It’s time for a wallowing post. It’s been a while, and I’ll be brief.
Continue reading Follow Me, Follow, Down To The Hollow — An Open Letter
I’m writing this on my birthday, the day before it’s due to be posted. I’m 39. My dad said, last night, “They start to go quicker, don’t they?”
I responded, “Actually, this year’s been pretty eventful. I think that’s made it seem longer.”
But I’ve been at the age, for over twenty years now, that my birthday isn’t such a big deal. I’m enjoying this one, though. Beth made some fried halloumi for breakfast. I put some yoghurt in a couple of small bowls and made some tea. Even though it’s the ides of September, I can see a patch of blue in the sky, if I crane my neck.
.@bethmonahan Halloumi, yoghurt and insolvency. It’s a Greek-themed birthday!
— Ricky Brown (@ricky_ballboy) September 15, 2013
For all that, I may be looking forward to Strokiversary more. I haven’t celebrated one of those before. Well, maybe one, but it was rubbish.
Continue reading Invisible Ink
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No, wait! Read this first. Don’t get distracted….]
A wise man once said, omne trium perfectum. [Good post, that one. Deserved more comments.]
Things that come in threes are (1) inherently funnier, (2) more satisfying, or (3) more effective than other numbers of things.
Friendoftheblogron and I both poured scorn on this idea, but it turns out there might be something in it. Both on a micro (and a macro) level. So let’s clear the last of the asthma trilogy off the decks before we start the countdown to Strokiversary.
Continue reading Of Love And Asthma II: The Literal Version
All Asthmatics, being angry or sad,
do fall into Fits oftener than when
they are cheerful
Sir John Floyer, A Treatise of the Asthma — 1698
Proust cropped up in the blog a while ago. I’ve never read any of his stuff, I have to admit. But I have discovered that he suffered his first asthma attack at the age of nine, and thereafter was considered a sickly child. The pneumonia that finally killed him followed asthma brought on by the young Samuel Beckett’s cigar-smoking. I’ve seen him referred to as “the asthma poet”.
Continue reading Of Love And Asthma
In the aftermath of my stroke (remember that?), I’ve found myself increasingly wedded to a positive outlook on the world. I suppose that’s a natural result of a near-death experience. By that, of course, I mean the experience of nearly dying rather than an umbrella term under which Ian Wiki groups “detachment from the body, feelings of levitation, total serenity, security, warmth, the experience of absolute dissolution, and the presence of a light.”
Continue reading Minor Arcana, or EnlighteNmenT
1. Glasgow Zen
At the end of Monday’s post, I wondered why it was that the generosity of spirit that Sandy McCall Smith demonstrated at his recent Book Festival appearance . . .
It gave [Bertie] a warm feeling to be protecting his friend from whatever it was that frightened him – whether it was Campbells, or the dark, or things that had no name. And it was not surprising, perhaps, that he should feel it – this little boy who felt things so deeply; for we all feel that about our friends; we all feel that about those around whom we might put an arm.
Continue reading A Meditation In Three Parts
Last Monday, I went to the Western General Hospital for a CT scan. In some ways, it was quite similar to going to Methodist in Brooklyn. The NHS has signs up informing patients of the same sort of stroke-related stuff that the American Stroke Association is always — quite rightly — banging on about.
I’ve been heartened by the response to Thursday’s post about how Jackie Ashley and Andrew Marr have responded to Marr’s stroke in January. There’s a real sadness underlying the story, I think. But you don’t have to read between the lines too much to find the melacholia in the story of today’s subject.
Continue reading Great British Strokes #5 — Vini Reilly
Beth and I were walking along Brooklyn’s Hicks Street on Monday. As we were poached by the early July heat, and boxed out by a solipsist and her two massive dogs, I was moved to remark: “I am regretting our move less by the hour.”
I’ve been much exercised by thoughts of national identity this week. It’s been increasingly needful that I remind myself of the mantra I deliver to self-satisfied Brits:
You’re talking about a country with the size and population of Europe. Everything’s here. The good and the bad.
Continue reading Who’s Afraid Of Americans?
Hi, gang. Ricky, Stroke Bloke and the back office would like to apologize for the tardiness of today’s post. Despite pre-banking this post, we’ve had what might euphemistically be called “technical difficulties”. So, without further ado….
Continue reading Technical Difficulties