Singing Along

On the way to the dentist the middle-aged man in the car waiting next to ours at the traffic lights is singing along, I'm guessing loudly, to Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart.  We can hear the original in our car with the windows closed, so he's definitely got the volume ratcheted up. No complaints though, I too have a bit of a thing for those big anthemic 80s ballads.

His eyes are half closed, head slightly raised, lips moving with the words.  If I were alone I'd be tempted to join in.

..  And if you only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever

In the dentist's waiting room Johnny Nash, via the piped muzak, tells us all it's going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day.  I don't burst into song of course, though I'd like to, but my foot starts tapping.

I can see clearly now the rain has gone
I can see all obstacles in my way 
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind ...

Yes. Hope you're right, Johnny. Fingers crossed. 

Gaudete

Hunkering down. The rain slams against the window as I type this and the strength of the wind is increasing.  A foretaste of the series of storms heading this way from the Atlantic later today.  It's a wild world out there.

A different Christmas but not a downbeat one - a lot of expectations have been shed this year thank heavens.  A warm house, good food, enough money not be too worried about it, at least not all the time. An invitation from a neighbour. A DVD box set to watch.   Best of all in the last few days there's been renewed contact with my oldest friend which seems to have put to rest the nasty falling-out we had in June.  A load off the mind and heart.



Can't get enough of this carol.  Gorgeous a capella singing in Latin by Steeleye Span.  A reminder of non-commercial celebrations down the centuries.

Whatever you are doing (or not), may the coming days be happy and peaceful ones. Merry  Christmas.

Snippets

A straggly buddleia has pushed its way through the asphalt of the residents' car park adjoining my garden, right next to the fence.  Apparently, according to a rather fascinating TV programme on weeds I caught the other week, it is categorised as an invasive species in the UK and is spreading like wildfire, often on the most unpromising terrain.  Wikipedia further enlightens me that in the US states of Oregon and Washington buddleia is considered a noxious weed, something like Japanese Knotweed.  But I will resist the surreal temptation to have at it with a flamethrower and a machete a la The Day of the Triffids; the butterflies love it and that's reason enough to leave well alone.

****


More oomph and confidence these past weeks though by evening energy levels are flat. But then I've always been a lark rather than an owl. Pleased that I'm managing to tolerate the full daily dose of probiotics after months of painstakingly building up the dosage.  Slowly does it - each time I've tried to increase the amount too quickly the result has been horrendous, they're powerful little blighters are probiotics. The naturopath wants to put me onto some cutting-edge antifungal magic potion over the autumn so maybe this improvement will convince him it's time.

From childhood until very recently I've eaten badly.  Not all the time, but periodic compulsive - and I do mean compulsive - junk food eating binges were the main opt-out when the anxiety and stress were overwhelming.   The digestive system took the punishment seemingly without complaint.  Not any longer. Some of it is probably genetic; my father had similar digestive issues.

Now the gut has finally said Enough. It's started throwing temper tantrums.  And it's telling me loud and clear how much it's suffered.  So I don't feel self-pity at the pain and weakness and headaches when they hit.  Natural justice.  High time for me to make reparations and look after the digestive system better in the future, which I'm happy to do.  Maybe in time I'll even learn to love it .....


 ****

The taxi driver was middle aged and wiry with a tattoo on his left forearm and had his car radio tuned to Classic FM.  A Mozart symphony welcomed me in.   Nice, I said.  This kind of music keeps me sane, he replied. A pause.  Do you mind if I put a CD on?  You'll love this, it sends shivers down my spine each time I hear it.   He pressed a few buttons and turned up the volume.

As we waited at the traffic lights in the 4 x 4, Noah Stewart's voice enveloped us. Schubert's Ave Maria.  Words would have been out of place. In the blustery afternoon sunshine we moved on when the lights changed, crossed the river and headed for home.

Emotion

I don't cry much nowadays.

Increasingly my way of navigating life's rockier passages has been governed by pragmatism.  What must I do to sort this out?  Will crying help?  No.  Right then, let's move on.  Let's plough through.  Action.  Distraction.  If I start crying or allowing myself to wallow I won't be able to cope with what must be done.

 Odd then that twice before 10.00am today I became watery-eyed over something on the radio:
 the wonderful Kathleen Ferrier, who was to die far too young herself, singing  Che faro senza Eurydice (What is Life) from Orfeo et Eurydice, and the final episode of the Radio 4 Book of the Week adapation of The Love and Wars of Lina Prokofiev by Simon Morrison, the story of Serge and Lina Prokofiev.  Both in their way heartrending but very beautiful.  Love and separation and loss. I remembered: those are the things I used to cry over.  For hours, days at a time.

Good to be reminded that my emotions haven't shrivelled and died.  And good that I am able to respond once again to beauty. 

****

I must avoid this becoming a weather blog, but the forecasts say that from next week it will be getting warmer.   A pale, timorous sun appears for a few minutes then, seemingly overcome with shyness, disppears behind the clouds.  Perhaps she will become more courageous with time. 

Sunday

Houseplants watered.

****

Something Understood is a modest radio gem from the BBC.
Gentle, contemplative, conducive to reflection.

The frustration is in the timing, as the 30 minute programme goes out on Sundays at 6.00am or 11.30pm. I’m either half awake or asleep, so I miss the presenter - Mark Tully, always worth hearing - as he introduces words and music, from all faiths and none, on life, hope, despair, prayer. And so on. The big stuff.

The good news is that the Beeb now has an iPlayer facility, so I can sleep in and catch the programme over the first coffee of the day. Just click on the link above.

This week’s subject: Happiness. Contributions from Sophocles, a Tibetan singer, an Islamic scholar, Tracy Chapman. Several modern compositions, including an achingly beautiful setting of the Beatitudes from the Taize Community. An interview with the Abbot of Worth Abbey on the monastic tradition, boredom and the difference between the robustness of the intention to do good and the fragility of feeling good. Readings.

And a musical setting of this:

Xaipe 65

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of allnothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e e cummings

Not sure if the iPlayer works outside the UK or not. I hope it does.

Le Plat Pays

Weide in de lente - Veldweg: Albijn Van den Abeele

Waiting in for a carpet to be delivered a few Saturdays ago I caught a fascinating radio programme, Brel et Moi, featuring the Belgian singer/songwriter, Jacques Brel and presented and written by Alastair Campbell (yes, that Alastair Campbell). Such a short life. A serial womaniser in Paris, a demanding paterfamilias in Brussels. Self centred and driven but loved by those he worked with and, heavens, what a talent.

Years ago the Brel song that seduced me was Le Plat Pays (the Flat Land), a love song to his native Flanders. A poem in its own right, lyrical and elegaic. I was born and spent my childhood in a similarly flat land of earth, water and wide skies on the other side of the North Sea and the song stopped me in my tracks the first time I heard it. It still does.

Maybe only a Belgian could pull it off. Using each of the four winds Brel celebrates the different moods and seasons of this modest and - nowadays at least - peaceful stretch of land. He opens himself to embrace the rain and cold and the tedium and monotony, as well as warmth and sunlight. Winter. Summer. Everything in between.

The lyrics are below. I'm not attempting a translation. There are a few versions floating around on the web but they don't really reach the level of the original. According to one contributor to the programme there is a view that Brel's work is pretty much untranslatable and it's true that those songs that have made it into English haven't necessarily benefitted. One of the other contributors, Mel Smith, is a Brel devotee who neither reads nor understands French: the ferocious intensity, the sweat and saliva (literally) of Brel's performances were enough to captivate him.

Cue for a video of a mesmerising live performance of Le Plat Pays. Enough of my words. Listen.



Avec la mer du Nord pour dernier terrain vague
Et des vagues de dunes pour arrêter les vagues
Et de vagues rochers que les marées dépassent
Et qui ont à jamais le cœur à marée basse
Avec infiniment de brumes à venir
Avec le vent de l'ouest écoutez-le tenir
Le plat pays qui est le mien

Avec des cathédrales pour uniques montagnes
Et de noirs clochers comme mâts de cocagne
Où des diables en pierre décrochent les nuages
Avec le fil des jours pour unique voyage
Et des chemins de pluie pour unique bonsoir
Avec le vent de l'est écoutez-le vouloir
Le plat pays qui est le mien

Avec un ciel si bas qu'un canal s'est perdu
Avec un ciel si bas qu'il fait l'humilité
Avec un ciel si gris qu'un canal s'est pendu
Avec un ciel si gris qu'il faut lui pardonner
Avec le vent du nord qui vient s'écarteler
Avec le vent du nord écoutez-le craquer
Le plat pays qui est le mien

Avec de l'Italie qui descendrait l'Escaut
Avec Frida la Blonde quand elle devient Margot
Quand les fils de novembre nous reviennent en mai
Quand la plaine est fumante et tremble sous juillet
Quand le vent est au rire quand le vent est au blé
Quand le vent est au sud écoutez-le chanter
Le plat pays qui est le mien.

Jacques Brel

More insight into the inspiration for the song? There's a set of masterly, evocative photographs of Le Plat Pays here, just a click away.

I keep returning to them.

Expiry

The last post for the laptop.

It is expiring. No longer can I type apostrophes and there are other even more worrying symptoms. A computer techie friend tut-tuts and shakes his head as I describe them. Time to give it a decent burial, he says. He advised against using it at all any more but I wanted to write this post.

The laptop has proved an able and willing servant in its five years of life, fitting discreetly into the compact and bijou London flat (anyone remember that Fry and Laurie ad?) and introducing me to blogging and the fascinating and sublimely addictive world of cyberspace. It played havoc though with my trapezius and rhomboids, and I will be replacing it with a "proper" computer. Adjustable screen. Separate keyboard. Two different computer-oriented friends have recommended Dell which surprises me as I seem to remember reading less than wonderful reviews a few years ago.

If anyone has any recommendations, believe me, they will be gratefully received. Just leave a note in the comments.

****

An involuntary hiatus, then, since blogging at work isnt a possibility. Probably till mid-October, given my diary and the schedule of my techie adviser. No bad thing. Life sometimes knows better than I do what I need and it will be salutary perhaps to live for a spell without rating the events of the day, consciously or unconsciously, on their blog potential.

*****

At last a golden September morning:

- Warm sun but the hint of a chill in the air. Hanging out the washing early. The bus into town to get my contribution for the party tonight, listening to two elderly ladies on the seat in front discuss mutual friends. A browse around PC World then a cappucino on the verandah of the arts centre.

- A busker with his guitar, nobly taking up the most insalubrious pitch in town, a dirty, littered underpass smelling of urine, which nonetheless probably has the best accoustics, and belting out a cracking version of After the Gold Rush that would have made Mr Young proud. His voice soared through the filth and tiles and concrete and part of me floated upwards with it. I tossed him a coin, slightly embarrassed, as I tend to be on such occasions.


Well I dreamed I saw the silver
space ships flying
in the yellow haze of the sun.
There were children crying
and colours flying
all around the chosen ones.
All in a dream, all in a dream
the loading had begun.
They were flying Mother Natures
silver seed to a new home
in the sun.


See you here again sometime in October.