Yet another lovely day here, though slightly cooler than yesterday.
I mentioned a while back that I’d grown resentful of the vapour trails of flights overflying Edinburgh; perhaps more obsessively than I expected, I downloaded a flight tracker app to see who the cultprits are/were. Aside from military flights by a variety of countries, one that I kept seeing a lot was Aer Lingus from Beijing to Dublin. In fact, I think the flight that kicked this off on May 6th was probably one of these on its way to Dublin. That surprised me because I didn’t think Dublin-Beijing would be a high-volume route. It turns out it’s a medical supply flight that Aer Lingus are running on behalf of the Irish health authorities, which makes me better disposed towards it.
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I’ve mentioned a few times that I’m currently re-reading Pynchon’s Against The Day. Amongst other things, it’s a sustained critique of American capitalism and its inherent violence. It previously seemed to me to be Pynchon going off on a weird one but, reading it in the context of all that’s happening in the US now, it’s as prescient an analysis as you could want.
“Foley, spare me that, what we need is to start killing them in significant numbers, for nothing else has worked. All this pretending–‘equality’, ‘negotiation’–it’s been such a cruel farce, cruel to both sides. When the Lord’s people are in danger, you know what he requires.'”
“Smite.'”
“Smite early and often.”
“Hope there’s nobody listening in on this.”
“God is listening. As to men, I have no shame about what must be done.'”
Pynchon’s Mason and Dixon used the grand metaphor of the titular surveyors to explore demarcations and divisions in American culture; Against the Day swims in an adjacent pond, and similar themes run through all of Pynchon’s later-period novels, from Vineland onwards. Despite the seriousness of present circumstances, I take wry amusement that this dense, difficult, absurdist writer turns out to be closer to the heart of things than many more earnest literary types. It also occurs to me, as I write this, to call back to Watchmen on TV, in which Damon Lindelof put American structural racism front and centre.
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What seems to be an age ago, but was only April 19th, I wrote here that I’d targeted getting up our hill from its foot to our front door within 6 minutes. Last night my time was 5’33.81, so target achieved. I did it by jogging part of the way, which was fine, but not something I can keep doing without damaging my knees further.
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Music: The great folk-rock scare of 1969-71 produced all sorts of bands, some of which achieved popular acclaim, most were more appreciated by folk audiences. Mr. Fox were of the latter variety, more’s the pity. Their roots weren’t in the south of England, though, as so many were. The band, essentially Bob and Carole Pegg, barely lasted more than a year, but they left behind two fine, if idiosyncratic, albums.
The Peggs came out of the Derbyshire/Nottinghamshire borders and ended up in Leeds. The songs they wrote were influenced by chapel music as well as the traditional music of the Yorkshire Dales. There’s also a heavy Morris influence, but not Cotswold Morris that influenced, for example, The Albion Band, but rather the sound of North-West (processional) Morris. They also had a way with dark and macabre lyrics, as tonight’s music exemplifies. Mr Fox: The Hanged Man.
Waking in the forest, beneath the spreading pine I saw my body hanging like a shirt upon a line The vines crept up my fingers where they had come to rest And in my open mouth the wild beasts came to build their nest
Walking a valley that never saw the sun Step by the stones where the icy waters run Stand in a church where the village choir once sang And run along the pathway where the dead man used to hang
Many ages later the village people came Took me from my resting place and tied up my remains In an old sheet blanket they bore me down t’hill My corpse is in a far-off grave but I remain here still
ps, Happy Birthday to Malcy who has a big birthday today
And just like that May has almost gone. The main thing I have to show for it is a tan and a new fridge-freezer. Today has been another one for sitting out and reading before retiring to the shed to do some revision then back out into the evening sunshine for more reading. Put like that it sounds empty, but I’m more than content with how it went. The heat wasn’t so intense today, and there was a light breeze to freshen things up.
I’m conscious I’ve mentioned Portugal here a few times recently, and I’m going to do it again. We were last there in October 2018 for my birthday, leaving the day before Hurricane Leslie hit the coast. While we were there the weather was glorious without being overwhelming. As I’ve said before, I really liked Porto and the surrounding area.
On 4 October we had lunch in a back street place on the south side of the Douro. I don’t recall what we ate, but the wine had been in the freezer and was ice cold. It was also wonderful. I checked prices online in the UK and was disheartened, but needn’t have been because it was €9 a bottle in the shop over the road from the restaurant. We brought a couple of bottles back and opened the first of them yesterday (we should probably have drunk them last year, but it didn’t happen). Anyway, Soalheiro 2017 is still very, very drinkable 🙂
I’ve found these days in the sun and these memories of Portugal more congenial than the disasters all around us. I haven’t been anywhere to see for myself, but there are plenty of reports of people treating an easing of some aspects of lockdown as carte blanche to do whatever they want. Not me. I still think that we’re at the beginning of this, not the end, and I have no intention of modifying my behaviour in the near future.
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Music: I meant to post this a while ago and forgot. This is to rectify my recalcitrant memory.
The day started earlier than expected after a poor night, but I woke up too late to go back to sleep, if that makes sense. It was a glorious morning, though, so I took my coffee and book out front with the usual hat and sun cream. I was already out by 08.45, like we were on holiday somewhere, though without a pool, unfortunately.
I was back inside again by 10.20. Our little patio out front is a sun trap, and the wall of the house and the stone surface concentrate the heat if you’re sitting out there. I’ve been OK with it for weeks, but today it got just that bit too much, and I’m not daft.
We have a 1930s house that, in summer at any rate, is usually cooler inside than out, and that was welcome.
Out back
Out our back, though, I found a quiet spot on the deck where I could read in more comfort (and without whatever triggered that allergy last week). As well as the Pynchon, I’ve been trying to revise a manuscript prior to the submission to agents I mentioned a couple of days ago. It’s a bit weird getting back into it because the first draft was finished two years ago. There comes a point where you have to call it a day and focus on something else, but I’ll give it this one final go (this will be the fourth full draft with lots of mini iterations between).
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After the excitements of C*mm*ngs and the idiot Johnson, I’ve been distancing myself from the news again, but even I can’t avoid noticing the horrifying escalation in the United States. We were in Michigan last year, but, I’ve just realised, I didn’t blog about it. The last visit I blogged about was in July 2018 (Assessing Points to Nowhere) when I avoided talking politics and came away feeling somewhat optimistic. I keep reminding myself that America is a big country and what I see is heavily filtered; nevertheless, as I wrote on my old blog on 3 November 2004:
As I’ve said before though, the history of the twentieth century was the history of the rise of America: the history of the twenty-first century will be that of its decline and fall. The hope has to be that it doesn’t drag the rest of us down with it.
Sixteen years later, I still think that.
On 29 March I wrote here about what I thought might change in the world ‘after’ the pandemic. The word ‘after’ is quite difficult, it now seems, but I included the comment:
One of the things that strikes me about that list, by the way, is that many of these are already under strain or changing; the crisis is functioning as a stress test that may, or may not, hasten processes already under way.
That is true here in the UK, but even more so, I think, in the US. I can’t see it ending well.
(nb: edited to add link and quote in preceding para.)
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Music: maybe it’s a comfort thing, but it won’t have escaped anyone’s notice that the majority of the music I’ve put here in the past two and a half months has been stuff that’s been with me since my teens. Tonight is no exception. Bad Company emerged from the ashes of Free, picking up Boz Burrell from King Crimson and Mick Ralphs from Mott the Hoople. I’m not an uncritical fan, or wasn’t when I bought their records; I think the best bits of their first three albums would combine to make one great double album with the filler removed, though I haven’t listened to them for a while to see if I still think that.
An artist I will always go and see if I get the chance is Rickie Lee Jones. Rickie Lee put out an album of covers last year, and one of the songs on it was Bad Company, so technically I’m posting a song from from 2019 too…
There is a temptation to simply, in the manner of a politician at the despatch box, to refer you to my post of yesterday, as today has followed the same pattern in pretty much every important respect.
The morning was spent out front under a sun hat, slathered in suncream, reading. I came in when the sun was at its height and then took myself to the shed for some writing, before going back out, under a sun umbrella, to read some more.
Against the Day continues to be an entertaining read. I keep finding pencil annotations to the text that young me made during one of my earlier attempts at reading it, so at least I was paying attention.
phewwhatascorcher
The one change I did make to the day was to go for a decent walk tonight for the first time since I felt a tendon playing up a week or so ago. I’m happy to say there was no particular reaction. I don’t plan to push it too hard, but I’m pleased I can go out again without worrying about doing any damage.
My route took me along the old railwayline and the edge of a local golf course, closed for the duration, although shortly to open up I guess. The club itself has been in difficulty, but I’ve noticed over recent weeks just how much of a valuable amenity it has been as a park for families and children. It would be awful (though typical) if it ended up being turned over for housing or similar.
For a while, in the early part of the lockdown, I allowed myself to fantasise that we would come out of this in some sense better and, for want of a better word, greener. I now doubt that. My guess is that the Tories will press ahead with their plans to take apart the NHS and the BBC and allow their chums free rein. There will be some shielding from that in Scotland, but not sustainably.
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Music: Trees were a short-lived but influential band in the glory days of folk-rock. They only recorded two albums, both released in 1970, but they’re good albums (especially the first, The Garden of Jane Delawney). This is from their second album and, true to the spirit of British folk, involves violent death and longing for a distant love.
And the decks were all spattered with blood
And so loudly the cannons did roar;
And thousands of times have I wished myself at home
And all along with my Polly on the shore.
She’s a tall and a slender girl,
She’s a dark and a-roving eye,
But here am I lie a-bleeding on the deck
And for her sweet sake I shall die.
There was a moment this afternoon when I was perfectly content, perfectly relaxed, perfectly happy. One of those moments when I felt at one with everything.
I spent the morning out front, in the sun, reading, until it was time to get indoors for a bit and transfer some edits from a paper m/s to my laptop and listen to some music. After that, it was into the back garden, under a sun umbrella, to read Thomas Pynchon.
Contre Jour
It was after an hour or so, maybe more of that, completely lost in the bizarre world of the novel that I had the moment. It was only one moment, but that was all that was required. Everything was leading to it, and it rippled through everything that followed afterwards. I still feel its influence now, four hours or so later.
Sorry to say C*mm*ngs remains in place and our government continue to humiliate and debase themselves to protect him, trashing everything they’ve managed, somehow, to hold together for the past three months. The thing is, all of these chancers, liars and gaslighting trolls must know what they’re doing and have convinced themselves of the necessity to eat shit sandwiches of their own making. They are beneath contempt, but even they can’t spoil that moment earlier.
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Music: John Playford’s English Dancing Master was published first in 1651. The tunes have been played ever since. 1651, a trio comprising Andy Cutting, Mark Emmerson and Tim Harries, recorded a number of them in 2001, but in a much more improvisatory manner. It’s a good album, available on Spotify or YouTube if you’re interested.
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