Monday Musings

Well,the first two episodes of Star Trek Discovery was quite interesting,and apart from mangling the Klingon language into something so unrecognisable ,i generally enjoyed the two episodes i have so far watched.

The fact that it is on Netflix is a sore point, being that it is not on Amazon Prime, but once this series is over i will cancel my Netflix account.

I hope that Shush,se will update their site to show the new series, and as of yet they have not updated their site to include the third series of Supergirl,or is not available yet?

Radio 4 has started a short documentary series called "Prime Minster's Ptops" and today it looked at Neville Chamberlain and his umbrella. Sir Winston Churchill's prop was his cigars and V for Victory sign. Why i mention this is that for the mistaken belief by others within the Quays who noticed that i was a pipe smoker have nicknamed me "Winston". In fact if they wanted to give me a nickname "Wilson" or "Benn" would have been better as both were on the left of politics, they were also pipe smokers. (Benn might be confusing as we have two Ben's already). They could have nicknamed me Holmes or Russell the famous British philosopher.

Never mind. It seems to have stuck but as i have more education than most here it is only to be expected. Should i inform them of the gaff or just let it be is a moot point. For now is shall err on the side of letting it slide.

For those who have access to BBC Radio iPlayer here is Wilson's Pipe and Mac.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b07syyrk


"Professor Sir David Cannadine explores political fame and image by looking at how an object or prop, whether chosen deliberately or otherwise, can come to define a political leader - from Winston Churchill's cigar and siren suit to Margaret Thatcher's handbag.

Sir David looks at the significance of these props of power - what they mean and what they become, and what happens when, almost inevitably, Prime Ministers lose control of their image and their props take on a hostile meaning, very different from their original intentions.

Harold Wilson sought to enhance his political image, in part by wearing a Gannex mac which made him seem ordinary, and also by puffing at his pipe, as memorably expressed in Ruskin Spear's 1974 portrait of him.

Following Stanley Baldwin, who had also made much of his pipe, Harold Wilson hoped to convey an image that was homely, benevolent and avuncular, and to some extent he succeeded. But the unintended consequence was that the pipe also enhanced Wilson's reputation for evasiveness and deviousness. Whenever asked a difficult question by an interviewer, he would delay and distract attention by lighting up - and it was widely believed that, although he puffed his pipe in public, he preferred cigars in private. A rumour that his son, Robin Wilson, scotches.

The Gannex mac was also to become a hostage to fortune for Wilson. While he was the peak of his popularity, the Gannex made him look like a man of the people and the millionaire businessman who invented Gannex, Joseph Kagan, became a close friend of Wilson. But once Kagan fell from grace due to his crooked business dealings, Wilson's Kagan connection was further evidence to his enemies that he was not to be trusted."

Just Wondering

Have you ever found yourself enjoying something you had previously scorned as a cliche? What was it?

If you were to make a time capsule today to be opened in 50 years, what would you put in it?

Have you ever served on a jury? If yes, then what was the case and what was the verdict?

Poems of The Week

Two more favourite poems -

Darkness

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.


Ritmo/Rhythm

BY MARGARITA ENGLE

Mad has decided to catch a vulture,
the biggest bird she can find.

She is so determined, and so inventive,
that by stringing together a rickety trap
of ropes and sticks, she creates
a puzzling structure that just might
be clever enough to trick a buzzard,
once the trap’s baited with leftover pork
from supper.

Mad and I used to do everything together,
but now I need a project all my own,
so I roam the green fields,
finding bones.

The skull of a wild boar.
The jawbone of a mule.

Older cousins show me
how to shake the mule’s quijada,
to make the blunt teeth
rattle.

Guitars.
Drums.
Gourds.
Sticks.

A cow bell.
A washboard.
Pretty soon, we have
a whole orchestra.

On Cuban farms, even death
can turn into
music.