An Unlikely Pair

When I was talking about dipping into the works of William Carlos Williams the other day I forgot to mention that the other poet I've been managing to read in bits and pieces here and there has been Ezra Pound, in his case drawing upon the very fine Library of America edition. In fact, I've been reading him in chronological sequence, so it's not exactly been a 'dipping in' - though I've only got as far as the early Canzoni, which means my progress has been fitful enough to qualify as just taking in bits and pieces.

But here's the thing. Reading the pair almost side by side was a sort of accident, their works just sort of randomly catching my eye at a time when I've been having difficulty carving out any time for reading at all. Yet they were, of course, friends, quite close ones I've always assumed, especially in their respective youths. So reading them next to each other has a sort of point in itself. Yet they're just so different, partly in content, but most of all in temperament. I don't know quite why it is but there's something very likable about Williams, and that's not something you can say in any way about Pound.

It isn't the anti-Semitic, fascist Pound of the 30s I'm thinking of here, by the way. Even as a very young writer there's something about his work that suggests he was a bit of a pain, despite those features of the early poetry that are assured and often quite lyrically beguiling, regardless of the derivative nature of the verse.

I might be grossly unfair in my judgements on the respective characters of our poets - and I really must get hold of a good biography of Pound to see whether he had some saving graces that I've been missing - but at this moment they really do seem to me like the Odd Couple of twentieth century poetry.

Slipping Away

Just got back from a birthday dinner for Fifi. She has now reached the unlikely age of twenty. To her, of course, that would seem quite natural, since that's precisely what it  is. To us, seeing her slowly grow up so quickly, the world seems just that little bit more upside down than usual.

Where did the years go? Minute by precious minute they slipped away from us. As they always do.

Even More

This morning we tried out the music for the show with the percussionists for the first time in the full ensemble, with an extra electronic keyboard. It's difficult to believe it could sound better than the wonderful playing we're used to from Jonah and Arlene in rehearsals, but it went into a whole new dimension. I really don't know how the brilliant folks who write, arrange and play (and sing) music seem to do it so effortlessly, but I'm deeply, deeply glad they do.

Incidentally

Finding any time in which to read or listen to music - other than the music of the show we're doing - has been very difficult over the last three weeks or so. Fortunately the music from The Fantasticks is so good that I haven't felt any great deprivation in that direction. Indeed, I've been carrying all the songs and arrangements around in my head as genuinely welcome ear worms, such that I'm sort of luxuriating in music at the moment. But in the last few days I've managed to listen to a few things outside of my immediate concerns - Kate Bush, White Willow, The Enid, Martin Carthy - and am sort of getting back to my usual diet.

But reading has been a real problem. The only time I've had has been very, very late at night, in the twenty minutes or so before I fall asleep, and I'm not exactly a paragon of alertness at that time. So I've had to compromise with just dipping into a few poems here and there.

For the last three nights the poet of choice has been William Carlos Williams - from the very fine two volume Collected Poems published by New Directions. As a teenager I got hold of the Penguin Selected, and that became a precious text for me. I got to know every poem in it very closely and it was something of a way in for me into American poetry in the general sense. But despite having owned the Collected for a while now I've never managed to get to grips with the full range of Williams with quite the same intensity. The welcome result of this, however, has been to make me feel a wonderful sense of discovery as I dip in and find gems everywhere.

Deprivation has its uses.

The Process

Something I came to learn, some years ago now, about putting together any kind of drama production: no single individual controls the process. But it is possible to grow in understanding of the process, and there's a fascination in that growth and the recognition that comes with it. Also no one at any level of involvement, however tangential, can stand neutrally outside the process, though generally this is not understood.

When I first started doing this stuff I felt very lucky to be put in a position to get to experience and understand all this. Funnily enough, that feeling has never changed, simply intensified.

Something Lacking

I'm busy at the moment, but not so busy that it would be impossible to manage a reasonable seven hours of sleep a night. But I don't get anything even close to that. Getting to sleep is easy. Waking earlier than I really need to is, problematically, even easier.

This is a state I know very well from previous experience, especially when putting a show together. I'm guessing that some odd mechanism in what passes for my brain has decided that bringing me to consciousness is a good idea, even when I don't really need to be conscious, as it gives me more time to think about all the stuff you need to think about a couple of weeks before show-time. (That's a lot of stuff, by the way, in case you were wondering.)

I'm afraid there's not much I can do about this. Fortunately the days are so packed there isn't time to be tired, so it's not exactly a problem in strictly practical terms. Also there's a sort of solution awaiting. As soon as the show's over I'll find myself falling asleep anywhere at any time - and I'm very much looking forward to that.

A Bit Ironic

Listened to an excellent talk on the need for rest this morning - and proceeded to get precisely none whatsoever for the remainder of the day.

The Apple Never Eaten

When we arrived in Jeddah for the Hajj back in early September, once we'd cleared Immigration we found ourselves waiting for the coach to take us to our accommodation at Shisha for quite a few hours. This wasn't terribly onerous as there were shops outside the airport and plenty of seating for the pilgrims waiting around - this being the airport specially designed to cater for the Hajj. Also a decent quantity of food was provided, as was the case for every leg of our journey.

However, I remember beginning to feel a little uncomfortable as the day wore on and perceptibly warmed up. I noticed a few people who'd got hold of various bits of fruit from the shops around and started to think of how good it would be to bite into a fresh, cool apple. Sadly the real thing wasn't available and, thus, I found myself haunted by the image of the perfect apple. It struck me that there was nothing I would have liked more and was reminded of just how wonderful apples had tasted when I was a kid.

In the days that followed an abundance of deliciously fresh fruit became available at almost every meal, including some glorious apples - especially some wonderfully crisp red ones. But somehow nothing quite replaced that perfect apple of the imagination I never ate at Jeddah Airport. Nothing ever tasted quite as good as that one, and I suspect never will.

Sort Of Optimal

A good day, further improved by being rounded off with a plate of bangers & mash courtesy of the Missus. Actually it was a plate and a half as I helped myself gleefully to seconds. It just doesn't get better than this.

The Weight Of Things

I've felt somewhat weighed down lately by all that needs to be done. But if there's something I've learned over the years it's that eventually every load gets shed and then it's possible to enjoy the very bearable lightness of being - until it's time to pick up the next one.