jackdaw genes

 

The other  day I was sorting out a box load of photos and came across an old black and white picture of my grandfather probably taken more than eighty years ago of him with a jackdaw on his arm. I had never seen this before and now all concerned are dead I could not ask about it but it's clear there must be a jackdaw gene that's been passed down to me. I wish I could talk to him about it but the photo is second best. Maybe somewhere along the line my jackdaw is related to his jackdaw.

He was a sea captain and I gathered he once brought a monkey home from his travels that used to sit on my mother's head when she was a little girl, pull her hair and then pee on her. She understandably hated this monkey. Spending a life at sea he was able to tell the time by the stars and the sun and as children we used to play the what's the time Grandad?with him. Three twenty he'd say and then get out his pocket watch and it was indeed three twenty. He died of a heart attack at my sister's house and his last words were I think it's two minutes to one. Two minutes later the church clock struck one in the morning.

The ghost Pocket has a habit of appearing whilst I'm trying to write and giving me tips.

Writing is easy he says all you have to do is cross out the wrong words.

Mark Twain said that I tell him. Another pal of yours up there? He rolls his eyes - Mark was an American author known for his sharp wit, satire and wisdom. And whilst we're on the subject there are words that convey little added value to writing. Very is one of them. 

Thank you and Mark very much I say.

And another tip when in doubt have a man through the door with a gun.

Raymond Chandler? I enquire - do you have writing workshops up there? Anyway I have writer's block at the moment.

Pah! The ghost Pocket exclaims Writer's block is merely neurotic inhibitions of productivity.

Edmund Bergler? I begin but he has disappeared into the book shelf telling me over his shoulder that the world is a hellish place and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering. You know Tom Waits ? I call after him......

Rocket tells me the ghost Pocket had advised him to read the Seven Pillars of Wisdom and that it might be easier to read if he looked like Lawrence of Arabia. Also he wanted to know that now I no longer have horses had I considered getting a camel?

So Nancy and Rocket have taken to occupying my bed. I had to consider sleeping on the sofa which is usually Rocket's go to place. When questioned as to why he would sleep in the same place I sleep he told me it was a Karmic connection. I'm merely offering you protection in a pack mentality sort of way. It's a natural demonstration of trust and affection. Nancy said that was a load of old nonsense - my pillow happens to be more comfortable than the arm chair.

View from the kitchen window. When we first moved up here many years ago we only had a couple of neighbours and the barns were barns and the fields were fields. Then other people moved in and barns became houses and fields became other people's gardens. At that time there was a dog show in the neighbouring village and our first wolf hound Jai won Top Bitch. I considered having a T shirt made with those words emblazoned across the front so the new comers would know exactly where I was coming from.

Dharma

by Billy Collins

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her dog house

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart

with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance -

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Ghandi with is staff and his wire spectacles?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

following only her wet nose,

the twin portals of her steady breathing,

followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside

every morning

and eat all his food

what a model of self-containment she would be,

what a paragon of earthly detachment.

If only she were not so eager

for a rub behind the ears,

so acrobatic in her welcomes,

if only I were not her god.