Edit, on Tuesday, unworthy of new post. On Sunday while I was waiting for Nick I wrote something I liked (stemming from the dislodged memories mentioned below) and I intended to write it up on here today as my first extract from One Two Three, even though I don't know where it goes in the book yet. Then today, for the first time in living memory, I forgot my notebook. Kismet?
*****
Really good weekend.
Friday I saw Marcus and Frank for drinks and dinner, and they beguiled and flattered me into doing some work for them for free. It's becoming increasingly clear why they're both such excellent fundraisers.
Yesterday I walked around a lot because the weather is beautiful - crisp and sunny - then saw Tom.
Today I walked around more and wrote a bit. I'd remembered something about someone from years ago, and when I started writing it down I remembered loads more stuff. It's fascinating, the memories lurking in your brain that you can dislodge. Just got in from dinner with Nick. He just finished his new book, which will be published in the Autumn. I'm hopefully going to get a sneak peek, though, which is exciting. Or will be, until I read it and get depressed because it's brilliant and I've written about 3 pages of mine.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Got back from the UK late last night. Easter is always a big event in our house, with egg hunts and egg decorating and egg smashing and other egg-related stuff, and the children wired on too much chocolate.
Work is insane today and I have to have dinner with one of my clients tonight, which means I can't teach. I'm annoyed.
I wrote the last line or two of One Two Three. It ends on the shore of the North Sea. I am closest to being at peace by the sea, but I find it sad, like it's throwing itself against the land, a prisoner in a cell. I always loved the end of Fern Hill: "Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means/ Time held me green and dying/ Though I sang in my chains like the sea."
Work is insane today and I have to have dinner with one of my clients tonight, which means I can't teach. I'm annoyed.
I wrote the last line or two of One Two Three. It ends on the shore of the North Sea. I am closest to being at peace by the sea, but I find it sad, like it's throwing itself against the land, a prisoner in a cell. I always loved the end of Fern Hill: "Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means/ Time held me green and dying/ Though I sang in my chains like the sea."
Friday, March 21, 2008
Good Friday
I'm back in the UK for a long weekend. The journey - to JFK in the evening rush hour, to London on the redeye, across London in the morning rush hour, onto a train to Newcastle - is tedious.
But once the train gets to Durham it's impossible not to start to perk up. And I've been coming home from various places since I was 18, but when the train finally creaks onto the King Edward VII bridge and that quayside comes into view, I'm always smiling.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Fantasia
I've been listening to Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis by Ralph Vaughan Williams pretty much non-stop for the past few days. It's my dad's favourite piece of music and he has advised me, often, not to listen to it too much, but I've always been a bit of a rebel.
This is a decent version. The one I have on my iPod is a lot better, partly because it's the BBC Symphony Orchestra and partly because it's true to the requisite expanded orchestra and musicians' placement - read here for more info - that give the piece the soaring, cathedral organ-esque sound Vaughan Williams was chasing. It sounds like an England that probably doesn't exist any more except in a few remote corners.
Also, this animated version of Peter and the Wolf is beautiful. The trailer's irritatingly short. It just won an Oscar, although I saw it on TV in the UK last Christmas.
This is a decent version. The one I have on my iPod is a lot better, partly because it's the BBC Symphony Orchestra and partly because it's true to the requisite expanded orchestra and musicians' placement - read here for more info - that give the piece the soaring, cathedral organ-esque sound Vaughan Williams was chasing. It sounds like an England that probably doesn't exist any more except in a few remote corners.
Also, this animated version of Peter and the Wolf is beautiful. The trailer's irritatingly short. It just won an Oscar, although I saw it on TV in the UK last Christmas.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Milton. Mosquito.
I’m re-reading Paradise Lost. I forgot how wonderful it is.
“Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell
From Heav’n, they fabled, thrown by angry Jove
Sheer o’er the crystal battlements: from morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer’s day: and with the setting sun
Dropped from the zenith like a falling star.”
(Book 1, l. 740-745)
There is a mosquito in my bedroom. By day, he hides, patient. But by night, he swoops past my ear when he’s sure I’m on the verge of unconsciousness, then dines on my arms. Little bastard.
My younger brother has just finished a rather sweet version of the Princess and the Pea:
“Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell
From Heav’n, they fabled, thrown by angry Jove
Sheer o’er the crystal battlements: from morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer’s day: and with the setting sun
Dropped from the zenith like a falling star.”
(Book 1, l. 740-745)
There is a mosquito in my bedroom. By day, he hides, patient. But by night, he swoops past my ear when he’s sure I’m on the verge of unconsciousness, then dines on my arms. Little bastard.
My younger brother has just finished a rather sweet version of the Princess and the Pea:
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Math(s). Hardy.
Last night I went to the high school where I teach on Wednesday nights, except there was some mix-up and I didn't end up teaching, I just sat in a Math class. (I am going to write a post about the trouble I'm having with Americanisms such as 'Math' but for now I am going to be a gracious guest and pronounce it in the manner of my adopted country.) I rather enjoyed it. They were doing quadratic equations. I haven't done any mathematics since I was 15 but I managed to follow, largely because of the very impressive teacher. She talks about herself in the third person, which amused me: "Miss Langley knows you can use payback to get to the solution. Don't be tellin' Miss Langley that. But you still gonna get the same answer when the co-efficient is 1. It's easy! Okay?"
Then I went to my friend's art opening and tried to understand it and kind of failed.
Then I went home and had a four hour poetry-reading marathon. I don't mean to keep writing morose posts - I'm actually in a relatively good mood this week - but it seems to happen anyway. Probably because I mentioned Hardy on here recently, I'd been thinking about something he wrote, I think in one of his novels, about the fact that once a year you live through the day that will eventually be the date of your death and you never know it. He was preoccupied with death, from a very young age. He actually lived to be very old, and died in 1928, and I always imagine how strange it must have been to be born in rustic Wessex and die in the post-Empire, post-Industrial Revolution, post-airplane age. Anyway, I'd been thinking about that last night when I came across the following poems by Heaney. I can't believe I've either never read them before or just didn't remember them, but that seems to be the case. Here they are:
'Lightenings vi'
Once, as a child, out in a field of sheep,
Thomas Hardy pretended to be dead
And lay down flat among their dainty shins.
In that sniffed-at, bleated-into, grassy space
He experimented with infinity.
His small cool brow was like an anvil waiting
For sky to make it sing the perfect pitch
Of his dumb being, and that stir he caused
In the fleece-hustle was the original
Of a ripple that would travel eighty years
Outward from there, to be the same ripple
Inside him at its last circumference.
'Lightenings vii'
(I misremembered. He went down on all fours,
Florence Emily says, crossing a ewe-leaze.
Hardy sought the creatures face to face,
Their witless eyes and liability
To panic made him feel less alone,
Made proleptic sorrow stand a moment
Over him, perfectly known and sure.
And then the flock's dismay went swimming on
Into the blinks and murmurs and deflections
He'd know at parties in renowned old age
When sometimes he imagined himself a ghost
And circulated with that new perspective.)
Then I went to my friend's art opening and tried to understand it and kind of failed.
Then I went home and had a four hour poetry-reading marathon. I don't mean to keep writing morose posts - I'm actually in a relatively good mood this week - but it seems to happen anyway. Probably because I mentioned Hardy on here recently, I'd been thinking about something he wrote, I think in one of his novels, about the fact that once a year you live through the day that will eventually be the date of your death and you never know it. He was preoccupied with death, from a very young age. He actually lived to be very old, and died in 1928, and I always imagine how strange it must have been to be born in rustic Wessex and die in the post-Empire, post-Industrial Revolution, post-airplane age. Anyway, I'd been thinking about that last night when I came across the following poems by Heaney. I can't believe I've either never read them before or just didn't remember them, but that seems to be the case. Here they are:
'Lightenings vi'
Once, as a child, out in a field of sheep,
Thomas Hardy pretended to be dead
And lay down flat among their dainty shins.
In that sniffed-at, bleated-into, grassy space
He experimented with infinity.
His small cool brow was like an anvil waiting
For sky to make it sing the perfect pitch
Of his dumb being, and that stir he caused
In the fleece-hustle was the original
Of a ripple that would travel eighty years
Outward from there, to be the same ripple
Inside him at its last circumference.
'Lightenings vii'
(I misremembered. He went down on all fours,
Florence Emily says, crossing a ewe-leaze.
Hardy sought the creatures face to face,
Their witless eyes and liability
To panic made him feel less alone,
Made proleptic sorrow stand a moment
Over him, perfectly known and sure.
And then the flock's dismay went swimming on
Into the blinks and murmurs and deflections
He'd know at parties in renowned old age
When sometimes he imagined himself a ghost
And circulated with that new perspective.)
Monday, March 10, 2008
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're wrong
Finished the first chapter of One Two Three last night. Went to bed feeling quite happy with it. Couldn't sleep. Horribly busy day today, including a 9am meeting in New Jersey, then a fire in my building, then various demands from colleagues, so I finally got round to reading it again, and now I hate it.
I don't hate the story, or the characters. I don't even hate most of the writing. I just hate enough of the writing to make me hate the whole thing.
Dispiriting.
I don't hate the story, or the characters. I don't even hate most of the writing. I just hate enough of the writing to make me hate the whole thing.
Dispiriting.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Frustrating week of too much work; no time to write or read or post on here. It's irksome. What's that Bukowski quote about when you take the typewriter away from the madman all you have left is the madness? Hmm. In work on a Sunday again - becoming firm pals with the weekend security guards downstairs.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I grow old... I grow old...
Talking with my friend the other day, I was teasing him for eating alone, or something similarly objectionable, with, "old man, old man, obdurate in your contracted world," a severed line of poetry that's been lodged in my head for years. Being a self-proclaimed 'blackbelt in google,' he found it. The poem's far from perfect, but it's an engaging meditation on the infinitesimally-slow-moving see-saw that is a child's relationship with their parents.
(There's a poem that ends "my father, my father" but I can't remember it and I can't find it. Is it Plath? Possibly. Looking for it, I found this one by Goethe, which is pretty spooky.)
Thomas put in what we might call a fair effort on this subject. My friend recommended I avoided that one, given my current state of mind (see below), but I never find Thomas depressing. In beauty is consolation.
So. Today's chirpy theme is: Watching your parents get old is dismal. My dad is going through this with my Gran, who's 91. She's in a care home. She has a tiny bedsit room crammed with photographs of our enormous family. She isn't allowed things that would give her some semblance of independence - a kettle, for example - for fear she'll hurt herself. She argues with the other confused, frustrated women who otherwise sit together in the hallway all day in silence. I see her every time I'm home, maybe 3 or 4 times a year, and every time I do, I think, "not for my parents, and not for me." Then I think, "everyone in here, everyone who has a parent or spouse in here, thought that."
In turn, the last couple of months my dad's been sick. Then, just when he got the all-clear, a "nodule" has been picked up on a gland. 'Nodules' are what doctors call 'lumps' these days so people don't freak out in their office. Nodules sound friendly and mischievous. Lumps sound like the things that kill people. Apparently it's "almost certainly nothing." Like all little girls, my daddy is, for me, the epitome of masculinity: gorilla-armed, bottler-up of feelings, fixer of anything, the best whistler in existence. The man who shouts, "In your dreams, bonny lad!" if a boy so much as looks at me when I'm with him, gives me "a pound for sweets" when he puts me on the train out of Newcastle, and whispers to me every time, "You don't have to go, you know." Now he's taking dozens of pills a day and spending too much time sitting nervously in waiting rooms. I feel like someone's sneaking up behind us with an axe.
Several of my friends, and my ex-boyfriend, lost their fathers in pretty terrible circumstances when they were teenagers. None of them are close to being over it. The mortality of one's loved ones is pretty much impossible to come to terms with. I remember being inconsolable for a period when I was four, because I thought (or rather realised) my parents were going to die. You never really shake that off, do you?
Anyway. It's "almost certainly nothing."
In search of solace and cheer, I'm listening to The Kings of Convenience. They were a serendipitous discovery. My friend Tim bought their debut album at random in our first year at university and it's now an era-defining record for me. Their songs usually deal with contained episodes, like trying to chat to a girl in a noisy club, or a train journey, or a late-night visit from an ex. They're so delicately-spun that every nuance is amplified. Sample tracks. This is quite up-tempo for them, both musically and video-wise, but beguiling nonetheless. And just to lower the tone, Eirik Glambek Bøe (at the piano): I absolutely would.
(There's a poem that ends "my father, my father" but I can't remember it and I can't find it. Is it Plath? Possibly. Looking for it, I found this one by Goethe, which is pretty spooky.)
Thomas put in what we might call a fair effort on this subject. My friend recommended I avoided that one, given my current state of mind (see below), but I never find Thomas depressing. In beauty is consolation.
So. Today's chirpy theme is: Watching your parents get old is dismal. My dad is going through this with my Gran, who's 91. She's in a care home. She has a tiny bedsit room crammed with photographs of our enormous family. She isn't allowed things that would give her some semblance of independence - a kettle, for example - for fear she'll hurt herself. She argues with the other confused, frustrated women who otherwise sit together in the hallway all day in silence. I see her every time I'm home, maybe 3 or 4 times a year, and every time I do, I think, "not for my parents, and not for me." Then I think, "everyone in here, everyone who has a parent or spouse in here, thought that."
In turn, the last couple of months my dad's been sick. Then, just when he got the all-clear, a "nodule" has been picked up on a gland. 'Nodules' are what doctors call 'lumps' these days so people don't freak out in their office. Nodules sound friendly and mischievous. Lumps sound like the things that kill people. Apparently it's "almost certainly nothing." Like all little girls, my daddy is, for me, the epitome of masculinity: gorilla-armed, bottler-up of feelings, fixer of anything, the best whistler in existence. The man who shouts, "In your dreams, bonny lad!" if a boy so much as looks at me when I'm with him, gives me "a pound for sweets" when he puts me on the train out of Newcastle, and whispers to me every time, "You don't have to go, you know." Now he's taking dozens of pills a day and spending too much time sitting nervously in waiting rooms. I feel like someone's sneaking up behind us with an axe.
Several of my friends, and my ex-boyfriend, lost their fathers in pretty terrible circumstances when they were teenagers. None of them are close to being over it. The mortality of one's loved ones is pretty much impossible to come to terms with. I remember being inconsolable for a period when I was four, because I thought (or rather realised) my parents were going to die. You never really shake that off, do you?
Anyway. It's "almost certainly nothing."
In search of solace and cheer, I'm listening to The Kings of Convenience. They were a serendipitous discovery. My friend Tim bought their debut album at random in our first year at university and it's now an era-defining record for me. Their songs usually deal with contained episodes, like trying to chat to a girl in a noisy club, or a train journey, or a late-night visit from an ex. They're so delicately-spun that every nuance is amplified. Sample tracks. This is quite up-tempo for them, both musically and video-wise, but beguiling nonetheless. And just to lower the tone, Eirik Glambek Bøe (at the piano): I absolutely would.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
What thou seest, write in a book
I was just commenting on my friend Nick's blog (read it, and follow the links to his writing - it's good) about scriptural quotes and it got me thinking about my favorite biblical passages, and more generally about religion.
Despite the topic of this post and the title of this blog, I'm not religious. But it's played a fairly prominent part in my life: three of my oldest friends are Christians and I went to a controversial Christian high school.
So between that background and my personal fascination with theology, I'm hyper-sensitized to the gap between the way I lead my life and the way I would if I believed my actions were generating an eternal consequence. Not that I'm slagging myself around, dishonoring my parents and kicking kittens every day, but... you know.
I'm not sure where I was going with this. The Bible's interesting; I think that was about it. Given that we live in a society governed by it, I find that surprisingly few people have read scripture or understand even the basics of Christian theology.
Some things of interest:
One of the many, many things I loved about The West Wing was the trouble/strength Bartlet's faith gave him. Here he is using his superior knowledge of the OT to smack someone down.
Poem by Larkin, drawing attention to the curious response even the irreligious tend to have to churches, and wondering what will become of them.
Johnny Cash's deep, Southern drawl is the most apposite voice imaginable for a disturbing Bible reading. Those clips from Revelation at each side of The Man Comes Around are extracts from a recording he made of the New Testament, which I may buy if I feel like frightening myself.
Jude The Obscure is a gorgeous novel, written at that tipping-point in history when religion was first being seriously challenged. One of the most potent themes is the moral conflict faced by Sue, and her crippling religious and sexual guilt following the hideous "because we are too menny" scene. It's interesting to see Hardy address modern theories like Malthusianism and weigh their place in a Christian society. (Hardy was an absorbing, pitiful figure. If you're interested, read about his troubled relationship with his first wife, then read the harrowing poems he wrote for her after her death, particularly 'After A Journey.' I must have read that poem thousands of times - my Hardy poetry anthology drops open at that page, the spine's so creased - and it still moves me. The horror of being old and alone and regretful: "I am just the same as when/ Our days were a joy, and our paths through flowers.")
As I've said here before, the story of Absalom is one of the most beautiful in scripture. I love that David's first and only reaction to his treacherous son's death is ungovernable grief.
Also, it's deeply unsettling, but I've always liked the phrase, "You are not your own; you were bought at a price." It's from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. The lessons he teaches there are of enormous consequence to Christian morality, so it's a worthwhile read, even if you can't be arsed with the whole Bible.
Despite the topic of this post and the title of this blog, I'm not religious. But it's played a fairly prominent part in my life: three of my oldest friends are Christians and I went to a controversial Christian high school.
So between that background and my personal fascination with theology, I'm hyper-sensitized to the gap between the way I lead my life and the way I would if I believed my actions were generating an eternal consequence. Not that I'm slagging myself around, dishonoring my parents and kicking kittens every day, but... you know.
I'm not sure where I was going with this. The Bible's interesting; I think that was about it. Given that we live in a society governed by it, I find that surprisingly few people have read scripture or understand even the basics of Christian theology.
Some things of interest:
One of the many, many things I loved about The West Wing was the trouble/strength Bartlet's faith gave him. Here he is using his superior knowledge of the OT to smack someone down.
Poem by Larkin, drawing attention to the curious response even the irreligious tend to have to churches, and wondering what will become of them.
Johnny Cash's deep, Southern drawl is the most apposite voice imaginable for a disturbing Bible reading. Those clips from Revelation at each side of The Man Comes Around are extracts from a recording he made of the New Testament, which I may buy if I feel like frightening myself.
Jude The Obscure is a gorgeous novel, written at that tipping-point in history when religion was first being seriously challenged. One of the most potent themes is the moral conflict faced by Sue, and her crippling religious and sexual guilt following the hideous "because we are too menny" scene. It's interesting to see Hardy address modern theories like Malthusianism and weigh their place in a Christian society. (Hardy was an absorbing, pitiful figure. If you're interested, read about his troubled relationship with his first wife, then read the harrowing poems he wrote for her after her death, particularly 'After A Journey.' I must have read that poem thousands of times - my Hardy poetry anthology drops open at that page, the spine's so creased - and it still moves me. The horror of being old and alone and regretful: "I am just the same as when/ Our days were a joy, and our paths through flowers.")
As I've said here before, the story of Absalom is one of the most beautiful in scripture. I love that David's first and only reaction to his treacherous son's death is ungovernable grief.
Also, it's deeply unsettling, but I've always liked the phrase, "You are not your own; you were bought at a price." It's from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. The lessons he teaches there are of enormous consequence to Christian morality, so it's a worthwhile read, even if you can't be arsed with the whole Bible.
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