Do you want to hear something annoying?

After naming this post “scatterbrain” I thought, hmm, what are other words that also mean scatterbrain because sometimes I don’t like the word ‘brain,’ it makes me squeamy and uncomfortable. And lo, I found this freaking word: Flibbertigibbet. Are you fucking kidding me? Even worse, I heard how it is pronounced and I think my day was ruined. This is what happens when you’re really into words like I am. A word that looks and sounds like this has no business existing in any language ever.

You’ll soon see why this dispatch was given “Scatterbrain.” I’m all over the place. Sorry.

Really, lately all I want to do is play guitar and learn songs and write songs. But I love my substack and I love my readers and publishing the Direction of Motion on a regular basis for nearly two years has given me a much needed discipline. So here we are; concertedly, streamingly of conscious-ly pulling words from the scatter.

Today I went up 256 steps in a narrow, claustrophobic winding staircase to the top of the bell tower at the cathedral. There were two older gentleman leading this tour, they loved their roles and knew their shit. It was like being on a school field trip. I asked loads of questions. I was that person who asks the things that everyone else is wondering but too shy to ask, or asking things that I’m pretty sure made the others people in the group think, yeah, wow, good question.

I wanted to know “what is the difference between a chime and a peal?”—because when we got to the belfry, where all the bell ringing goes on, the one guide explained that in the early 17th century they figured out how to make the bells peal instead of chime. He explained how it was done, but me—being a musician—wanted to know the difference in sound. My question was answered.

I found out it’s insanely complicated, this whole business of bell ringing. I kind of wanted to write about it but my mind started melting. Here’s just a sample of why:

You try and paraphrase and make that interesting. And that’s just a tiny sample. I’m not even going to link you to learn more, trust me, it will make your head swim. But if you must, look up “change ringing.” And I’ll just share the disjointed video I was going to use as food for my social media beast but decided not to. Basically, I should’ve left things at this, because doing the internet deep dive later just added junk to an already cluttered…brain.

It’s worth mentioning that the guides wanted us to leave the belfry before the bells started ringing—as heard in the video excerpt. I asked (pleaded really) if we could stay to watch and listen. It was painfully loud. Everyone ran away except me. It was definitely a “one of these is not like the others” times.

Other things besides change ringing bells I learned: the War of the Roses, (not the movie) —a Civil war that started in 1455 between two competing royal houses for control of England’s throne, went on for thirty odd years and the very first battle of this war was fought in St Albans. (I’ve been fascinated by English history since the age of ten, when I first learned of Henry VIII and his six wives.)

I also jotted down in my notes to investigate the mythical martlet bird. This is a bird without feet used in coats of arms and heraldry. No feet means it can’t land and flies until it dies. Which sounds horrible but is supposed to symbolize continued effort, never touching down, a constant quest for knowledge.

Coincidentally, I have two stories underway, one involves birds that flew until they died, one that has a supporting character that is a bird without feet or wings.

Speaking of stories….Well now I have to write “The Mascot” which won by a small margin. I’m talking about the last dispatch whereby I listed a bunch of story ideas in various drafts or starts and asked readers to pick which they’d be most interested in reading. I was surprised by the answers—this wasn’t the one I thought would appeal to people. I love that; a reminder to stay out of my own way.

Many—not all—but many ideas come out of living life—an inspiration from someone I’ve met or seen or known or know about. Maybe something that happened or almost happened to me, or happened to someone else. If it goes beyond noticing to a spark and the imagination fires, anything goes. The writer gets to create a new patch-worked mosaic blend of made up and altered, repurposed fragments of life.

When people who know me recognize something (some people did in these ideas) don’t worry, that’s all you will recognize. You might get a glimpse of the spark, recognize it—hey, wait, I know where she got that. But the rest is pure fictive imagination having it’s way, chasing the spark, blowing on it, trying to make a story.

Fiction is nerve-wracking for me. It’s harder than memoir because it’s more creative. I suspect/fear that when it comes to writing, I have bigger portions of good judgment and craft-woman-ship than I have supplies of creativity. As a musician I’m more creative than I am technically adept. So, the gifts I’m confident of are fine qualities to have as a writer…but might make for being a less effective fiction writer. If a reader doesn’t like truth, who cares? It’s truth, it doesn’t exist to be liked or not liked. It just is, in all it’s bare-assed nakedness, presented with as much literary flair as one can muster.

Having said that, I also try really hard not to put limits or labels on what I think I can or can’t do, so I hesitate to even write what I may or may not have in terms of talent. Words are powerful little line squiggles and sound blurts. Words are like the initial event in a sort of metaphysical chain of causation. Writing or saying something doesn’t make it so, but they exist once they’ve been spoken or written. When we make statements about ourselves or others, words become bigger things, narratives.

Maybe not the ones we want to be ours.

You’ll never, ever hear me say: “with my luck…bla bla bla.” And I’ll make you take it back if I hear you say it. With our luck, amazing, wonderful, unexpected things will come our way. Isn’t that better?

Anyway, in the spirit of “going for the yikes,”1 I’ll start writing this story picked by you readers, and posting it after a decent draft surfaces. Maybe as a bonus for subscribers who support my writing with paid subscriptions. Feels like a fair deal. And, after all, one great thing about getting into your mid 60’s is knowing how little time one might have and how fast it it’s blowing by so just fuckit doit.

Do as much as you can or want, or feel nudged from or pulled by or drawn to. Do It Quick.

Seems like a good place to put the subscribe button!

Just as the change ringing of the bells became impossible to follow, I was dismayed to find more lack of focus when attempting to brush up on some basic philosophical premises. This little rabbit hole was dug when I was thinking about eudaimonia, wondering if I could ever put that word in a sentence in a regular conversation, or even a song maybe, or if I’d just feel like a pretentious twat if I attempted to do either.

In case you’re unfamiliar, eudaimonia is a Greek word. I don’t know if actual modern day people in Greece say it or only ancient Greeks said it. I first heard it when learning virtue ethics, specifically Aristotle’s Nicomachean ethics. He used it in terms of what makes a good life, what makes a person flourish. He used it to distinguish between happiness derived as result of a pleasurable pursuit and happiness derived from leading a balanced, virtuous life.

Trying to read through his treatise on ethical and moral actions within human behavior—something I did competently some years ago—I found myself reading the same sentences over and over. I couldn’t seem to absorb the language and have it make sense, even though it was familiar and not very complex. I wonder if it’s coming of aging stuff, or general stress with being here in England away from the needs and well-being of my beloved friend I spent most of this latter part of summer with.

Since my escape hatches from emotional turmoil are limited, I’ve spend a lot of evenings internet diving and surfing. The beauty of education, whether from an academic institution, through books, or from search and click research is the absolute thrill of tripping through millenia of amassed ideas, people, events. Escape n’ learn. My favorite realms are history and philosophy; history keeps the transience of our little blip lives very forefronted, a much needed context when I’m overwhelmed. And with philosophers, I’m oddly comforted by my ping pong reactions to different or opposing normative theories. Maybe it’s just that lovely Descartian “I think therefore I am” business—who doesn’t want a nice boiled down version of their existence within the chaos of life?

When I need a break from that, I play. I play guitar and learn songs more than I have in years. Music has always been there for me. Besides escape hatching, I have practical reasons: In a few weeks I have three wonderful days in a rehearsal room with a few musicians I’ve never played with before and I can’t wait. We have no idea what we’re going to play or what will come of it, but we’ve been drawn to each other and talking about it for nearly two years. It’s finally happening—whatever “it” is. Even if it’s just three days of rockin’ fun with me, Cáit O’Riordan, Linda Pitmon and, coming in on the last day, Brix Smith—that’ll be fine. I need this. Cool collection of players, ya?

Ok, scatterbrain is over and out. I hope there was something in here you liked. Or at the very least I redeemed myself for making you listen to flibberitgibbet xkv