No Hurry

Still happily reading E.P. Thomson's The Making of the English Working Class at a very slow pace. Am now at the central chapters dealing with The Transforming Power of the Cross, a brilliant account of the interplay between various religious enthusiasms, especially Wesleyan Methodism, and the lower classes from 1790 - 1840 (or thereabouts.) When I first read the tome decades back I found this the most striking and engaging chapter and the same is true today, except that, if anything, I find it more powerfully engaging and oddly moving in its evocation  of the deep need for meaning and purpose in the lives of the oppressed and, to some degree, the betrayal of that need.

The section on the greatest Prophetess of all, Joanna Southcott, is particularly fascinating. How did people fall for this nonsense? As always, easily. 

But who can reasonably resist her deranged poetry?: Who is he that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bozrah; that speaketh in righteousness, mighty to save all that trust in him; but of my enemies I will tread them in my anger, and trample them in my fury; for the day of vengeance is in my heart, and the year of my redeemed is come.

No Worries

I knew the day was going to be a busy one when I set off for work this morning. What I didn't know was quite how busy. Which was a good thing as I had nothing to worry about when it started and no time to worry as it was going on. And now I'm just too tired to be bothered to worry about anything.

Of course, tomorrow is another day. Whatever that might mean.

Breaking Down

I was playing the rather splendid DVD from Crimson's wonderful live set Radical Action to Unseat the Hold of Monkey Mind the weekend before last when the Blu-Ray player I was using suddenly decided not to work. The DVD is still inside it as the machine just shut down and refuses to open the rather nifty little sliding tray you put the disks in to play them. I was left flummoxed, and still am as I've really no time to attend to failing electronic devices.

In fact, the list of failing, or failed, devices we own is now fairly extensive. The television in Maison KL gave up the ghost this year and is in sore need of replacement. Similarly we removed the tv set here since the number of odd blotches on the screen made it difficult to watch anything. This was temporarily replaced by Hakim's huge set which he's waiting to move into his new apartment when it's ready, but that should be soon, so we'll need another replacement for that. The set-box we got from Singtel has not worked for yonks, so we've been watching Starhub, which suffices for now, but we're still paying for the Singtel so we need to do something about that. And the Bose CD player has been refusing to play CDs for around a month, though the radio is working, so that's something.

I've got a feeling I've missed some other defective item, but that's enough for now. I have a vague feeling that things used to last longer, but if they ever did those days are long gone. 

Wallowing In Nostalgia

Some guy calling himself Rael, presumably in tribute to Peter Gabriel's persona on The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway uploads these brilliant 'imagined albums' on YouTube. Not quite sure how he does it, but it seems he that gets hold of all sorts of material from bands, like Genesis, aligned to certain periods of time, stuff like demos and radio sessions, and then tweaks them to create 'what might have been'. So Cynthia's Dream is what might have been released, instead of Nursery Cryme, if Anthony Phillips had stayed in the band. It features three of the songs off the real album, these being Musical Box, Harold the Barrel and Harlequin, and a load of other interesting material and is a treat to listen to. Especially if, like yours truly, you saw Genesis live in this period and fell in love with them.

So listening to the imagined album was generally a nostalgic experience but, quite to my surprise, it was the version of Harlequin that packed a wallop for me. It's not exactly regarded as a classic track in the actual album version, and I don't think it was performed live by the band, but listening to the 'new' version, which features the voices of Gabe & Phil Collins more upfront than in the original, I was struck by just how lovely a song it is and how evocative of something I can't quite explain. Except a very young Brian felt it deeply and the older version sort of plugged back into that for a glorious four minutes or so this morning.

Everything's Okay

A fab evening at the Victoria Concert Hall was just the ticket after an artistically heavy week. The proceedings kicked off with something from Hans Werner Henze that the programme notes claimed to be angular and harsh, but struck me as darkly beautiful. Noi managed to nod off so it couldn't have been overly abrasive. Then came a big slab of Papa Haydn, a piano concerto and a symphony, which is always a very good thing. I knew the symphony well (the A major Fire Symphony) and it's a bit of favourite of mine and familarity bred the opposite of contempt. And finally Stravinsky's Pulcinella Suite which I thought I'd recognise but didn't. I felt happily stupid over this gap in my musical knowledge, the suite being obviously delicious, and I intend to make a much closer acquaintance with the piece over the next few days. As I will with the Haydn concerto.

The very fact of Haydn's existence makes me feel better about the world somehow. A sort of assurance that at the back of it all everything's really okay, even if it isn't.

Moral Imperatives

Two novels I don't think I'll ever read again: Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian and Paul Lynch's Prophet Song. Just too painful. I'm trying not to think of the final pages of the eighth chapter of the more recent novel. And failing.

Indeed, the moral power of the book is haunting me, as did that of McCarthy's great work. In McCarthy's case it was like looking into the deepest places of cruelty and pain in the human heart and not being able to see much else. Lynch's novel is more ordinary, in a sense. This is just normal life in a typical city in the developed world when things start to fall apart. And the suffering engendered becomes painfully real because it is so ordinary and you can't not think of the pain of all refugees fleeing anyplace and what's happening in Gaza and Lebanon even as I write and what happened in Pinochet's Chile, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But the moral imperative is to do something about this, fueled by the outrage, the fury, you can't not feel.

Kafka: A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. Prophet Song is exactly that.

Really Hard Reading

I was right yesterday about Prophet Song. Devastating.

But the hour is getting late and there is no time to process this today. This is not a time to talk falsely. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Hard Reading

Paul Lynch's novel Prophet Song is stunningly good, and in many ways an easy read. Completely convincing in its speculative setting; completely convincing in terms of its central characters; and a convincing, compelling storyline. So why couldn't I finish it today when I had enough time to do so? Because the sense of dread created makes it hard to go on even when desperately needing to know what happens next. And because each extended paragraph segment has so much going on in terms of the evocative quality of the writing it just can't be rushed and demands to be read slowly, painstakingly.

I'm pretty sure I'll finish it tomorrow. And pretty sure I'll be devastated. 

Not Paying Attention

I stumbled across something I wrote late last year in praise of Miles's album Tutu, with specific reference to how great it was to listen to it in the gym. Somehow I'd forgotten this, but I thought that in view of my previously expressed enthusiasm I'd give it a spin on the workout I'd planned for this evening.

So spin it I duly did and found it engaging enough for the first couple of tracks. Next thing I know I'm into the last five minutes of my stint on the elliptical trainer and am zoning in on a very busy blues piece having zoned out completely on a good 45 to 50 minutes of Miles giving forth. I'd been thinking about some stuff at work as I was peddling up the endless hill and got completely lost in it.

Must remember this next time I make a claim to being a reasonably good listener. Only some of the time, I'm afraid, even when what I'm listening to is a slice of perfection.

My Blank Pages

Acquired my week to a view diary for 2025 yesterday. It’s the same edition as the one I’m using  this year , which means that, like this year’s, it will be most likely falling apart by October 2025. But I don’t mind. As long as it gets me through each working week without my missing anything of crucial importance to my working life I’m fine.

As with last year, getting my hands on what I’ve come to regard as foundational to my routines makes me a happy soldier. But I must confess that looking at all the pages waiting to be marked by doings that will need to be done is a little intimidating. I’m assuaging the mild panic engendered by reminding myself to live in the moment. Or, rather, live a week at a time with the odd glance into a future that will soon turn to messy pages.

And I mustn’t forget there’s a fair amount of 2024 that still needs negotiating. It may be all downhill from here, but there’s a lot of slope ahead. 

Something Cool

Went looking outside myself on a warm, comfortable Sunday afternoon for a few moments of cold perfection. And found them in a kind of silence.

True North

Just finished reading the Under the North Star section in Ted Hughes; Collected Poems for Children. Hughes at his considerable best, I reckon. Brilliantly observed animal poems, some with that sense of the abstract that characterised the 'newer' style in some of the Wodwo poems, but more immediately accessible. And wonderful touches of humour.

I assumed before I embarked on a reading of this Collected that I would be in for delight on every page, and that, happily, has proved to be the case.

Uplifting

These days I can't drive at all since the authorities wouldn't renew my license due to my being 'labelled' an epileptic. (I'm quoting my brain doc there who distinctly put the term in inverted commas when he told me the diagnosis.) I sort of feel the loss, but, on the other hand, Noi is an excellent driver and it's nice to be chauffered all over the place. (And Fifi is fine as well.)

The positive side of my incapacity came home to me today when I was driven to Friday Prayers. The azan is a bit early at this time of year and we arrived a little bit late. Now in the old days I'd have been rushing to park and then would have run-walked across the carpark to arrive a wee bit frazzled. Today I got dropped right outside the back entrance to the masjid and enjoyed a leisurely stroll of less than a hundred yards. And after, of course, a lift back during which I could do the necessary adjustments for getting back to work. 

I enjoy a challenge, but sometimes it's nice to feel deeply at ease. 

Going Local

A trip back to Manchester & Environs & probably a few other places is pretty much confirmed for us in December. The last time we were there was back in 2019, pre-pandemic. I can't say I miss my homeland, but I'm looking forward to a drab December in my fashion, and I think Noi is distinctly enthusiastic, as is her way. 

I've been keeping up with a funky little series in the Graun, entitled Where tourists seldom tread that explores towns with hidden histories. It's been a reminder of just how much I don't know about the UK and how many places I've never actually been to. Part 10 has a few paragraphs on Stockport which made me more than a little nostalgic for a spot I can't recall taking Noi to see. According to cousin John we're likely to grab some tickets for a Stockport County home game and the County are attracting bigger crowds what with their recent successes. (In case you're wondering, a trip to the Theatre of Dreams is definitely not on the cards, even if we could get tickets, which we can't, given our recent tribulations.)

And I fancy a visit to the Hat Museum. Almost obligatory for someone whose dad was a hatter, until the industry abruptly collapsed. But that's another story.

The Noise In My Head

A moment of illumination early this morning. Around 6.35. I'm watching Sky News and they're doing the review of the press in the UK. The talking heads are discussing events in the Middle East and behind them a large telescreen is filled with shooting stars above a city, the same 30 seconds of footage looped. These are missiles coming down but being intercepted by other missiles. At the same time I'm reading a story from the Graun on my phone about some Brit celebrity's arc of redemption as he appears on a ghastly-sounding reality show about being stuck alone on some kind of island. At the same time as I'm half-watching the goggle box and reading off my phone I'm figuring out how to negotiate the first two hours of the day and how I'll get some marking done in the cracks.

Then I realise there's a noise in my head. I suppose I'm speaking metaphorically, but it felt loud. So I stopped reading. And I stopped thinking. And I listened to the guy on Sky who was talking some sense about the madness, and the act of attention was soothing. It lasted about three minutes, and then the day really started up.

I suppose a lot of people hear the noise as they divide their attention between all that demands it. Maybe they don't know there's genuine peace if they choose to step out of the storm?

Blind Spots

I began marking some material today relating to African cinema when it suddenly occurred to me that if asked to place Nigeria on an outline map of the continent I would struggle. How can I have got to my age without a general working picture of that part of the world? 

And how can I possibly criticise teenagers for the occasional glaring gaps in their mental pictures of the world and its storied history?

Sometimes it's salutary to turn one's gift for sarcasm on oneself. Even when it hurts.