Present Memory

Your memory does not know the difference between the past, today and the future. They are all the same to your body, where memory resides, lodged away in the tissues of your being. Whatever memories you are thinking about are affecting your body now, producing the same chemical and muscular reactions you had at the time of the recalled event. Endorphins come with good memories, toxins with bad - so keep it good.
Stop now, and relax your body completely (don't fall off the chair). When you are fully relaxed try to get angry, think of something that will get you riled - BUT do it without tensing any muscle.
Impossible? Keep it that way. Every time you feel the blood pressure starting to rise, the bile rising in your throat, dry anger biting at the back of your throat, do your utmost to relax, rid yourself of the tension in your muscles, and relax. Deep breathing can help, as can stopping any activitity to allow yourself to concentrate on relaxing.
I just wish George W Bush could follow my advice - watch that man walk, did you ever see anyone more tense?
If we're not careful he'll be invading Iran next, and that will give him a bloody nose. And the rest of us.

Thought for today

It's too easy to forget that we live in the real world, but sometimes there's just something that makes us stop, and reflect. Two items brought me to that state today. Last night I went to a meeting of our local Felixstowe Town Council. For once it was an open meeting, with the public allowed to express their views. We had an hour when points were raised and the Council gave answers to questions. It was an excellent step forward, and there should be more of such meetings.
There were drawbacks, five councillors walked out before the meeting began - presumably they still picked up their attendance fee - because of an alleged conflict of interest. That should be total poppycock but Suffolk Coastal Council's lawyers clearly believe that the democractic process is irrelevant.
Today I have written to the Town Clerk suggesting that all councillors who serve by Felixstowe Town and Suffolk Coastal District should resign from one post and stand for re-election on that very issue. It's a travesty, and is happening far too often.
It was much better when the Council threw out the new plans for the South seafront development as proposed by Bloor Homes, and known known as Cell Block South.
This morning Carl Newman, a local artist and photographer, gave me his latest selection of photographs. All were taken within a mile or two of the town. Hares predominate, with some wonderful pictures of these beautiful creatures. How anyone can allow dogs to chase and kill these animals, and call it sport when they are torn aprt by the hounds defies belief. There they are. There's also a lovely kingfisher, a superb bird.

Lost Child - Lost way

I was struck this morning by the words of W B Yates, that great Irish poet, who said;

'If we would create a great community - and what other game is so worth the labour? - we must recreate the old foundations of life, not as they existed in that splendid misunderstanding of the eighteenth century, but as they must always exist when the finest minds and Ned the beggar and Sean the fool think about the same thing, although they may not think the same thought about it.'

We have lost our way. There are those intent only upon their own aggrandisement, others who do nothing but carp and criticise, while the mass continue to live their own lives, their circle becoming smaller and smaller as family is eroded, clubs and societies struggle to persuade people to leave their firesides, or should that be televisions, in the evening.

We are become a nation of voyeurs who look upon life that has been created by others. We no longer cook our our own food, but buy cardboard boxes to put in the microwave. Our clothes come from countries far away where lesser slaves labour day and night for a pittance. We are slaves to a system that has little regard for anything but increasing profit, but where will that get any of us?

The planet gets warmer every day, more people are born every day. This is becoming a crowded place, with scarce resources, and as 'development' reaches more places so demand will grow.

Shall we take comfort in the Mayan prophesy, whose 28,000 year calendar comes to an end at the start of the next decade? They say we shall leave this earthly form and move to a higher plane.

I just hope it has more space than here.

A Good Start

Felixstowe Radio has made a good start, with visitor numbers rising rapidly every day as the site becomes known.
It's not intended that it should chase numbers or really be a vehicle for advertisers. That's what newspapers, radio and TV stations all over the world do - we plan to be rather different.
It's frustrating to see the media latch on to a story, with reporters rushing to the scene, clambering over each other to be the first to obtain the story. The reality is that they rarely do cover the real stories, or even talk to real people. They live in a sound bite world, where today's news will be history tomorrow. Only rarely do they seem to return, to cover the results of their headlines.
That may have some attributes, but we can easily tire of such frenetic activity, and too often we lose the point of the story altogether.
Felixstowe Radio has a different approach. The leader of the local council has already congratulated us on the design of the site, although he couldn't resist warning against bias. By that we supposed he meant he didn't want us to criticise his Council too much. He knows we are frustrated by their actions, and now we have the new newspaper, Inside Felixstowe, and Felixstowe TV in the town he sees too many stray bullets flying around.
The corporate owned and managed newspapers are under control, mainly from their advertisers who want to reach the maximum number of readers, so the papers tend towards a conventional approach, and they do that job very well. Advertisers can, of course, prevent or suppress stories that don't reflect too well upon their own activities.
Felixstowe Radio has no real desire to compete with such publications. Instead we will talk to local people, find out what is happening in their lives and play music and stories created locally.
This month we are featuring John Goodluck, a Suffolk Folk artist, who has been around for many years. We talk to a local poet, Wendy Mulford, to a local historian, Doreen Rayner, and allow Trevor Lockwood to rail on about the Crown Prosecution Service.
As we progress there are many other stories to be told. George Forsdike will talk about growing chrysanthemums, Ivy tells of her life in Felixstowe over eight decades, Nettie of her work rescuing small animals and much more.
So it will go on, giving local people a platform, full of local bias.
Lovely photo of the beach this morning.

Havamal

These are some of the sayings of the High One, forming part of the Codex Regius, common name: Poetic Edda. Havamal states it bluntly, directly, and without compromise

Self defence:

Have thy eyes about thee when thou enterest
be wary alway,
be watchful alway;
for one never knoweth when need will be
to meet hidden foe in the hall.

From his weapons away no one should ever
stir one step on the field;
for no one knows when need might have
on a sudden a man of his sword.

Kindness:

All hail to the givers! A guest hath come
say where shall he sit?
In haste is he to the hall who cometh,
to find a place by the fire.

Not great things needs give to a man:
bringeth thanks oft a little thing;
with half a loaf and a half-drained cup
I won me oft worthy friend.

Humility and shrewdness:

To be bright of brain let no man boast,
but take good heed of his tongue:
the sage and silent come seldom to grief
as they fare among folk in the hall.
More faithful friend findest thou never
than shrewd head on thy shoulders.

Better burden bearest thou nowise
than shrewd head on thy shoulders;
in good stead will it stand among stranger folk,
and shield when unsheltered thou art.

Friendship:

To false friend ay a far way 'tis,
though his roof be reared by the road;
to stanch friend ay a straight way leads,
though far he have fared from thee.

With his friend a man should be friends ever,
with him and the friend of his friend;
but foeman's friend befriend thou never,
and keep thee aloof from his kin.

Wisdom:

Middling wise every man should be:
beware of being too wise;
for wise man's heart is happy seldom,
if too great the wisdom he won.

A little lake hath but little sand:
but small the mind of man;
not all men are equally wise,
each wight wanteth somewhat.

The handicapped:

May the halt ride a horse, and the handless be herdsman
the deaf man may doughtily fight,
a blind man is better than a burned one, ay:
of what gain is a good man dead?

Offspring:

To have a son is good, late-got though he be,
and born when buried his father;
stones see'st thou seldom set by the roadside
but by kith raised over kinsmen.

A full-stocked farm had some farmer's sons.
Now they stoop at the beggar's staff;
in a twinkling fleeth trothless wealth,
it is the ficklest of friends.

Death:

Cattle die and kinsmen die,
thyself eke soon wilt die;
but fair fame will fade never,
I ween, for him who wins it.

All undone is no one though at death's door he lie:
some with good sons are blessed,
and some with kinsmen, or with coffers full,
and some with deeds well-done.

Runes:

I wot that I hung on the wind-tossed tree
all of nights nine,
wounded by spear, bespoken to Óthin,
bespoken myself to myself,
upon that tree of which none telleth
from what roots it doth rise.

Neither horn they upheld nor handed me bread;
I looked below me—
aloud I cried—
caught up the runes, caught them up wailing,
thence to the ground fell again.

Wisdom passes down through the years.

Daughter Dedannan and the Cauldron of Undry

Published by Braiswick, your very own Felixstowe publisher, this book ISBN 1-898030-89-8 is available from the best of all bookshops.

It is a story filled with Irish banshees and wild boars and Celtic warriors, where the Dedannan tribe, early settlers on shores of the emerald isle travel through the history of Ireland. Fantasy mixed with sociological detail will appeal to a young adult audience looking for more.

The idea for the book began when 12-year-old Ben Ressler of Castleton, Vermont, USA told his mom, writer Eileen Ressler, a story filled with Irish banshees and wild boars and Celtic warriors.

She researched their family history, starting with 1905 when her grandmother Kitty Reilly left the family homestead in Cavan, Ireland.

Eileen kept probing until a whole world of ancient custom and mythology opened up. Two years later she had completed this novel about the mythical Dedannan tribe who, according to legend, were among the first to settle on shores of the emerald isle.

Entwining fantasy with precise sociological detail about ancient Ireland, the novel was first written for a young adult audience but will draw in any reader with a taste for Irish myth or history.

Take yourself into another world.

Felixstowe Radio

Don’t get excited but Felixstowe now has an online radio station at www.felixstoweradio.co.uk. We plan to interview local people and play music by local musicians. It will also cast a bleary eye over the actions of our local councils. It starts with chats to Suffolk poet Wendy Mulford, Rendlesham publisher Patricia Eve of Seafarer Books and Doreen Rayner, Felixstowe historian.

Featured music at present comes from John Goodluck, who many will know from his time at BBC Radio Suffolk, Anglia TV and many clubs and pubs around the county.
We hope to complement Felixstowe TV and the new local paper, Inside Felixstowe, to serve Felixstowe people. There’s a look at Felixstowe’s only cycleway on the home page, just scroll down to find it.

You can either choose the talks you want to hear or click on the jukebox for continuous play. This is not meant to be a commercial station; it is just an old duffer wanting to give something to the town, and in so doing adding to the richness of the community. There are some great people out there, and we plan to give some a voice.

Thoughts for the Day

"Reflect upon your present blessings, of which every man has plenty; not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some."

Charles Dickens
1812-1870, Novelist

What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?

Matthew 16:26 The Bible

We shall fly to the moon at noon
Scoffing raspberries with a silver spoon
They'll take our cares away
Surely by next May
And that'll be here very soon

An old fool from Felixstowe, 2005

I saw a play yesterday evening, East Meets East at the New Wolsey Theatre. Now rather dated, it is set in 70s and deals with the conflicts an Anglo-Pakistani family face. The father is full of male supremacy, love of God, and needs to be in control. His six sons and one daughter are a varying mix of cultures, while his wife is very English working class.

It remains a potent reminder of the tensions that can, and do, arise when cultures clash.

Great Britain (that's what we were once called) has a tradition of integration. We have accepted immigrants from all over the world for centuries. Today there is a change, for the numbers have greatly increased and too often, it seems, those that arrive are not grateful for our support but are really over-keen to exploit our generosity.

Young, second and third generation, settlers carry a huge chip on their shoulders, believing that we were the colonial oppressors and so must repay an imagined debt. White honkys are despised, and our social security systems are now overloaded with spurious demands. I've always wondered why asylum seekers are invariably young males; why aren't they protecting their vulnerable women and children?

The English peasant has been one of the most oppressed groups of people in the world. And that was the case for much of Europe, peasants did what they were told. Over one million white Europeans were sold into slavery in North Africa - but such facets of history are too often ignored.

It is the poor who remain exploited, regardless of race or creed. That must be addressed, and our capitalist system is not designed to offer much assistance.

Earthquake

The earthquake in Kashmir is an immense human disaster, and we must do all we can to help. Presumably the Americans could do without a few of the helicopters it is now using in Afghanistan, just to help these poor people.

Help is extremely difficult to contemplate at this remove. What can I do to help? Money is one obvious answer, and I'll donate what I can, but beyond that we need to sit down and think it all out again.

Pakistan's population is growing rapidly, doubling every 33 years at present, and already half its population are under 15 years of age. There's a time bomb waiting to devastate not just that country but much of the rest of the world.

We now have an estimated 700,000 people from Kashmir living in Great Britain, too many in ghettos in our cities but generally they are welcomed as valuable additions to our family. They are industrious, work hard, and contribute to the larger society in many ways. As integration proceeds they will, in years to come, become indistinguishable from their neighbours.

There is a problem with their living in this country. These good people tend to be the cream of Pakistan. They include doctors, nurses, architects, lawyers, accountant and entrepreneurs. All do an immensely valuable job in this country but they should be doing those jobs back in Kashmir. What they have left behind are the poor, and the poorly equipped. Buildings crash to the ground, killing most, trapping too many beneath the rubble who will now face a lingering death. If those experts had been in the country of their birth many of those deaths may have been prevented. Not just because medical skills would have been immediately at hand but the buildings would have been built to withstand earthquakes, the lawyers and accountants would have helped to reduce corruption, to impose standards.

Part of our task should be to provide the training so that people from other lands may return, and be there to train and to work within their own cultures. To allow so many Kashmiris to remain in this country is a crime. It is wasting resources that should be used to improve the lot of the majority. It's easy to understand why an individual Kashmiri wants to live in England, they have opportunities not easily available in their homeland but that short-term gain does the world no good at all.

Have we got it wrong?

On a day like today all hot and sticky
Stuck at work not taking the mickey
Running wild beside the pool
Or feeling really cool
With a blonde on the side

Just now a child died
Having nowhere to hide
Her belly full of pain
So who shall gain
From our work in the sun?

Bush rules the world
So we all need to hide
For what have we learnt
From years on our knees
Hoping God’s on our side?

East wind bloweth

Today I look eastwards out over the cold sea towards Russia. The sea is pushed over the North Sea before a rolling wind that bites at my cold ears, bringing tears to soft eyes as it roars fiercely and crashes onto the fragile shore. Sweden was the last land this sea had seen though there are no blonde gifts from that distant country on this wintry day, just the molten grey sea. It seems just a dull mass but look closely at the water as it tosses across the surface and there is yellow, brown, deep green, a whole mix of colours in that swirling water so that it sheens with a deep palette like oil on the surface.

The waves roll towards me cutting sausage ends as they trundle onto the shore. From above they all look the same. Serried ranks of crested waves following on, one behind the other, to reach the yellow sandy beach to disappear.

She is beyond the hazy distance that is my horizon. Beyond reach. Far out to sea is a jumble of water, small wavelets lapping together in a random pattern. Closer to the land an indeterminate moment brings together hidden forces to create a new shape that rears up from the surface of the sea. In that fraction of time the water coalesces to build a wave, which grows larger as it journeys towards the land.

Now I can see that each wave is an individual, with its own character. In the distance a wave forms, promising much as its back arches to build a huge roll of water that I know will crash down on the foreshore with more energy that any wave that has gone before. Welling up from the depths like a whale, a mound of immense power gathering speed as it rises higher, and higher still until its very crest begins to break into white foam. From that moment it is doomed. Life began and ended without time. The breaking flash of white along its rim now shows this will not be a great wave. This is already a has-been. All force has gone, lost in the sprays of foam, like rushing cream, spurting and rolling forward deliciously as it rides atop the monster. For a few precious moments there is beauty, joy and potential. This is the moment to yell 'Yes' in a raucous bellow of joy.

Then it is over. In an instant the wave has gone, now no more than swell, lost like a fat bellied porpoise to the following wave. The awesome majesty once promised spent by the foaming crest that was both its crowning glory and its demise. Magnificence destroyed as the wave peaks just before its time, so losing munificence and respect.

Much had been promised. This was the wave that would become the standard against which all others waves would be compared. Spume should have broken along its uppermost edge only when it was to begin its last great rear at the shore. That was the moment when white should have crackled atop, just as it stood upright, poised like a matador waiting to thrust downwards with all its strength up the gravels beneath. That was the supreme unleashing moment. Then we would have marvelled as it crashed upon the hapless sands, with a thunderous roar, shattering itself into myriad droplets of white gushing spray.

Time Flies

Sometimes I wonder what it is all about. Brick walls are there to bash your head against. Who really cares anyway?

Wrote a poem that sums it up, in a way.

It's not my mess this life
When we do as others ask
Time flies
The morning breaks nights still
Promising a wondrous day
How shall that be filled?
With the mundane of existence
Selling my soul for another's tuppenny demand
Push aside the piles of other people's dreams
Find space to write sparse words
Not in anguish or pain but to explain
Desire
Time shadows the need to express
For days to watch the grass grow
To hear birds chattering delight as
Walking with my misty outline
The world knows which way to go round