Jam Night ...

Bob, wash-tub bass; Jim, fiddle; Bob, guitar. "So, what'll we start with? May the circle be Unbroken . . . ? "

Charlie guitar, harmonica (and banjo) Springerville Blues

Pat on Banjo . . .

Jim on fiddle Whiskey Before Breakfast.

Play something and I'll take your picture. Thanks, Charlie. Just don't make it a video with sound. Tripping Up the Stairs

From the bookshelves 3

The poet Laurie Lee's most well know work is the autobiographical Cider With Rosie (The Edge of Day). The autobiographical theme is continued in As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. Nineteen year old Laurie leaves the Gloucestershire hamlet of Slad for London. He makes his way to Spain not long before the outbreak of civil war.

Laurie describes a post-war Spain in A Rose for Winter.

I Can't Stay Long is a collection of incidental writing the most poignant of which is an account of how the villagers are coping a year after the Aberfan disaster of 1966 when a mountain of slurry engulfed the village primary school school killing over a hundred children.

From the bookshelves 2

This is a copy of the California University Press reduction of the original Arion Press folio edition designed by Andrew Hoyem.

"The Arion edition was limited to 265 copies, of which 250 were for sale. the type is handset Gaudy Modern. The Leviathan Capitals use for the title and initial letters were designed by Charles Bigelow and Kris Holmes. The illustrations were drawn and engraved by Barry Moser. Members of the Arion Press who assisted in the production of the original edition were: Pauline Christensen, Margaret Green, Lester Lloyd, Abigail Potter, Gerald Reddan, and Glenn Todd. The printing commenced in March 1978 and was completed in May of 1979.
The original pages were photographed for reproduction in this edition by Charles R. Wood."

I have a copy of Boccaccio's Decameron also published by the University of California Press in 1982. The John Payne translation revised and annotated by Charles S. Singleton. Three volumes bound and slip-cased in buckram. Very handsome.

Mis-using words - delete

I can not keep up with the voice in my head telling me to write. So many things I have lost. Ah poor me. Oh, to relive the joy of a child greeting each day; eagerly anticipating all the adventures and discoveries possible in that brilliant time beginning at sunrise and ending lying restlessly in bed impatient for tomorrow's sunrise. What about now? Now the morning page beckons me to write until that moment when it stops being easy and trite, when I have cleared my head of the detritus of sleepy dreams and the kernel of an idea of something to write about begins to appear on the page . . . then I stop writing, I come to the edge and retreat as the quotidian impinges . . . feeding the cats, ablutions, breakfast . . .

So far this is an amorphous collection of incomplete thoughts. You got that right. There is a cheeky voice has to have his say. This used to happen when I'd type cryptic notes to myself on an old IBM Selectric many years ago. I have those pages somewhere. Definitely not for public consumption.

So, what is this about? Does it have to be about something?

Of bibliophages

Of the few interests noted in my profile most are to do with music beginning with the very general 'music making'.

When was I first aware of music? The nursery rhymes my mother sang as she rocked me to sleep in her arms? The music dad would play at the piano? My own humming?

I haven't listed reading but I do say my favourite book is the one I am reading at the moment. Now I will raid the book shelves for a sampling and a good place to start is Nicholas Basbanes's

A Gentle Madness Bibliophiles, Bibliomanes, and the Eternal Passion for Books.

Forty years on . . .

Not quite a class reunion. Show Low, AZ. Friday 14 August. Mike's a couple of years younger than I but we had drama, Richard III, Gilbert and Sullivan, Maria Marten or Murder in the Red Barn, Toad of Toad Hall; and teachers in common . . . Mr Ashton, Mr Southgate, Mr Hope, Mr Chadwick, Miss Tyler, Miss Piché, Mr French . . .

Stastistics nerd

Maybe it's the way it is spelt (or spelled) but there are only two of us listing 'bodhràn' as an interest. . . . . right that's enough nonsense for one evening.

Acting the pedantic twit . . .

Oh, I don't have to act do I?

The overuse of the prefix pre- caused me to think about other thoughtless phrases uttered in unguarded moments that are now finding their way into print and typed on the web without the benefit of sharp eyed copy editors.

Pre-plan: "I pre-plan a visit Alaska later this year".

Pre-register: "So, if I pre-register for the course now I won't have to come back and register later? Why don't I just register now and have done with it?".

Irregardless. Different than. I have to laugh when I catch myself saying un-thaw: "What? You want to freeze it? but it's already frozen".

I could care less: "Then care less until it hurts. Care less until you have no more care to give".

Friends reunited . . .

I met with an acquaintance yesterday whom I hadn't seen for forty years. We ate lunch and chatted about our common experiences at school. About the people we remembered; the plays and musicals; the pranks and punishments. We talked about our lives since leaving school and how we came to be living in the USA. I was the only person who had responded to the emails he'd sent to various classmates on Friends Reunited.

Thursday Kathy collected this beautiful urn which contains Zoë's ashes.

Kathy's parents are visiting for the week-end as we were to have visited them in New Mexico but the events of the week disrupted those plans.

'Nother Day

Cooled off and got some rain; so whenever there's wet weather the bookshop is a little busier. I am also happy when someone comes in looking for a book and I am able to find a copy of the book they want on the shelves; this happened today. Martin Cruz Smith's Gorky Park (1981).

Good night

Well that was a slow day. No one asked about books or authors. Clouded up but no rain; at least the weather is a little cooler.

So, am I the sum of my memories?

I'm going to read now . . .

Good Morning

The day always starts well with several pages of ramblings beginning with the realisation that today is designated the Glorious Twelfth by those who take joy in blasting birds out of the sky. And that thought lead to this sentence in Luis Alberto Urrea's The Hummingbird's Daughter; "Gusts of butterflies flew out of the bean fields as if the wind had been painted and had shattered into white chips".

What is the opposite of 'sublimation'? Is it possible to freeze gas suddenly, directly to its solid state?

At school we were taught that descriptive writing exercises the imagination and were duly sent out to find an object to bring back to the classroom and then write about it. I brought back the umbriferous flower of a common weed.

Cleave. A word that is its own antonym.[edit monday 17 August 2009: I learn from listening to Steven Fry's BBC Radio 4 programme Fry's English Delight that this would be called a contranym.]

The only party for me happened when I reached my seventh birthday.

This bad writing is akin to poor music: random notes, no rhythm, no melody, no beat . . .

What do I hear, see, taste, smell . . . what do I feel? try this exercise: descibe colours to a blind man; music to a deaf man; taste to a man who has lost his sense of smell

An amateur musician practices a piece of music until he makes no mistakes . . . then stops. A professional musician plays until he cannot make mistakes . . . then keeps playing.

To defend myself from those who may think I'm misogynist recast the preceding sentences completely or use the ugly he/she construction.

These are the gleanings from nearly five pages of my morning writing and now back to the quotidian round of living. I shall be in the bookstore today. Come by and ask me about a book or author I don't yet know. Choir practice this evening . . .

Goodnight

A day without music? Quite the contrary. Listened to Round the House CDs this morning and have rounded out the day playing my own music on the hammered dulcimer this evening. I'll read more of Urrea's The Hummingbird's Daughter before going to bed. I seem to spend a lot of time reading others' blogs; my own diminishes and I promise myself to come here each day. I won't always have a picture; and I may not have anything to say or I think I don't. An exercise I have not yet done is reviewing my memory cards. I make notes of odd memories that come to me in unguarded moments. Does a life have to make sense? I miss Zoë's physical presence and remember the times she would jump into my arms and lick my face. What will I dream tonight? Shall I remember any dreams? How shall I remember today? The music.

Joyful and Sad

What an eventful week-end. For the first time in too long a time I went to a music festival. The stay in England was too short and filled with friends I needed to see, and places of personal pilgrimage I needed to visit, to make time for either the Whitby folk festival or the Upton festival. My hunger to hear live music, other than that I try to make for myself, was satisfied by travelling over two-hundred miles to Edgewood, NM for the 7th Annual Wildlife West Music Festival. This is a delightful location just off Interstate 40 thirty or so miles east of Albuquerque.
I arrived in time to catch a local all female band Lady Fingers who played a relaxing eclectic set by no means all bluegrass. Quite a few local bands filled out the bill. Round the House from Tucson played traditional Irish tunes on the main stage at the amphitheatre. More bluegrass from The Badly Bent. And then the man who was the draw for me to attend this festival. A singer, songwriter and story-teller in the tradition of Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Tom Paxton, Bob Dylan . . . ; multi-instrumentalist, teacher, father, soon to be grandfather, folklorist and all round generous man John McCutcheon.

Kathy stayed home to be with Zoë our Siberian husky who was very ill

This picture is of her in her prime when she was about four years old. She died Sunday whilst I was gone and today we made arrangements for her cremation.

The Quotidian Round

Why am I fond of Latinate locutions? I haven't written long enough, or simply enough. As long as I write something, somewhere, about anything at any time of day . . .
So what is this quotidian round, this day-to-day living which tends to wear me out? What are the essentials I have to take care of? Sleeping well, eating healthily, keeping clean, wearing clothes appropriate for the weather and wearing a good pair of comfortable shoes for the journey . . . sharp pencils, ink filled pens and clean paper, and reading which may spark ideas in my mind's eye . . . to be still.

I'm still here

"Procrastination . . . the thief of Time . . . " I'm not at home at the moment and of course as soon as I try write here all the ideas for themes, topics and trivia that I have not made note of are gone from my mind.

I have been browsing, and marking to follow, many blogs and I feel such an utter inchoate novice, if that isn't a tautology, with my little effort here which has no focus; and which I have left far too long. We are each the centre of the universe. I imagine myself as a signpost in a vast desert; the many arms of the signpost point to the horizon, to the sky, to my feet. Some of these blogs I follow publicly giving you the chance to explore them through the links in my profile . . .

Much time has been used playing country dance tunes on the dulcimer. Some time was rescued taking pictures of wildflowers; a project much mulled over for several years.

Any idiot can face a crisis.

It's this day-to-day living that wears you out. (Anton Chekov) Which is why I haven't been here lately to focus on what I am seeking. I have been dreaming. I have been bemoaning the heat. I have been watching gathering clouds each afternoon; wishing for more than a sprinkle; hoping we won't be deluged. I sleep, eat; stare at a computer screen wondering where the Muses hide . . . I talk to my sister on the 'phone; I raise my voice above the hum of fans, air-conditioner and humidifier to talk to Kathy across the room. I watch a little TV and finish reading A Plague of Doves; I continue dipping into Sailing Home; re-reading Blue Highways. I play a little music on the dulcimer and recorders; I listen to selected programmes on BBC Radio4 . . . I write very brief journal notes in the morning. I browse others' blogs. I receive a letter from a dear friend . . . he plans to visit this fall. I think of the things I am not going to mention here . . . I wait in hope of customers at the bookstore . . .

I read the Declaration of Independence once again and think of Thomas Paine sitting on my bookshelves . . . spent the Fourth in the mountains near Silver City, New Mexico . . .

Could do better

In 2002 Pocket Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, Published a little book subtitled School Reports of the Great and Good. Whilst I do not count myself among the Great I think I am fairly good. That first report at the top of the post shows that I still came top of a class of thirty-eight scoring only 73% overall when in the previous report I'd scored 81% overall. I don't think the standard of the class as a whole could have been very high. The report below is from a time when I was advanced a class early. Note that I am six months younger than the average in a class of forty-two. I'm an autumn baby and most of my class mates were born in the spring; the following year the situation is reversed. What has this to do with seeking episteme or finding myself or knowing who I am? The Jesuits said some thing like show me a boy of seven and I will show you the man. A series of documentary films was made beginning in 1964 with a group of seven years olds to illustrate the Jesuit idea. Subsequent films were made with the same children at 14, 21, 28, 35, 42 and finally I believe 49. Looking at my old reports several consistent traits are apparent: I'm easily distracted from my work; I'm interested in history and geography; I try hard but am often careless (especially with handwriting and spelling); I show great promise . . . but my self esteem received a severe blow when I did not achieve the 11+ result expected of me.  I'm still working on the shows promise bit.

Vanity, vanity

What's in a name? Just did a search, as I am sure everyone does, of my own name on Microsoft's new search engine Bing. (But it's not Google). Add a cricketer and an Austalian rules footballer to the list in the profile. I can not distinguish myself with a middle initial. Alan is all I am, not Al (though I'm not adamant about that).

Are we there yet?

Not quite done travelling. I went to meet Kathy in Socorro, New Mexico on the road from Colorado. This was Thursday when we set off along US 60 through Magdelena, passed the Very Large Array radio telescope, Datil; and stopped in Pie Town, New Mexico for . . . pie and coffee; Quemado, Red Hill and home to Arizona.

I've gone all quiet. Reading. Looking at photos. Just contemplate the grazing horses.

Blast from the more recent past

About 1990 that is. With my meanderings about the web and thinking of past interests I came upon some steam engine sites. Traction and railway. I have quite a few snaps of shots I took at the Weeting rally in about 1990. I have spent nearly all my spare time today scanning and labelling photos to upload to Flickr dot com. Steam engines fascinated me when I was little and I liked nothing more than to go down to the station to watch shunting work; or to go and sit with the level-crossing keeper and watch the signals and marvel at the new Britannia's pounding up from London hauling passenger trains to Norwich. At the library I would find all the railway books and look at the pictures of these powerful beasts snorting smoke and steam. Later, when I could read, I would read all the stories of railways in The Railway Lovers' Companion.

Mr. Button was one of the local council workers who looked after the steam roller at the local works. He built a working model. Mr Banyard was another engineer who build several working models of traction engines.

. . . to resume seeking . . .

. . . to rest my eyes on a far horizon, that ever receding edge of the world keeping me at the centre of the plain, on the plane, at the centre of space/time. Erehwon comes to mind; and Flatland. Julian of Norwich bricked up in her cell . . .
. . . the tide is out . . . but . . . Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.
--Mahatma Gandhi

Six hundred and sixty miles

. . . home. Zoë knew what was coming and didn't make a fuss and snoozed on the back seat of the car except for pit stops the last of which was at the El Malpais National Monument in New Mexico. I had stopped here briefly on the way to Colorado last Friday morning. The road between Grants and Quemado is lonely and passes through the badlands formed from the lava flows from volcanos which last erupted only eight hundred years ago. La Ventana (the Window) is a natural arch just off highway 117 . . .
Place names which intrigue me because they are juxta -posed on one signpost along Interstate 25 in New Mexico:
Cimarron
Eagle Nest
Angel Fire

Post Factum

I managed to practice and play a little music; no writing; no inner musings; no mail; no money; time of little consequence . . .

This kite stayed aloft for most of the week-end; came to earth just three times.
All good things must come to an end. Two more shots of one Colorado sunset minutes apart

One More Day

The views of the distant, snow covered Rockies over Denver are spectacular, especially at sunset.
One more day in Colorado. Now I am finally relaxed and caught up with time. Kathy is thrilled with the trailer (caravan). Last night was the first opportunity we had of spending the night in the trailer together and trying to sort out the plumbing. Sassy, Kathy's cat, has taken over the bed as that is her safe place. I've been playing the dulcmer; and Steve has been entertaining us with lots of music. Zoë has been wandering about but staying well clear of the horses! Fred the llama stays aloof in his pasture. Am I any closer to finding myself? No, but . . . this sure is a beautiful place in which to lose oneself.

More Travelling

Colorado this time. A gathering of families and friends to celebrate Dale's earning the degree of Doctor of Veterinary Medicine from Colorado State University at Fort Collins.

Colchester Castle Redux

Jet Lag

I'd forgotten all about the effects of flying at great speed across many time zones; especially from east to west. I've been feeling very sorry for myself but now I've re-acquainted myself with the dulcimer and played some jolly jigs and rollicking reels I'm feeling a little better.
I took 337 pictures and eight brief video clips whilst in England. So what? Now I need the find the 3,370,000 words to describe the memories they evoke. Didn't I cite the 'one picture is worth ten thousand words' text?

Tempus fugit

My time in England is almost done; the rental car is due to be returned tomorrow; I have finally bought a book by Alain de Botton; I have just relished the greenery and noise and bustle of people about their daily business, walking and talking . . . the traffic and main roads I could do without.