Tears and Laughter For Fears

I’ve always been a subscriber to the dark arts of black humour.

Laughter, the first laughter in a baby, is a reaction to fear. It’s so closely related to crying, we don’t even realise it sometimes. Our tears accept and release the fears. Our laughter confronts it, and announces to the world that we won’t be brought down by whatever it is we may fear. We need them both. Although Tears and Laughter For Fears isn’t such a great band name.

Underneath it all lurks our fear of Death. That’s what we all fear deep down. Losing our grasp on Life once we have hold of it. Laughter is as an appropriate a response to that fear as tears are.

As with laughter and tears, life and death cannot be separated. They need each other. And we need them.

As the actress said to the bishop.

Change Is Here To Stay

Change is here to stay. As they say.

There are indeed those moments when time seems to stand still. But the minute we grab on to them, try to hold them in our grasp, they’re gone.

It’s a dreich day here in Campbeltown. Yesterday was sunny and spring like.
Tomorrow, who knows?

Change Is Here To Stay.

And that’s all I’ve got today.


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Thank You

People come together in grief.

It’s the one thing we all share with absolutely certainty. The end of things, once they’ve begun, is a given. We’ve been overwhelmed with the kind thoughts and condolences expressed in a variety of ways regarding my Dad’s sudden death.

I’m not the biggest fan of Facebook, but if all it did was to provide a place for people to say encouraging words to each other during difficult times, then that would be more than enough. And practically speaking the internet means we can easily keep people informed about the events in our lives.

Thank You, whether you’ve spoken to us, written to us, or just given us space. All of which are appreciated.

Life moves on very quickly. It is in constant motion. Whatever we are doing, or experiencing, it keeps creating. And we have no choice but to move with it. It’s not a bad deal really.


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One Of A Kind

On Friday I had my early morning walk along the sea front up to the Field of Hope, and decided to have a wander round Campbeltown Cemetery. It’s beautiful there.

Later that morning my Dad had a fall at home which resulted in a broken hip. I travelled with him and the emergency services to Glasgow. On Saturday morning he went for his operation, during which he went into cardiac arrest and died.

That’s how quickly it happened. How quickly it happens.

My Dad, John Fee, came to live with us eight months ago, moving up from Newark where he was a distance away from all of his children. He had settled in well here, and been welcomed and made friends at the local church he attended. With a struggle, and a bit of encouragement, he’d managed to take an almost daily walk. Local neighbours, as is the way in Campbeltown, said they were keeping an eye on him when he was out.

He seemed to be happy here, and pleased to have us all around. I’m glad he came to stay, and glad that this happened here, where my sister and I live, rather than away from us all in Newark. In a way, for him, I’m glad things happened quickly. I know how bad things can get after a hip break.

It was tough to be with him over the last twenty four hours of his life but I’m glad I had that time too. I can tell you that he bore things well, even though clearly in a lot of pain. To any one in the vicinity his regular shout outs of “Jesus” might have seemed like a curse, but for him it was a prayer. His faith was the most important thing in his life.

It’s very hard, even for someone like me who likes being creative with words, to describe my Dad in a few words, or the complicated relationship I had with him. I’m going to cheat for once and use an old cliche - he really was One Of A Kind.

Dad used to read this wee blog of mine, but only ever commented when I made a grammatical mistake. And, of course, that is exactly the kind of thing I’m going to miss. You can be sure I’m checking this one carefully, but I can’t promise perfection anymore!

Last week I finished off a song I’d been writing (lyric below). It isn’t recorded yet, but I’d like to dedicate it to my Dad.

Rest in peace Arthur John Fee. Born 14th March 1939, Died April 13th 2024.

Moment In Time
These are the days of our lives (never to return)
This is where we will decide (what we’re gonna learn)
Every breath we’ll ever breathe (never to return)
This is what we have achieved (and it’s)

Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment in Time

These are our hopes and our dreams (never to return)
This is the way that things seem (then the seasons turn)
Every second we live (never to return)
This is what we have to give (and it’s)

Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment in Time

Tomorrow will come if we have our way
Now we open the gift called today

Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment In Time
Just a Moment in Time

Our National Health Service

Yesterday was a long one.

The fall my Dad had yesterday had caused a broken hip, and meant a trip up to Glasgow for an operation, which he is being carried out as I write. The medical services have all been excellent, but it’s a long drawn out process coming up from Campbeltown, full of protocols and procedures. Ones that at each stage needed, or had to be, repeated.

First the visit and initial assessment from the Campbeltown paramedics. Then the transfer to Campbeltown hospital. Then the transfer by ambulance again to the airport for the air ambulance. Then another ambulance to hospital in Glasgow. And then a host of different nurses in a busy hospital, and the wait for the orthopedic surgeon. And eventually to his ward around midnight.

It was all clearly disorientating for my Dad in the midst of very obvious pain. But mostly necessary, and he bore it all very well I must say. Hard to watch though.

And now the wait.

It bears repeating, even though it’s been said many times before. In circumstances like this, Our National Health Service is just an incredible asset to those of us who are lucky enough to live in these islands. Freely available to all.

I’m a great believer in doing, as individuals, everything possible to avoid having need for these services. But when they are needed they are superb. Everybody on our path yesterday was wonderful, upbeat, and patient.

So a big thank you to all of them.

The Whole Package

I saw my first swallow of the summer as I walked around the local graveyard this morning. And later my Dad took a fall.

I was out when it happened, but thankfully he had just a week ago got set up with the Tele-Care technology which meant that his predicament was immediately signalled through to them, and passed on to us. He may have to travel up to Glasgow. We’re waiting on the doctors verdict.

First swallows of the summer are a sign of warmer days to come. Falls at the ripe old age of eighty five have slightly more chilly implications.

I’m looking forward to the warmer days ahead. And I’m wishing for as much freedom from pain and discomfort as is possible for my Dad.

These are the paradoxical experiences of life.

It’s all a part of The Whole Package.

“Good Morning”

I walked along the sea front this morning and saw somebody. A stranger. It occurred to me that they were as much a part of my conscious experience, no more, no less, than every experience and thought I have ever had. From the most benign and subtle to the most impactful and profound. All appear unbidden, and without preference (including those notions of preference) within my conscious mind.

I said “Good Morning”.

There is a multiverse of conscious life on planet earth. But my own conscious universe is almost unknowable to you. Or to them. And likewise yours and theirs to mine.

We can’t ever get inside each other’s heads, however close we are, even if the appearance of your head, or my imaginings about what you are thinking or feeling, appear in mine sometimes.

It’s always a second hand view we get. At best.

And yet…

….we become friends and lovers. Enemies and compatriots. The liked and the unliked. The team mates and the colleagues. The givers and receivers. The doers and the spectators. The healers and the healed.

We can touch.

There are endless possibilities to the connections we can make with the unknown universes inside each other’s heads. And we can do that simply by sending out signals to one another, like a physicist sending out radio waves, with curiosity, into outer space.

Beep. Beep. Beep. “Good morning”.


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The Gannets

The Gannets are back.

Fishing in the harbour like mad things yesterday evening. I love their rocket dives. Like white cruise missiles hitting the water one after the other. Sometime successful. But not always. There must have been a big shoal of fish in one area not far from the harbour wall, because they were there for a long time.

These gannets are probably breeding on Ailsa Craig, the island that sticks out of the sea like a big fairy cake, about thirty miles away, past the south of Arran and towards the Ayrshire coast.

Gannets were hit particularly badly by the bird flu of a couple of years ago. But birds are resilient. They were around long before us. And hopefully that flock of gannets I saw is the sign of a bounce back. I hardly saw any last year.

They always bring a smile to my face when I do see them.

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Touch The Moon

My good friend Chris Annetts just celebrated his birthday. But he’s far more excited (and rightly so…what’s another year anyway?) about the launch of his new single and his new website.

The latter is, like all these things, a work in progress, but looking good. The former is a beautiful song, fully formed, and lovely to behold.

Chris is a self proclaimed Rag Bag Of Contradictions. But he’s a mighty fine songwriter. And I highly recommend a listen to the new single Touch The Moon.

He got there. He has touched it. Through care, creativity, craft…. and dedication.

Publish

I often have ideas for this blog when I walk. Usually I forget them. That’s fine. I actually prefer to sit down with nothing planned at all. There is fun to be had, as a clueless creator, sat in front of a blank page. The mystery, as always, of what will emerge. Something always does. Sometimes good, sometime Meh. But something.

Sometimes I have to wrestle with that something until it looks like a something with which I’m not too uncomfortable pressing the “Publish” button for. It’s that button which turns the something in our heads into something that everyone can see.

It happens when we write. When we sing. Whenever we open our mouths and say something.

It never stops being a vulnerable moment.

But until we do that, in one way or another, we remain as isolated islands, locked in by the surrounding sea, into a community of one.

And that can be fine and enjoyable for a while. Some of us like, even prefer, our own company. I happen to think though, that we’ve all got something to share with the world that could make it better. Sometime the quiet ones in particular have something we need to hear.

So sometimes, even if only occasionally, that button might be better off getting pressed.

ps. are there times when we regret pressing the button? YES! Are there people we wish wouldn’t press the button nearly so much? YES! (Keep it to yourselves if that last one’s me! ;-)

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What If We Tried It This Way?

I’m the son of a preacher man.

And it’s inevitable that some of that preachy vibe rubs off on the offspring, whether from the genetics or from the, y’know….preaching.

So I have sometimes noticed that about myself down the years. Never really liked it, even as a believer, and I’ve generally tried to avoid being it and doing it. Nobody likes to be preached at. Well, I suppose the exception might be those people who go to the church or the mosque every week. And even then my anecdotal evidence would suggest that many if not most of the sermon listeners are either disagreeing internally, or not really listening.

No pulpit or position ever invented makes the person who stands in it, or holds it, the bearer of truth. Nor does it give them authority over anybody. Authority is an arbitrary thing that we hand out to people. Or they hand out to themselves. Sometimes it seems fitting. Many times not.

And it seems that many of the worse things that happen in the world, happen when “TRUTH” is used as a weapon to attack, or a wall to keep out, or as a reason to look down upon.

But it doesn’t have to be:
“This is the truth. Believe or be damned!”

Why not just appeal to our listener’s imaginations?

We’d all rather be volunteers than automatons, right?

If we have an idea to share, a simple “What If We Tried It This Way?” is a far better way forward because it puts the power in our hands. `

And I can tell you that with absolute, one hundred percent, certainty.

Or be damned!

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You Make Everything Better

Just a quick blog today. Home again, and I released my monthly song yesterday.

This one is called “You Make Everything Better”.

So thank you whoever you are. I’ve spent today in bed with some virussy thing, and knowing YOU are there, perks me up.

Brief Glimpses

I did see my first dolphins.

Brief Glimpses of black silhouettes appearing above the waves on a windy day, close to the shore. A mother and baby apparently.

It’s funny how these experiences in life matter. David Attenborough and the Beeb can provide me with incredibly intimate views of dolphins and pretty much any other kind of creature I want to view, from the comfort of home, and with detailed explanations of any behaviour witnessed. And I love those kind of programmes.

But still these briefer glimpses continue to matter somehow.

That was two days ago. Today I have only hazy memories of brief glimpses. That seems to me a good description of everything we experience.

And though that perspective can makes life appear ephemeral, when all we are wanting is solid ground to stand upon, still the truth can be liberating.

What are we glimpsing now?

Black Isle

We’re on the Black Isle. It’s not an island. Nor black. But that’s the only real criticism. In every other respect it is lovely.

It’s our first time here. And being somewhere for the first time is always a very pleasant occurrence in life, I find. All that undiscover-ness has a special quality.

Also, the new in-laws to be are very nice. They don’t have fangs or spit fire or any of those frustrating little behaviours that can put you off people. Which is just as well, considering that we’ll be a part of each other’s extended family’s. We’re getting on very well.

Ooh, and there is chance that we might get to see dolphins, as this is one of the top places in the whole of Britain for seeing them. Even living in Kintyre, I’ve never seen one, so that would be exciting.

And that’s your travel update today.

Now back to the studio.


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One Thing Leading To Another

We’re meeting the new in-laws to be this weekend for the first time. The parents of our youngest son’s fiancee. These are the two people who came together many years ago and brought into the world the little girl who would grow into the woman who would like the picture of our son Eryn on Tinder ,or some such dating app, and especially like the fact that his picture included a cat.

And then she swiped left or right, or whichever way you’re meant to swipe in order to say…”Mmmm…he’s a possible”. And of a course a similar process happened the other way round.

Those are just a couple of the basic happenings among the infinite multitude of happenings that had to happen for this weekend away to happen. Everything an intricate web of connections.

One Thing Leading To Another.

And the crazy thing is that today we will be adding to the chain and causing more as yet unforeseen future happenings.

It’s quite beautiful really. We are fully part of it, and yet able to appreciate it in the moment, with a sense of awe and wonder.

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Comfort Zones

Was just reminded of the time, the one time, when I sang in a choir.

It was the biggest singing challenge I’ve faced. I can’t say I learnt to read music, but I learnt to read the music of the songs we were singing. And I sang in three languages. Again, just for those songs. Sadly I still can’t speak fluent Latin or Tuvaluan. My English is getting there though.

I think my biggest take away from that experience was to get more focussed, less haphazard, about singing the right notes with the right tone. Previous to this, my biggest gift to the world when singing was probably the passion, and sometimes the sheer volume, with which I sang.

But it’s obviously better to do something better. And, for me, singing in a choir, though just the once, helped me to sing better.

Testing and challenging ourselves, out-with the normal Comfort Zones, will always up our game, whatever the game might be.

ps. The accompanying photo is obviously not me playing in a choir. It’s Chris Annetts playing in Carradale!


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Spludge

Spludge.

I heard someone say that Van Gogh might have said, that the first thing he did, when presented with a blank sheet of paper, was to make a pencil mark in the middle of the sheet.

Then the damage is done. A start has been made. The creation has begun.

And chances are it can only improve.

Or, to quote Cecily from our online songwriting sessions:

”If you’re struggling to write a good song, write a crap song”.

And take it from there.

The Meaning Of Life

What is the point?

Of this blog, for a start.

Well, on the one hand, does it need one?

On the other hand … could be the left hand or the right, it doesn’t really matter, but it definitely depends upon which hand you used first … as I’ve continued writing the point has become, in my mind at least, simply to look at this thing we call Life, and to see it more clearly, and to appreciate it more fully.

I can’t really put it any better than that. Sorry.

I was always the kind of dude who was looking for meaning. The Meaning Of Life. It was always out there somewhere in the distance.

But life itself was always here. With me and in me. In one sense, as far as my own experience apply’s, I am life. And the looking for its meaning was probably the main cause of any pain or suffering I experienced.

Because it seemed to be always out there in the distance. Somewhere else entirely. Something I was missing.

But, yeah, turns out it’s here. Who would have thunk it?

(Shout out to all those peeps who manage to work this simple truth out without getting all Esoteric or Spiritual or Philosophical or Theological or Born Again or Clinically Depressed).


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Smiley

Twelve year old Smiley
Never saw Thirteen.
Never had a snog.
Or smoke a crafty cigarette
Before thinking better of it.
He never had to sit an exam
Lucky thing.
Never drove a car.
Never went with his pals
For his first pint in a pub,
Like a real adult does.
He never had sex.
Never lived to have regrets
About the way
He repeated
Some of the very mistakes
That were made on him.

He never held his own son, and wondered what that boy would become.

I’ve done all of these things. And I have no reason, no reason whatsoever, not to smile on Smiley’s behalf.

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The Rain Pours

The Rain Pours
The sun shines
The lark in the blue sky sings.
The west wind batters
The summer breeze whispers
And these are a few of my favourite things.

British weather is a metaphor for everything. But it’s not an excuse for bad poetry. That’s on me. And a rapidly approaching deadline.


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