Present sounds: past emotion

I am now firmly plugged back into BBC Radio.  Like The Guardian, I can only do without it for the length of a short summer holiday.  No longer.

It is odd to consider that the whole concept of ‘going on holiday’ has changed utterly in my lifetime.

My first foreign holiday at the age of 7, was with my mother and father and my uncle and aunt.  We went by bus, train, train, boat, train, coach, train, train, coach, coach (taking well over a day) to Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava in Catalonia.  I loved it.  I spent the majority of my time in the sea, trying out my new swimming mask and losing one of my new flippers.  I ate my first squid. 

And I realise that as a well-behaved and utterly polite child with four grateful adults, I must have been spoiled rotten!  Perhaps that holiday more than anything, ingrained in me a love of sunshine that has lasted up to today – though ‘today’ is not the best advert for Catalonia as it has been raining solidly for the last two days!  That is, to be fair, unusual.

We spent 15 days on holiday and during that time we didn’t have any British newspapers, we didn’t phone home, we didn’t watch television – except for me to see, with wonder, Bonanza in Spanish, that I found endlessly funny!  We were, in effect, cut off from home – and thoroughly enjoyed it.

When I was old enough to go on holiday by myself, then all my parents expected was the odd postcard letting the know that I was still alive at that point in my vacation.  My only attempts to phone home were total disasters that ended up in my feeding public phone boxes with money for no link to Cardiff. 

Three weeks going down the Greek Islands from Athens to Crete and staying in what could euphemistically be called ‘basic’ accommodation; five weeks travelling across the United States; a couple of weeks in Italy – none of these had me phoning home, nor reading a newspaper, nor listening to the BBC. 

My holiday effectively erected a cordon sanitaire around my previous life that was only broken through when I came back to Heathrow, or Luton, or Paddington and made the phone call home.  While the ring tone sounded I mentally wiped out all my family and waited, with a concern that I had not (oddly) felt for the previous weeks of the holiday, for my mother or father to answer.  And then my first question was inevitably how my other parent was!

My next task was to catch up on the world news that sunbathing or scouring galleries or swimming had allowed to pass me by.  And, as I did so, each day would bring in the post cards that I had posted weeks before!

Nowadays, thanks to the mobile phone, kids are never beyond their parents.  Pictures can be sent immediately.  Keeping in touch costs nothing, no matter where you are in the world.  News is a click away.  Google Translate is there for those tricky moments that used to be solved by a combination of mime and use of any foreign words you might have known said in an accent appropriate to the country in which you were stuck!

It is deeply ironic that “getting away from it all” usually involves sharing with everyone you know exactly where you are and exactly what you are doing moment by moment!

Young (and indeed the old) are all linked in to modes of instant communication that will make the 3 week hiatus of my first backpacking Greek holiday as a situation akin to travelling with maps that had areas marked “Here there be dragons” on them.  Communication is good, but sometimes-enforced separation is good for the soul!

These thoughts came to me when listening to my new Internet radio, a Sangean SIR-100 (that looks suspiciously, exactly like a Roberts Stream 107 that it is replacing) and, having worked out how to use the pre-sets enjoying the morning music programme on Radio 3.  They played the second movement of Dvorak’s New World Symphony with The Tune.  Beautiful.  Hackneyed?  Well, it is very well known and the sort of thing that Classic FM plays at least twice a day – but I wondered when the last time I had heard it was, and then, by progression on to the first time I heard it.

Music for me carries a personal history.  I can still remember the LP covers of the Music for Pleasure and Classics for Pleasure 

budget LP manufacturers when records could be bought for ten bob (10/- or 50p) and I was getting to know the Classical Canon.  Some music I recorded, Beethoven’s 1^st and 8^th Symphonies on cassette in my (ground breaking at the time) Philips portable cassette recorder.  Hearing the music takes me back to my bedroom in 32, Hatherleigh Road in Cardiff where they were first recorded and listened to, amazed at what sort of sound could be got out of such a small loudspeaker and even more amazed when played through my Boots Stereo Record Player.  But the tape hiss and the slightly cramped sound still stays with me.

Mahler’s 4^th is bottles; Nielsen’s Helios Overture is corn fields; Beethoven’s 5^th is a Constable painting; Immortal Melodies is a large flower bloom; Sibelius’ 1^st is broken snow mounds; Britten is Aldeborough; the 1812 is that graphic cannon – and so I could go on, remembering the cover art of my LP collection (now long gone in favour of CDs) but forever imprinted on my mind, and having some sort of intangible effect on the way that I heard the music and continue to hear it.

Place is also important.  The quickest way to learn new music is to play it.  As an inept trombone playing member of Cardiff Youth Orchestras as well as a member of a various Brass Groups and the School Orchestra I ‘learned’ a lot of music by being there.  I have to admit that in most orchestral pieces the trombones are usually tacet (i.e. being silent) and much of our time is taken up with counting bars (or asking the members of the orchestra in front who play more to give us a nod when ‘figure E’ has been reached in the score) and then lurching into action hoping that the embouchure was still good enough to get most of the notes!  But you did learn music and appreciate the structure of orchestral sound.

For trombone players the best pieces of music (or the most threatening) were when We Had the Tune.  The overture to Tannhäuser is an excellent example where the trombones come into their all, though the first time we played through this piece the awful realization that we were the only ones playing in the orchestra brought us all to an abrupt embarrassed silence!  I still get a little rush of combined panic and pleasure each time I hear the music!

All music, no matter how hackneyed it might appear to be, is new and original to somebody who has never heard it.  I was played the 4^th movement of Beethoven’s 7^th Symphony by my piano teacher in the days when it was still thought that I might be able to do more than the first few bars of Für Elise on the damn thing.  I was much taken by the music and bought a cheap LP of the symphony and when I listened to it, I was stunned by the second movement: simple repetitive and magical!  I was not at all surprised to discover that this movement was given an encore on its first performance!  My listening to the symphony is always in some ways bound up in my abortive attempt to master the piano, together with the patience and feel of the piano in my music teachers dining room in a house exactly like my own home but made so different by the decoration and the smell and feel.

There are also parts of well-known musical pieces that have associations.  The BBC National Orchestra of Wales has given me many and varied delights and I used to go to the concert series in St David’s Hall when I lived in Cardiff where some of the performances were among the best I have ever been to of the pieces played.  The orchestra that one hears today is a development from other variations on a National Orchestra that have been tried in the past.  I can remember as a school boy going to performances in the Assembly Rooms of the City Hall, other performances in Broadcasting House in Llandaff and yet others in the Coal Exchange in Mount Stuart Square.

One early performance stands out.  It was of Beethoven’s 3^rd The Eroica and the part that particularly stays with me is the horn’s solo.  The symphony was taken at a lively pace until the entry of the horns when everything slowed down for them to try and get the notes, then the music returned al tempo for the rest of the orchestra.  I still can remember my exquisite embarrassment for the horn section and my relief when such an exposed passage was over.  I still feel some of the tension whenever I hear that particular section.  Still.

Lest this memory be the abiding one from this piece, I should mention a couple of performances of the Turangalîla Symphony by Olivier Messiaen that I heard in St David’s Hall.  These were played spectacularly well and left me literally open mouthed in astonishment and musing about how far the orchestra had come in terms of sheer technical accomplishment. 

And, after all, I have an abiding debt to the orchestra from the time when I went to a performance of The Firebird that I had never heard before.  I was sitting in the middle of the audience and when the fff chord introducing a piece was played the entire audience jerked back in their chairs.  That sort of thing spoils you for every other performance because not one of them, on record or live, has had the same effect!

But, as always, I live in hope!

Cold and weight!

Today is cold.  Not British cold, but cold for us here in Catalonia.  And I begin to wonder if my medication (Clexane twice a day via injection for ‘thinning’ the blood) has anything to do with my heightened perception of temperature.  For the first time in my life, my feet are often cold when I go to bed.  I do realise that this is a fairly common occurrence for many people, but it hasn’t been for me.  The comparison between hot water bottles and me has often been made by those who are near and dear to me, so not to retain the calorific qualities of yesteryear (or indeed yestermonth) is something new to cope with.

Today, Sunday is weigh day, when the weekly ritual of standing on the cruel machine that gives our weight is duly noted.  Bear in mind that my diet is now a low fat and no salt one.  I eat chicken, turkey and fish.  I garnish the meat with pulses and green vegetables.  I do not drink alcohol.  I have one cup of tea a day.  I drink water.  I am, as is clear, a good boy.  And if I have a tendency to deviate from the strictness of my regime then I have a pair of eagle eyes watching me and articulating prohibitions before my backsliding becomes reality!  In other words, the weight should be slipping effortlessly from my frame.  Admittedly I am sedentary – not by choice, I might add.  But still 

So it was with a certain degree of light confidence that I stepped onto the scales and found that I had indeed lost weight.  600 measly grams!  A little more than a large bar of chocolate – a cruel comparison, and I can assure you that chocolate has gone the same way as the occasional small glass of red!

I tell myself that I must take comfort from the fact that the trend is still downwards.  I have lost 6 kilos in total and it is inevitable that weight loss will slow down after the initial confidence boosting loss of the first couple of weeks.  But, 600g!  The compensation is that we have never eaten so healthily in our lives – at least not over such an extended period.  Admittedly eight days of appropriate diet was enforced on me from being in hospital, but we have been fairly rigorous in our application of the suggestions for a suitable diet for my condition.

It is a sobering thought to think that I am still between 15 and 20 kilos away from what might be my ideal weight, so, if weight loss continues to slow down then I am looking at the best part of a year to get to the weight that matches my height.  In some ways, it is better to think of this ‘project’ as something as long term.  If I think of reaching my goal in February 2019, then that length of time will allow for the odd week when the trend is bucked, and, more importantly it will allow for placidity as the weight loss is thought of over the longer time span.

I have read through the working drafts of my first ‘Hospital’ poems for inclusion in the chapbook that I intend to publish about my experience, and I am reasonably satisfied with the progress I have made so far.  With any luck, I will work up my notes for another poem today into a working draft and begin to think in more detail about the form that the chapbook will take.  I am inclined to make this chapbook into a prose/poetry production, but I have not yet worked out the practicalities.

There is also the production of my next book, The eloquence of broken things, which is now severely delayed, and I have to admit that my hospitalisation and period of recuperation have not helped.  Its initial publication was for the autumn of last year, but that date has been put back through production problems.  But that is something that I am working on and I hope that the draft of the book will be ready for the printers in the next month or so!

Don’t forget you can read my previous poem drafts at:

http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es

Now, to work.

A taste of things to come!

My taste buds are adapting.

At least I’m telling myself that, and I am, in part believing it.  All of this is a direct result of my having to have a diet of low fat with no salt.  And believe me, pepper is no real alternative to the lack of sodium chloride, no matter how much I add to my flavourless food.  And yet, I persist in telling myself that my taste buds have become more sensitive and are able to take what pleasure they can in the rather more subtle flavours that saltless preparation offers.

This evening, for example, I had salmon with broccoli and I enjoyed it.  A sprinkle of salt would have improved it, but I resisted and made the most of what my taste buds could get from the food, that in the event was quite a lot.

I am going to have to look into the range of spices that I can add to food that do not have a negative influence on my condition (thrombosis, pulmonary embolism and weakened heart) and can make the eating experience a little more exciting.  When I asked the doctor how long my present diet would last, his answer was, “For ever!” which makes the finding of ‘safe’ condiments something of urgent necessity!

Today, I have got down to the graft of getting something like a working draft of some of the poems that I have been planning out put down on paper.  I have four poems now in a working draft and I count that as something of an achievement.

It may just be the way that I work but I find that getting to the working draft stage of my poems is not sitting down and waiting for some mythical muse to touch my brow with inspiration, but rather hard work.  The slog of writing out notes, working them up into phrases or ideas and then trying again and again to put all that together into something that is satisfying.  At least to me.

I have not put any of my new poems on my poetry blog, but you are welcome to see past drafts of my other poems at:

http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es

The ‘problem’ of how to fill a day being confined to my seat for the bulk of my waking hours, does not exist for me.  As someone who delights to read, being forced to be sedentary and do something is an invitation to do the thing that I like most.  I now have the (enforced) leisure to read The Guardian thoroughly – though I am not sure how efficacious reading so much factual description of the idiocy of various countries’ leaders around the world, does not make for tranquillity.

The idiocy of Brexit and the glaring ineptitude of a hopelessly riven political apology of a party failing to articulate a reasonable response to it are constantly frustrating.  We still don’t know what exactly May is trying to negotiate for and the reports of her asking Merkle to “Make me an offer!” is cringemakingly embarrassing and terminally humiliating.

Trump, meanwhile, in the publishing of the shameless piece of political chicanery in the publication of the partisan Republican “Nunes Memo” shows that he is prepared to trash anyone and anything to protect himself.  This is a time when American Institutions are being pushed to their limits to contain a person who has no regard for anything other than himself.  He is of course aided and abetted by a Republican Party of such low moral imperatives that they are as much a threat to Democratic Institutions as the monster in the White House.

And Catalonia is in a bad place at the moment.  We still have no President and the PP is using the courts to muddy the waters.  Things should clarify in the next few weeks, but I find it difficult to see a realistic solution if the obtuse President of Spain refuses to be a politician and try and find a negotiated solution to the problems.

It is ironic that at present I am reading Andrew Marr’s History of the World that covers 70,000 years of human history.  The irony is that the problems that we see in the present are covered again and again in the sweep of the historical view that Marr offers in his eminently readable book.  Perhaps his book should be compulsory reading for the leaders in the world and perhaps they might see themselves and, more importantly see where actions like theirs have ended up the populations that they are supposed to serve!

Of course there is no way on earth that a person of the calibre of Trump could be encouraged to concentrate for long enough to read a multi-hundred page book.  Has he ever read a book of over a hundred pages?  I know he is supposed to have written a book, but I don’t think any reasonable person actually believes that particular fiction, not even the grandiose fool himself.

Still, I tell myself that worrying overmuch about world events that I cannot influence is not good for my health.  But not knowing about them is even worse – the Catch 22 position for anyone interested in politics!