CONTEMPLATIONS, or Musings on an afternoon in early summer. by Chris Champness 1283 words

Useful things conservatories' I thought to myself (as I shall be doing throughout this piece). And especially so if they are south facing as they are comfy in spring and autumn, can double up as an auxiliary central heating boiler when the weather demands; and a sitting room in summer (just as long as the blinds are drawn and all of the windows are open). Useless as such a room in winter when a retreat to the real north facing sitting room is required. A bit like the Raj retreating from the summer heat to the hilltop town of Simla my thoughts continued , rather inconsequentially. Is that last word appropriate I wondered, a question which remained unanswered - the rustling of the leaves on the large tree next door returned me to reality. And, in so doing, refocused my eyes on the view through the open doorway. The nearer part of the picture it presented was of the bungalow next door, empty since the owner had died within ten days of my moving in some two years ago. A harbinger of the future or just a coincidence? Let's hope the other residents of the street don't think of me as a Jonah I had thought at the time. As it turned out, they didn't. A nicer lot of neighbours it would be hard to find in the usually snooty south of England (and I speak as a southerner so I should know). This thought I immediately contrasted with my days as an impoverished apprentice in the Geordie land of South Shields. Salt of the earth. I nodded, agreeing with myself for once. Salt indeed, once the accent had been mastered. Why-eye as they say.

The remainder of the view was of the east facing downs. Brightly verdant after a wet winter as they basked in sunshine. Splashes of clumps of trees amongst the pastures on which white dots were sprinkled of sheep still resplendent in their winter coats. Archetypal England I decided, and a view duplicated many times - at least on the western and central part of the Island. So far removed from the odours of hot dogs and greasy onions frying on East Wight. And quickly admonished myself. It's what the tourists want and its they who bring in the revenue for all of us. Ah yes, us Islanders. Home to some, caulkheads probably, who proclaim it the best place on earth. 'Born here, never moved. No reason to. Best place on earth'. The irony of their views quite passing them by. How could it be the best place on earth if they've never been anywhere else?

But no, ignore that. Leave them to their dreams. Which are quite harmless. But such thoughts led me to contrast their lives with my own. For a nomad a difficult question to answer. But look at the question in a wider context and the answer becomes clearer. Well, I would reply, it's not really where you come from that's important. It's where you're going to that really matters.

But there is another side to all that. We are what we are, to a not insubstantial extent, as a result of our place of birth, our parents, our upbringing, the values we absorb in our earlier days. Suppose you had been the seventh child of a rickshaw wallah in the slums of Mumbai. How different life would have been. Such extremes of poverty force some parents to blind their babies at birth deliberately in order to produce a financially useful tool for begging. Do you recoil in horror that I should mention such things? Well, if you do, consider this: such things happen in the same world you were born into and live in. How can we divorce ourselves from that or ignore the moral responsibility we bear to try and alleviate it? Let's be honest. We can't. But what can we do? Very few amongst us have the courage to roll up their sleeves and immerse ourselves in that world to try and make it a better place. But we can look to support their efforts, practically or financially. And from all this comes another question. If, as many say, there is a God who created the Universe, our planet and then ourselves, how can he possibly allow this to happen? Well, maybe he does it to see how we confront such issues and a positive approach earns points and a negative one loses points.

And if, for instance like most of us, you are born to the middle classes in such an advance society as ours, that benefit will have to be accounted for in the final reckoning. To what avail you will ask.

Well, there are many whose beliefs, religious or otherwise, include a continued existence after the demise of our material bodies. And we take our tally of points with us when we go. This may be wrong and there will be nothing. Or it may be right and Yippie!! b We shall all know in due course.

But enough. This is not an exercise in philosophy, or even theosophy. Just random musings. Which leads me to our second project of the month: to write a piece in both the past and the present tenses. And in this there is a philosophical aspect. For whilst the past HAS passed, is it not always with. us? As Omar Khyaam in his Rubaiyat so well put it over a thousand years ago: 'the moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on. And all thy wisdom, piety and wit cannot lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it'. We may try , for our personal reasons to ignore parts or forget them or even to relive other parts.

But on both counts to no avail. There it was, and there it still is. And here in our present it stays. What to make of that? I'm not sure I know the answer. My first attempt has failed. I was initially quite proud of the idea; a schoolboy sits in class listening to the monotony of his Latin teacher declining the tenses of verbs.

His thoughts wander and he finds himself a legionnaire in that Legion of the Roman Army occupying the

Isle of Wight. He momentarily recovers from his dreams but soon lapses back into them. He is now a pensioner back in Italy enjoying retirement with his extended family. It was only at this stage reality set in: I knew not the slightest thing about the life of a legionnaire on the Isle of Wight or anywhere else. Nor anything about life in Italy 1600 years ago. Pride does so often come before a fall. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

And so, my own thoughts return to reality. Isn't it amazing how the mind wanders when given free rein as one sits in a conservatory on a sunny afternoon? Or is it the brain which does the wandering? And what is the difference anyway between the mind and the brain? And what is it that some scientists are now claiming that the Universe itself is pure consciousness? I have often thought the answer to such questions must lie somewhere in the books physicists and scientists produce. Which is why I have a stack of such books. All unread bar the first chapter which is as far as I ever get.

But enough of that. It's time for afternoon tea. I raise myself from the semi prone position I have gradually assumed and make my way to the kitchen and the kettle.