Sidetracked

True to my resolution to get out in the open air more, this morning I wheeled my mountain bike out of the newly cleaned garage and set off, heading for the Farndon Road. It was one of those ‘in-between’ autumn mornings: sun and some white cloud, with a surprisingly strong breeze that made me glad I had layered up under my fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket; remind me to apologise to the Met. Office – it is pretty cold.

Along the Farndon Road, and up the short, sharp climb to the top of Warden Hill, then freewheel down to the Welsh Road (an old sheep-droving route to London) and across the A361 to Aston-le-Walls; stopped at the crossroads and was startled by the loud surf-noise as cars barrelled down the long, straight slope. An accident blackspot, so I’m always cautious when crossing here.

Safely back on the B-roads, I did a circuit of Aston-le-Walls and picked up the single-track road that skirts the old RAF aerodrome at Chipping Warden: there are ruined brick walls in the undergrowth and the patchy little woods that line the road, and concrete tracks and dispersal pans through the field gates. I always start to feel alert and engaged at this point on this ride, as my long-ago monomaniacal obsession with Bomber Command imaginatively transforms each weed-obscured, rusted oil drum into an object imbued with the resonances of the past.

On that little track, west of Aston-le-Walls, my imagination bifurcates, pulling in firstly these imaginative historical associations, and then secondly recalling little incidents from my own life. The site of the old airfield is now home to a number of logistics and distribution firms (at one point, cars were stored on one of the old runways), with the big old hangars still in use as warehouses, and with modern offices, Portakabins, covered smoking areas and picnic tables for the workers dotting the surrounding areas. From this site, during the second world war, flew Wellington bombers, aircrew and groundcrew passing their lives in these same surroundings.

During my college years in the mid- to late 1990s I signed on with a local temp agency and got work on this site in the long holidays: summer and Christmas, essentially, packing things in boxes, printing labels, wrapping palleted stacks of boxes in shrink wrap on a big machine: Virgin, 3COM, Guinness, mobile phone distributors. £5 an hour or so, but conducive to improved fitness in the summer – the old hangars had no air conditioning, and the sun beating down on the metal roof would create a suffocating, sweat-inducing atmosphere in the afternoons. I would usually do the 2pm-10pm shift, and cycle to and from work. A few images stick in my memory: cycling home in the cooler darkness at the end of a shift, you’d feel a burst of heat as you passed the long brick wall as you came into Aston-le-Walls, the red bricks giving off the heat that they had absorbed during the day; fields lit by the full moon, seen from the top of Warden Hill; a rabbit bumping against my pedals as it ran across the road, passing between the bike’s wheels; and a bright meteorite fizzing across the sky on the dark, dark night when the batteries ran out on my front lamp.

The track around the perimeter takes you past the warehouses, the hangars, the car parks and the security gates, then past some grazing land and allotments and into Chipping Warden village, from where you pick up the Culworth Road, which leads back to the Welsh Road. Riding along the Culworth Road, with greyer clouds blowing in overhead, I passed a little concrete track on the left that runs between two big fields. I’ve seen this track dozens of times, but never followed it before – I’ve always thought that it just ran up to some farm buildings. I did a wobbly 180 degree turn on the narrow road and went back.

The start of the track is rubbly and broken up, but further along the concrete is smoother, and patched with darker repair material. Encouragingly, there’s a ‘public footpath’ sign pointing along the track. You pass some pre-fabricated buildings that are half-hidden in the trees, and get a sense of a hand-built home, a mix of wood and brick, vegetable gardens and old machines rusting in the long grass, and then, after dismounting and lifting the bike over a stile, you come to a three-way junction: tracks to left and right, and one straight ahead. They’re all concrete still, remnants of the airfield’s remoter outposts, and there are trees growing much more thickly here, and it’s quite gloomy now under the twin canopies of cloud and leaves.

I explore the tracks in turn, on foot, and immediately start to see old brick buildings among the trees: many of the structures were built half-submerged in the earth, and have narrow, brick-lined entrance passages – probably shelters, bomb dumps and the like. Seventy years on, they have trees growing out of the thick earth and moss that has collected on their hump-like roofs. There are tall weeds everywhere, and fragments of fallen brick walls amongst the foliage. In the dim light, it’s like history fading back into the earth.

There’s a feeling of melancholy and decay in the air, and I have a sense of all the forgotten sites that there must be like this all over the country, off back roads, hidden by trees and weeds at the end of little-used tracks: places that were once vibrant with activity, with men and women doing their duty, living out life and death in wartime, a little self-contained town plonked down in the space between a couple of small villages, with outbuildings and concrete hardstanding dispersed across the countryside. And now it’s all crumbling away: the rendering on many of the bigger buildings is dropping off, revealing patches of brickwork underneath. In the interior of one block I can see building materials stored in the damp gloom (there’s a padlocked bit of chain link fencing across the entrance), and there are skips full of rubble and old metal in the woods.

One of the roofless bigger buildings has trees growing inside it, and a still-roofed part with a thirty-foot high ceiling and runners for big sliding doors; I imagine cranes and little tractors for loading bombs/towing the bomb trollies, but now there’s just a bare concrete floor, a wheelbarrow, and a bright cast of light from the sun-side window.

Further west along the track, the buildings are more decayed, more actively destroyed, and, in some cases, burned out (piles of twisted corrugated metal roofing, collapsed joist constructions, a chimney stack on its side). I realize why all of this is so familiar: from far back in my brain, memories of darkened brick buildings and pill boxes creep forward – the childhood haunts of a second world war-obsessed kid and his best mate.

Freddie and I used to play ‘war’ a lot, and we fancied ourselves as putative commandos. A few hundred yards from the end of our street, and just past the junior school that we both attended, was an area that we called ‘The Barracks’. It started just beyond the housing estate and its supporting facilities (school, a couple of shops), where the pavement stopped and gave way to rough grass, concrete tracks, low shrubs and, further in, broad concrete pans and high mounds of grass and earth, secured in brick-walled bases. This was a dream playground for us, full of broken glass, the odd rusting car, metal hatchways that opened onto drains and who-knows-what, shells of buildings, pill boxes, and the high mounds, down which we would careen on our little bikes. Many of the ruined buildings showed crude signs of recent habitation: empty bottles and cans, ashes from fires, the ever-present smell of urine and faeces, and, in one case, a perfectly deposited coil of poop that mimicked the towering structure of the Walnut Whips that we would take with us on our missions as ‘rations’. There are darker memories, too: of the time that we got into a big hut that was clearly being used by some people/organisation (there was a padlock on the door and made-up camp beds inside) and panicked when we heard voices approaching outside; of being bullied/robbed by bigger boys (which sullied and contaminated what we thought of as ‘our’ playground); and flying over the handlebars of my bike when the chain seized, and landing on my forehead, hard…I remember getting home, feeling dazed and ill, but I never told anyone what had happened. (This could explain a lot about my cognitve abilities/emotional retardation.)

This is all echoing in my mind, all afresh, as I follow the last bit of path through the woods, and on to the stile that lets out onto the pastureland. After hefting the bike over the high, rickety wood-and-wire fence, I pause for a minute to get my breath back. The pasture drops away, all rich green grass still, to the Welsh Road, on the other side of which rises Job’s Hill. I suddenly notice a couple of birds whizz by, and as I look down I see that there are swallows skimming past just above the top of the grass, a couple of dozen of them doing circuits, passing just a few feet from me. I watch them for a while, wondering what they make of the sudden fall in temperatures, and trying to picture them making the flight to their winter grounds in Africa.

The wheels of my bike leave a trail through the ankle-high grass as I push it along the footpath and down to the field gate. After crossing the road,  I make the steepish climb up the western edge of Job’s Hill, staying close to the fence and dipping in and out of the sheep tracks. As I go higher, I start to feel the force of the cold wind.

At the top, I pause and look back, down past the scooped-out side of the hill, to the woods that I’ve just been walking in: they look sealed and uniform from here, the autumn foliage (just starting to yellow in places) concealing all of the buildings and the decay. Further off, I can see the hangars and ancillary buildings of the logistics centre, as well as the line of poplar trees that were planted along the axis of one of the old runways.

Walking to join the bridleway that skirts the edge of the next field, I look at a tree in the hedge: a bit of blue nylon rope has been tied around it at some stage, and the tree has expanded to fill the rope loop to bursting – the bark is starting to bulge out beyond the nylon.

Rain is starting to fall as I ride along the tarmac track that leads past a couple of cottages to the Farndon Road, but I stop to take some pictures of a big bird that’s hovering above the roadside verge. At first, the bird puzzles me: it’s hovering like a kestrel, but it’s too big to be that, and its wingbeats have the wrong rhythm. It moves closer to me, and eventually I realize that it’s a buzzard. (I’ve never seen one hover like this.)

The rain is falling more steadily as I reach the last mile of my ride. The drops are sharp and cold on my face, and the rainfall is making a silvery curtain that mists the trees at the top of Eydon Hill. Suddenly cold, I find myself thinking about how nice it would be to have a cup of chocolate and some buttered toast when I get home. And then my mind wanders on to memories of rain-greyed Sunday afternoons in childhood, fading into dark nights full of dread of the inevitability of school on Monday morning.

It’s good to take a neglected path and find new things (as well as reminding yourself about things that you’d forgotten). I might try and get sidetracked again soon.

Eulogy for my stepdad

(from his funeral last week)

I consider myself very lucky to have known Glyn, and privileged to have such a kind man as a step-father.

I don’t think that Glyn would have thought of himself as an heroic man, but he did something pretty brave in his mid-50s – he married my mum. Not that that was brave in itself (she’s lovely, of course), but she came attached to three sons and a very boisterous dog.

It can’t have been easy to adopt a pre-packaged family unit after decades of bachelordom, but he did it with aplomb.

I remember when mum first said that she was going out for the evening with ‘a man called Glyn’. I pictured a big, burly prop-forward kind of fella, with cauliflower ears and a low IQ. Instead, I met a polite, gentle man who liked classical music (especially light opera and Beethoven), and whom I instantly wanted to impress (no teenaged rebel, me…).

Of course, Glyn’s quiet façade soon began to slip, and his true nature showed through, in the form of a river of talk, endless stories and a great big laugh – like a Welsh Syd James on steroids – He yah yah yaaah!

He also revealed his loving and protective nature, looking out for mum amid teenaged tantrums and selfishness, rarely raising his voice or losing his temper (despite heavy provocation from the younger generation…).

For us boys, and for mum, he provided great solidity, security, warmth and comfort: priceless for our family after a period of upset and instability.

In later years, after his retirement, I got to know Glyn better, especially when I was at colleges and had long vacations. We went for lots of walks together, often involving canal tow paths and invariably ending up at a pub, and we would enjoy the countryside and the wildlife together, and get mellow over a pint.

The things that I’ll remember most about Glyn are his kindness, friendliness and generosity, which he showed to everyone he dealt with, every day, every time. I think this capacity for kindness and goodness characterise his essential nature.

He showed me that the value of a life can be measured in the small things that you do every day: in the way that you treat people, in the mark that you make on others, in the security and peace and atmosphere of warmth that you create for them.

If I can live a life as kind and as affection-evoking as Glyn’s, I will be happy. He was a fine role model.

Safe journey, old boy!

A 361, Early Morning

Above the hedge, where the road bends ahead, I can see a little bit of steam catching the light from the just-risen sun. When I get there, there are some cows browsing the grass and hedge, brown and white shoulders and heads all lit up in the bright light. As I pass, I can see the sunlight glinting in the big, glossy eye of the nearest cow, which is lifting its nose up. That eye must be taking in my speeding car, the hedge opposite, the weird ribbons of mist above the line of the stream through the meadows, and the slight rise in the land; and, above that, the crystal light of the low sun. That animal is staring at all of life, and its own clear, imminent death in the service of human needs. (Like all of us...)

Quote

A resonant passage from a review of books on the financial crisis in this week's TLS (23 April, p.8):

' "More than any other individual...[Greenspan] was responsible for letting the hogs run wild. [...] It was a form of crony capitalism...The gains of financial innovation and speculation are privatised, with the bulk of them going to a small group of wealthy people who sit at the apex of the system." Their wealth has created the framework for a dysfunctional society in which bankers living on multi-million pound bonuses presume to tell governments that the solution to the problems they have created is to take the axe to public spending, starting with welfare benefits and the NHS.'

My own private spring-watch

Stopped for a while during today's invigorating, sunlit bike-ride to watch some birds above a bare field under a cloudless sky. There was just one at first, a lapwing, with that distinctive squarish wing shape, the black and white underwing catching the sunlight with each up-flap. Then another one appeared, and the first one started doing an amazing display flight: steep, bent-winged dives, pulling up just before he hit the ground, skimming across the field inches above the bare earth, then climbing again to do a leisurely circuit before he repeated the dive-bombing manoeuvre. And all the time, he's emitting the weirdest sounds: little electronic-sounding tweets and whoops, almost R2-D2esque, or like the noises that come out of a badly-tuned shortwave radio.

A nature first for me.

How lovely to have a bit of the world re-enchanted right in front of your eyes.

Editors: You Count!

From a review in this week's TLS:

"All writers make mistakes, and someone could find plenty of them in any unedited manuscript of mine. But we count on publishers to provide an essential safety net in the form of good copyediting and proofreading. Here, Oxford University Press has let its author down, to a degree I have never seen in a published book. Whatever the cause, it is an insult to readers and writers alike when a piece of work edited with such negligence is put out by a press renowned for publishing some of the most distinguished books in our language."

The Power of Music Redux

Listening to Ligeti's Requiem for Soprano, mezzo-soprano, mixed chorus and orchestra recently, I was struck by the way that this music can unsettle me, physically, and - in the right circumstances - even evoke feelings of fear and paranoia. This is rare: I'm struggling to think of other pieces of music that I listen to regularly that can elicit similar feelings. In particular, it's the Kyrie that achieves this effect, for a number of reasons (beyond the sheer other-worldliness and strangeness of the music).

Firstly, there's the association with 2001: A Space Odyssey. When I first heard this music, in the context of the film (this was at the cinema, shortly after release, so I'm thinking 1969, probably), I would have had no conception of how music worked (let alone complex modern music like this) - i.e. what the instruments were, how the different parts and sounds were created and interacted, what the music was 'doing'. At that time, I would have just heard a kind of sonic landscape, a swirl of mood and impression, a mental space where some effects were created through sound, largely unmediated through any thought process, conscious interpretative act or embedding in any informed musical/cultural background: I was seven.

And, of course, my experience of the music would have been intimately coloured by the cinematic context in which it was being played: for starters, there was the (to my eyes) visual feast of 2001 itself - black, black space, a few stars showing faintly; the cool greys and whites of the space vehicles, and the clinical, glossy whiteness of the interiors; the ultra-modern computer technology and light displays; the eerier elements of the pre-human segment. Added to this would have been the relative novelty of being in the cinema, and seeing this kind of film (science fiction) on a big screen for the first time. I would have seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at the cinema before this, I think, but 2001 would have been a different kind of sensation: it would have felt, I think, as if I was looking at something more adult, more secret, more strange. If my memories of this are true, I recall seeing at one of the Ealing (West London) cinemas, and I remember the vast blackness of the screen in the darkened cinema, and the bluish-white glow of the earth and the moon (hazy auras and ethereal feel) on the screen, and the dust motes floating in the light from the projector. (This is retrospective in part, amplified, suspect.) I seem to remember my mum and my brother being there, seated to my right, and I seem to have a memory of looking along the row of seating and seeing all of the watchers' faces bathed in that blue-white light, and I have a sense of now of my young self wondering if those people were feeling the same awe in the face of this beauty as I was.

I'm not sure precisely where the Requiem was used in the film, but my recollection is that it's either in the Dawn of Man sequence (at the end of that sequence, when the apes are all going - er - apeshit around the monolith) and/or when the astronauts are walking around the Tycho monolith on the moon.

The essence of the music for most of my life has been the split effect of the choir and the solo voices: the sense of a disturbed, gibbering dialogue that's taking place somewhere strange and alien: somewhere out of normal place and time, somewhere that's different from the familiar world of everyday perception and thought and sound and experience that we usually live in. This sense of the music has been pretty much wordless in my mind: felt and seen rather than articulated or understood consciously - a sense of the strange, the ethereal, the sublime and - perhaps - the spiritual suffused with an otherness, a barely understood beauty.

Last year, another layer of meaning was laid down over this established mental landscape; this new layer was partly a function of place, time and imagery, and partly the result of my burgeoning sense of mortality and - er - existential darkness. The place was a rented holiday cottage in Trallwm, in deepest mid-Wales, and the time was late on a dark September night, as I lay in bed listening to the Ligeti piece on my iPod. I was under the bedclothes, looking up through the uncurtained skylight at the night sky, which was deep blue-black (no street lights here) and generously sprinkled with so many stars that the usual familiar constellations were difficult to pick out. I knew that the sky would be rimmed by the deeper darkness of the forest trees, and that the moon would rise later, illuminating the wisps of cloud moving across the slower-moving face of the starscape.

And, looking up at this visible patch of the universe through the skylight, I was suddenly aware of the terror and hatred in the voices on the Kyrie: there's nothing 'merciful' here, it suddenly seemed to me - rather, the music and the tone and drive of the voices makes me think of fear, chattering teeth, ashes, bodily terror, bitterness and accusation. It's as if all the singers are lost souls, or ghouls and demons, flanking the edge of a great dark pit into which the lonely, terrified, tortured souls of the dead are cascading in a pitiless stream. The voices offer no comfort, only mockery; no kindness, only vituperation, sarcasm and vindictiveness. They are telling the fallen souls that there is no solace, no redemption and no happiness in the afterlife: only this death, this terror, this meaningless gibbering, wailing and gnashing of teeth. All is lost: abandon hope all ye who enter here.

That's what this music means to me now - an abyssal emptiness, overlaid with the short and tenuous cable of an individual life. And, on the sidelines, a chorus of mockers who undermine any meaning or purpose.

Power of Music

Just heard a remarkable piece by Poulenc for the first time. It's from the end of his The Dialogues of the Carmelites opera, and is based on the execution of Carmelite nuns during the French Revolution. The all-female chorus gradually diminishes in intensity and number as, one by one, the nuns are led to the guillotine, while the remainder sing a beautiful Salve Regina. The singing is punctuated by the chilling schslisst of the falling blade, until the singing stops. Very affecting.

Spring Song in B flat

Bike, B-roads, bright and breezy. Two butterflies. Big endorphin surge. Bootiful.

But.

A brace of dead pheasants, bright blood and paler entrails on the bitumen, and a gas-bloated badger decomposing by a field gate: sodden and battered by yesterday's rain, canines exposed in a final, fixed snarl.

Another day between here and gone.

Winter Nature Notes

Beautiful winter late afternoon: clear blue sky, the sun going down in flames beyond the steam billows of Didcot power station, and some streaky grey-purple clouds in the east. Windscreen flecks of motorway salt refract the last sunlight, all scratchy on the eye.

By the time I get to Junction 9, the northern sky is a perfect winter gradation: down from pale blue, to aquamarine, through orange and yellow, to that hazy, rusty winter brown near the horizon. A silhouette light plane drifts across the sky, and two parachutists circle down into the dusk.

The Road Wrongly Travelled

As I've got older, its got harder not to dwell in (and upon) darkness. This is partly a function of ageing itself, and what increasing age brings with it: a decline in physical and mental capacity; family illnesses and family deaths; your peer group's struggle with parents in decline; and the way that your abstract, intellectual understanding of the certainty of death becomes a much more pressing and concrete concern. And you realise that the fantasies you had of escape and happy endings are in fact merely delusions that you've held on to for too long, way past their usefulness.

The novel I've been working on intermittently for the best part of six years is one such fantasy, a fantasy whose smoke-wispy nature was finally dispersed this morning as I crawled along the motorway to work, with plenty of time to turn over in my mind the novel and its place in my mental landscape. (Six years is an underestimate: the first imagery dates from when I was doing my M.Sc. at Oxford, which would be...1998; the latest incarnation of the novel is derived from those early inklings.)

I can't remember what the novel was called back then, but for the past few years it's been called Broken, an allusion to the 'broken' nature of the world after the Holocaust - or rather, and less pretentiously, to my perception of the world after I found out about the Holocaust: a world of hopelessness, unreason, pessimism and darkness.

At some stage, the formlessness of the early imagery coalesced into something more organised: a 'bottom-up', sometimes almost Dickensian panorama (in the sense of the number of characters and the intertwining of their lives) of the roots and progress of the Holocaust: from persecution, misappropriation and legal victimisation at home, through radicalisation and mass-shootings in Poland and beyond, and on to the industrialisation of death at Belzec, Chelmo and Sobibor. The story would then trace the post-war period, with a kind of twist, in that the genocide was carried out by a former colonial power (the Netherlands), and the difference that they, unlike Germany, won their war in the east and thus achieved European dominance after the war. The post-war sections are about memory, national stories/myths, the gradual uncovering of the past and the discovery of the hollowness of the myths, and victors' justice. A kind of alternative world that distances you from the actuality of the Nazi genocide while trying to explore how such developments could come to seem 'normal' in a modern industrial society of immense cultural breadth and depth...Bach, Beethoven, Goethe etc etc.

And so the novel grew and grew, and I read book after book about victims, perpetrators, bystanders, the second world war context, and the structures and systems of death, gradually realising that, although no one person could hope to master the literature, I was looking for some kind of answers: trying to understand for myself how individuals could come to believe what they did, and do what they did; trying to understand how, if you know only the milieu and values of the society that dominated your upbringing, such cultural normality would seem only natural to you - unquestionable.

Gradually, too, I came to see that my interest was bordering on the obsessive: how it was that the deeper I studied, and the more fractal that knowledge became, the more I realised I need to find out: more books, more documentary films. And always the search for connections, for understanding, for answers; and the awareness of how, in focusing on the mentality and everyday life of the 'ordinary men' who perpetrated the genocide in Germany/The Netherlands, in Lithuania, in Estonia, in Poland and in Russia, I might somehow be devaluing the victims; and then rebuilding the balance by trying to give the victims their proper say: their roundedness, richness and individuality. And accreting hundreds upon hundreds of pages of writing and additional notes, and struggling to shape it.

At some stage, this novel came to occupy a dominant place in my creative world: the variety of characters and scenes had established themselves in my mind as an alternative universe, one that was always waiting to be re-animated and re-illuminated whenever I turned away from the everyday and thought about my writing: I was always gathering material and interpreting things in the light of what it might mean in the Broken world. Whenever I caught a glimpse of a bit of archaic trackside infrastructure while travelling by train, I'd try and think of a way in which such details could make the imagined history more vivid; when watching historical documentaries my ears would be open, listening for a telling phrase or a nuance that would highlight an attitude or bit of received wisdom that had guided someone; in studying other historical periods, I'd always be looking for markers of race, prejudice and the structural/cultural incorporation of beliefs about racial superiority, hierarchy and entitlement; and in every landscape I'd see a potential setting - a forest killing site, or a holding warehouse, or a brick embankment that lined the approach to a camp.

And lately I have realised that this preoccupation has become a prism; a lens through which I've been filtering everything, great tracts of experience and reading subordinated to the logic and structure of this novel. It's not healthy, it's not right, and it has to stop. I have to stop seeing the world through this ashy grey lens, where everything ends up in death and meaninglessness. And I have no right to delve into the lives and suffering of other people...there's something immoral about using this material to satisfy my own intellectual curiosity. Which is why I have now junked this big piece of work. I can't write this book, and I no longer want to, as it is in danger of becoming dangerously obsessional and gloomy. But, at the same time, I haven't wanted to give it up, because it has been so central intellectually and creatively for so long, and because I have invested so much time and energy in it.

Ultimately, though, I have to recognise that this road has been a mistaken one, and I need to step off it or find another road. This one leads only to despair.

What're the Odds?

I'm not even sure that I know how to ask the right question: that's why I need some help from a mathematician/logician/probabilityician.

On Radio 3 this morning, at about 0715, the chap on the Breakfast programme played the Gloria from William Byrd's mighty Mass for Five Voices. It's a rather quiet piece, and not terribly audible on the M40 at 70mph, so I switched over to my iPod, which was on shuffle. And swipe me if the next iPod track that came on after the currently-playing Prokofiev's The Wedding of Kije wasn't the Gloria from William Byrd's Mass for Five Voices.

Now, the question I'm trying to frame more precisely is "what're the odds of that happening?" (i.e. the same track on the radio being followed by that very track on my iPod).

I guess the elements I'd expect to be in the equation are:

1. The number of tracks on my iPod (9,738)


2. Some way of carving up the time that Radio 3's been broadcasting (e.g. into 5-minute slots)


3. The number of tracks in Radio 3's record library (let's call that nt)

And thus there'd be some kind of sum that outputted a probability value.

But I have no idea how to start doing this sum. Can anyone help? Thanks.

Autumn into Winter

Miraculously beautiful morning today. Set off in the dark in the slightly fogged-up car after scraping ice from the windscreen and side windows: the ice is always crustier on the west-facing windows, for some reason - more ridges, requiring more elbow grease. Once the light started fading up above the motorway, it turned into a chillily beautiful, Hardyesque pastoral scene: a great arc of peach-coloured pre-dawn sky grading into grey-blue overhead; sheep on deeply-frosted fields; hilltop trees black against the glow, and, once there was enough light to free them from their silhouettes, all the trees and hills and distances blended and softened by frosty haze; mist curling like smoke off half-glimpsed watercourses next to the motorway where the bush-cover broke and a culvert passed under the roadway; and then the enormous orange-gold disc of the sun, sudden as you crested the ridge, unlookable at; in the rear-view mirror, the squinting face of the driver in the van behind, his cabin all lit up and unnatural-looking with golden light.

Nice.

Snow in April

A very chilly, sunny Sunday morning in April; the snow on the trees starting to melt, falling from the branches and slithering down the back of my neck as I cycle around the lanes; new lambs bleating and wondering 'what the baaaaaa is this?

Snow in April 1
Snow in April 2
Snow in April 3

Epiphanies Like London Buses

You know how it is: you go weeks and weeks without a single epiphany, and then two of them come along at once. Well, maybe not simultaneously - let's say a week apart. And neither of them was red, it must be said, or had numbers and destinations displayed on the front. Those things apart, these epiphanies were uncannily like London buses. Uncannily so.

Epiphany number 1 was about music. Namely, that it is an amazing, rich, life-enhancing and rewarding thing. I've known this before, I think, at various times in my life, but two things have (joyously) reminded me of this in the past couple of weeks.

Firstly, there was the performance of Hadyn's The Creation at a church in a village a few miles from where I live: this performance was a joint effort on the part of the amateur choral society from a nearby town and a group of professional musicians and soloists. The weather on the evening of the performance was suitably Biblical: a full-dark Saturday evening in March rendered dramatic by heavy rain blowing white and horizontal through the headlights on a strong, gusty wind. White headlights showed here and there in the dark landscape as we went up and down the hills and dips, the wipers swept runnels of rain across the screen, and I hoped that there'd be no cars coming up behind me to dazzle my vision as I drove rather nervously through the twisty lanes with their potholes and ill-defined edges to the roadway.

After a fraught negotiation of the narrow high street, over-parked with too many cars and too little light, I parked at the far end of the village and we walked back through the heavy rain, then up the slippery path to the church door, taking care to avoid the missing stones in the path (the empty apertures for which were full of slick, shiny mud).

The church at Everdon was big, and full of people waiting to take their places in the pews or in the additional seating (stacking-type plastic seats) at the rear of the nave. The demographic was typical of classical concerts - mainly people in late middle age or older (such that I felt like a real youngster) - and dressed either in smart 'going out' gear or the beige and grey uniform of the casual elderly. The space in front of the rood screen was set up with music stands and seating, and a wood, wire and gaffer tape framework (which looked distinctly rickety) supported a series of very white, very bright lights. The front-most audience seats were about three feet from the performers' chairs, and the overall effect was of a very cramped, packed hall before an amateur theatrical performance.

A very attractive woman in a posh frock came in. One of the soloists: it was a bit chilly for that kind of do. Through the gap in the curtains behind the rood screen I could see the members of the chorus moving about. The orchestra members started to arrive, coming in through the big door to my left, trailing the smell of the wet night outside, and then gradually the splendid sound of an orchestra tuning up began to assemble in the space under the hammer beam roof.

The acoustic in the church wasn't brilliant, such that when the orchestra (brass, strings, woodwind, continuo, kettle drum(s)) and the choir (50+) were at full tilt the sound blurred and merged, like music over-amplified through inadequate speakers. For the most part, though, the playing was spot-on, the soloists good (the bass was the strongest, in my view) - despite the conductor's baton swooping dangerously close to their eye sockets as he conducted the orchestra over their heads, and the words and 'story' (out of the Bible and Milton) fully intelligible (despite some rather awkward translations/constructions in the libretto...): I particularly liked some of the onomatopoeic elements, especially the bit about the 'sinuous worm' that slithered along at the bottom of the bass's range).

Other entertaining elements included: the rain drumming on the roof, audible in the quiet passages where the libretto dealt with the inundation of the earth; the bat that swooped across the nave; and the big butterfly, perhaps brought out of hibernation by the unaccustomed heat from the bodies, lights and heaters, which drifted across the spaces above and behind the orchestra, moving perilously close to the white hot-looking lights.

The music lasted for the best part of two hours, and at the end my shoulder blades ached from the two curtain calls to which we clapped the singers/orchestra/chorus. I was left feeling privileged to have been able to enjoy such excellent music making so close to home, and to be able to hear all the different instruments and singers joining together in this complex music. A concrete reminder of the beauty and intricacy of music.

Corn

My subconscious popped up a punchline this morning for a terrible, corny, shaggy-dog-story kind of a joke, which would probably involve a clumsy journalist interviewing Lionel Richie over breakfast at Lionel's hotel; the set-up would feature the accidental flicking of toast-related preserves onto Lionel's clothing, between two and four times. Clearly the punchline would involve the words "But Lionel, you're once, twice, three times marmaladey".

Ouch.

Bombs

I'm coming towards the end of Keith Lowe's Inferno: The Devastation of Hamburg, 1943. This is an interesting book, which tells 'both sides' of the story of the RAF/USAAF bombing of the German city; there are some slightly strange (to my mind) tonal elements that sit a little awkwardly with the generally measured, objective and sombre tone of the book (as if he's trying too hard to create a sense of tension/drama or anticipation, or (unnecessarily) synthesise traditional human interest angles), but for the most part it is vividly and fluently written.

Having read many books about the bomber war in Europe in 1939-45, I was particularly impressed at how convincingly, powerfully and comprehensively he had portrayed the horror and suffering of those who lived and died under the bombs; Lowe's account of the firestorm that resulted from the second RAF raid of 27 July 1943 is detailed, relentless and harrowing, as are his descriptions of the aftermath of the firestorm, the subsequent raids, and the 'clean-up' operations that followed. These chapters speak compellingly of the fear, horror, exhaustion and suffering of the German civilians and service people. This is the most moving and insistent treatment I have read on this subject.

Something else that struck me as I read this book was how closely I identified with the bomber crews (particularly the RAF crews, whose cultural background I feel I know so much more about). This identification partly stems from my reading of Len Deighton's Bomber. I'm not sure exactly what age I was when I fist read my brother's thick, tatty, black-covered, bold red capital-lettered Pan Books copy of this novel, but it was probably around 1974 or 1975, when I would have been 12 or 13. I remember reacting powerfully to this book, and re-reading it often in the following years; in fact, I think it became something of an obsession - I thought it was such a fantastic book. (At this time I had a mental list of books that were the 'best' in different genres: Bomber was the best book about night bombing; Colin Forbes' Tramp in Armour was the best book about the war in France in 1940, Arthur C. Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey was the best science fiction book - and so on.) And Bomber keyed into another of my pre-adolescent/adolescent obsessions: war and war machines. Even at junior school I had been fascinated by war (particularly the Second World War) and I had been building model warplanes, warships and armoured fighting vehicles since I was six or seven; this book gave me a coherent narrative structure and set of imagined visual images around which I could shape my model-building and play, as well as a set of imagined characters whose voices and perspectives I could adopt as part of my creative world.

In retrospect, I think that one of the reasons I found Bomber so affecting and powerful was that it somehow legitimised this play-world of pilots, warplanes conflict and death that I had innocently been engaged in for years; the cool, objective writing of the book created a quasi-scientific narrative that delineated the use and effects of the weapons - bombers, bombs, night fighters, cannon-shells - in such a way (vivid but distant) that let me maintain a distance from the reality of those effects and avoid a deeper moral or emotional engagement with the issues. In retrospect, it is rather strange to think that most of the people in the book were mere adjuncts to the stunningly-written sections about air combat or the effects of explosions: the bits of the book that I approached with the greatest sense of pleasurable anticipation were the ones where German night-fighters and British bombers encountered each other in the dark night sky, 20mm cannon shells were fired, and holes were blasted through the stressed metal skins of Lancaster bombers. This was something like a pornography of violence: thrilling, abstract, rewarding. This, despite what I later came to understand as the novel's distinct anti-war thrust - there are no 'good' and 'bad' people, just the living and the dead.

It strikes me now that this unemotional focus on machines and imaginative abstractions helped to cement my crude sense of the morality of the Second World War, derived from comics and popular culture: a clash of Good (the Allies) against Evil (the Axis). Thus the bomber crews were fighting a just campaign against the people on the ground (who were largely faceless and unreal to me); this picture was nuanced by the sense that the German night-fighter crews were noble 'Knights of the air', unsullied by any unpleasant ideological taint from Nazism (in fact, this was implicitly reinforced by the portrayal of some of the airmen's disgust on finding evidence of the medical experiments that were being carried out 'for their benefit').

This 'good German/bad Nazi' element of the book did not make as big an impact on me as it might later have done. My early readings of Bomber were completed in a naive state, before my awareness of the Holocaust began and developed. In a way, my awareness of the Holocaust made it even easier to duck any moral questions about mass bombing and the explicit targeting of civilians, since it fostered a (largely unconscious) sense that 'they' (the bombed) had (all) 'deserved it', (a) because the Nazis had launched a war of aggressive conquest, and (b) because since the regime's genocidal policies were clearly morally repugnant, any qualms about adopting the measures of 'total war' could be easily dismissed (even if I had framed them in that way).

I've read number of books in recent years that approach the question of mass bombing in a more morally-charged way (previously, most of the books cantered over any questions of morality). These kind of books (e.g. A.C Grayling's Among the Dead Cities or Frederick Taylor's Dresden reflect a recent trend whereby questions about Bomber Command's campaign have shifted from 'objective' discussions about the bombing's cost-benefit-based validity to starker questions about whether the bombing can be seen as morally defensible (these questions are also entangled with questions about the responsibility of the individual in a set of social contexts and about whether to admit that something is immoral necessarily taints the individual who was carrying out their duty in good faith); it's easy to see how you might have a similar discussion about moral/individual responsibility over the role of - say - a German soldier who had grown up from childhood under the Nazis regime and knew no other moral/social universe other than the one that they had lived their life within.

I realise that I have no established position on these questions: this does not strike me as necessarily a bad thing - it seems better to me to have a morally complex, difficult position than one which is simplified and polarised. Neither do I have the language or structured arguments of a moral philosopher with which I can express myself properly (at least, not without making a proper 'essay plan' instead of just putting finger to keys as I have done here. So the questions are still open in my mind - something to work on some more.

Skyscape Number 76

So. Driving home late this afternoon. The inside of my car is full of bright sunlight from the low-ish sun; in the middle distance, the still-wintry landscape of brown fields, bare trees, the odd streak of green or tan; in the far distance, a great curtain of grey-black cloud, with a scouring of paler grey in front - rain or snow falling - and a seam of paler sky showing between the base of the cloud and the horizon, with the precipitation smudging the bluish sky into grey.

Eventually, I nose the car in under the grey cloud, and the rain and sleet spatter the windscreen for a while, and then it stops, and I'm emerging into blue sky territory again, with a great swirl of dark cloud looping overhead.

Nearing home, I can see that the snow is scattered over the fields, and when the lowering sun breaks through at the top of Eydon Hill, I'm inspired enough by the scene to stop the car, jog back through the chilly air and take a few pictures.

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I was listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Between Here and Gone" album on the way home, and there was something refreshing and reinvigorating about the light and the cold air that lifted my mood, chiming with the sense of everyday mystery and reawakening possibilities (in the midst of the damnably confounding human condition) that's embodied in a lot of the tracks on this disc.

So that was my drive home. :-)

The Return

Putting.
Some.
Words.
In.
A.
Line.

So simple and so pleasurable.

All of my life can be seen as a word-based reflection/commentary/stream of thoughts; without the words there is no life, there is no consciousness. There is nothing to leave behind. Words and language are everything - and yet we waste them.

Coming up with a phrase or a well-balanced sentence is so pleasurable: there was something at work today, in an email I wrote, about how something was 'homophonically Freudian' - something that I had never expected that I would ever say; and yet it was very appropriate, and pithy and funny. But just a set of words in a line, in a dynamic, unforeseen context, and now vanished forever, except, perhaps, in the minds of the sender and the recipient. A reflection/extension of my consciousness and sensibility, projected out into space and now...lost.

Possible Disservice

I may be making a horrible misjudgement. But...it seems to me that you can tell very quickly whether a work of art is 'true' or not: whether its heart is beating with the beat of a real life, or whether it feels like something cconcocted. Something that has been created within a framework that has constrained its mode of expression and rendered it...what? Bogus? Unbelievable? At the very least, you are aware of this thing straining to be art; you are conscious of its artifice and of what it is trying to make you think or feel. With film, I feel that this is possible almost from the first frame.

Thus "Flags of Our Fathers". A worthy subject. But as soon as the voiceover starts, with its carefully modulated commentary on the images we're seeing, you're aware that a script is being read: there's no sense that this is a real person voicing real thoughts - it's an actor reading a script. Artistically, this is death for me. Bogus and manipulative. Much as I wanted to watch this film, I had to stop, because - from that early moment - I didn't believe it.

Cinematic Sibilance

I've watched two films this week: Atonement (at the cinema) and The Seventh Seal (a reviewing on DVD after seeing it first about 20 years ago).

I think Atonement is probably the best film I've seen this year. I came away from the cinema feeling sad and reflective, while at the same time excited by what I had just seen, in the sense of being reminded how art can sometimes penetrate your mind deeply and trigger all sorts of thoughts and associations, such that you feel enlivened and invigorated. Atonement impressed in a number of ways: the acting was uniformly excellent; the design and cinematography was exquisite (from the bright, sunlit colours and shadowy, light-shot interiors of the country house to the desaturated hues of wartime France and London); the use of music, patterned on the repeated clack of manual typewriter keys; and the technical skill on display (witness the much-commented upon continuous tracking shot of the troop-strewn beach at Dunkirk).

It was the denouement of the film that I was thinking about most as I walked back to my car with the cool night moisture collecting on my cinema-warmed temples. Out of the swirl of visual beauty, narrative and the layered, integrated music, emerged an overall sense of sadness, beauty and bleakness; bleakness because, firstly, there's no happy ending for anyone in this film, and, secondly, because the author's attempt at atonement and making peace with her past is wholly inadequate in the face of the effects of her behaviour. Further, the author's admission of invention throws into doubt everything about the preceding narrative - how much of it is true? how much of it do you want to be true? - and makes me conclude that there is no redemption, no way of back-tracking on the paths taken and the choices made; there's just cause and effect coupled with randomness, and the narratives we invent/re-invent to make sense of what happens to us.

After the naturalistic perfection of Atonement, The Seventh Seal could be argued to look a bit creaky, both at the technical level (the stuffed hawk swaying unconvincingly in the breeze in the prelude) and in terms of some of the acting, which has elements both of theatricality and hammy comedy, and which, in a world seen through irony-tinted spectacles, can seem to grate with the film's more serious concerns. But the power of the film to engage the intellect and the emotions is undimmed: the knight's struggle for meaning after his loss of religious faith - given the apparent absence and silence of God - still resonates today in a world of moral relativism and uncertainty, while the terror and hollowness of organised medieval religion is powerfully conveyed in the procession of flagellants and priests, and in the burning of the supposed witch. The game of chess with Death facilitates the knight's realisation of meaning within a humanist (rather than strictly religious) context, and holds out the hope of meaning and fulfilment in a world that is devoid both of spirituality and justice. In this sense, it feels to me as if this film has more of a warm heartbeat of hope than the more intellectually arid Atonement. You might argue that I am deluded in looking to find meaning in a meaningless world, rather than accepting the premise that the only meaning derives from the individual consciousness and the order that it seeks to impose on the world. And I'd listen to that argument very sympathetically, still not wanting it to be true.

Today, I bought a compilation DVD of Shaun the Sheep by way of contrast. Note that, spookily, the 'SS' in this title matches the 'SS' in the Bergman film: I will study Shaun's activities closely for any signs of apocalyptic iconography and spiritual angst.