Years And Years And Years

Just checked on what I wrote in this Far Place five years back on this day of days for our little household - to see if it still counts. It does. Royally so.

Other Minds

Another day wound up with an article from the Graun - this time from their Long Read series. I'm pretty sure we'll never understand how animals think but it's fascinating trying to. And morally necessary. 

Another reminder of something I need to learn a lot more about. 

Countdown

Finished the day mulling over a recent article from Simon Tisdall on the uncounted. Funny how easy it is to close an eye, possibly both, to those who don't quite count.

Counting Out Time

Technically I'm on holiday tomorrow, as in it's the first week of the June vacation for schools here. The sad reality, not unfamiliar to me at this time of year, is that I'll be ultra-busy on two fronts. The first of these: extensive rehearsing with our drama guys for As You Like It to get things moving along for our July show. The second of these: meeting a draconian deadline from the IBO for marking of one of their June papers whilst trying to help my team along in relation to the same. By the way, there are bits and pieces of other stuff to fill in the cracks, if any open.

So how can I possibly think in terms of keeping my mind alive through reading and listening to music? Well, it is possible, but requires some kind of planning - though not so much on the music front which is just a matter of banging something on in a spare ten minutes here and there. I'm thinking more of a rough plan on what to try and read over the next week. 

I've abandoned all hope of getting on with reading any kind of novel, basically keeping the three currently on my reading list ready and waiting for when the real holiday starts, and they'll be accompanying me to Europe whence we've set our sights. I've decided instead of keeping a bit of fiction ticking over to devote any and all available spare time to reading the final 100 pages of the second volume of Archie Ammons's The Complete Poems. I really need to finish this and move on, but that's likely to be helped considerably by the sheer quality of the poetry published but uncollected (until now, that is) that completes the mighty volume. Just this morning, before I applied myself to my quota of scripts for the day for IB I read a sequence of five gems in a row, and the world was a better place for it.

So something to look forward to in a week that's likely to fray me at the edges more than somewhat. 

Making Music

After a day largely spent marking (just the afternoon, but that was quite enough) it was a relief to get out to a concert in the evening.

In fact, this was the first concert of genuine live music I've attended in quite some time - the first since the pandemic hit, I think. And it seemed fitting that the music was being made by students - a reminder of how the capacity for making sweet sounds is a general one, not solely for specialists, though these kids had the talent to be special.

The essential tool for the evening was the voice, generally pretty much unadorned, this being our senior 'choir' who style themselves Vocal Accord and perform largely a cappella. So the sense of the music being very much 'made' in the moment was particularly strong, and helped enormously by the obviously deep enthusiasm of the makers. Good to see the performers feeling the music physically, and emotionally. Good to be live and alive, eh?

Not Paying The Price

Slept well last night, not cramping up at all. But still felt dog-tired all day.

Which raises the question, Why exactly are dogs singled out as being embodiments of exhaustion? It's not just me, you know. How about the Fab Four?: And I've been working like a dog.

Most dogs of my acquaintance have been pretty lazy, lucky things. Not as bad as cats though, eh?

Paying The Price

Very pleased with myself for getting to the gym this evening despite not really having the time to do so. But also paying the price in terms of unfathomable tiredness. I suspect I'll have an attack of cramp in my nether regions at some point in the early hours, but I'll just grin and bear it. Or cry and bear it. Something like that.

In The Lead

One of the more doubtful joys of leading a team of examiners when marking on-line is realising that you've forgotten to reply to a query made earlier in a busy day and suddenly remembering said query when you're about to make your way to the land of nod. But better than waking in the middle of the night and suddenly remembering, I suppose.

Fings Ain't Wot They Used To be

The thing is that I can remember a time when a thing wasn't actually a thing.

Being There

I had Peter in mind as I spun Hendrix's Band of Gypsys this morning, at a suitable volume. In the old days we had fairly similar tastes in music, but PB was more of a classic blues and rock guy with less of the sometimes pretentious eclecticism that marks my enthusiasms. He was certainly a major fanboy where Hendrix was concerned and soaked in the necessary lore - but with real insights.

I remember when he first asked me what I thought of the great guitarist and I made the requisite noises as to what a brilliant technician Jimi was, then to be confronted with a question about Hendrix's voice. I replied that I thought JH sounded fine within his limitations and was immediately put right. Peter was certain he was a great singer in the soul tradition and the whole point of his playing and singing was the feel he brought to his development of that tradition. I needed little convincing and as we soaked ourselves in JH for the next few weeks felt my ears opening in new and interesting ways.

It strikes me now that Hendrix's ability to be completely there, in the moment, in live performance was matched by a similar quality in Peter as a listener.