3 lives lived.

Pepys said that a diarist lives three times: once when he lives it, again as he writes it down, then once more as he looks back at his work, many years after. Of course, it should be noted that in fact he is living three different lives, in a way: the life as it lived, the life as it is recalled and seen through the glasses of reflection and opinion, and the life as it is recalled and (mis-) remembered.
Something similar happens with photos. Certainly, I'm experienced the third life currently, as I am digitising the thousands of negatives I have hoarded away from my university years and later. I recall, as photography editor for the student magazine, thinking I was a pretty damn good shot with a camera, and looking at the results once they were back from the developer ( a tiny specialist photo shop in the wrong end of Bangor High Street), that what I'd taken were damn good pics.
It is only with the hindsight of many years that I can see how crap a lot of them were. underexposure, overexposure, fogging, out-of-focus crap, pretentious, sub-Athena poster posed stuff - all there. But amidst the dross, jewels: a wonderful set of pics from a Michelle Shocked gig; a lovely shot of someone looking out, byond the frame, onto what I recall was a garden full of snow; shots of friends from the 92 Reading festival; and more.
It's going to take me absolutely ages to trawl through and sift out the best shots, and I'll be putting some of the best on here. Here's a few to be going on with, including one of my most favourite shots ever, Cara Greczyn looking distinctly annoyed while holding a water pistol.

My arm makes steady progress towards normality, but getting it moving again has been like trying to relearn the grammar of another language, one that I should be familiar with, but I can only wield partially. I'm discovering the bend and flex of each muscle and sinew, the turn of the radius as it slides past the ulna, a pair of dancers locked in a limited waltz. I find that by pushing each part just a little more each day, the whole of the arm seems to be coming slowly back to life and lithe. Who'd have thought it would be so difficult to blow one's nose, when you can't get one hand close enough? Or how uncomfortable it is to sleep when you cannot tuck your arm into a supine position?

Wrath and judgement.

'You seem very angry about things,' said my mate at Christmas. 'You know, it's counterproductive, and reserving your anger like this...'
'and being so..so generalising,' chipped in his wife.
'..it doesn't help you.'
I may have come across as a bit annoyed: after all, I'd just narrowly avoided having had my head crushed under the wheels of one big Anxious Mummy Child Carrying Juggernaut, shortly after coming off my bike and suffering a radial head fracture thanks to the AMCCJ braking suddenly in front of me. However, it was my usual joking rant, the use of apparent anger for humour's sake, my way of winding down. Unfortunately, it seems to have come across as the real thing. The question is: Am I really governed by anger, and do I generalise?
I have to ask this question, simply because the positing of the idea by another requires me to see whether it is true. On the charge of anger, I am afraid to say that there is some truth in the matter: On the latter, I absolutely refute it. I do not generalise, except for humour's sake. OK, I've written on here about my dislike of Audi, Volvo and BMW drivers, but I hope that it's fairly obvious that I'm writing with my tongue at least partially in my cheek. Generalisations are the refuge of those who are too lazy to think. While people tend to behave in broadly similar ways - for example, in my experience as a cyclist, Audi drivers behave as though the roads belong to them - nevertheless, we are all individuals with our own definitions of normal, and our own eccentricities, foibles and madnesses. I am well aware of this, and so seek to avoid making vapid, broad assumptions of others. Apart from being lazy thinking, it is also dangerous: how easy the fall from generalising to stereotyping to labelling to accusing.
On the point about anger: well, yes. I have my moments, I can't deny that. Indeed, many of the stupid things I have done in my life have been fuelled by a moment, or moments, of anger and irritation. Anger can be constructive, though, if it is directed and leads to positive change. Unfortunately, mine tends to be aimed at myself, whenever it is directed. Yet this, too, is something I am aware of, and something that I strive to change.

Back to basics. And Raki

A different week and better health. The fluey thing lifted faster than I hoped, and the visit to the Fracture Clinic went well: The consultant said to take off the sling and exercise my arm, although, because of the nature of the break, I may never be able to hold it completely straight again.

Anyway, several things have conspired to remind me of the original purpose of this blog, which was to talk about raki, recipes, booze, food, politics, and the odd rant. And raki. Also, a comment on Marcus' blog about the simplicity required to follow the teachings of the Buddha, and an article about mindfulness, got my attention. So, what I am trying to do is a) get this blog back something more direct and b) ensure I write it regularly and mindfully. At least, I think that's the idea.

So, what could be more back to basics than this?
Take two glasses, tall and narrow and preferably taken from the fridge. Take a jug of chilled spring water, a bucket of ice, and then a bottle of raki, preferably cold, preferably Tekirdag. Pour a generous measure of raki into one glass: Add ice, then add water, abd watch as it becomes a pearly white liquid. Fill the other glass with cold water and ice, and see condensation forming almost immediately on the outside: Now, add a plate of white cheese, a platter of sweet watermelon, some sigara boregi, haydari, acili ezme and patlican ezmesi, plus perhaps some leblebi, all to be followed by freshly-caught sea bass or bluefish, fried and served with rocket and lemon, or a plate of kofte and rice. On top of this, have an outdoor setting on a warm evening, overlooking the Bosphorus or the Bay of Izmir, and someone playing the saz and singing songs full of huzun:Now take a bite of one of the things laid before you, then a sip of raki, and tell me that it doesn't get much better than this.
And keep drinking till the angels start singing to you.

I love January.

This is getting ridiculous. If having my arm hurting wasn't enough, the rest of my body has now decided to join in the achy action, and I've got myself a dose of this bloody flu thing going round. I narrowly avoided throwing up in front of, not to say over, my students this morning - hardly a good way to welcome them back. By midday, I had to concede defeat, and dragged myself home, only to find that everyone else is also in varying states of unwellness.

Indolence.

You would think that, being confined at home with my knackered arm, I would be getting on with something productive: reading books, studying, doing research and so forth. But no: I seem to be all clogged up, unable to spring anything forth, do anything of any value at all. Indeed, I've been staring at this bloody computer screen for the past two days, unable even to work up the strength to think of something to write.
Indolence has this effect on me. Once it sets in, inertia follows, then I get nothing done whatsoever. And once that happens, I start feeling depressed at my own inability to move. However, one benefit of this enforced break is reflecting on the fact that movement, action of itself is actually pretty valueless. There needs to be a point to getting something done, and I should know: I'm a master of displacement activities. I've been reflecting on how much time it is possible to waste, even while doing an impression of a blue-arsed fly, and the fact that pointless work is as much a product of indolence as sitting in front of the TV.

not a resolution.

Seeing as my posting became somewhat remiss last year, I'm going to try and keep it more regular in 2008, even if it goes to the point of tedium.