Winter Pages

Glad to have a distraction from the Trina tribulations, I went to an artists' talk at the University with Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard, who have a new video installation there, Jumpers (What Must I Do To Be Saved), about "the religious practice of 'jumping' as a form of worship. Jumping was performed over the course of 200 years from the 18th Century by English, Welsh and American Protestant Christians."

The essential elements of an academic talk in an arts department were all present: the exaggerated laughter from the Faculty staff, almost grovellingly pandering to the artists; the slack timing and late start, as though none of us have anything else to do, with the presenters and the ubiquitous tech guy in proletarian building site boots standing unconcerned with their backs to us.

In the evening, back at Uni, there was some Ch. de Taxpayer for the video's opening, and the Head of Chinstroking, who was talking quite endearingly about the way dancing makes him feel self-conscious, bought me a pint. Then to a concert which in parts felt like being stroked with silk. Chroma played a programme of Ned Rorem, Janáček, Anna Meredith and Dohnányi. Ned Rorem's Winter Pages was lush and chromatic. "Oooh," I said to Steph as it finished, "I felt quite transported there." Anna Meredith's work was a derivative piece of minimalism-lite, and the Janáček was choppy and busy, but then the evening ended seductively with the lapping tide of Dohnányi's Sextet. Apart from a couple of coughers, the Lancaster audience is well-behaved, still and attentive, although it's disappointing that so few young people attend the concerts there. It feels like going to a concert in an old folks home.

Combing through the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra's programme, I noticed Bruckner's Second Symphony coming up in March. A Glaswegian railwayman of my acquaintance is into Bruckner, so I suggested it to him. "I'm on a late that day so I won't be able to make it, but you're very welcome to go with my wife and stay here." Ooer, that's modern.

Edit. Oh no--his wife is an attractive twentysomething Nicaraguan, who lists Borges and Tolstoy amongst her favourite authors, and likes real ale.

Trina: her basic objection is that I'm not "committed". "I don't want just to be a nice fuck and then discarded when this hedonistic period ends."

That's a reasonable thing to say. I sent an email saying that I am committed, and that although my enthusiastic appreciation of her irresistible physical charm is very important to me, it is not everything, and the fun we have, the chatter, the gadding about, are all part of it too and I would love to keep all of it going. I also said that my doubts about living together are simply based on several years of living with Kirsty, during which she said "it's like living with an amiable tourist," and a fear of it dulling what we have.

She texted me while I was at the Uni, saying she'd sent me an email, and I had to concentrate hard on C18th Protestant ritual in order not to be itching to read it. It was kind, conciliatory and understanding. Late last night she sent a sexier one too, and this morning one of my favourite songs, which I wasn't aware she knew--Alexander O'Neal and Cherelle's Never Knew Love Like This--was Youtubed to my inbox.