A Find

I'd somehow managed never to have heard of Viet Thanh Nguyen, the winner of the 2016 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, before finding myself in possession of a copy of his prize-winning novel The Sympathizer - a Teachers' Day gift from a colleague. The blurb features comparisons to Greene, Conrad and Le Carre and a reference to Catch 22, and I can see why, though all of these are misleading to some degree. Nguyen is very much his own man.

I'm just over halfway in and thinking that this is one of the best novels I've read for the last few years. The opening chapters on the fall of Saigon effortlessly hooked me - and it's the seemingly effortless ease of the narrative that strikes me. There's no sense at all of a writer trying hard to impress even as he's deeply impressing.

In Time

Stepped into the Drama Room today for the first time since early March. On the white board in there, frozen in time, never to be achieved, the plans for Assortments 2020 and As You Like It. The one regret of this year.

But it was good to be back and there was a sense of things stirring, of things being set in motion. The mercy of time is that in its flow we begin again and again.

Locked In

Now and again I've thought about posting a list of my favourite ten bass-players / guitarists / drummers - that kind of thing. And I never do, because it's fundamentally silly, as we all know. Fun, yes, but stupid. My favourite bassist is usually whatever great player I happen to be listening to at the time, and there're a lot of great players.

But it suddenly occurred to me today, when I was goofing off and listening to a bit of Cream from the brilliant 2005 reunion concert at the Albert Hall, that I'm pretty sure that the Baker - Bruce combination is the greatest rhythm section of any band ever simply in terms of complete tightness and that extraordinary sense of being entirely, seamlessly, locked-in to each other. Two virtuosic players who mysteriously don't get in each other's way. They drive the music inexorably but there's so much space, so much clarity in the glorious noise they create.

No shortage of evidence, of course, but this is surely conclusive: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-D_jhVX8y4 .

And it doesn't hurt matters that Clapton is on fire on this one.

On Not Listening Well

Noi wasn't at home when I got back today having gone out with a friend. Although I had a bit of work needing to be done, I found myself with a good hour or so to just relax before I really needed to apply myself. It struck that circumstances had conspired to allow me to carry out an experiment in listening I'd vaguely thought about for a couple of days.

My idea was to put John Luther Adams's become desert on the stereo at reasonable volume and see whether I could engage with it closely throughout its forty minute duration. I should explain here, for those not acquainted with the piece, that's it's a gorgeous single-movement work that evokes the world of the desert, but that not a lot happens within that forty minutes in terms of obvious melody. It's hypnotic in its effect (on me, anyway) but potentially soporific (on me, certainly.)

So I bunged it on trying to avoid any distraction, except for the coffee and chocolate muffin I just had to treat myself to. They proved a big mistake. In fact, the whole idea was. I'm embarrassed to tell the world that I think I managed about ten minutes all told of genuine immersion in the sound world. I enjoyed the whole piece, but as a kind of atmosphere in which my thoughts wandered all over the place (usefully planning one of my Friday lessons at one point.) Talk about the monkey mind, eh.

But despite the disaster, and the damage to my self esteem, I'm determined to have another go. I feel I owe it to Mr Adams, and  the rather wonderful Seattle Symphony Orchestra.

Still Going

At the end of a long, hard day it's good to relax. Unfortunately fate has decreed that this particular long, hard day (including one major, major curveball) isn't over yet. Ho hum.

Drenched

Just reached the Moortown sequence in the great TH read-through. I knew I would enjoy the poems, this being one of my favourite books from Hughes. (My original copy lost somehow in the move to this Far Place. I assume someone took it from Tony's place where I left it. Possibly Tony himself. Whoever has it/had it, good! A book to savour.) What I didn't know was just how explosively wonderful the poems would be this time round. Starting with Rain, the first in the sequence. I always thought of it as a solid, well-observed, but not exactly spectacular piece of writing. Workmanlike.

How wrong I was. Every line hit me with its power, its integrity to the experience. Even the most straightforward was utterly right. Describing the cows in the rain: They are ruining their field and they know it. He's right, isn't he? A line perfect in its knowingness. I felt the rain, reading. It cut through me.

Value For Money

In case you are wondering why I have chosen to upload pictures of a fairly nondescript plastic container of correction fluid, let me tell you that the little red and white bottle above represents possibly the best value of any single purchase in my life. It ran out of the white stuff inside last Friday having provided me years of yeoman service. Yes, you heard me correctly, years. I know this because I used it originally on the official record book for lessons all teachers in this Far Place had to complete weekly in the past, and there wasn't a week went by that I didn't need to blank out something on the page and write over it. And I continue to use the stuff to this very day on the informal 2-week timetables I use to try and keep a rough plan of what I'm supposed to be doing and when. I know for a fact that I was using the bottle for the records I kept two schools back, which means I've definitely had it for at least 17 years - and I suspect it actually dates back to the last century. So kudos to Pentel, the manufacturers. I wonder if they're still in business producing the stuff because now I need to look for some more.

Now I Know

Finished reading Swing Time today. Took my time over the final stretch of the novel and was glad I did. The ending proved a bit flat, but that was in keeping with the unnamed narrator herself, I suppose, and her lack of agency. I glanced at a few reviews today and noted some criticism of the West African scenes, which surprised me. I liked the range of the story, the way it opened up from the narrowness of the childhood in London.

I suppose I did get a bit irritated at the inability of the narrator to settle into any kind of lasting relationship. Bit overly-choosy, I thought; a bit head-in-the-clouds. But I suppose I would think that way.

Stumbling Along

A rich, full, frenetic, rewarding day, at the end of which (nearly) I'm bone-tired. It doesn't help that last night's sleep was interrupted by nasty, digging sort of pains from the big toe on my left foot, probably caused by something of an in-growing toenail. How are the mighty fallen, eh? Actually the pain localised in the toe seemed to set off cramping pains in the whole leg.

Funny how the utterly trivial can become one's entire focus of attention.

On A Need To Know Basis

The last novel I read by Zadie Smith, White Teeth, didn't do all that much for me. I know that simply because I can't remember a thing about it. So I wouldn't have bothered to read her 2016 effort Swing Time had it not been recently offered as a gift to me - or re-gifted, I suspect, which is just as good.

I'm close to finishing it now and, I must say, I've really enjoyed it. I'm not sure that's a guarantee I'll remember much about it a year down the road, especially given my deteriorating memory, but there are a few bits that'll stick, I reckon. The segments dealing with musicals, especially Guys and Dolls and Showboat will linger, I think, partly because of my interest in the genre, and partly because they are very well done.

I'm also dying to find out what happens to the narrator and her chum, Tracey, which is always a good sign. And which is why I'm breaking off here, hoping I'll find out tonight.