A Good Companion

Read the final poem in Across The River: The Complete Poems by James Wright  just now. Felt like going back to the opening poems again. Good sign. Feel I have come to know JW and am happy in his company.

Mixed Feelings

I was a rabid fan of Yes, those archetypal prog rockers, in the early 70s and regarded Heart of the Sunrise from Fragile as a self-evidently great piece of music. I suppose I sort of fell out of love with the band slowly over time, though still enjoying the Trevor Rabin line-up of the 80s to some degree. But I never quite lost my sense of wonder at the early stuff, like Sunrise. Happily I found that wonder revived today when chancing upon a splendid live version of the piece as performed by the Anderson, Rabin & Wakeman version of the band in 2018. It's stellar stuff, not the least for the astonishing vocal power of the elderly version of Mr Anderson. He may have proved to be a bit of a flaky character over time, as followers of Yes will be aware, but my goodness can the guy sing.

But here's the thing. My intense enjoyment of the performance was marred by an extraordinary act of artistic vandalism which seems to my jaundiced ears typical of the age in which we live. Who on earth thought it would be a good idea to enhance the track by mixing in fake audience noise?

So intense enjoyment mixes with equally intense horror. Most confusing. Not a healthy combination, I'm afraid.

In Praise Of Nudity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I've expressed the thought before in this Far Place that if asked to name a favourite amongst all the species I'd go unhesitatingly for trees. (Sadly Mankind is a long way down the list. Possibly at the bottom. Though Womankind, I must say, does considerably better.)

On our recent trip to the UK I couldn't help but notice yet another example of the general excellence of trees: even bereft of their foliage they contrive to look beautiful. Evidence above.

Words Unspoken

 

When History speaks we do well to listen.

Cause For Complaint

It's been fourteen days now since Noi was diagnosed with shingles. The rash is still there, though it doesn't look as fierce as it did originally. Fortunately she hasn't suffered from the searing pain that some poor souls experience with an outbreak, but the discomfort accompanying the rash is obvious and obviously we're hoping for more signs of healing, and speedy healing at that. She's coped with it all brilliantly, essentially getting on with everything pretty much as per normal when things are not normal at all. I suspect I would have raised a good deal more of a fuss, but then I'm very good indeed at feeling sorry for myself.

Progress

I'm somewhat baffled by just how long it's taken me to get close to finishing Across The River: The Complete Poems by James Wright. I've reached the final book, This Journey from 1982, after making the collection the sole focus of my reading since getting back from the UK. The strange thing is that I've enjoyed to some degree practically every poem, even the thorniest, yet my reading has lacked momentum, with the exception of the last few days. I can't work out if this lack relates to the poems themselves or some kind of change in my reading habits.

Another thing: as with other collections I've read in recent years the final poems seem more accessible and richer somehow than the early ones, as if reading in sequence grants one privileged insights, yet it would be difficult if not impossible to articulate the exact nature of the insights involved. This ease - that's what it feels like - leaves me wondering why it's taken me so long to get this far.

A Distinctive Voice

I was quite close to the back of the masjid yesterday for Friday Prayers, intending to make an early exit as I needed to get back to work as soon as possible. This meant I was unable to see the Imam from where I was. After the adhan, when he began to speak, I was initially taken aback at the loud forcefulness of his voice, heavily amplified as it was. For a moment I found myself wondering why very occasionally one encountered Imams who sounded quite angry at the world, as if it had let them down somehow.

However, after a further three sentences I realised I recognised the voice, its very distinctive rhythms matching those of Ustad Haron, a man incapable of any degree of lasting anger at anybody. I understood that far from expressing anger the tone of voice conveyed a kind of determined exuberance regarding the message he was about to deliver. I found myself comfortably delighted at being able to listen to his lived wisdom once again.

Of course, most of the words of the khutbah were not his own, but he managed to put his own spin on the sermon which was being heard nationwide such that it felt authentically his somehow. It concerned excellence, and the need for Muslims to pursue this individually - but this was linked throughout to an even more powerful imperative: the need to pursue such excellence for the sake of developing an excellent community.

A simple enough idea, but so powerful in the light of the sincerity of the speaker and in its sane nobility.

Powerless

I'd just got back from the gym and was enjoying the cool of the air-conditioning in the bedroom whilst the Missus was cooking some salmon in the kitchen for dinner, when there was an almighty bang and the lights went out. I thought it would just be matter of checking which fuse had gone in the box in the living-room for normality to be restored, but it wasn't. Indeed, trips to the various electrical risers on the three floors of the Hall in which our apartment is located also proved fruitless. I raised one or two of those little levers, but our place stubbornly remained in darkness.

It wasn't easy to contemplate the loss of the half-cooked salmon still in the oven (from where the big bang had emanated according to the cook) but bitter contemplation was not to be avoided.

However, all ended well when a call to our general handyman, Johnny, elicited the information that there was yet another electrical riser in the bowels of the building which we needed to check. Check we did, and there we found a big lever down over the number of our place. It was the work of a moment to lift it up and dash back up the stairs to find the lights on again.

Noi duly completed cooking the salmon and, let me tell you, it tasted extraordinarily good. I suppose that would have been the case if we'd not suffered our little catastrophe, but sometimes you need things to go wrong to remind you of just how deeply lucky you are.

Glory Days

I've enjoyed the last few albums by Bruce Springsteen in a broad sense, but I've not been set alight by any since The Rising (except, I suppose, for Live In Dublin with the Sessions Band, but that's another kind of story.). I suppose that's why I wasn't in any great hurry to get my hands on Western Stars, that and the fact I'd heard the new album didn't reflect Springsteen the rocker at all. How foolish I was to delay.

Western Stars is so brilliant I'm tempted to say it surpasses everything else in his considerable canon. Of course, when I've calmed down I'll regret that hyperbole, but for the moment it stands. As stunning as encountering The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle for the first time. So powerful it's making me think in capitals: Cinematic, Expansive. Big Melodies. Sweeping Strings. Songs of the Common Man. Memory. Loss. Yearning. Tears. Glory.

Starting, Sort Of

An excellent night's sleep has given rise to my resolution for the year ahead: In 2020 I will harness the power of silence. Sounds good, eh? Now all I need to do is figure out what it means.