Sunday, 27 September 2009
Yesterday, the dining table was empty; today it’s covered in books:
Madhur Jaffrey’s Ultimate Curry Bible, Vladimir Nabokov’s Lectures on Don Quixote, Carol Ann Duffy’s Selected Poems, F.G. Klopstock’s Oden, Heinrich von Kleist’s Pentheselia, Friedrich Hebbels’s Judith, The 200 best novels in English since 1950 by Carmen Calil & Colm Toibin, Tom Sharpe’s Ancestral Vices, E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Lebensansichten des Katers Murr, John Updike, Pigeon’s Feathers and other stories, GEO Special: Baltikum, The Brotherhood, Ernst Bloch, Widerstand und Friede, Bertolt Brecht, Die Dreigroschenoper, Gottfried von Keller, Der Landvogt von Greifensee.
I was looking for Birdsong - alI I found was the book of the Millais exhibition, and the masterpieces of the Rijksmuseum, they made your Dad’s day.
What connects an oak tree, Che Guevara, Paco Rabanne and the footballer Lizarazu? Basque – the country, the language.
You weren’t thinking lingerie, were you??!!
Glorious sunshine breaks relentlessly through filthy windowpanes, but unlike the wind, it doesn’t challenge the rotten frames. I sweat, and the carpet stinks of decades of incompetence and ineffectual mothering.
Could I have been an innovator of processes without compromising on principles? Badly paid women and children, alienation of the workforce through division of labour. Marx called it Entfremdung. Boulton “revolutionised” the shop floor. The celebrated Brummie was (and the VC of one of my Almae Maters is) a member of the Lunar Society. I am more destined for the Loony Bin. From the serenity of the Victorian Bath House to the
Magic hands dispersed the crazy vaudeville in my upstairs chambers for the duration of the weekend. Facials should be prescribed on the NHS. The Gods favoured us as usual. Greasemonkeys at Jyoti’s but basking in sunshine at Halfpenny Green Vineyard, we were eagerly anticipating Rioja and Almería.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
The description of the tribe is particularly interesting with regard to hostilities and strangers; I also thought "the mantle would pass on to more fortunate or capable families", referring to the process of determining power bases, was pertinently evocative.
Other than that, there isn't much to report. I have made a lame attempt at rediscovering the floor space in B's room, which is indeed a testament to filthy adolescence in all its glorious vulgarity, and have renewed vows to lose weight as there are a number of serviceable jeans in W30 languishing at the back of the wardrobe just waiting to be inherited.
I can dream, can't I?
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
The growling grump recited Charlie Brooker on Dire Shit Man (anagram courtesy of BalkanBob) and Young Cartrain. She squealed with delight. Later, fittingly pickled in Shiraz, they remarked on the sorry sight of Keith Floyd. Equally fitting, if somewhat eery: this morning the news of his death. Did the booze up with Keith Allen (a mate, perchance, of the artist mentioned above, and like DH, a piss artist in his own right – for more on the connection between Art and Urine, check out orpheusintheworld), barely survived when filming, cause last night’s heart attack during the broadcast?
Monday, 14 September 2009
Instead, I lounge in my blue dressing gown, ignore the coat-muffled sounds of J’s mobile, and read up on Adorno, Horkheimer and Reich, all of whom I recommend to you, despite the knowledge that this very fact could materialise into reasons not to touch them. Interestingly, Reich was discredited by the FDA (Food and Drug Administration) in the States, which I believe ties in with the forces you were exploring in the last few days. As I have just re-read in ‘The Perfect Five’, Max Frisch, the Swiss author (Biedermann und die Brandstifter, Homo Faber, Andorra), believed that there are no coincidences; that what happens to us is biographically necessary and timely: das “Fällige”.