JohnS' Random Rants

Two/three days after recollecting a guy with whom I had, well, less a moment more a nuclear incident over 30 years ago, his wife's name appears on my FB in the People You May Know section. I saw it, thought what the hell, is this who I think it is? and followed it. And there she is. And there he is. I looked and learned two things: 1) She is as pretty at 60 as she was at 20. 2) Forget the power of age to weaken or dismay. In the end, it's bloody embarrassment that does us in.

Been whirling through my garden tearing the oriental poppies. They look weirdly excellent on it, elegant and gothic.

The last couple of days we took advantage of the sunshine and went walking, first day through a little woodland near by and the next through... another little woodland nearby :-)

First was in mid Calder, a walk that goes over bridges, beside a stream and under ancient trees. The scent in the warm sun was rich, wild garlic mingling with the last of the hawthorn bloom, pepper-fresh, alive.

Yesterday's walk was with a couple of friends. We went to Ravencraig and lost ourselves trying to find the cairn. I like to think this was because everything's so overgrown rather than the fact that trapped in a bag I couldn't find my way up. What's needed is a Lidar scan of that craig because it really does have the vibe of ancient earth works. Older references have a different spelling of its name, Reaven or Reaver craig, which would suggest the presence of dangerous bandits once upon a time. It would have been a great look-out spot over the salters road where farmers and traders travelled. Perfect is the poetic sense that this is where the silver man was seen, and long before him, witches were said to perch high in the trees across the way for their sabbats.

We enjoyed ourselves, had lunch, came home. The South West Wind grew stronger, turned light and sky into epic foreboding beauty. Came the night I dreamed of an old semi-squeeze who shared a surname with one of the most infamous Reaver families of the Borders, a bunch so terrible the archbishop of Glasgow cursed them. Unfortunately, his name was the most interesting thing about him. In my dream I had borne his child long ago and told him nothing of it but now he wanted to know.

He didn't get his wish. By morning, dream Not-A-Reaver was still thwarted, and like the South West Wind I had moved on.

There was The Last of Us; beginning with the computer game, where a particular event turned players right off. If that particular event is repeated in a TV setting, who wouldn't expect viewers to react the same way players did? Bad storytelling when it happened first time, bad storytelling now. I am amazed at content creators blaming 'audience toxicity,' but then I guess folk must cover their bums. The question remains though, if you believe in the malignity of your audience, how the hell can you connect to them, more, why would you want to?

Meanwhile there was 1883. This was great. Not perfect, but sufficient in itself, poetic, heartbreaking, raw. Does it make me want to watch 1923 or Yellowstone? I don't know, I'm not quite ready to leave feral Elsa and the empty seeming land.

It reminded me to my trip to the West Coast back in the 80s. That was a strange dusty year in the city of angels. Decades later I could probably handle LA but for then I ran away, unimpressed by Hollywood and Rodeo Drive, on to San Francisco, to San Diego, out to Arizona and Monument Valley, eventually finding my best place in Yosemite, which brought me so much happiness I spent most of my holiday there. The very first beastie I saw was a bear, and much later strolling along the trails, I walked parallel to a mountain lion carrying a bird in its mouth. This was one place I couldn't wear perfume because all I wanted to smell was the warmth of land and trees, I loved it so much I never wanted to leave. But in 2015 when R suggested we get married there I demurred, practical reason being because it felt odd to ask friends to spend so much on our wedding, but also because I was afraid Yosemite might have changed beyond my memories.

One thing I learned long ago about stories is that they should make sense alone, but it's often their way to sprawl out, to spiral into connection. Would I love Grand Teton or Yellowstone as much as Yosemite? How would it feel to redress my one regret about California and go spend time in Joshua Tree? Would I find myself facing that sense once again, that there is so much more, further up or in or down, more and more to be found across that strange continent? And then the travellers voice warns me that yes, all this is true, but it applies to everywhere. Wherever I go I'll find more. Stop falling in love it laughs at me.

I am no Elsa Dutton, but I feel for her, and her story brings me a never known, half glimpsed landscape. I'm glad I stayed with her to the end. That's the power of great storytelling.