Let's get physical

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Let's get physical, physical; I wanna get physical, let's get into physical.'

Wrong Way Corrigan gets put through his paces at Walter's tienda.

Those lyrics, as some of you may recognise, are from the song Physical, originally recorded by the late Olivia Newton-John in 1981.

Considering how the rest of the song goes — 'let me hear your body talk' comes after the lyrics we've just quoted — the physical Newton-John sang about is not quite the one I have in mind here. While the setting for the music video is a gym, a little bit more than a solid, individual workout is suggested.

A problem to work out

Now, I'm not against intimate physicality per se, but the workout I want to talk up is one that doesn't require a partner. It can either be physical labour or planned exercise, the latter important for those whose regular lives are devoid of much movement, which is the case for many in high-income nations. Whatever form it takes, the idea is that it gets one's heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding.

As somebody who is not a fan of gyms and whose current work life tends not to be that physical, I try to do my best to work up a sweat in other ways: Kinaesthetic exercises at home; walk when and where I can and do so with purpose and power; in general, the aim is to be as energetic as possible in daily tasks that require movement.

Ideally, though, I prefer it when a chore I undertake naturally involves an amount of physical exertion in order to get it done. In this way, I don't have to find a time to fit in exercise into my daily routine: a case of exercise necessarily coming with what one has to do or wants to do.

Alas, these days, it's rare enough that any work I'm charged with is of a physical nature — getting aggressive with frustrating technology doesn't really count.

So getting the opportunity to do some hard-ish labour is something of an enjoyable novelty.

This was the case over the Christmas period just gone.

Walter's Mitty

Walter, the owner of one of my preferred tienda bars in San Martín de los Llanos, asked me to lend him a helping hand on what is one of his busiest nights of the year: Christmas Eve running into Christmas morning.

'Receiving gruff orders reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.'

It'd be a stretch to say I was honoured to be asked — I'd visions of an old practice in Ireland where a drunkard helps out in his local in return for booze — but it was going to be a novelty for me and so worth a try. More importantly, it would give me something additional to do as I drank — I was allowed to gently imbibe during my shift — on a night that I'm largely indifferent towards in these parts.

My main task was to keep Walter's four deep-fridge-freezers stocked with both bottles and cans of beer as well as fulfilling the orders of customers, with the vast majority buying crates of booze to take home. So there was a lot of hauling of beer crates here and there, stocking and restocking, with little rest time. And while I could restock at a decent speed, the overworked fridges were struggling to cool down the beer, such was the turnover.

Even after we pulled down the see-through shutters at 4 am to organise things for the next opening, the odd reveller continued to rock up looking to keep the liquor flowing and the party going.

Seeing as how Walter asked me back to help him again on New Year's Eve, I took it as a sign that I performed well. Or at least I wasn't a complete failure.

One of the biggest drawbacks was that at times I failed to understand Walter when he gave me an order. In my defence, I've noticed that even native Spanish speakers sometimes struggle to understand Walter because his speech isn't the clearest due to missing front teeth.

I'm also not great at taking orders, especially ones delivered gruffly, of which Walter was occasionally guilty. Receiving orders in such a style reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.

The intensity and duration were ratcheted up a few notches on that New Year's Eve/morning — the busiest period of the whole year for Walter. This shift was of 12 hours, 5 pm to 5 am, as opposed to an eight-hour one the previous time.

Not only that, but Walter asked me to return to help him from 10 am to 5 pm on New Year's Day, so in a sense it could be said I did a 24-hour shift, split by an extended morning break.

Rugby roll

With just a trickle of customers on New Year's Day compared to what went before, my main task was to bring crates full of beer to the tienda from a small storehouse at the back of the premises, some 30 metres away. I also had to take the crates stocked with empties from the tienda to the storehouse.

As most of this 30-metre distance has a smooth, tiled surface — in between the tienda and the storehouse is a motel managed by Walter's sister — the easiest and most enjoyable way to carry out this task was by pushing the crates, stacked five-high, along the floor. It felt like I was in a rugby maul, with shouts of heave from the imaginary spectators driving me on. Something to that effect. It did get the heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding in any case.

It was my favourite chore of the whole experience for the following reasons: It had a decent physical element to it, working different muscles; I was left to my own devices doing it, with the added bonus of not having to deal with tipsy and occasionally annoying clientèle; and I'm fairly sure Walter was quite pleased that I did it rather than him. Small, rotund Walter wouldn't strike one as the most athletic man about town. Although with practice, he could hold his own in the front row of a rugby scrum.

I must add that Walter did pay me for my labour. For the first shift on 24 December, I thought my payment was going to be in kind, basically free beer and food, the latter being a not-too-shabby Christmas dinner. But I got a decent enough cash payment, too. Had I not been paid for that initial stint, I would have been less inclined to return. Although seeing as how I dislike New Year's Eve, I probably would have gone back to help out regardless; a different way to pass the night.

I'm not, however, looking to go full-time as a tienda bar assistant. I have other ways to get physical activity into my daily routine. And I do like to be my own boss, when and where I can.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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Reigning cats over dogs

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Do you prefer cats or dogs?'

My almost instinctive answer to that, what some see as a character-defining question, had been to pick the canines over the felines. Had been, that is. These days, I'm much less certain.

Demanding dogs: The canines are more of a pain than the felines.

Deadly dogs

Truth is, I've had too many encounters with annoying dogs over the years that I can't live the lie that I particularly like them. And it's not a case of a couple of curs giving the rest of their more refined furry friends a bad name. No, for each slightly acceptable dog I meet, there's at least two that I wish didn't exist.

With cats, while I can't say I'm too fond of them either, at least they usually leave humans to their own devices, outside of when they want food, which is understandable.

More specifically, a domesticated cat is highly unlikely to start meowing frantically at me as I pass by its place of residence or wherever it happens to be, never mind show a desire to attack me physically. In contrast, many dogs not only make an unholy racket on seeing somebody, nay anything, but some are keen to go to battle.

'Barmy barking happens too frequently to be shrugged off as a tolerable dog idiosyncrasy.'

Even with non-aggressive, docile dogs, most have a tendency to get overly excited when they see other beings approaching. Tone it down, Lassie. For a witty insight into what might be behind this whining, yelping nature, P.G. Wodehouse's short story, The Mixer, is well worth a read.

Cool cats

Cats, in general, are just far more chilled and less excitable. I can't recall even one occasion when they woke me up from my sleep and proceeded to keep me awake with their screaming. With dogs, barmy barking happens too frequently to be shrugged off as a tolerable idiosyncrasy.

The most annoying cat trait that I can think of is their fondness to brush up against one's legs. That can be quite annoying. But they can rather easily be persuaded to stop doing it. And it doesn't tend to last too long in any case. Plus, they're unlikely to do it to a stranger.

Some dog lovers point to the fact that your pet cat will resort to eating you if faced with starvation, were it to be trapped alongside your dead body. A loyal dog, so it goes, would choose to starve to death alongside its owner in such a scenario. Ergo, cats are selfish, dogs are not.

But what does it matter when you're dead? You're not going to feel or know that your cat started eating your body. On this score, cats can be seen as being more practical.

What's more, it may not be complete loyalty that's at play with a dog. It could be thinking that it'll be accused of killing its master — an act a cat would most likely be incapable of doing — should it start tucking into his corpse. Granted, this is making dogs out to be more intelligent than they are.

Taking it that cats are low maintenance, seem to prefer solitude and silence over multitudes and madness — and aren't known to be great swimmers — then it's only natural that I'd be more comfortable in their company than with dogs. I think I have more of a feline personality than a canine one, minus the fondness for lounging about for hours on end.

This does not mean I'm a cat man in all instances. It's just in this specific case, comparing them with dogs. Other pets are available, after all.

If I were forced to have a non-human companion, I think I'd opt for something other than a cat or a dog. I'm just not sure what I'd choose.
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Misinterpreting insanity

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.'

It's an oft-quoted aphorism, sometimes attributed to Albert Einstein, although it's not at all certain that he did actually utter such words. And before I go any further here, I must confess that in a 2012 blog story, Dealing with the dealers, not only did I blatantly make that attribution, but I also said that it was a definition of stupidity rather than insanity. Oh, the irony!

Insane in the brain? Perhaps not.

Ignorantly persevering with stubbornness

That aside, and whatever about the definition's origin, it's a poor attempt at defining insanity.

Firstly, repeatedly doing the same thing could lead to different results. In fact, it likely will lead to different results. That's because conditions are constantly changing. So an action that produces a certain result in one moment will often yield quite a different one in another moment.

Take an aspiring actor — and I'm not at all referring to myself here, honestly. Casting, after casting, after casting. Rejection, followed by rejection, followed by rejection. Then, with no alteration in approach, his face fits. He lands a significant role that changes his life.

'One is more likely to be ignorant, stubborn or stupid rather than insane.'

Something similar could happen in dating. A guy sticks stubbornly to his modus operandi despite countless failures, but then meets someone who is happy to be with him.

This plays out across all walks of life, in business, politics, sport, the lot.

In all such scenarios, the protagonists may have been convinced that their way was the right way all along. Thus, they kept at it and eventually got the outcome they wanted. A case, so they may feel, of the rest of the world catching up to them, not the other way around. And that may have been their expectation, or at least hope, all along.

Thus, to label this insanity is wrong.

Indeed, the opening words are closer to describing ignorance, if it's a case where one is simply unaware of another, better approach, if one exists that is. More positively, they refer to perseverance: 'I will eventually get the result I'm looking for. Believe in the process.'

Swim as you wish — if you can

For insanity, a slightly better definition is 'doing the same unsuccessful thing over and over again whilst knowing that it's highly unlikely to deliver any positive result.'

Such behaviour can also be labelled — more accurately, perhaps — as stubbornness and/or stupidity, in the sense of doing something negative or damaging in spite of oneself.

With insanity, the idea is that inherent mental issues are driving the conduct; it's part of one's makeup and cannot really be changed. Stubbornness, in contrast, suggests that one is choosing to comport oneself in a certain manner.

What's more, insanity — like genius — is rather rare amongst the populace. The definition given at the start and my attempt to improve upon it describe behaviours that are more commonplace.

One is more likely to be ignorant, stubborn or stupid — or a blend of all three — rather than insane. This at least offers some hope for betterment through learning — if one is willing to learn and is receptive to new ways of thinking, that is.

And nobody knows it all, not even the geniuses. To substantially alter another popular but weak quote misattributed to Einstein: 'Everybody has the ability to be good at something. But some prefer to go with the flow like a dead fish rather than flex their muscles and swim as they wish.'

One major problem for some of us, however, is that we're not great swimmers.
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Fatalist attraction

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'One always has the vague illusion of taking or making one's own decisions, the illusion itself running in parallel with the awareness that most such calls are made for you by other people, or by circumstances, or just made.'

It's written in the cards. Or is it?

On first reading those lines, I viewed them as touching on fatalistic, insofar as they seem to dismiss individual agency. And they were written by someone whom I wouldn't have associated with fatalism and suchlike, the late and oftentimes great Christopher Hitchens, taken from his memoir, Hitch-22.

On deeper reflection, describing such sentiments as fatalistic is a category error. I can envisage Hitchens rubbishing such a notion were he here to expand on what he wrote — and I wish he were still here with us. He's not, I believe, saying that events are predetermined, that fate is at play. He's simply stating that we're not in charge of our own affairs as much as we may think we are.

Propitious past

Whatever the case and wherever one wants to place such a perspective philosophically, it is worth teasing out a little more.

Going back to our very beginning, none of us had a say in who our parents would be and where we would spend the formative years of our lives.

So if 'a good start is half the battle', it's just pure luck if one gets a propitious introduction to life. And what constitutes a good start is open to interpretation. It's not at all unusual to see those who seemed to have a rather tough upbringing going on to have quite successful lives. This success isn't necessarily in financial terms, although it often is. The more important outcome is that they become influential in whatever field they operate in.

'The outcome of practically everything we do is shaped, in a minor or major way, for good or for bad, by other actors and events.'

Thus, by the time we become adults and with it the notion of being able to make and take our own decisions, the foundations that have already been established can't easily be modified, should one wish to do so.

What's more, to state the obvious, certain things can't be changed at all. For example, a baby that wasn't breastfed, well there's no going back and giving it a go. Same goes for those who didn't have a father growing up. Do note, I'm not saying anything about the positive or negative qualities of these, I'm merely highlighting their inalterability.

The independence illusion

But at least independent adults can have a greater say in the current and future direction of their lives, can't they?

First of all, the idea of a wholly independent person is fanciful, as I've written about before on this blog.

Second, returning to the opening words, we don't have as much influence over the calls that affect us as much as we may like to think.

My being able to stay legally in Colombia has been, and remains, in the hands of others. Yes, it was my decision to come to Colombia in the first instance, but even that was influenced by others. It could also be argued that it would have been better had I not been granted residency, yet this, in a way, supports the point about calls being made for us rather than by us.

In effect, the outcome of practically everything we do — or do not do — is shaped, in a minor or major way, for good or for bad, by other actors and events.

This is not to say we're not without influence in this process. Our own endeavours do play a part.

Rules of engagement

Take the oftentimes complex world of a rugby scrum or ruck — not an analogy the sport-averse Hitchens would endorse. How the players position themselves, the picture they present to the referee, influences the referee's decisions. Some calls are marginal and open to much interpretation, but it's how the referee on the day sees them, together with the manner in which they are shown to him, that determines the outcome.

OK, some days the referee unfairly favours one side over the other. But thus it goes in life.

We can project an image that we think should be to our advantage, but we could be doing so at the wrong time, in the wrong place. Or at the right time but the wrong place, or vice versa. Or the right time and the right place, but the referee isn't on our side that day.

That last scenario in particular tends to lead to either disillusionment or a desire for vengeance. Or a blend of both. The hope is that we quickly get another opportunity before we do irreversible damage to our life chances.

For while many things are beyond our control, we can still try to be agents of positive change.
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The blank diaries

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'The great thing to be recorded is the state of your own mind; and you should write down everything that you remember, for you cannot judge at first what is good or bad; and write immediately while the impression is fresh, for it will not be the same a week afterwards.'

'Nothing will come of nothing.' Get writing that diary.

So advised 18th-century English writer, Dr Samuel Johnson, to the man who would go on to write his biography, James Boswell. The conversation was about the importance of journalling, of keeping a diary, something that Johnson told Boswell 'he had twelve or fourteen times attempted . . . but never could persevere.'

Digital duplicity

One reason, perhaps, why Johnson couldn't persevere with a journal is that he had plenty of other great works to write during his lifetime. Journalling for a full-time writer may be something of a busman's holiday. Although Johnson, writer of almost all of The Idler series of essays, didn't hide the fact that he suffered from bouts of idleness — what he viewed as being idle in any case. He did, after all, get through quite a lot in his life.

Whatever the case, in the 18th century, one didn't have to deal with ubiquitous digital distractions. So, in theory, those who had the wherewithal to write should have been able to find the time to keep a journal going, if they truly wanted to.

Conversely, today's digital devices make it easier for anyone to write or even dictate a diary. So when, just a few months back, I first read those lines quoted at the start, taken from the straightforwardly titled Life of Samuel Johnson, I decided to start a diary that very day.

It hadn't been in my mind at all but I figured that if I couldn't keep a diary at this moment in my life, when I have lots of me time, then I'll never write one.

Travel thoughts

Now, it's not the first time I've had a go at this. I vaguely remember a couple of attempts at writing a diary in my childhood but, like Johnson, I didn't persevere.

Years later and with much more success, I kept a travel journal when I went on what turned into a ten-month trip around South America, New Zealand, Australia and Southeast Asia between 2008 and 2009. The impetus to do so came from my immediately older brother. He had done his own bout of global travelling and he told me that he regretted not jotting down his thoughts.

Considering I was constantly moving around, I figured at the time that the best way to securely write and keep such a diary would be as a draft email on my Gmail account. It has stood the test of time in any case. And it's now backed up in a Word document just in case it were to be accidentally deleted from my draft emails.

It has proved useful in reminding me of what most likely would have been forgotten details from a period that had a huge bearing on the subsequent direction of my life. Only recently I was re-reading segments as research for my work-in-progress memoir on my time in Colombia.

'If one makes the effort to keep a diary, rigorous introspection should be a fundamental part of it, as Dr Johnson suggested.'

I will concede, however, that a handwritten journal is more authentic. Reading it, flicking through its creased pages, one knows that it has served as a tangible paper crutch for the writer. It has been there with him, giving it an anthropomorphic quality. In comparison, a digital version seems rather lifeless.

Yet, again for practical reasons, when I returned to journalling this year, it was to the digital domain I headed. Indeed, the arguments for going digital are stronger today than they were when I wrote the last entry into my travel diary some 16 years ago.

Back then, I had to find an internet café or wait in a queue to use a hostel computer to type in an update. For the latter, use was often time-restricted. So I was writing against the clock — not the best environment when giving a deep disposition of one's coming of age. Or, more accurately and less profoundly, when trying to remember details and write coherently with a delicate head the morning after the sketchy night before.

Now, though, with a smartphone at hand and access to a Word document that automatically updates and saves previous versions across various platforms, maintaining a diary couldn't be simpler. It can be done from pretty much anywhere at any time, as long as one's device doesn't die.

Nothing will come of nothing

Nonetheless, rather than 'write immediately while the impression is fresh', as Johnson counselled, I've struggled to write an update even just once a week.

One major factor for this, reflecting a particular fallow period I'm going through, is a predominant feeling of 'What's the point?' Why take an hour or whatever out of my day to transcribe my thoughts? Couldn't I be doing something more useful and potentially rewarding with my time, like reading? Or socialising? Although, I don't think I'm suffering from a lack of socialising of the beer-fuelled variety in Colombia in any case, conversation-light as it often is albeit.

The idea that there's a cathartic element to keeping a diary is one strong reason to do so. And that's probably more important in these economically inactive times I'm experiencing.

However, many of my blog articles over the last few years have been quite personal, diary-esque entries. So in a sense I've been writing a public diary since late 2011, presenting my heart and mind to the world, infrequent as the updates have been. At the risk of sounding as if I'm putting myself in the same bracket as Johnson, something similar might have been at play with him. Why double work?

Of course, there's a lot more going on in my mind and, to a lesser extent right now, my life than what I blog about. Equally, my social media posts offer little real insight into my state of affairs. This is where a private journal comes in. It allows for deeper introspection, should one wish to probe. And if one makes the effort to keep a diary, rigorous introspection should be a fundamental part of it, as the good Dr Johnson suggested.

It's that making — and sustaining — the effort, however, that is proving to be quite the challenge. The words of another literary legend may provide extra motivation: 'Nothing will come of nothing', said Shakespeare's King Lear. A blank diary is of little use to anyone.
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'I do care but that doesn't make me a great carer'

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

For those of us lucky enough to see our parents live to what's generally considered a decent age, this does come with their inevitable sad decline, both mentally and physically.

Master of his herd. Or maybe not.

From being the guardians and providers of their children, the roles then get reversed in many families. It's the offspring who become the guardians of the parents.

There is, though, one major difference: Most parents who care for their children do so with the expectation that their young ones will grow up to become self-sufficient, to be independent (as independent as one can be, that is).

With elderly parents — and the elderly in general — it's the opposite. The trajectory is towards dependence. It's like they become children again. In some cases, they require as much care as newborns. Of course, not all elderly go the same way before they breathe their last. Some do remain active and with it up to their final months and days.

Care necessities

With my own parents, at the risk of sounding facetious here, if we could merge my mother's physical fitness with my father's mental acuity, we'd have a fairly robust individual — robust considering the ages in question anyway. My mother is a few years shy of her 80th birthday, my father is already an octogenarian.

As it is, a life of toil appears to have taken its toll on the body of my father. That and arthritis. As for my mother, she's afflicted with Alzheimer's, the 'disease that gnaws away at the kernel of who you are, leaving only the dry empty husk of the person you love behind', as I heard it accurately, if depressingly, put recently.

All this makes for visits to my parents that are more melancholic than filled with the making of new, positive, memorable moments. It's hard not to think back to livelier times, even if they weren't always happy. Nostalgia can be rather nefarious.

That I haven't regularly seen my parents over the last decade-plus plays a part in this.

'My mother used to be able to find anything. She was like St Anthony's representative on Earth. Now she's the one who misplaces almost everything.'

There's also the fact that my own situation is far from stable. Over the last few years, I've done more pondering than producing. Indeed, returning to the house I grew up in to help out on the farm and whatnot is, in a way, a welcome departure. And, somewhat shamefully, I'm happy to avail of the rent-free board. However, this positivity is nothing more than temporary. After a few days, it brings little to no satisfaction because of my overall uncertainty. I start to think I'm better off lost in Colombia's llanos than lost in Lisacul.

I wager such thoughts are made worse by the fact that I am childless. Were I a father, I probably wouldn't be in a position to be under the same roof as my parents for weeks on end. Also, I most likely wouldn't have the time nor the luxury to be so reflective. Or to be picky about potential employment. One can be guilty of overthinking.

Omniscient offspring

Yet, even if my own situation were more stable, I don't think I'd make for a great carer, even just occasionally, of my now more dependent parents.

With my mother, as much as I know that there's a disease taking over her brain, I still find it difficult to overlook all the frustrating things she says and does.

From somebody who seemed to be able to find anything — she was like St Anthony's representative on Earth — now she's the one who misplaces almost everything.

One dubious positive with her condition is that any disagreement or argument we may now have is forgotten by her moments later. If only this had been the case when I was a teenager.

In my father's case, while he's clearly physically impaired, he is largely refusing to accept that he can't operate like he did even just ten years ago. While I wish he would scale down what he has to manage to levels that he can personally carry out, he's still scaling up.

OK, I think I understand the mindset. To show weakness is to become weak. So he's manifesting strength and growth.

The problem is, he needs assistance for many of the tasks under his control. Caring for the cattle he currently has is, at times, beyond his capabilities. Yet, right now, he's firing ahead with what I consider to be an unnecessary, fairly substantial farmyard construction project. From what I can see, there's more than enough to keep him busy if he tried to clean up and organise what he already has — fix what's already broken. Or at least what's already terribly untidy.

It's why I find it difficult to enthusiastically offer a helping hand. But hey, if it makes him happy, fine.

We could do with a version of this for the elderly.

Thinking about all this does remind me of a sign that used to hang in our kitchen when I was a child: 'Teenagers, tired of being harassed by your stupid parents? Act now! Move out, get a job, pay your bills while you still know everything.'

A version for those in their twilight years would run something like this: 'Senior citizens, tired of being harassed by your stupid adult children/relatives? Act now! Downsize, hire non-judgemental home help and enjoy what's left of your hard-earned money while you still can.'

'While you still can', indeed. We all must succumb at some stage.
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Libtard Lynch

@wwaycorrigan

I don't personally know the Sunday Independent columnist Declan Lynch but from his newspaper musings he comes across as a holier-than-thou virtue signaller. And most likely quite the hypocrite.

Hence this latest letter to the Sindo editor (see below or find it online at https://m.independent.ie/opinion/letters/letters-trumps-british-visit-was-a-meeting-of-two-dysfunctional-monarchies/a1993281023.html.) It's not the first time lines by Lynch have compelled me to respond — see https://wwcorrigan.blogspot.com/2023/11/calling-out-illiberal-liberals.html.

No doubt he's taking note of my taking umbrage of his words.

Out for a Lynch-ing.