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The light gleams in an instant (1989-96)

  Thu 13th October 2016


I'm on the 1235 to Ormskirk. I'm going to a meeting about fracking. I mentioned it to Trina when she rang a week or so ago and asked me what I was up to. Saying that I was thrilled about meeting Trish in Manchester for our first date the following day, and worrying about my clothes and hair, might have been an honesty too far; so, plucking something out of my diary, I told her about a planning meeting for anti-fracking groups.

She invited herself along, offering to buy me my dinner in the pub first and give me a lift to the place where it's being held at. She's calmed down lately and this is the latest of her peace offerings. She's trying to stop loving me.

The conductor has just had to go to get the disabled ramp out at M--- to help El Gordo on. He's the massive unambulant blob who started chatting to me and Trina in the pub a few weeks ago and who prompted me to say to Trina -- in what was an inadequately sotto a voce, since he heard it -- "Yeah right, you can fuck off now if you want." I've nothing against massive unambulant blobs, but being disabled doesn't give you a licence to bore strangers in pubs.

Me and Trina in the pub for the first time since what is our definitive split-up. Two bottles of Prosecco. She sent me a text later saying "I don't understand your life."

Me and Wendy met up in the pub. I told her about the six-text sex series I sent Trish at half past four in the morning. She told me to ring her and just ask for a bit of an explanation about why I've been ghosted. Afterwards, she texted: "Darling, my gut feeling is that you'll get nowhere with her. Her loss, it has to be said Xxx."

"Her loss". I fucking hate that phrase. It's only ever employed by girls who don't want to be with you.

Later that evening, I got Trish's answerphone again, so I left a message.

Hiya Trish, it's just looby, sorry to bother you. What it was, I was just wondering whether there'd be any chance you could do me a favour and perhaps just tell me a little bit about why you had that sudden change of heart, when, from certain things we'd said, I was starting to get the impression that there was at least the potential of something good for us. It's just going round and round in my head a bit, but I'm getting nowhere -- it's got to come from you. Anyway, you know I'll only ever think of you fondly, and I just want you to be happy. Night night darling.

I rang Wendy, recounted this, and we chatted away about everything for an hour or so. I texted her afterwards thanking her for being so lovely with me lately. "But I hope you'd expect nothing less? And you're pretty lovely to me too Xx." That doesn't mean anything to me.


And now I can finally put Trish to bed. In the brief time things were sexual and chatty, she asked me to take her to something that I really liked. So, without her now, I went alone...

To Manchester, for a concert by L'Ensemble imaginaire. They are on tour round England, playing the music of Richard Barrett. They were introduced by the University's Head of Composition -- I might have misremembered his self-description -- who inverted the words in the group's name, which was a surprising mistake even given the allowances one must make for a Canadian.

I stood around in one of the shit outsourced cafe-bars that even the best universities provide nowadays, envying a Music Department that is central, recognised and funded.

The concert hall was full. Students; older men with a sartorial style halfway between homeless alcoholic and emeritus academic, and the younger balding ones with Manchester Jazz Festival T-shirts on. During Fold, a piece for solo clarinet, Philippe Koerper jerked around like he was badly in need of a piss. He turned his instrument into something animate, in what seemed to me like an impossibly difficult central section of breathy harmonics, fluttertonguing, circular breathing, and key clicks. The piano piece (the title of this post) had as its idea a disjunction between the right and left hand, like two close friends simultaneously talking to and ignoring each other.

I enjoyed it very much but it's half six now and Piccadilly Wetherspoons is getting a bit laddish, so time to try to blag the fare home.


Comment from: kono [Visitor]

I saw something online about a protest in Lancashire where the people have taken up residence at a frack site in order to keep them from fracking, right on!! There’s a movie called Dear President Obama, most of it takes place in the state i live in and some of it is an hour or two drive my fair city, what a fucking crock this fracking business is, more bullshit to line the pockets of greedy bastards…

“i don’t understand your life"… if i had a nickel for every time i’ve heard that… A-fucking-men to the boring unambulant blobs that will eat away our time at the pub, your statement was spot on…

Thu 13th October 2016 @ 18:32
Comment from: [Member]

Fracking’s bad news, it really is. No-one wants it. No village has ever welcomed fracking. Solar, wind, tidal barrages, let’s give them a go.

I think my life is quite easy to understand. I get this all the time, that I live an unusual life. I don’t think it’s that unusual, and it would be an unjustified vanity to think so. The main thing I want to do is to avoid working, or at least all work that isn’t enjoyable and well-paid. That’s what I’ve tried to do all my life, and I’ve been pretty good at it, especially in my later years, now.

Thu 13th October 2016 @ 18:44

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

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63 mago
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