On Teaching

At some level I'm a natural teacher. Just saying.

Not sure that's necessarily a good thing though.

More Re-Joycing

The problem, or possibly the joy, of committing oneself to being a Joycean is that there are just no ends to the highways and byways of reading and research involved in living up to the label. Case in point: a captivating review by John Banville, himself a spectacularly talented Joycean, of what sounds like a very fine novel about the life, or, rather, alternative life, of Norah Barnacle, entitled Penelope Unbound by Mary Morrissy. The first three paragraphs of Mr Banville's review give the best potted history of the story of Jim and his Nora (he took away the 'h' it seems) I've ever read.

So now I've got to get hold of a copy of the novel, but it doesn't stop there. I've decided it's time for a reread of Ellmann's 'masterly biography' of the great writer (which will be my third reading) and also of Brenda Maddox's wonderful evocation of the great Nora's life (only the second time through.) Fortunately both tomes reside happily on my shelves so that won't involve shelling out for them.

I first read Ellmann in my teens and, strangely, I just knew then that Joyce wouldn't have been Joyce without Nora(h) even though the consensus is that Ellmann underrates her. Thank goodness Jim didn't.

Aiming High

The first project I have in mind to mark the beginning of my retirement, should that day ever arrive, is officially confirmed as a complete read-through of Joyce's Finnegans Wake. I can't lay claim to the title of a true Joycean unless I can achieve this. And there's now so much help to be had reading Joyce's web of words on the World Wide Web itself (see what I did there) that there's simply no excuse for not giving it a go.

Yesterday I happened upon the best version of  The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly I've ever heard courtesy of my YouTube feed. Evidence that the algorithm sometimes happily gets it right.

Something Shocking

A week or so ago I discovered the original video for Bowie's single off his brilliant 1 Outside album of the 1990s Hearts Filthy Lesson. It just goes to show how astonishingly out of touch I can be even with the work of musicians I deeply admire that I had no idea a video existed. In my own defence I suppose I could argue that it's the music that really speaks to me and I've never had much of a visual imagination, so I've never been terribly bothered about looking up this sort of material. But since Bowie has always been deeply interested himself in visual art, and conscious of the importance of the visually theatrical in his work, that defence wouldn't hold up in a courtroom, especially the Supreme Court of Aesthetics.

And here's the thing, in relation to standing in judgement on Art (always, of course, a perilous thing to do.) The video really, really bothers me. It's wonderfully made, visually stunning, entirely simpatico to the music and spirit of the song and, indeed, the whole album. But it's upsetting in its obvious and disturbing implications of the pleasures and pains of sado-masochism. Googling around for a bit of background I discovered it got banned on MTV and, I've got to say that seems pretty reasonable to me. The idea of chancing upon it in some gallery or other and choosing to watch it with some sense of the context from which it springs seems altogether reasonable; but youngish kids watching it as part of some general promotion of music as consumer culture just doesn't seem right.

Now I've always been on the side of disturbance as an artistic strategy, but I've found myself thinking very hard as to how some aspects of the video might reasonably be defended and I'm not sure I have any easy answers. I do have some hard ones though - amongst which is a sense that we need to accept 'outsider art' to achieve an understanding of the totality of ourselves. Must say though, I don't think anyone, no matter how deeply conservative in their tastes, could fail to grasp that Bowie performing the song live is the real deal, and then some.

In Circles

Each day a chance to start again. And repeat the same mistakes.

Pretty bleak, eh?

Some Body

Woke in the early hours - around 1.00 am - suffering from a ferocious cramping of my left leg, the lower bit. Fortunately it eased in the mysterious way that cramp does and I managed a good night's sleep thereafter. Actually I'd completely forgotten about this until just now when I was doing the Isha' Prayer and needed to struggle on with cramp in my left foot. Mind you, I was half expecting something of the sort since I'd only just got back from the gym and mild cramping of the feet whilst praying is apt to follow a work-out.

Funny thing, the body, especially mine. Just lately I've been particularly cautious in relation to my back. Originally I'd intended to get to the gym yesterday evening and decided not to due to a slight but distinct ache right in the centre of my lower back which manifested late yesterday afternoon for no reason I was aware of. All this following a very awkward Sunday morning last weekend when I was moving with all the grace and finesse of your average centenarian on account of a disconcerting pain running down my upper thigh (upper left.)

These days I celebrate being able to get the gym with reasonable regularity, knowing that there's no guarantee that this will continue. That certainly helps when I've been on the elliptical trainer for ten minutes or so and start to wonder why exactly I'm torturing myself on the thing.

A Solid Foundation

Highlight of the day: getting my hands on the kind of week to a view diary that will be the foundation of my functioning at work in 2024, and doing so at my first attempt to find one. Last year it took me until a good deal later in the month to do the necessary, and I wasn't quite so keen on the edition, especially at what seemed a ridiculously inflated price. This year the edition looks like my preferred version over many years (though it's not the same publisher) and the price is a lot more reasonable, though some three dollars more expensive than the 2022 version.

I'm not all that sure why this makes me as happy as it does. But I've learned not to ask too many questions about being happy: I just get on being it.

Highly Rated

Not sure why, but I've never rated Longfellow. Not that I'd ever read much, but I'd vaguely got the impression, from a distance, that he represented the commonplace in terms of mid-nineteenth century verse - and I mean 'verse' rather than 'poetry'. Vaguely pleasant but essentially dealing in romantic clichés after the fire of Romanticism had died away. Nothing to write home about, to throw another cliché on the fire or, rather, the embers of that splendid but sort-lived movement.

So when I read his poem Snow-Flakes over at Carol Rumens's surpassingly excellent Poem of the Week page at the Graun it came as a bit of a shock to realise how wrong I'd been. It's a brilliant piece. I immediately wanted to commit it to memory. Just gorgeously sad and superbly crafted and meant. And, as is often the case when Ms Rumens's picks a belter, the comments BTL are themselves responsively excellent.

I recall having to completely rethink my attitude to Tennyson when I had to teach him for 'A' level back in the 90's. Looks like there's more of the same to come with Henry Wadsworth as soon as I can get my hands on a juicy Selected.

Under Repair

It's been a year and a day since I got out of hospital. Somehow I got repaired. Even my broken thoughts. There are still dark places - how could there not be? - and I may get dragged back to them one day. But for now I'm in the light, and that's enough. More than enough. 

A Very Bright Spot

Another day spent marking, for the most part. But I did make time to listen to a fair amount of sweet sounds provided by Ella Fitzgerald, Richard Thompson and David Bowie. Not a bad little list, eh?

And before you start thinking that my weekend's been a pretty sad one all in all, let me tell you that I got to accompany some students to one of the best productions of Romeo & Juliet I've ever seen (and, trust me, I've been to a fair few.) The company performing are from the UK and known as Action To The Word, and it's on at the Victoria Theatre - one of my old stomping grounds - up to 7 October. We were at an afternoon matinee performance yesterday and it was a blast: very youthful company, ultra-talented, with just 9 performers on stage; everyone seemed to be able to sing well and play at least one instrument and there was lots of music interpolated into the show - not exactly Shakespeare, I know, but Shakespeare never is exactly Shakespeare is he?, and the music was great fun; lots of nicely choreographed highly theatrical stage combat as part of a generally highly theatrical experience; Mercutio played by a young lady, which was completely unexpected, but worked surprisingly well, subverting all the usual Mercutio clichés; the verse spoken really well - oozing clarity and balance and genuine rhythm - oh, and the prose as well, including a Nurse who sounded pure Merseyside, to my delight.

My only criticism is a niggling one, but I'll mention it. I don't think they quite managed the mood in the final sequence, but it's incredibly difficult to pull off. Romeo expired a touch too noisily and evoked some inappropriate giggles (but what can you expect from a young matinee crowd?) And, not a criticism, but everyone looked too young to plug into the Bard's archetypes of youth and age that so dominate the play. Friar Lawrence particularly was entertaining but too young for my liking, and a bit too funny at the end.