Sad, Sort Of

Just checked out the end of John Clare's March in The Shepherd's Calendar. A bit melancholic. He describes various insects who come out too early thinking Spring has arrived, and come undone as a result. Here are the butterflies: And butterflys by eager hopes undone / Glad as a child come out to greet the sun / Lost neath the shadow of a sudden shower / Nor left to see tomorrows april flower. All very sad really.

With luck I'll get to see that flower tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Doubt whether I'll sight many butterflies in the month ahead, though.

People Get Ready

Am I future ready? I put this curious question to myself this morning as I was subjected to what is known here as staff development. It seems that I should aspire to this condition, which I might try to do if I understood what exactly being future ready means. But part of me suspects it doesn't really anything very much.

Actually, the answer that sprang to my mind was that I'm not even ready for the present moment, but I might cope given that I survived a past that I wasn't really ready for when it was a future.

Oh, and I just thought of another answer: listening to Curtis will prepare you for most things life will inevitably throw at you.

Summing It Up

Just finished two bowls of the Missus's trusty lentil soup, with crusty bread. I reckon that's all I need to say. Sheer poetry. (The soup, not my writing - though I thought the 'trusty'/'crusty' rhyme was pretty good.)

Counting Blessings

Phoned John and Maureen last night and the news out of Gee Cross continues to be positive I'm delighted to say. My sister sounds more like her old, cheerful self each time I speak to her - someone I thought was lost forever. And John remains stoic in the face of all the challenges he faces, telling me he's better off than those who can't pay their bills and those who have bombs dropping on them. It's cliched wisdom, yes, but very hard-fought and completely real, nonetheless. I hope I'll be able to speak as sanely as that in the face of adversity, when it comes my way.

Maureen is going to what they referred to as a 'memory clinic' later in the week, situated at Tameside General. Didn't know such clinics existed, though considering the prevalence of various forms of dementia amongst the aged the specialism shouldn't surprise me. According to John, Maureen's short term memory is very poor indeed, but I'm hopeful something might be done to delay her cognitive decline. If they are granted a year or two - even more, I hope - of their current quality of life that will be an unexpected blessing. 

No Real Substitute

I suppose it was my lack of access to my copy of Joyce's Ulysses on the hundredth anniversary of its publication that led me to borrowing The Cambridge Companion to James Joyce from the library at work. It's a collection of essays focusing on the different works, and key concerns of Joyce, written by various hands. Well, I say concerns of Joyce, but some of the essays seem to be attempting to see where JJ stands on the burning issues of our times - stuff like feminism, sexuality, colonialism and consumer culture. As far as I can tell the great artificer seems to evade our current nets of thought, much as he evaded those of his own paralysed times. 

I enjoyed dipping into the various pieces and learnt a few new things about Joyce here and there, but it wasn't any kind of replacement for reading the real thing. And I found ample evidence that I'm not at all suited to any kind of academic study of literature these days. A sentence like, To move back to textual terrain is to find Ulysses in some senses anticipating this quest for another means of qualifying the social relations of consumption, which are, in modern times, essentially what we call culture, just brings on the shudders for me - as I suspect it would have done for Joyce himself.

Damage

I seem to be developing an increased awareness of humankind's capacity for causing damage of all sorts as I grow older. I suppose recognition of our failings comes naturally with a widening of experience. There's an obvious danger involved of succumbing to despair as a result of this knowledge. The only useful response is to seek to effect repairs - especially for the damage caused by oneself.

Not easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.

Just Music

I'm very familiar with Glenn Gould's playing of Bach's Goldberg Variations in his version from the 1980s, but had never heard his 1955 version - until today. (In the last hour, actually.)

Amazing tempi, way faster than the later version, yet Gould never seems to be showing off. It's as if the music impels him to be this fast. And despite the speed every note is crisp and clear. To be honest, I prefer my Bach on the harpsichord, with Gould as the notable, necessary exception.

I'm struck by the fact that he recorded this before I ever existed and it will be listened to long after I exist no longer. Isn't that splendidly reassuring? 

Words And Music And Pictures

At a bit of a low moment today I decided I needed to listen to something that would take me to another place. Was quickly delivered to that other-worldly location via Radiohead's Burn the Witch. Perfection. (And the strings beyond that hyperbole.)

More Fine Words

I'm approaching the end of William Carlos Williams's 1948 volume of poems The Clouds in my reading of Volume II, 1939 - 1962 of the The Collected Poems. I'm taking my sequential reading of the volume very easily indeed, allowing myself repeated readings of the poems I cherish (quite a few) and puzzled re-readings of the poems that puzzle (also quite a few.)

I've just read Philomena Andronica (found a copy online here) and been reminded how stunningly good Williams is at the brief sketch of a figure in some simple action that somehow magically captures the life behind it. You know Philomena was a real person and she lives again for us, for a few seconds, in the good doctor's words.

I suppose you could try and analyse how he does it, but you'd kill the poem in the attempt.

Fine Words

Full and warm. Any man who can describe himself thus can't be doing too badly, eh? Same for the ladies, I reckon.