When the Engines Cut...

and the tide at sunset leaves you meh

Pic: Joey Dunlop, many times TT winner, on wall at Murray’s Motorcycle Museum, Isle Of Mann.

Before you dismiss this as motorbike twaddle, let me just say T.E. Lawrence: Author.

Whilst he endured (or was that enjoyed) great adventures, he also delivered them in writings such as ‘The Mint’. His poetic descriptions of riding in that volume don’t simply put you in the saddle - they also define how such pleasures helped his escapism. Which is why I wish to lead you down a similar route, not to send you scuttling off on a bike, but to try to illuminate how it is that such an experience alters the mind.

I am at present burnt out. I have very little interest in creative literature, and I bore very quickly - which is probably all to do with me. It’s not that I stopped writing altogether. It felt like I couldn’t write, so I just ignore it, even forget I allege to be a poet/writer, and garden, walk, ride the bike whatever… Oddly, inexplicably, I decided to enter a poetry competition. Something I seldom do because I cannot be arsed trying to please some judge or editor (likewise sending stuff to magazines etc). Also, something that I once swore was quite impossible, was to write on demand, especially from a prompt. I clicked open a prompt-driven competition on Allpoetry and wrote something on the spot. OK, it’s a small entry for an obscure enclave, but I am listed as a finalist. How can that be? I’ll include the poem at the end, but what’s important here is that I wrote whilst allegedly dumbstruck and brain-dead. And it was good enough to impress a judge. Therefore, is ‘writer’s block’ actually just a state of mind?

Writing that piece, I felt no celestial rush. There was no eureka, just a faint wry smile. This was not what tumbled down to me via that mechanism that used to never be quiet. Even though it now seems burnt out - when called upon it yielded product of which I’m kind of pleased, or at least non-plussed. So I ask again, how can I do that, when no inspiration comes and even the process and result barely lift my spirit? Is it that my functions are intact - but simply dulled and worked to the bone? I imagine this is how card verse writers must feel - ho-hum, another phoney greeting… The celebratory motto of the group I joined is in its name: ‘Read To Write’. And this habit might - nay I’m certain - has muchly contributed to my current condition. This is not a condemnation or betrayal of that practice - I whole heartedly - well, sorry, I’m not capable of that - as much as I can-heartedly recommend it. From it, I have learned so much in such a short time, by acquiring text simply because it was called poetry. Physically and online. Tome after tome. So happen I’ve overdone it, many times over. And I can still feel that mental frazz as I type this; and then - I note to myself - this is how I write. An idea comes and I start to convey, to record at least. From that, the notion or theme develops; and the next one; and the next…

During this process then, I also note that my mind starts to zone in. Relative ideas spring to mind and other stimuli are closed out. Which is where the bike comes in. What I’ve learned about this hobby-come-transport is that it focusses the mind. You have to be aware of environment, weather conditions, the state of the road, other road users… the list goes on - I.E., be observant. The thing is, when you go fast, faster, fastest - your brain has to recalibrate.

If you’ve driven or even been driven on a motorway, and then gone onto ‘normal’ roads, it seems so slow. That’s because without realising, your brain has adjusted to thinking and decision making at a faster rate. It happens at a lesser rate just driving to the shops, whatever. When another vehicle comes ‘out of no-where’, they are possibly adjusted to a greater speed than you are. When someone behind you grows impatient, it’s likely that they are capable of travelling quicker and you are simply an obstacle to their progress. And before we go down that bomber race track, let’s just point out that these are states of mind. Someone in a slow state will not manage well in a fast situation - and probably vice-versa which is why advanced driving is something everyone ought to do. It’s like cognitive therapy - everyone should do a course to help with rational thinking. I did it long ago to try to understand my stress. And it slowed my thinking down so that I could rationalise processes. And thinking back, it probably helped clear my mind for some decent(ish) writing. Not to mention enjoying retirement.

Put in elemental terms then, if your brain does not adjust to higher speed whilst driving, you and those around you are in acute danger of at least some inconvenience. With your mind correctly occupied, all else becomes white noise. As mum says, you can’t enjoy the view. But there is a beauty and calm, even when the bike is shaking and weaving, even skidding. You are in control - you know how to react and the smallest input creates the right manoeuvre. I have already seen the dog about to leap the gate, I can tell by the attitude of the parked car ahead which way it’s going to turn and I’ve seen underneath it the legs of a woman who’s about to launch pram-first into my path. Whip off my skid-lid and leathers, put me in tatty jeans and jumper and sit me on the battered swivel chair facing the out of date mac: And here we are, mid article, not a dissimilar frame of mind. But the bike leaves no room for anything but the ride.

I’ve got various tabs open and even books at elbow as I fact-check my way through my ideas. Ideas I’m having in this alleged desert. I think my burn-out was simply a cry from my brain for some rest. OK, without being a bleating little wretch, life’s been a sod (and some people too), which has probably contributed to general fatigue - growing old isn’t for sissies anyway but fair to say, don’t drive when you’re tired, right? Take rests, eat when you’re hungry - so on my own advice, I do not try to write. Meanwhile, I’m off downstairs for a sandwich - and oh gawd, I just remembered, we got some bacon in yesterday… …and another diversion appears in the spectre of a broken electric hedge-clipper. Ali gets on with the shears while I split the dead device, bypass the safety cut-out and instruct her to drop it and step away in the unlikely event of any mishap. I also wax the car then remember too late to do it in sections so we have a big smear on the drive.

To be honest the car wax was scheduled if the sun shone, as was a bike wax. All done and I come back to this, having neither read nor written any poetry today. Tea and home-made scone all done, Ali gets on with a jigsaw and I’m back here, waffling. It’s just a thespian roar before I get to the speech. I resigned myself moons ago not to feel mithered if writing failed me, however this longer period has needled somewhat. I realise however that all things must pass - how many times have any of us quit this or that and been back at it once we’d cheered up? Not that I feel that I’ve been down - sorry if this sounds like catharsis (mine not yours), but it honestly is analysis. Because that merely underlines how, when we have a problem, we can be the last to see it. Compare this to say an alcoholic. Friends and family can say and do all they can - as indeed might therapists and the like. At the end of a fat wriggly cliche, it is always down to the individual to see their difficulty and to take effective action. I.E., help themselves. But if the individual cannot see it…

Indeed I wonder if I am in a bind, ignorant of some dreadful ism or whatever, going about upsetting people. But no, in this politically correct tower of babble we call a world, there is always an explanation. I had asked my GP zillions of moons ago if I might be autistic or something similar. Back then, the understanding was that if you thought you were, you probably weren’t. And despite the ‘probably’, nowt got done. Progress has somehow been made on that front - or rather back-whack. You may of course test yourself on line, and a cheapo lure to get your money test on social media reminded me of that past encounter. As had a recent TV detective series starring an autistic lass. So I looked elsewhere on line, carefully selecting search parameters that didn’t invite crap. The National Autistic Society (via Cambridge University I think, I can’t find it now as I didn’t think I’d refer to it) have a tick box test which does not confirm or refute, but does suggest how to analyse your score and what to do depending on the results. I was perhaps middling, ergo making my mind up about pursuing it is neither here nor there. If I felt life was frequently eventful in ways that seemed to affect others negatively, I’d act without hesitation.

However, what I learned about myself more or less confirmed my thinking, that I have certain traits and behaviours that might confuse or even grate. As I think back over the years - and recent weeks and days - little incidents pop up with beige to sort of rosé flags. I sometimes for example I generalise about an issue or situation - as I did in a recent email. It had more than one recipient, as we were trying to sort an issue out. I described the situation as frustrating, but one of the recipients took it personally. They suggested I take my kite elsewhere. I sent a grovelling reply, trying to explain, as being sensitive myself, I guessed I’d accidentally hurt their feelings - but no reply is forthcoming. They say one can say too much, but an enforced silence is a way of saying entirely the wrong thing. So which party is it now who has the problem? Ignore that comment. All I’m pointing out is that I had said something that could be interpreted as brusque.

Other questions on the tick box autism test ask how the testee(?) gets on with others, with complex stuff, numbers - all those things we witness in media tales about people who seem ‘thick’ or ‘odd’ yet they are able to do phenomenal stuff in their head with hardly any effort. We now just say they are ‘different’. In my years working in the social sector I have many times witnessed workers who you thought might be hyper-aware of such things, actually falling into stereotype ignorant behaviours. Nobody is perfect then, so it’s lucky we have forgiveness - at least some of us have. All the while people with natural abilities cannot get into the scenes or employment even that would suit them - because they are unable to apply or join in as others might. Sorry to trot this guinea pig out again, but I’m helpless at maths. I bet some of you reading this are me. To multiply, hmm, randomly - 5X7. I know two 7s are 14. 2X14 is 28. Add 7 = 34. Is that right? Thing is, I needed maths to get into college as a mechanic. But I didn’t need it to identify engine problems. I instinctively knew what was wrong and what to do about it. But that wouldn’t do if you wanted a job. Sound familiar?

Anyway, look, this has been rather a roundabout way to discuss a dead writing phase. Yet in itself it demonstrates that I can still write - albeit in my own (and viva people who do it their way) unorthodox manner and hopefully make an effective point. Which, to save further fernagling, is that a lack of inspiration could simply be fatigue - or the wrong environment - or some lack of stimulus. Perhaps it is time to trot out a Buddhistic aphorism about causality - I.E. there is a reason for everything, including in this case - nothing. To bring you back to the rosy cottage bower I lured you into earlier, perhaps I have transcended that state where I believe I only write when the muse takes me. Perhaps, some are saying, now does he get why we do courses and follow people online and join groups who give us work to do? I suppose what I can take from this is that we cannot hope to sustain the intensity of inspiration that comes forth when something is new.

After all, I’ve gone for decades without writing poetry. I certainly don’t write a fraction of how much music used to go through my head (although I can’t write it, I just mess with a guitar until it comes right, then record it). Perhaps I’m just another person like everyone else - not that I had any self-aggrandisement going on. And permorehaps age simply allows brain fog to lift and reality to ease down like a comfortable cat or dog on a hearth. There certainly doesn’t seem to be any urgency any more - though I still make the simplest of notes - lines like “He was rough-hewn from sausage-meat and piano wreckage”. It came to me as I recalled describing a guitar passage to a bass-player over at Manor Farm back in the 70s. “Play it like a pound of sausages” I said, and they didn’t get it, they fell about laughing…. So as their laughter dies away, if you’re suffering ‘writer’s block’ (which it obviously isn’t) - or ‘blank page syndrome’ which is another load of bollocks - it’s a blank mind - then know that all things being equal, some problems are best left ignored. It’s child psychology.

Note - I said I’d copy that poem here. The prompt was a Ferlinghetti poem, “A Far Rockaway of The Heart” - so being a fan of his I thought I could maybe do that - he lit some of my ideas before. As it happens, I felt obliged to tell the truth as fiction tends to look like that to me - insincere.

Promises

Thunder-dust and goggle glint

he grinned away

From Pottery Cottages

to the stone row, the

meadow-sweet-heart garden

within woolstink of the mill

Born in bastardy by one war

married by the second

Her eyes had turned his head

and his wheels for fifty miles each way

Tea and formality

in Bronte-land with the Irish black

That

hung in ringlettes of promises -

Still kept

where I lay the flowers, today