do you know the weight of a blue whale's heart

I have just finished my new manuscript that I have spent a year working on. It is about superstition and judgement and not seeing only one version of life as acceptable. 

It is about a boy who cannot speak(judgement)  includes a magpie (superstition) and is set during the second world war centering around the sinking of a hospital ship by a German submarine which in real life my grandfather was on.

Of course Mrs Magpie had to be in the story and here is her publicity photo (above)for the launch.

She hasn't been much help in the writing of the story as she keeps flying off with my pens.(OK I write on a laptop but still need pens for taking notes) Here she is just before she stole my good pen. I was so busy hiding the pencil that I knew she'd like that I forgot I had a nice silver looking pen on the table next to me and she flew off with it and left it in a bush.

Half the book is set at sea and here is Rocket doing a bit of research.

Scout didn't come to the sea side so took herself off with her shadow for a walk in the fields.

Pocket who is quite capable of holding a grudge turns his nose up at fiction.

I don't know why you novelists waste your time writing what never happened when you know so many things that did happen? Well that's just it I answer - a lot of my story did happen. 

He snorted. All other things being equal, a simpler explanation is preferable to a more complicated one.

Ah you're working on the parsimony principle I say but he ignored me and not wanting to be left out and claiming nautical heritage, Pocket has now been studying The Ashley Book of Knots which he says is most informative and I really ought to tie a few. He seems to have learnt a lot about the sea (perhaps he's been reading the notes I made before Magpie stole my pen.) and asked me if I knew the weight of a blue whale's heart. I said I didn't and when I asked around neither Rocket nor Scout seemed to know or care for that matter. 

He told me he weighed ten pounds and the weight of a blue whale's heart is forty times greater.

Mulling this over and thinking about whales I did think that Magpie had the markings of an Orca killer whale.(above sitting in the fruit bowl)

 

Whales Weep Not!

D. H. Lawrence - 1885-1930

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• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
   the sea!

And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas, 
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
   comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
   fathomless body.

And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
   wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
   forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
   sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.

And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
   tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
   the beginning and the end.

And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!

and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.

magpie - one for borrow (and not give it back)

With reference to the superstitious rhyme that people quote when they see a single magpie - one for sorrow- etc I am changing the S for a B. It's true that magpies are thieves but Mrs Magpie takes the biscuit. 

Well actually she did take the biscuit - two in fact. After Scout stealing the stollen, when I made a batch of biscuits (unusual for me) I made sure I put them right at the back of the work top so Scout couldn't reach them. I went away, I came back, I counted the biscuits - there were two missing. I was all for blaming Scout until I found one of the biscuits in the fruit bowl and realised Mrs Magpie had flown in and nicked them.  So attack from above and below now. Of course she steals other things but I wasn't prepared for a culinary theft. Most small food items she caches - I've often come across a piece of toast amongst the books in the book shelves, or something edible buried in a plant pot in the house.  I think it was a hidden dog biscuit that jammed up my printer. Fortunately I found a printer mender who sorted it but he was unable to comment if it was or was not a dog biscuit caught in the works.

Here she is sofa surfing

and another selfie. The reason why I take so many pictures of her is that she's the only animal not asleep when you try and take a photo. She seems to like having her photo taken - maybe she has a Tik Tok account.

Here she is in an outside habitat in case you all think she just lives in the house.

At least she didn't steal my car - or at least  I don't think she did. Did I mention someone stole my car from outside the house? It's a very old car and a real work horse and it's been parked there for years and I loved it - if you can love a car - obviously I didn't love it s much as sentient beings or flowers or a beautiful day. Then one day I went out and there was an empty space. It was as shocking as seeing a red line on a covid test.  They eventually caught the man driving with false number plates after a car chase in which he hit a bollard in Southampton. I never got the car back but on reading a 'friend request' on Facebook which I ignore and had been sent a few months back the message said the car had been used in a robbery and they had it on CCTV.  So I'm pretty sure Magpie didn't steal it even though she would fly off with the keys.

Pocket thinks he'd like his own account and be an influencer. "Who will you influence?" I ask. He shrugs. I might receive lots of money for wearing a particular cat coat for example or praising a book I've read. "But you don't read books it seems "- I say. Jewellery? he suggests.

"Do cats even wear coats? " 

He assures me that they might after seeing him in one and just think how many free gifts would arrive. 

Are you hoping for some sort of income? I ask.

 He snorts. The proof of wealth is to possess something that might be absolutely destroyed in a moment. "Ah you've been studying Pliny the famous Roman naturalist."I say. 

Is he an influencer? he asks. Has he a Tik tok account?

Here is Rocket hiding from Pocket and pretending he's not really there as he doesn't want to see him in a cat coat incase I am reminded he has a coat too which is too short and he says makes him look silly.

Hedgehogs staying awake at the wildlife hospital

These are roses and sweet peas from last year to remind me that it isn't always going to be so cold.
 

The Hedgehog

by Paul Muldoon

The snail moves like a 

Hovercraft, held up by a 

rubber cushion of itself,

Sharing its secret

with the hedgehog. The hedgehog

shares its secret with no one.

We say Hedgehog, come out

of yourself and we will love you.

We mean no harm. We want

only to listen to what

you have to say. We want

your answers to our questions.

The hedgehog gives nothing

away, keeping itself to itself.

We wonder what a hedgehog

has to hide, why it so distrusts.

We forget the god

under the crown of thorns.

We forget that never again

Will a god trust in the world.

stolen stollen

I have been training Mrs Magpie to deliver my Christmas cards this year - I'm not sure if she'll deliver them to the right places but worth a try.

Like all magpies she likes to hide things - I'm still looking for the tulip bulbs I was planting when she flew off with a couple as well as the pen I was using to remind myself what bulbs I'd planted where. I may be surprised next Spring to find a couple popping up in the compost heap.

                                             a magpie selfie

I'd love to know where she roosts at night - I often see her sitting on top of the old apple tree with a couple of pigeons.  I wonder if she'll build a nest next year - if I find it it'll probably contain the raven feather that the Ravenmaster at the Tower of London gave me, several pens, part of my telephone bill, and a postcard - all of which she has stolen from the house.

"She doesn't seem to mind you Pocket does she?" I say to him.

How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way, is an immense world of delight, close'd by your senses five?

"Oh you've been reading William Blake then" I say to him.  He twitches a whisker

Never heard of him. It's my introduction to my new book Pocket Guide to British Birds.

I frown. "I suppose you also said The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way also by a certain W.Blake.

Still never heard of him. that's my introduction to my other new book Pocket Guide to Trees.

Rocket asked if Pocket had also written a Pocket Guide to Dogs and if so was he in it? Pocket said we had to talk to his people.

Pocket does not conform to the usual image of a cat. He looks all sweet curled up on your lap until he decides to sink his sabre teeth into your flesh and he's very demanding. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd he complains when I finally open the back door which doesn't have a cat flap in. Macbeth again? I comment but he scowls and reminds me that it's Mogbeth. When I suggest he just comes in through the cat flap in the front door he remarks Conformity is a threatening oppressive force that smothers imagination.

Scout looking very innocent with her what me? face but she's not innocent at all. We had a Christmas gathering of poets the other evening and I had especially bought a stollen cake for everyone. I put it on a plate along with the crisps and wine on the table then turned away and put a log on the fire. When I returned there was an empty plate. Scout had stolen the stollen! You'd think after more than twenty years of living with a wolfhound I'd have learnt you can't leave anything out that might be regarded as food.

If I go out I rarely leave the dogs for long or I take Rocket with me  as he has a habit of howling like a lost dog but another other evening I went somewhere he couldn't come. I left the television on in the living room and snuck out the back door in the hope I'd fool him into thinking I was still in the house. I'm also designing a way by which I can ab sail down from the bedroom window when he realises sneaking out the back door means I've left. When I returned ALL the animals were sitting in the room watching a lurid film on the t.v. I wonder who had the channel changer as I thought I'd left the football on.

At the moment as it's so cold all the puddles are frozen over

And here is my xmas wreath - if you look closely you'll see a tiny magpie.

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted

by white night-gowns.

None are green,

Or purple with green rings,

Or green with yellow rings,

or yellow with blue rings.

None of them are strange,

with socks of lace

and beaded ceintures.

People are not going 

to dream of baboons and periwinkles.

Only here and there, an old sailor,

drunk and asleep in his boots,

catches Tigers

in red weather.

 

Mercies

Mrs Magpie is now helping me with the cleaning. Here she is offering to do the washing up.

She's very particular. For instance she won't come and help or even come near me if I'm wearing a beanie hat or a coat in an unacceptable shade of green.

If she hasn't checked out my wardrobe and wants to come in she sits on the window sill and pecks at the glass. I have to leave the back door open for the dogs and sometimes she enters this way. I always know when she's been in because she leaves pens and pen lids scattered over the floor, bills torn at the edges and then she usually swipes Scouts pills for her joints if they are left out to remind me to give them to Scout.

Before Mrs Magpie came into the house the other bird resident was this duckling who we had to hand rear as it was being attacked by its siblings. It liked swimming in the washing up bowl.

And oh I've just found this picture of Rocket as a puppy - mmmmmm - what went wrong? The dog in this picture would not be barking at all and sundry who walk past the gate or be very particular about what dog food he eats. OR be over zealous with the neighbour's dogs. OR be given a warning from the Dog Warden of Wiltshire.

But here he is - still lovely and unable to grab forty winks on his own.

I asked Pocket if he was still going by the name Rinpoche Pocket but he sighed. I am still of course the precious one but living like a cat means wanting nothing beyond the life you lead. Cats do not need to examine their lives because they do not doubt that life is worth living. My that's very profound I say. You have to understand he went on that nobody is coming to save us from ourselves.

I asked him if these were his own thoughts because I thought that Carl Sagan had said that. He chose to ignore me and went on about sometimes a cigar was just a cigar . Well that was definitely Sigmund Freud I told him and have you ever actually smoked a cigar? He told me not to be so silly and where was he going to get a cigar from as he didn't think the corner shop sold them.

 Nerines and dahlias still standing just about as the wind howls about them like a lost dog.

And talking of lost dogs a friend of mine had to let go of her old dog the other day. I have put this poem on my blog before when we had to let go of one of ours but it's a beautiful poem and still makes me weep.

Mercies

by Don Paterson

She might have had months left of her dog-years,

but to be who? She'd grown light as a nest

and spent the whole day under her long ears

listening to the bad radio in her breast.

On the steel bench, knowing what was taking shape

she tried and tried to stand, as if to sign

that she was still of use, and should escape

our selection. So I turned her face to mine,

and seeing only love there – which, for all

the wolf in her, she knew as well as we did -

she lay back down and let the needle enter.

And love was surely what her eyes conceded

as her stare grew hard, and one bright aerial

quit making its report back to the centre.

a handful of dust

It's been a hundred years since T.S.Eliot wrote The Wasteland.

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust" is exactly what I feel when I look around our house. Dust!Oh the dust and the dog fur that blows across the floor like tumbleweed.

I am so proud of Mrs Magpie - look at those feathers she's like a Wiltshire parrot.

It may be partly to do with the wonderful food she eats - cheese, meal worms and more cheese. She likes to fly in when I'm having my breakfast and often sits on the door with Pocket (quarter Bengal) sitting on the table staring at her. Now Pocket is an arch killer and I've often wondered why he doesn't attack. When I mentioned this to someone they thought it was perhaps because Mrs Magpie doesn't act like she's prey. Actually sometimes she acts like a child. I went on holiday for a week and when I came back she refused to come down and say hello but turned her head away in disgust. She did this for most of the day until finally she flew down onto my shoulder and told me off for going away.

I think we should all be more magpie.

Collect shiny things. Hop happily down the street for no apparent reason. Whatever you eat eat it with joy. Scream loudly when you see your friends.

Nearly time for the hedgehogs to hibernate.

Pocket (above and quarter Bengal) relaxing after a little light shopping. The key to finding a happy balance in modern lives is simplicity he tells me. He then informed me he'd like to be known as Rinpoche Pocket.

Have you given up writing novels I ask.

He smiles. Bring your mind home. Release and relax.

I am hoping this will make him a kinder cat, not only to us but the wildlife he brings in and leaves on the mat. Recycling is good though as Mrs Magpie will take the odd dead mouse off my hands.

Rocket who knows all about relaxing has possibly left his mind elsewhere. Below though he is with his new group of friends at the Sighthound meetings once a month when all these lovely pointy noses race around the field. There he is drinking out of the water trough.

Scout sometimes goes with him but doesn't do much racing.

Because of T.S.Eliot I found this poem I wrote literally years ago - though not quite a hundred. I had read somewhere he had been in a small car crash and I imagined how awful it would have been if he couldn't remember anything.

P.S. T.S

Tom lay on his back and looked

at the crack in the ceiling.

His fingers were curled

by his side - his legs and toes

without feeling.

An unguent furnished the room

he wondered - was he in heaven?

Tuber rose, hyacinth and

the four seven eleven

of the starched nurse.

Turning to her he said

was there a cat?

His head filled with fog

grey door, grey floor, grey bed.

The nurse smiled

and stroked his brow

and in the room below

the women come and go

talking of Michael and Harry and Joe.

I remember a ......

men stood there now

in coats and grave faces

men from distant parts and places

do your toes move?

your legs bend?

yes - is my beginning

in my end?

He said to the nurse

am I being driven in a motorized hearse

or lying etherised?

The room moves

my thoughts won't be still

I remember ... a pill

was popped onto his tongue

and in his head

ten thousand angels sung

yet ... in the room below where the nurses come and go..

can you remember who you are?

what is your name?

were you driving the motor car?

where do you live

and who is Viv?

your name

you must remember your name?

And in the room below

and in the room below

he slowly closed his eyes

and whispered - 

no.
 

when the hurly-burly's done

So Mrs Magpie knows where I live. She has taken to flying onto the doors and from there onto my computer or sampling coffee from my cup, even landing on the telephone for a quick chat.

She is a sweet and engaging companion. She lives outside now and I've no idea where she spends the night but always when I call her name she swoops down from somewhere lands on my shoulder and chirrups in my ear.

She likes to hang out in the yurt too if we are in there. Rocket always suspicious.

When I lived up here before I had a family it was just me and Betty (my black cat back then). Rumour got round the village I was probably a witch. If any of the village folk saw me walking around now with a magpie on my shoulder their beliefs would probably be confirmed. Even my vet called me a mad woman when I showed him pictures of Mrs Magpie.

Surprisingly Pocket is cautious around her. He lolls around in a sort of existential malcontentment. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like

he tells me. But you never do things you don't like I tell him. He sighs. Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.

Have you been reading Mansfield Park by Jane Austen? I ask. 

Never heard of her, he replies but I daresay she's read my new book Purrrrrsuasion.

Yes I daresay she has. Are you working on anything now I ask.

He glares at me a sour look on his face. Yes actually I am. I'm writing about family happiness as the ultimate reward for spiritual suffering.

That sounds very Tolstoy I remark. Has it a title?

Paw and Peace

Here are three sisters at the wildlife hospital. I wonder if they'll stay together when released into the wild. When shall we three meet again? In thunder lightning or in rain? 

When the hurly burly's done I expect.

They're all over now for another year - the roses and sweet peas. Autumn is definitely in the air. The fields are harvested and ploughed - clouds of seagulls following the tractors across the sod. I'm expecting Mrs Magpie to leave soon. I looked up when they leave their family normally and apparently they fly off in the Autumn. I know she doesn't have a normal family but I expect she'll want to find a mate - someone to soar off into the air with which is something I think I'm probably unable to do.

 

The World Is Too Much With Us
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

• • 
    

the peace of wild things

 

When despair for the world grows in me ..........I come into the peace of wild things

This poem by Wendell Berry which I will put in its entirety at the end of this post is where I am right now. I love visiting Mrs Magpie in her den where all is peaceful. When she visits me however (she knows where I live) it is not so peaceful. Other animals are lounging around the house and although she is canny and likes to fly in through the window and sit on the table, anxiety creeps in, whereas in her place all is calm. She has a new friend there too - a rook who had been shut in a tiny cage for far too long and anyway can't fly at the moment who I have named Larry, because as soon as I rescued him and set him free he was as happy as - well- Larry. Mrs Magpie swoops down when I call her name and sometimes tries to cache (bird term for hide) her titbits in the fold of my cardigan sleeve which I'm not too keen on and remove when she's not looking. At times I just sit in there with her and talk nonsense with her. She is perfectly capable of talking nonsense back.

                                                     Pocket

Pocket has asked me why I haven't written another story with him in it.

I think I might be suffering from writer's block I say.

You mean neurotic inhibitions of productivity he replies washing behind his ear. Your motivations are flagging.

The thing is, I reply, you can get writer's block if you are depressed but I feel depressed because I'm not writing anything.

You are suffering from The Black Cat as us felines say.

Surely you mean The Black Dog don't you?

                                                 Nancy the black cat.

He changes ears and tells me that I should ask Nancy, who is always telling us the end of the world is nigh. Anyway, he adds, writing is easy - all you have to do is cross out the wrong words.

Mark Twain  said that I told him - have you actually read any of his books? He ignored me, turned to washing the tip of his tail and said 

Don't force a poorly conceived idea onto a blank page. He glared at me. Take my latest novel Of Mice and Cats - that was never a poorly conceived idea.

Don't you mean Of Mice and Men by Steinbeck I correct.  That's a very good book. Have you ever actually read any of his books? He turns his back on me and I hear him murmur there are words that convey little added value to writing. Very is one of them.

The other peaceful place to be is in the yurt that we had to move from the yurt field into the back garden

It had been there for around fifteen years and everyone said it would be nigh on impossible to put back up. How wrong they were! I spent the winter restoring the wooden frame and then met Emily from Millie's Yurts - the most wonderful woman - who made me a new cover and who also with the help of some friends installed it in the garden

                                        Above are some of the friends who helped.

Most yurt makers (of which she is one) don't like to make covers for someone else's yurt but as the man who'd originally made it had turned to planting trees she very obligingly said she would. And what a beautiful job. 

I don't normally advertise on my blog but I want you all to know - dear readers - that if you want a yurt she's your person.

https://milliesyurts.com/

Rocket managed to take us away on a short trip to Devon where he dabbled his paws in the sea and ate an ice cream.

The roses this year have been spectacular. Aren't they beautiful? I tell Pocket as he stretches out on the table.

A rose is a rose is a rose he informs me. Gertrude Stein said that I tell him - have you actually ever read ........oh never mind.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry