arrived, and I handed over control of the music system to my youthful charge – showing her how to connect to it via Bluetooth. With hindsight, this was probably a mistake.

While everybody else was doing other things this evening I found myself spending a rare evening with my youngest daughter – just the two of us. I was pretty determined we should spend some time together, rather than fall into the all-too-common rut of her sloping off to her bedroom to chat with friends on her own.

I ordered a pizza from Dominos, and turned the record player on.

While waiting for the pizza to arrive and sharing a can of cold beer we found in the back of the fridge we went on something of a musical journey together – and turned the volume up to 11.

We’re never usually allowed to turn music up. There’s a saying about mice playing while the cat’s away, isn’t there? Well these mice figured out how to put Spotify through the record player speakers.

Oh the fun we had.

Can I just say – if you didn’t already know – the first track on Elton’s new album “The Rose of Laura Nyro” sounds much better turned up to 11 on a decent sound system. I think it hit home with my accomplice too.

The pizza arrived, and I handed over control of the music system to my youthful charge – showing her how to connect to it via Bluetooth. With hindsight, this was probably a mistake.

Within minutes we transitioned from Lady Gaga, Lewis Capaldi, and Jess Glynne to the Witch Doctor, the Macarena, and Cha Cha Slide.

In a fit of idiocy – more to make my daughter laugh than anything – I allowed her to try to teach me the Cha Cha Slide. Oh how we laughed. Proper laughter. Mostly at me, not with me, but I didn’t mind. Let’s just say I’m never going to be a dancer (and it’s a bit late to consider a career change anyway).

Of course I already knew the dances – but she didn’t have to know that.

We clowned around for a couple of hours, and had so much fun. It’s funny, isn’t it – we could have gone to the pub for dinner and pretended we were socialites. Instead we stayed home, ate pizza, played music, danced, and laughed at each other until our sides hurt.

After going our separate ways later in the evening I overheard her talking to her sister on the phone:

“We just had the best time – listening to music, eating pizza, and drinking beer. You should have seen Dad trying to do Cha Cha Slide”.

A huge smile crept across my face.

In years gone by, she would have scoffed at any of the music I subjected her to. This evening she listened and enjoyed. I think she’s turned the corner from hating things just because they’re “something my parents like”. This evening she re-discovered Madonna, Wilson Phillips, Shania Twain, Kylie, and more. Sure, she’s heard on them on the radio, and around the house – but never turned up to 11. They hit differently at 11.

She watched Madonna’s “Cherish” video in absolute silence with half a slice of pizza in her hand – utterly captivated.

Blog posts about blogging are insufferable at the best of times. Let’s just say “I’ve moved house”, and leave it at that.

After conducting all manner of covert experiments in recent days and weeks – driven by a creeping disdain for the continued and increasingly brazen commoditisation of readers by the major online publishing platforms – I’ve pulled the trigger on a somewhat seismic change.

My personal journal – recently called “Recursive Words” – is leaving Substack. I’ve paid for a year’s worth of hosting at Ghost, and have migrated this years posts over. I’ve also migrated my wonderful subscribers – if you were receiving emails before, you’ll still receive them. You don’t have to do anything.

In recent months I’ve received quite a bit of feedback from readers that Substack was increasingly doing the hard sell on them – pushing to install an app, then filling that app with unwanted content, and subsequently lighting their phone up with notifications. It doesn’t help that Substack has become popular among the celebrity crowd – who have legions of agents monetising everything they say and do. Their orbits are incredibly destructive.

In many ways I find myself tilting at the blogging platforms as Don Quixote might have. I could self-host Ghost if I wanted to. That they have a hosted service, for a fee, means you are not subject to any spam. All you’ll get on the internet is my words, and all you’ll get in your email is my words. It’s that simple. That’s why I’ve done it.

You’ll notice in the new blog that you can become a member – you can subscribe. All that means is your email address is stored so you’ll receive an update when I publish anything. It also means you can comment. When you login to the blog, it will ask for your email address – then email you a link that logs you in. No passwords. Once you’re logged in, you can comment. It’s as simple as that. Your email address is never given out, shared, or exposed.

I like simple things.

It will surprise nobody that I tried out WordPress (again), Squarespace, and Wix en-route to deciding on a platform. I have opinions on all of them, should anybody ask. In truth, I had wished both Squarespace and Wix had been better than they turned out – but here we are. I even tried Jekyll out a few weeks ago (a lunchtime I won’t get back in a hurry).

Anyway.

I’ll stop waffling on – blog posts about blogging and online publishing platforms are insufferable at the best of times. Let’s just say “I’ve moved house”, and leave it at that.

Did I tell you I bought a Nintendo Switch? I have a little guy living in Animal Crossing now. My other half reliably informs me that I need to put more effort in. He’s still living in a tent, and sleeping on a camp bed. He’s also going to be in debt to Tom Nook for the term of his natural life.

While tinkering with something on the internet this evening – and shaking my head at my own idiocy when it comes to not only finding rabbit holes, but actively digging them.

While tinkering with something on the internet this evening – and shaking my head at my own idiocy when it comes to not only finding rabbit holes, but actively digging them – I started reading old blog posts. Snapshots of my life from years gone by.

While reading, I happened upon a post from the distant past about a new friend I had made on the internet, and how rarely that seemed to happen any more. I smiled, and wished I could step back in time and reassure myself that no – it still doesn’t happen – all these years later.

It got me thinking – wondering really – about the old friend – so I pulled on my pretend backpack and set off across the World Wide Web to perhaps find them. A few minutes later I met a “domain expired” page, and my heart sank. The internet equivalent of turning up at your best friend’s house to discover their house boarded up.

A voice on my shoulder whispered words to the effect of “shouldn’t their blog still live on a subdomain?” – so I tried out a few different versions of their name. On the third try, the once mighty WordPress must have felt sorry for me, and in the manner of a postman that used to deliver post to the address I was trying, he suggested I try the address written on a scrap of paper he handed to me.

And that’s how their goodbye message appeared on my screen. A wonderfully written post about their blogging journey – sharing thoughts, stories and adventures – that had come to it’s natural conclusion.

My heart didn’t so much sink, as audibly thump into the floor.

I continued reading, and got a bit emotional. I was mentioned – in the final post that nobody could see any more. Even though neither of us had reached out for quite some time, I had not been forgotten.

Of course then I set about finding a way – any way – to let them know I had read their words. To let them know they will be missed. To let them know that I had not forgotten either. I received word back a few minutes later, and began pulling myself back together.

I’m a silly sod sometimes.

It has got me thinking though – about how rare it is to find a friend on the internet these days – and how much we should protect, cherish, and nurture it when it happens. As the speed of everything increases, and as so many draws for our attention surround us, it seems to have become increasingly rare for anybody to notice anyone any more.

We’re all one click away from being forgotten. One click away from being swallowed in the torrent that passes on each side of the islands we stand upon.

You know the funny thing? The “last post” was posted today – on the very day that I happened to go looking. When I realised, I smiled.

Serendipity is a wonderful thing.

How is it that if you look away for a few minutes, several days hurtle past? I guess it was a short week anyway – following the Easter long weekend – but still… it feels like I’ve been out of the loop forever.

How is it that if you look away for a few minutes, several days hurtle past? I guess it was a short week anyway – following the Easter long weekend – but still… it feels like I’ve been out of the loop forever.

Last weekend we were invited to visit some wonderful friends, and spent the evening catching up with each other’s adventures. Following that we used the end of the long week to visit a National Trust property to wander around it’s gardens in the rain – making the best of it in stereotypically English fashion. Tonight we went out for a meal with co-workers to celebrate the retirement of somebody I’ve worked with for 25 years.

It only just occurred to me that I’ve worked with him for 25 years. How mad is that? Who works at the same place for a quarter of a century any more? I can still remember my first meeting with him – he interviewed me. Actually – that’s a lie – I went in for an “informal chat”, that turned into a more formal chat, that turned into a job offer.

I’ve no idea if I’ll ever see him again. The offer is there – to call in and visit if we’re ever nearby – but you kind of know in your heart that it’s “goodbye”. Not in a sad way – just a pragmatic “the world carries on” kind of way.

Anyway.

It’s getting late. I’ll try to unpack some more from my head over the weekend. There’s quite a bit to unpack. Trying to find words to neatly package thoughts isn’t always easy. It used to be. I need to find my way back to that.

As ever, perhaps running is the answer.

It’s Easter Sunday Morning. I’m sitting in the junk room, eating chocolate at 11am. It seems wrong somehow. I probably need the chocolate – after staying up until 3:30am last night waiting for my middle daughter to get home from work. She’s up too,

It’s Easter Sunday Morning. I’m sitting in the junk room, eating chocolate at 11am. It seems wrong somehow. I probably need the chocolate – after staying up until 3:30am last night waiting for my middle daughter to get home from work. She’s up too, and making chocolate brownies in the kitchen.

I wonder if people that work in chocolate factories can’t stand the sight or smell of it? I know M&Ms have a distinct smell – from the times we have visited M&M’s World in London. It’s a strange acrid sugar smell.

I remember watching a scientific demonstration of our body’s defences against “too much of a good thing” on the internet years ago. A tutor asked the members of a class to volunteer if they liked pop-tarts. Somebody was chosen from the class, and given a box full of pop-tarts, and instructed to try to eat them – one after another – with no break – but to stop if they started to feel sick.

It was interesting – after perhaps the third pop-tart, the student felt sick and couldn’t carry on. The tutor explained about the physiological reaction going on inside the body – that the brain will change how it processes taste receptors – and that in extreme situations it will begin to form the same response it does to a virus – essentially building a defence against the substance that is causing the overload. It doesn’t always get it right either – which is how food intollerances and allergies happen.

I remember talking to a friend years ago that had lived in Japan for some time – he remarked that you could broadly group Japanese people into “those that can deal with alcohol” (at all), and “those that cannot”. It’s not just a tolerance thing – it appears to be genetic – in the same way that some people’s urine smells awful if they eat asparagus.

I wonder how much coffee I can consume before my body decides to form defences against it? Perhaps it already has – people are often shocked to discover I can drink coffee throughout the evening and still fall asleep within moments of falling into bed.

Anyway.

I better get on. My in-laws are arriving in a bit – we’re wandering into town together for lunch.

This evening we’ve been invited over to our neighbours for a drink or three – I haven’t seen any of them for months, so it will be a good chance to kick back, relax, and catch up. I’m looking forward to it.

Every day seems to crash into the next at the moment. A never ending trudge towards nowhere in particular. Somehow almost a week has passed since I last wrote. Life keeps happening. Or rather, work keeps happening.

Every day seems to crash into the next at the moment. A never ending trudge towards nowhere in particular. Somehow almost a week has passed since I last wrote. Life keeps happening. Or rather, work keeps happening.

I’ve been parachuted into a sizeable project that I have no real part in, and have been on a vertical learning curve to at least understand what it’s all about. Hours and hours have been spent watching recorded meetings, reading scraps of documentation, and faking confidence.

Anyway.

I cut the lawn after work this evening. I’m not sure why I’m writing about it. The overriding thought was “if I get this done, I won’t have to do it at the weekend”. That sentiment drives much of my life at the moment.

While writing this, Suzanne Vega is singing “Marlene on the Wall”.

How is it 1am already? Where did the evening go? I’m half-watching Google Maps – to see my middle daughter finish her shift at the pub and begin making her way home. One of us typically stays up when she’s working late. The 3am finishes are no joke.

Maybe I should start a late night movie group with friends – for the nights when I’m staying up late. Of course – any vaguely sensible person will have been asleep hours ago.

Perhaps the idea I had a while ago about the midnight writing club wasn’t such a bad idea after all – where we wander into a group video chat with no requirement to actually chat – we’re just “there”. I wonder if it would work?

Easter is this weekend. I haven’t bought any Easter eggs yet. Perhaps I’ll escape at lunchtime tomorrow and see what I can find in town.

I’m going to stop writing now.