Voices

An eventful morning. Just after showering at 8.35, a massive, sharp jolt of pain in my left leg as I lifted it in the process of drying off. Could just about keep walking after it, but the discomfort running through the whole leg was considerable. But here's the coincidence: I'm booked to see my back doc at 10.30, so the timing is, ironically, just right. I lie on the floor for a while after the jolt and the pain mildly subsides, so walking is okay. But not driving, so Noi does the duty when we set off to the hospital.

Anyway, I'm given a jab of the magic potion and a new set of pills for the day, and by the early afternoon I'm pain-free but mildly spaced out (as I am typing this, to tell the truth.) So lying on the floor I get to thinking about voices - singing ones - I guess because I'm still thinking about Dylan from yesterday and the whole thing about his voice is a mystery to me. Glancing at some on-line commentary, I'm reading the usual stuff about how bad his voice is and how he can't sing at all, and part of me can see why these posters think that way. I remember borrowing an album off someone at school, as a kid, thinking I should really get into Dylan, and almost laughing at what sounded to me so thin and, frankly, comical. (Can't remember what album it was, though. John Wesley Harding?) And now, of course, as one of the Bobistas (lovely insulting term for us fanboys that one commentator came up with) I think his voice (or, more accurately voices) is/are just so obviously glorious that I really don't get why others don't hear the same way.

Which, for some reason, gets me thinking about other voices that I rate as just glorious in themselves. Eliza Carthy comes to mind, and I bung on the one solo album of hers I possess. (I have no idea why it's just the one, but there you are.) Now I've always liked Dreams of Breathing Underwater, but I just got completely lost in it today. Every aspect of it sounded perfect in every way. For a while I wondered whether Eliza had become my GOAT female voice replacing Ella Fitzgerald - and that may be so, until I play me some Ella again.

I was thinking of providing a link to the album here, then exploring YouTube realised that the video of Hug Me Like A Mountain I'd seen before wasn't the album version from Breathing, but a more recent production with the Wayward Band and the utterly wonderful Teddy Thompson - another great, great voice, and how could it not be considering his parentage? Which also got me to thinking of how Richard Thompson's voice which sounds thin and reedy on early Fairport stuff - I'm thinking Full House, for example - sounds way stronger now he's 70+, and wondering how he's done that.

Anyway, enough, here's the link to Hug You Like A Mountain and if you click on this and don't recognise its brilliance, then there's no hope for you, Gentle Reader.

Wired

The medication is having a weird effect. I've hardly slept for two nights, but haven't had any real problems keeping going during the days.

The positive side of this is that I've had Dylan's great lines running through my head when nothing much else has been going on: My feet are so tired / My brain is so wired / And the clouds are weeping. It's odd but I didn't realise just how brilliant Love Sick is when I first heard it. That's what happens sometimes with the Bobster - so many songs you suddenly realise are brilliant after thinking they're just sort of pretty good.

Listened just now to the man himself in 2017, pretty much the version he played here the last time I saw him live. And isn't it astonishing how often others do great covers of the masterworks?: love the versions by the White Stripes, Triggerfinger, and, most of all, the astonishing Mariachi el Bronx.

The Same But Different

I've been introducing Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman to some classes lately. I was seventeen when I first read it, for 'A' level Lit, and thought it was pretty darned good. It didn't occur to me then that one day I would be as old as Willy Loman (older, in fact) and see him in a different, closer, light. I've come to see the play as quite a bit better than just darned good. Now I'd suggest brilliantly true - almost unbearably so.

Getting By

I'm now running out of the various medicines prescribed to ease my sciatica. I think the doc thought that giving me enough to cover ten days should do the trick, but I'm afraid that's not the case. It looks like I'll have to get through on good old-fashioned Panadol until my next appointment at the weekend. Some testing days lie ahead, I'm afraid. Just hope this is a test I can pass.

Feeding Time

I keep hearing about powerful algorithms that direct all sorts of on-line material at you because those who control these things know exactly what you want. But this doesn't seem to work in my case. For example, I find myself scrolling through what comes recommended to me on YouTube in bewilderment that anyone would assume I was interested in at least half the stuff that appears. And the same links keep appearing as if someone somewhere can't quite believe I have no inclination to click on them.

Just now a link to a video on 'Trophy Wives' appeared. Seriously, I think they've got the wrong man. (Must say though, it's sort of spookily fascinating to try and figure out who would choose to click on one of these.)

Other Considerations

I got to thinking today about how the younger version of myself would have coped with all the restrictions imposed by the pandemic. I don't think I would have handled the various pressures at all well, particularly in view of the fact I didn't exactly handle the ordinary circumstances of life in my late-teens with aplomb.

The way the youngsters around me have handled all that's been thrown at them over the last year or so is impressive. The frustrations involved for some must run pretty deep, but you'd be hard pressed to see any obvious evidence of that. I suppose it's something we've all had to accept, but that doesn't mean that acceptance came easily to those deeply-wired to go out and embrace the world.

Zonked

Whatever else the medicine I'm taking is doing to me, I'm finding it very easy indeed to fall asleep - and I mean deeply. Can't say this worries me, but it is a bit restrictive in terms of getting stuff done. Mind you, I suppose I've done plenty of stuff over the years and getting a bit of a rest has a lot to be said for it.

Hard Work

I'm approaching the end of Foucault's Discipline & Punish, but it doesn't get any easier. There are insights to enjoy, but they come embedded in what seems to me impenetrable verbiage. I wonder if it reads better in the original French, but I suspect not.

One thing is for sure: I have no intention of ever reading anymore of his work.

Contrasts

There was a hard-hitting article on the struggle to survive the pandemic in Indonesia for the poorest in today's on-line Guardian. The huge disparities in people's different experiences of the health crisis struck home. The uneasy truth is that we've had an easy time of it whilst others - not all that far away - have paid a mighty price. I think I'm beginning to feel a kind of survivor guilt, which doesn't do any good for anyone at all.

Perchance To Dream

My left leg is still giving me some gyp, but nothing like as much as when the sciatica was at its peak. It looks like the medicine is proving efficacious, to my considerable relief. When a pain seems to increase day by day it can't help but suggest that there'll come a point at which it's unbearable, but it seems I won't be going there.

There were times today when I forgot that I was supposed to be in pain. Mind you, I was very much conscious throughout the day of just how easy it would be to fall asleep - a feat I managed three times. I don't know which of the pills I'm taking is doing this to me, but I'm rather glad it is. I haven't slept this well for years.

Simplicity

Eid al Adha, 1442

Another subdued Eid, but one I enjoyed. Noi cooked up a storm, with lots of giveaways to the guys in hall, and then it was off to Rozita and Fuad's for a meeting of the clans. A simple day - the way it should be.

Under Control

Observed the fast ahead of Eid al-Adha today. I was doubtful about doing so given the aches and pains of the last few days, but I found no difficulty at all in fasting. I suppose the fact that I crashed out after 3.00 pm helped considerably. The medication is still blunting whatever edge I have and I'm happy to feel slightly out of it.

Going through with the fast gave me a much-needed sense of getting some kind of control again, some sense of command.

Nodding Off

I've managed to get some work done over the weekend but the highlight of the last two days has been the depth of the naps I've indulged in. I suppose I've not really slept all that well since the onset of the pain in my left leg. I can now say I've gone a long way to making up for that. The leg is still bothersome, by the way, but feels a lot more under control - and I feel no pain at all when lying down, which is a huge relief.

Thoroughly Medicated

It was a relief to be able to see my back doc this morning, given that the pain on my left side had arrived at the point of relentless impressiveness. The little pot of various medicines above - to be taken twice a day - was supplemented by an anti-inflammatory injection into my hip and a patch around my left elbow which will slowly release some sort of painkiller until 5.00 pm on Monday. The doc reckoned it was strong stuff and if I feel drunkenly giddy at any point I am to quickly discard it.

So far the bundle has proved efficacious. There's a bit of an ache in my leg still, but it is just a bit and easy to ignore. I also crashed out deeply this afternoon on two occasions and am grateful for the sleep as it is 1) painless and 2) making up for quite a few lost hours from last week when I found myself waking early on account of a) the niggling pain and b) the worry of wondering how to cope.

I can't yet take it for granted that I'm somehow cured, but since I'm only thinking one day ahead I'll take what I've got.

No Longer At Ease

Still struggling, I'm afraid. Fortunately I was able to work from home today, meeting with various parents on-line. But having a relatively easy time of it did little to ease the aching. I'm hoping for some signs of cessation, but those seem like empty hopes at this point in time.

A Painful Case

The sciatic pain I described last Friday has got worse. I'd now score it as a four or five. The only relief comes when I'm lying flat on the floor, and even then there are perceptible twinges. Noi helped me make an appointment for this Saturday to see my back doc and I'm hoping he can provide enhanced pain-killers.

Still trying to get on with what has to be done and just about succeeding. But it's a close-run thing.

Out Of Season

More rain today. Lots of it. Not what is normally expected at this time of year. In many ways a welcome break from heat and humidity. But the suspicion that this is a tiny harbinger of the changes attendant upon climate change can't be avoided.

At least we don't face the extremes being recorded in other places. Not yet.

Mood Music

A bleakly overcast rainy sort of day. It's siling it down as I write. Suits me.

I think I've quoted this from James Taylor before in this Far Place, but it's so right I need to do so again: Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground. Ain't that right?

Not penalties again! Enough.

Both Sides Now

As the culture war rages around us I'm increasingly struck by the inadequacy of reducing issues of socio-politico importance to just two sides. I reckon that figuring out a good ten sides on a question before you start pontificating upon it should be a requirement for any commentator.

(To be honest, there aren't that many signs of the conflict in this Far Place so far. But since so many folks seem to enjoy battling it out on the World Wide Web I can easily imagine a descent into name-calling even on these relatively sane shores.)

Sheer Delight

When I was a little lad we used to listen to the radio early on Sunday afternoon enjoying a number of comedy programmes on the BBC. My favourite was Round the Horne. So you might imagine my delight in discovering that quite a number of episodes are now on YouTube.

The first one I played was the team's classic version of Frankenstein's Monster. I was weeping with laughter after just five delirious minutes. They don't make them like this anymore. Probably not allowed to.

Feeling Something Else

The something else is sciatic pain running from my left hip down my leg. It's been a bit of a problem all week, but seemed to be fading by Thursday. Now back with a vengeance. It's liveable, but irritating. If asked to score it out of ten, as the doctor at the taman asked me to do for the last attack I struggled with, I'd give it a low two. Do wish I could say zero, though. (The pain score at the taman was an eight, by the way.)

As I've said before: a little pain never hurt anybody. And again I'm struck by just how supremely dumb that statement is.

Feeling It

I was asked, Is it really coming home? no fewer than seven times in the course of the day - and never tired of what I thought was an excellent question. My answer, by the way, was a pithy, I'm feeling it. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it sort of captures the sum of hopes and fears for Sunday. Bring it on, say I!

A Matter Of Feeling

I've happened upon some interesting articles recently relating to the kind of punctuation that text-messaging involves for the younger generation. The idea that full-stops at the end of text messages seem rude is very difficult for me to grasp at the level of feeling since it just doesn't seem that way to me. Indeed, there is no way I could send a message without a concluding punctuation mark as it would feel so wrong, even though I'm perfectly aware it's not.

This is a powerful reminder that attempts to teach systems of punctuation as somehow logical are essentially misguided. It's salutary in this regard to look at the original punctuation in Shakespeare. So much of it is rhetorical in nature. I've had occasion to need to explain this to colleagues who genuinely think that WS somehow devised all the punctuation of his plays we see in modernised texts himself and it's obvious that, at some level, most choose not to believe me.

Not So Cautious

Peter and I were having a natter this morning about the UK's plan (if that's what it can be called) to shed all their covid-related restrictions by 21 July. We both registered a mixture of bewilderment and astonishment regarding what we can only see as a supreme act of folly. Given the fact that most parts of the UK are still experiencing pretty high rates of infection and the potential for variants to develop in these circumstances is obvious it seems counter-intuitive (to say the least) to throw caution to the winds in this manner so soon.

In startling contrast, the rational, calibrated approach to dealing with the pandemic, as evidenced in this Far Place, struck us as supremely sensible. As far as we can gather, a significant number of our countrymen cannot deal with covid-fatigue and their voices must be heard - even if what they are saying is daft. Possibly the oddest aspect of all this is that countries who've obviously got this very wrong resolutely ignore models of good practice.

I'm reminded of Dominic Cummings, in his testimony before the select committee, referring to Singapore's successes in the early stages of the pandemic and how those in government resolutely ignored the framework that had resulted in those successes despite all this being easily available in English. Makes you wonder if some kind of false sense of superiority is at work here.

On Being A Pilgrim

Felt very English today, I suppose on account of the football. In my version of being English RVW counts for a lot, so I decided to treat myself to a full play-through of The Pilgrim's Progress. Circumstances were such that I was able to listen with full, rapt attention and, my goodness, the impact of the music was more powerful than I've ever known it. Almost unbearably poignant at times, though essentially comforting.

A few days ago I'd jotted a question for myself, in relation to some recent aural experiences: Why does listening to excellent music make the world more real to me? When I wrote it I'm not quite sure I really understood the question. Listening to RVW today I got it completely, though I have no idea what the answer is.

Great music transforms us, somehow, even if it's only in that moment we have become the music.

That's Entertainment

There's something curiously entertaining involved in reading the on-line commentary on Euro 2020 and still finding a fair number who think that Gareth Southgate isn't a good coach. What are they on? All my doubts about the double pivot have evaporated - after all, what do I know?

Of course, I now wish we'd subscribed to the over-priced tv coverage, but there's also something entertaining - and frustrating - involved in trying to find decent highlights of the games on the Internet. Now I know what clickbait means. And in case you're wondering if I'm now intending to subscribe at this late stage, you should know that the superstitious side of me that reckons we've made it to the semis precisely because I've not been watching (and agonising) just isn't going to allow that. (Although if we make it to the final I rather think I'm off to someone's place who can watch live.)

Something Lacking

Now reading Michel Foucault's Discipline and Punish. Well, I say 'now' but I've been reading it for more than a week and my progress is achingly slow. I'd guess I grasp roughly fifty percent of what the philosopher is talking about, and have a sketchy idea of what's going on in another thirty percent: but at least a fifth of what I'm reading is way beyond my understanding. I'm not sure whose fault this is. I'm happy to blame myself for not being up to the task intellectuality, but the maddening obscurity of some pages strikes me as the result of a writer who doesn't necessarily wish to communicate clearly.

Having said that, there are pages of crystal clarity. I've just started Part Three and the first six or so pages on Docile Bodies are easy to digest and insightful all at the same time. I suppose that's what keeps me going, the sense that Foucault has genuinely important things to say, despite the sometimes almost wilful obscurity.

Masterful

We're now into the second series of Killing Eve. I can't remember the last time I watched two seasons of anything on the telly. The storylines grip and are completely bonkers. The acting is uniformly outstanding, but Sandra Oh, Jodie Comer and Fiona Shaw provide a masterclass in every episode.

Now off to watch the next episode on our playlist.