The Results Are In

Not quite sure whether it was the United comeback against Roma or the midterms wipeout of POTUS & his minions made me happier today. On balance, probably the news out of the US. But in the sober darkness of evening it strikes me that it's by no impossible that both may signal a false dawn. Still, best to enjoy the moment, eh?

Senses Dulled

Started reading Evelyn Waugh's Sword of Honour trilogy as a follow-up to The Red and the Black. I roundly detest Waugh as a personality whilst hugely admiring the early novels, especially Vile Bodies, At one time I rated Brideshead Revisited highly, but came to think that the Catholic aspects just don't work - it all seems a bit performative to me, as does the Catholicism of Guy Crouchback, the central figure in the war trilogy, at least from my reading so far. But these are early days and the war has hardly got going.

In fact the opening chapters struck me as pleasingly dull, in contrast to the high energy of Stendhal who absolutely demands alertness in every paragraph. Sometimes you need to read something that plods along as a way of winding down, and that certainly suits my mood as things stand.

Of Good Cheer

Life has been pleasantly smooth-sailing of late. Not quite what I expected at this time of year, but very welcome. So today was a day for feeling very cheerful indeed. 

But even if things hadn't been quite so tickety-boo, one look at the picture of Arissa above would have made the world an unreasonably cheerful place. (Books courtesy of the vouchers I get for my involvement in the annual lit seminar.)

Full Of Surprises

So much of Stendhal's The Red and the Black took me by surprise that I just don't know where to start in summing up how I felt reading the novel. This is true simply at the level of story: I had no idea what was going to happen next right up to the final lines, which floored me. And it's true at the more sophisticated level of style: I couldn't figure out whether Stendhal just didn't know what he was doing and was making it up as he went along; or if the constant shifting of point of view and consequent ironies was cunningly, meaningfully, crafted from the get-go in every particular.

How does a writer manage to create a central character so entirely despicable, yet wonderfully sympathetic?

And how does a reader process a work that defies all categorisation?

Happy Families

Spent the best part of the evening at Fafa's, with baby Arissa as the centre of attention, though Fifi technically was the birthday girl. Mei was able to join us in celebrating the joys of being entirely silly and having an aimlessly jolly time. All in all we didn't do anything much and did it really well. There's a lot to be said for being pointlessly happy.

A Synchronicity

I'm not sure it's reasonable of me to invoke Jung's acausal connecting principle regarding what happened to me today, but I do know that a distinct spookiness embraced me for a good twenty minutes or so in the middle of the day, and still lingers. But perhaps the whole thing can be simply put down to YouTube's algorithm getting it right for once.

To explain my experience I need to go back to Wednesday and a conversation I had with Maria which touched upon the notion of Beauty. I'd semi-playfully referenced the on-going War on Beauty to her and she rightly asked me what exactly I meant by Beauty. I brilliantly avoided directly answering her question by seeking to look appropriately wise and saying something evasive. But later in the day I felt a bit guilty about this and started thinking of how I might provide some kind of genuinely fruitful answer. Which in turn got me thinking about the conversation between Stephen Dedalus and his chum Lynch in Joyce's A Portrait referencing Aquinas's thoughts on the subject. Since Maria is essentially a good Catholic girl this seemed a particularly appropriate place to start; plus it remains my own reference point for understanding a concept which happily lies beyond my limited understanding.

Anyway, I've not seen Maria since but I thought I'd better reread the apposite pages from Chapter 5 just to check if they remained as brilliantly illuminating as I remembered them. So I read them around 10.00 am today, sitting in the library as it happens, and, my goodness, they were better than ever. And, then, to some small astonishment from myself, around noon, a lecture with the unlikely title Islamic Influences on James Joyce popped up in the YouTube feed on my phone.

It took me roughly 10 minutes into Tim Winter's talk to realise that some five decades of thinking on my part about Joyce's art, including Stephen & Lynch's momentous dialogue, was coalescing into a series of insights that I can only characterise as deeply exciting. And now, having listened to the full lecture I find the initial excitement hasn't really subsided, but transformed, as these things do into something rich and strange.

Still processing.

(Oh, and in case you're wondering, in between and around all this I did get quite a bit of work done.)

A Matter Of Fact

Now taking a break after polishing off a plateful of Noi's patented nasi goreng ikan bilis (with fried egg on top.) Seconds are happily available and will be coming soon. Frankly speaking, it doesn't get much better than this. Fact.

Oh Lucky Man

Despite my resolution at the onset of this year focused on the idea that looking back was something to be avoided, I found myself today, yet again, caught up in remembrance of things past. Mind you, I have the excuse of not being an 'artist' of any kind, and I definitely don't have everything I need, in contrast to Dylan's muse.

Also I can reasonably claim to have been unexpectedly triggered and, hence, trapped by the clouds of time that descended upon me. When I put an old CD on this afternoon, comprising Borodin's Symphonies Nos 1 & 2, I didn't expect to find myself back in late 1991 and the first half of 1992 enmeshed in memories of the musical Kismet and my first intense exposure to the Russian Master and his key works. At that time I was engaged in putting together a production of the show for the school I was working in, which involved getting very much up close to the score at every level; and since the score of the show is essentially bits of Borodin reimagined the happy soaking in his works inevitably and easily followed. That was when I bought the CD, by the way. It was a great way to spend the afternoon, I can tell you. The magic all came back.

And that in itself triggered a further realisation, something obvious to me, yet I don't think I've ever quite consciously thought this before. I've never been involved in a musical, either as performer or director, that I didn't fall completely in love with in terms of the actual music, to the point of a kind of happy obsessiveness. Here's the list of the full length shows: Guys & Dolls (as performer), Oliver, My Fair Lady, Flower Drum Song, The Matchgirls, Guys & Dolls (as director), Kismet, Carousel, The Fantasticks. Chock full of brilliant music, each and every one.

Gosh, I've been lucky.

From Somewhere

Was taken by surprise just now visiting the gym. Last week I managed three sessions, and each was a struggle. The thought of just giving up the whole business of torturing myself occurred very distinctly indeed to me a couple of times. And was almost instantly dismissed. I'm just not capable of submitting to the easy way out. But occur it did, accompanied by the understanding I wasn't going to improve my fitness no matter how hard I tried.

So I was expecting more of the same this evening. But it didn't happen. I don't mean I suddenly recorded any improvement. But I didn't struggle in any real sense. Time flew by when I was on the elliptical trainer and I barely registered what I was doing on the weights. In fact I seriously thought of re-circling the little circuit I've devised.

I have no idea where the new-found energy came from, but I don't care. Just as long as it arrives occasionally. A bit like the entirely undeserved grace of the kind we could all do with.

Just Being Grouchy

Why do so many of the hosts & hostesses on tv shows originating in this part of the world feel the NEED to SHOUT with EXCITEMENT so much of the time? If the show in question in question is genuinely exciting then the raised voices are superfluous; and if it's not, you're not going to convince anyone it is by SHOUTING THAT it IS. 

And why do members of an audience arriving late for a live performance need to check their phones once they've pushed past those already seated? And then text whoever they're in contact with even though what's actually on stage should be claiming their very much delayed attention? The point of going to a play is TO PAY ATTENTION to IT.

And why am I bothering complaining about this here? Completely POINTLESS.

But good to vent, eh?