Writing

Cogito ergonomics sum

I think therefore I am – ‘the cogito’ – is Descartes most famous contribution to philosophy. I might doubt everything else; that I am thinking is a certainty.

But thinking – and doing something about it – requires a comparative absence of distraction and ideally a modicum of comfort. And that’s where design comes in.

One of the reasons I’ve written less in the last few weeks is my new shiny iPhone 5. In many ways a splendid device. But more is sometimes less. And I find I can’t write on it.

It’s too big. I can’t reach the top corner ‘action’ buttons. It feels like it’s constantly going to tip over backwards – and tumble and smash into small, beautifully machined Apple pieces.

So I’m back tapping on the iPhone 4 (which I couldn’t give up despite a generous financial offer from a good friend). Fast, fluid, typing is a doddle again.

Ergonomics matter. Hard to think when you’re uncomfortable, hard to write when your hand hurts.

Technology isn’t always getting better. The iPhone 4 is my perfect writing device. Like Hemingway’s Moleskine or Remington’s typewriter, when it comes to writing iPhone 4 is the classic.

Children, Life, Writing

Sunshine

After the longest winter I can remember, warmth and sunshine break through the never-ending clouds and cold. What a difference the sunshine makes.

Yesterday, in the driving rain, I debated with my daughter whether this country is just too chilly these days. Her view: “This may be the safest country in the world but it is much to cold and wet – really!”

“Yes” I agreed “but we’d miss the seasons if it were always hot – and we’d be eaten by the bugs and the wildlife.” “Hmmm” she said.

This winter has been hard and has set me thinking about my autumn years. How many more long cold grinding winters like this do I want to endure? And rattling about the house doesn’t help.

Should I quit my job and do something different? Aspects are a ball ache, but a lot of it is perfect. I can’t really imagine a much better job in all honesty. Hmmm.

Should I set about fixing our house. It’s pretty chilly, pretty untidy, most stuff’s not where we want it and there’s a thousand and one things I could mend. Hmmm.

Should I write a book – or wait, it’ll give me something to do in a decade or two. But I might peg it before I’ve even got started. Should I start right away? Hmmm.

Should I, should I… Or should I go and sit in the garden, on a kitchen chair, soak up some sunlight and do nothing at all? Well not much anyway, just tap on an iPhone screen.

That’ll do. Simple is best. Sunshine, it’s a wonderful thing.

Achilles, Death, Life, Odysseus, Poetry, Writing

Winter

A bit like being winded by a whack in the solar plexus, this poem takes the wind out of your sails – and leaves you gasping.

Clive James’s wit and humour of have always been rapier sharp. But here, his acute observations on his own chronic decline are both a curse and a redemption.

If I appear to be on a morbid streak, I’m not really. But this interminable winter has made me reflect on the seasons of life. I’m ready for another spring in my summer years, so good the sun’s out today.

Holding Court

Retreating from the world, all I can do
Is build a new world, one demanding less
Acute assessments. Too deaf to keep pace
With conversation, I don’t try to guess
At meanings, or unpack a stroke of wit,
But just send silent signals with my face
That claim I’ve not succumbed to loneliness
And might be ready to come in on cue.
People still turn towards me where I sit.

I used to notice everything, and spoke
A language full of details that I’d seen,
And people were amused; but now I see
Only a little way. What can they mean,
My phrases? They come drifting like the mist
I look through if someone appears to be
Smiling in my direction. Have they been?
This was the time when I most liked to smoke.
My watch-band feels too loose around my wrist.

My body, sensitive in every way
Save one, can still proceed from chair to chair,
But in my mind the fires are dying fast.
Breathe through a scarf. Steer clear of the cold air.
Think less of love and all that you have lost.
You have no future so forget the past.
Let this be no occasion for despair.
Cherish the prison of your waning day.
Remember liberty, and what it cost.

Be pleased that things are simple now, at least,
As certitude succeeds bewilderment.
The storm blew out and this is the dead calm.
The pain is going where the passion went.
Few things will move you now to lose your head
And you can cause, or be caused, little harm.
Tonight you leave your audience content:
You were the ghost they wanted at the feast,
Though none of them recalls a word you said.

CLIVE JAMES
(First published in the Times Literary Supplement)

Achilles, Art, Language, Life, Odysseus, Writing

Is there a better thing than writing? While I’m not with the 20th century British philosophers who said language is all there is, I am with Aquinas. He’d say that, along with body and soul, language is a defining part of the human experience.

20th century norms made writing a minority sport – one for the professional. The rise of social media in the 21st century means we can all have a go.

I find if I don’t get the chance to write something, the day feels unfulfilled. And if (rarely) I’ve a moment with nothing I have to do, writing – or reading someone else’s writing – is the first thing I want to do.

For twenty years – from university to my 42nd year – I didn’t write anything for my own pleasure at all. Thank goodness for the invention of iPhone as my carry along notebook. I couldn’t be happier than when tapping out a bit of text with my right thumb.

Achilles, Life, Odysseus, Poetry, Work, Writing

Dearth of Verse

A dearth of verse
Makes me wonder
Whether my inner life
Is playing second fiddle
To putting myself on the stage

I’m living in interesting times
And putting my shoulder to the wheel
Leaving precious little time
For introspection
Or verse

But I’m bottling up less
Speaking up and plainly
Maybe that’s why verse has subsided
Perhaps some inner tension
Has subsided too

Poets die younger
Performers live longer
To my surprise
I’m currently happier performing
Than turning terse into verse.