Ah...

Jan. 14th, 2017 01:56 pm
johnny9fingers: (Default)
When I moved out, my ex redecorated comprehensively. I had removed 90% of my library from the house, so it made sense. She also bought new blinds, and had the place painted from top to bottom.

Today, my almost 6 year-old son told me he wanted to go home. I suggested to him that he only thought that because Daddy was too strict. After some thought he replied along these lines:

"No, it's just you have too many books."
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"There are too many books. Your flat is too cluttered. The blinds aren't right. The sofa is too big. And there are books everywhere."

Evidently my son has become too much of an interior designer to want to stay in my flat.

It's right about now that I start thinking of paternity tests.

Here goes.

Jan. 13th, 2017 10:49 am
johnny9fingers: (Default)
First dreamwidth post.

Wow!

Whoever thought I would leave LJ? Not me. However the Putinbots (some remarkably clever and nice-seeming, the sort who disguise appalling views as jolly banter, and who are unfailingly polite and courteous - others of course being not quite as adept at pretending to the values of civilisation) have finally made of LJ Dodge City before Wyatt Earp.

It's a fun place in a desperate sort of way; and the few communities in which I still participate are, for LJ purposes, and in the world of FB and Twitter, vibrant.

LJ may be a fun place, but it has become even more a small battlefield in the phoney-cyber-conflict between polities, virtual polities, and political alignments. The levels of casual racism have risen to a point where I am having difficulty controlling my temper. Maybe it was always thus, but like Edward VII, I am of the opinion that even these casual forms of racist behaviour are disgraceful.

The problem then becomes, of course, when faced with this, do all of us sort-of-informed non-gender-specific chaps engage against that which we consider to be objectionable, or keep quiet for the sake of harmony?

I know I paraphrase some part of a Hamlet soliloquy, but taking virtual arms against a sea of prejudice and disinformation seems like a reasonable thing to do. (You can never end it though, in this Hamlet is wrong; I suppose the struggle just gets passed on to other folk.)

Anyway, it's time to borrow Achilles' armour. Epistolic aristeia awaits, if not for thee, then for me.

Update.

Jul. 2nd, 2016 04:20 pm
johnny9fingers: (Sri Yantra)
Just about to gig at a party outside Winchester. Get in is 5pm. Sound check is as soon afterwards as poss. I should be back at the hotel by 1am and then sleep. In the morning I have to rush back home for my daughter's third birthday.
And my ears are giving me problems. :(
Never mind. Just more rubbish to deal with, I suppose.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Things have been moving pretty fast.
Both she and I have decided that it doesn't get any better than this. However, prudence upon both our parts would stop us doing anything precipitate.

Logistical decisions will no doubt have to be made. I shall have to find some way of looking after the Mother too.
Anyway, she's met the mother. I have to meet her people, which may be more of an ordeal.

Nick and Em like her very much too. We went to supper at Nick's on Saturday, and drank Champagne and Margaritas. Stephen couldn't get away from his disabled mother and so didn't show, poor lad.

As for She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed....we haven't set a date yet, so don't put out more flags.

Well, I hope I've managed to convey the shape of things in a few sentences. 

Hellish few days ahead.
Pete's Stag night on Thursday, Gig in Cheshire (300 odd miles away) on Saturday evening and on Sunday afternoon I have Pete and Sancha's wedding to attend. Milady is of course busy when I'm not, and vice-versa, but that's just par for the course.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Please don't expect anything like sense from me for the next gawd-knows-how-long....if that's a sensible measure of time somewhere between a nanosecond and a Yuga.
Very probably there will not be a lot of nonsense either unless I can get my head together even slightly, and this ain't about drugs....well other than endorphins, anyway.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Returned from Milady's place. She's staying with me on Friday. The slow evolution to tidiness is going to need a right kick up the backside and possibly some kind of turbo-charger. We're both off to Nick's on Saturday where she will get a chance to meet some of my older friends. Nick and I have been chums since the Imperial College days, some twenty seven years ago.
Gods, I'm old. Milady keeps complimenting me on how well-preserved I seem, but blames it on my idle and frivolous lifestyle: she may well have a point as I've hardly worn myself out with heavy use.
It also seems she is a smit as I am.
Obviously we both have some sort of brain fever, which explains soppiness etc.



The only other excuse for me posting this, apart from the fact that I really rate it as a song, is that I was in a duo/band which opened for Joan on her tour in 2000. I asked her about the chords to 'Love and Affection' and she said 'All guitarists ask me that question', and didn't answer further. So....I watched her from the side of the stage right through the tour. Evidently she knew folk were checking, and so for all of that small tour she played different inversions of the opening chords every night. The other weird thing is a friend from an older generation, Peter Noble, once owned a record company, and turned a young and unsigned Joan down: he never got over it really.
 
johnny9fingers: (Default)
I stumbled.

Of the piles of books on the floor, I came across two that I lost myself in, rather stupidly, and now am rather behindhand in the Spring clean. For me this, like most things, is a leisurely activity; I rarely exert myself overmuch. Proper laziness is doing exactly as little as is required, which leaves more time for the thinking [read: solipsism, or self-regarding stupidity of a certain kind  - ed] or reading.

Most of the books are on shelves, which is nice. The TLS's are all in boxes. Some of the clutter of my life has been removed enough to hoover. Slowly my habitat evolves into a civilised state. Finding the proper place for everything becomes more time consuming when trying to put a quart into a pint pot. Shifting books requires a Rubik's-cube-like set of manouevres, with the shifting of other books and other things.

I've kept the navel-gazing to a minimum because no matter how closely I've watched, I've yet to see a holy lotus spring forth therefrom.

Rather looking forward to Milady's return; but I would say that wouldn't I?
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Given that I have time for scales and tidying and such, and have done some small amount of both, I betook me to my blog; else how would you know all the idiocies that spin through my brain to splutter forth as prose; and how poor your lives would be without such wisdom.
As I have been known to claim, I am delicate from birth and not suited for drudgery, yet, when absolutely forced into it by shame (that great motivator) I have been known to drudge.
Somewhere in my past I took a wrong turn and so I find myself at forty-six, and without a valet. Now to many of you, being robust coves at heart, this is a mere bagatelle, a frippery, a....superfluous and needless civilised appurtenance that backwoodsmen would spurn and all 'true chaps' would eschew out of sheer manliness. But I ask you, how many of us pick up our own socks? Regularly? I mean I'm as familiar as the next man with a washing-machine-device, and they all have simple instructive pictures on 'em which match the simple instructive pictures on clothes labels and detergent: so I don't need to know much about the process thereof, but it's the fucking repetitive regularity of it all that defeats me. I've tried ritualising the operations attendent in making a house/flat/apartment function at its most efficient, but boredom eventually overwhelms any good intentions.
However, these past days have wrought some small change in me. Apart from old not-quite-flames popping out of the woodwork asking how I am (why does that happen the minute one starts a new relationship?) which has amused, I'm also changing in other ways. I hardly smoked anything at all in Milady's company. No spliff dudes.....Of course, as she's off skiing at present, the bad habits have crept back, but.....this bodes well.
Do women socialise chaps like me? Without the company of women I will revert to a caveman unless I have money for staff. Which is not that they pick up after me overmuch: more that they keep me to civilised standards, so I have to pick up after myself. I begin to understand why many hermits were lice-infested, hair-shirt-wearing, filthy, smelly old people. I refuse to become one of them, my dears. Besides, I am addicted to the pleasure of bathing; I still think of the two novel bath as the absolute pinnacle of sybaritic indulgence; especially if also graced by a handmaiden, caviar blinis, and a chilled Ch√Ęteau d'Yquem.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
You know what: I may be getting seriously smitten here.
Spoke to She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed (at least as far as the linguistic form m'dear is concerned) and laughed for a considerable time. I have to investigate late afternoon/early evening art for Friday, then supper.

The important phrase here is laughed for a considerable time. In fact I'm still smiling. This has to be some sort of win, surely. I'm verging on happy....almost.

Helo birds helo trees helo sky it al a part of life's rich tapestry, sa fotherington-tomas who is an utter weed and a wet.

Guilty as charged m'lud, and I'll come quietly.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning
his little home.  First with brooms, then with dusters; then on
ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash;
till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all
over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms.  Spring was
moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him,
penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of
divine discontent and longing.  It was small wonder, then, that he
suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O
blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house
without even waiting to put on his coat.  Something up above was
calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which
answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals
whose residences are nearer to the sun and air.  So he scraped and
scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and
scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little
paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go!  Up we go!' till at last,
pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself
rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.

Easter weekend seems to have its own program this year. Given that next Friday I have a second date I'd better clean the flat.
[Puts head in hands contemplating the task ahead.]

There are things worth rejoining the world for, but I never knew spring cleaning was one of them.
Anyway, I always wanted to be Ratty: and for a time I suppose folk thought of me as Toad, but I never thought I'd turn into Badger, who lives in the country and doesn't go into society much anymore.

Mole will do.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
It turned into a proper first date.
She bought me supper. We argued about the bill and she browbeat me....uncertain of how to take that.
Also she isn't too keen on having poetry quoted at her....doesn't know her Shakespeare that well and has a distinct dislike to being called "m'dear" which is alas one of my default usages.
She is very clever (whew, some relief there then) and v. cute.
She also thinks I'm too posh. Tried to disabuse her: "it's just my voice" didn't really convince.

The Pub was too loud, and I was still slightly hearing impaired after the flight back from Nice. 

Escorted her to London Bridge Railway station where she took the train. I took the tube back to Balham and overland from there. When I got out of the underground I found I had a txt message on my mobile:

"tks for fun evening. Can't believe I spent at least 5 mins queuing for a ticket and could have got a free ride! Give me a bell if u feel like getting out of the bath and need more than a book for company....I might turn up. S."

I think that probably counts as a win. Will txt her back today, without bath related comments. I wish I'd never mentioned the two-novel-bath as proof of sybaritic tendencies. I wonder if company extends to.....shall speculate no longer.

Also got another txt message almost simultaneously from Em, which was much ruder. And if you're reading this Em, the answer is no. I do understand how first dates go. I am a gentleman. I am no longer the young man for whom women were prepared to do that sort of thing on a first date, really. Just because you don't mess about, doesn't mean the rest of the female population are as....practical as you.
 
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Well....it seems I have a 'date' tonight (for a given definition of 'date', that is).
The lawyer woman I met whilst hungover on Friday afternoon has agreed to go for a drink and moreover has threatened me with wit, forsooth. This is a challenge not to be taken lightly and I look forward to crossing blades with a sensible lass of adult years. I don't know anyone from 'Cats' so can't ask about possible bunny-boiling tendencies: besides which she's nine years younger than me, so.....half a generation ain't much but....
Uncertain as to the omens. A solitary Harlequinned messenger (ergo, Melpomene's) plonked itself in my path, and I warded the little fucker off, but really....Why not two for joy, my dears, why not two for joy?
It always ends in tragedy anyway, but this rather begs the question. Perhaps I should just go back to bed and forget about it all.
Of course, I'll go and make a complete fool of myself, so the omens will be proven right, unless that is there's worse than that to come. Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make happy.
It would be nice to get to the happy bit, even fleetingly.
Accomplished rumpy-pumpy wouldn't go amiss, either.
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Did something stupid today (as on all days, but this was a different stupidity): I bought a sterling silver Dennison moon-cased AWW Waltham half hunter across e-bay for slightly too much money. I have one just like it in gold, and apart from my guitars, it looks as precious to me as any first edition that I own. Dammit, I'm not a rich man, and should know better than to spend money on frivolities: especially when there are so many books in the world, and firsts still on the list. Persuasion springs to mind, as it does to all unsuccessful lovers. (I think the first was printed in an edition with Sanditon, but I'm not sure - I'll have to investigate.)

Slightly involved in a debate about language which appears to have a little 'side' to it - we shall see, though I shan't press my case too forcefully - beyond a certain point it becomes vulgar, God forbid, and besides (though I'm not certain) the other party seems young, and is probably just coming into his own and stretching his debating muscles. But I make a bad Socrates, my dears - Hemlock is not my poison, nor do I favour young men. (Well-preserved women of my own age with wit, please - such things resolve themselves into which children's TV programmes you remember - if I'm quoting 'Bagpuss' and all you know is 'Power Rangers', there just ain't any meeting of minds.)
johnny9fingers: (Default)
Interesting.
I updated my profile, which had been rather perfunctory, and added some things, amongst which was an interest in Theology.
I was born and brought up a Catholic, but am no longer any sort of Christian, but I retain an interest in Theology and Doctrine, if only to repudiate the more lunatic ideas promulgated by the theologians and doctrinal instructors. I'm interested in this for all religions, as this is a major mechanism of congregational control.
However, by the side of my blog has appeared advertising for Bible studies, and born again madness.
I will rant if those particular adverts are not removed. And the rant will make Dawkins look like a Christian apologist. And I will quote Chapter and Verse, showing in as much detail as I can the contradictions in the 'Good Book'. From mistranslations of Hebrew and Greek (The King James is so reliable on this) to the specific borrowing from Mithraic religions (Dec 25th birth of solar deity), Zoroastrianism (dualism - struggle between good and evil), Hinduism (the Trinity), and pagan animism (saints, with attribute and aspect). As for the fundamentalist Christians who believe according to Bishop Usher's timescale, I will point to  Hindu, Egyptian and Babylonian beliefs that date from before the creation of their world in 4004 BC.
The longer the Bible advertising goes on, the more splenetic I shall become, because an interest in Theology doesn't equate with an acceptance of irrational superstitious miracle working. I don't buy lottery tickets - I don't need the delusional aspect of belief to reassure that the universe loves me, because it doesn't. I love the universe, which is a different thing, and one that the religious have confused because of their insecure need to receive love from the all mighty as some form of imaginary external validation.
Give, don't worry about receiving.
The realm of chance is so much bigger than the Christian's poor small god, who from the writings of their prophets, doesn't even approach the infinity described by Georg Cantor as Aleph nul, let alone the description of the universe given us by M-theory.
Any god that's only been around for 6007 years is going to be pretty miniscule in a universe we understand to be 13.5 billion years old.
And by the bye, the Mustard seed does not grow into the biggest tree.

The fucking Christians don't even practice the word of Jesus.
'I say to you, love your enemy. Even the heathen love their fellows.'
Turn the other cheek...
Blessed are the meek
Render unto Caesar is all they can manage.

Mind you, I don't think any better of Islam or Judaism. Or Hinduism as espoused by the BJP.
All religion is run by fucking shits who use their concepts of rightness to promote the murder of 'infidels'.
I sometimes feel like saying 'Kill all the priests and all the Imams and all the Rabbis'.
I'd settle for gagging them all instead.
johnny9fingers: (Sri Yantra)

About to go to pay Christmas visit to Glamorous  Ex  (who's back in the country for the holiday).
Glam Ex's Mama is getting on a bit, but still working as actor in long-running soap (and quite frankly, is the stand out performer in aforementioned serial), and understandably needs folk to help deal with day to day stuff, as her workload is pretty punishing. When Glam Ex is in the country, she takes over lots of this stuff, to ease the burden. (See what I mean about a 'good sort'.)

Ah well, no duties until this evening when I have to go and see Steve K, his Missus, and two daughters.
Have books for my godchildren.
Oxford Companion to Classical Literature - Harvey
Oxford Dictionary of Quotations
Collins Biographical Dictionary of English Literature
Should help 'em with school work, at the least, and also broaden minds and horizons, which is more important.
Will have to replace them in my library, but will do so when I find them, rather than search over the web.

I now need to find myself a job, work, paying occupation, whatever.
I reckon I need about £800 pcm minimum, which is not a lot, but I have few overheads in comparison to others (no mortgage or rent, just bills). I could earn almost double that stacking shelves, but somehow feel I'm not exactly suited to the rigorous demands of the job.
This is the problem when you leave school at seventeen to follow some rock 'n' roll dream. When you hit forty and you aren't a graduate you become effectively unemployable in the real world. The difference between ones person and ones academic accomplishments is such that interviews become something of a minefield.
Ones musical CV doesn't count for much in the world of wage-slavery, neither does ones published work in music, prose, or poetry. And having applied for a shelf-filling position, when it comes to interview, they don't expect someone like me (though the Latin must give 'em a bit of an indication).
The other problem is I'm blessed (or cursed, more like) with an accent that can only be described as Patrician. My musician chums have gotten used to it, & most of my schoolfriends and other old chums sound similar, but ordinary folk tend to look askance the minute I open my gob.
I did work in computers in the early 90's, but doubt I could pick up the threads of the thing now.
I could teach guitar privately (as I have done on and off for more than twenty years).
I could beg some sinecure from a chum (which has been offered without me even asking, but I'm a proud man and I'd rather starve or eat my own shoes).
Or I could bite the bullet and retrain, but as what?

45 yr old man with compulsive reading disorder needs work. Can do almost nothing very well, but showed a remarkable aptitude at an early age, especially when it came to tying shoelaces. Has spent too long in the music business and acquired all sorts of bad habits, and is insubordinate to boot, especially when instructed by morons. Worse, he's worked with folk of whom you've heard and bought the albums; has had a string of beautiful girlfriends, most of whom he's still chums with; and hobnobs with the upper classes despite extreme left wing history, since repudiated. Once owned a record company that went bust due to inattention and bad business decisions. Published as a critic and poet, but very rarely. Voice sounds too posh to live and is a positive invitation to revolution and the guillotine.

Can't see it drawing in the employers somehow.

Perhaps it is time to do like Petronius, but being cowardly, I'll put it off for the time being. I shall tape two bits of paper to a coin. On one side will be written 'Day-gig' and on the other side 'suicide'.
Heads
Heads
Heads
Hades...
I jest of course, a real job's far worse than killing yourself.

johnny9fingers: (Default)

I hope everyone's got their Christmas/Festive holiday thing sorted.
Being nominally Christian, I grew up with a fairly traditional Christmas. This year, like the last couple, I've done little, and plan to do no more.
Mother's going oop North to Mike & Alexis.
So I shall be by myself. Luxury. Luxury. My cup brimmeth over, as the good book says.
There are times when only indulging in one's misanthropy will do, which is what I intend. I fear the savage side of my wit shall be forever private: but I shall write insult and injury privately and not here, as is proper. 'Twould not do to hurt the defenseless, and most of the folk contributing to my mood are indeed idiotically defenseless: and those I would pillory in petto, if that's the phrase I'm stretching for.
Also I'm bloody angry with myself for not copy-editing my own comments before posting. Just fucking bang away at the keyboard (I almost wrote typewriter) and post. Arsehole Ninefingers screwed a famous Yeats quote and deserves a metaphorical kicking.
Truning and turning - ouch. (Never mind the displacement of i & e earlier in the text.)
I'm meant to be better than that...oh what the fuck, who am I kidding.

But to redeem myself I give it to you in full.

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of
Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards
Bethlehem to be born?

and then shall follow it with

Dilbert Dec 22, 2006

I bet the Squirrel gets a good book deal.

johnny9fingers: (Sri Yantra)
Extraordinarily attractive woman at supper yesterday called Ruth (oh woe). Psychologist working with educationally disadvantaged children. Alas too young for me. She is 27 and therefore I am old enough to be her father. I am suspicious of attractive fit young women who prefer broken down old men, or even slightly soiled middle aged ones like me.
A good time was had by all until I mangled my conjugations and declensions, but weed was involved before conversation, ergo I was a bit worse for wear.
Set up my digital freeview box for the TV.
Still some last minute shopping to do.
johnny9fingers: (Sri Yantra)
All this being single lark's not much fun really. I should have gotten used to it by now, but somehow, one's frustration at the attempts to pursue life, love, and pleasure, with dignity and grace, inevitably boil over into ill humour and bad temper. I should self medicate more.

As is, I can be quite cutting and cruel when irritated, which is not good: and especially not good when sole remaining parent, probably through grief, winds a chap's spring just that bit too tight. It is not a good thing to bark at one's mother, no matter the provocation.

Am feeling a trifle deficient in virtue at present, and need to find a place to hang my head in shame. I'm meant to be better than that, dammit, and apologies aren't enough, really.

I can see that on a personal level, life may become significantly less interesting.

Last of the Christmas shopping to do.

Hazel's for supper party. Em & Nick have offered to put me up if I want to drink (yes please, but...perhaps not: parent to consider).

Dad did all the practical things for mum. Cooking, shopping, finance etc. Mum took charge of their laundery, and generally oversaw everything else, being disabled but still unable to keep her fingers from every pie within reach. Born to rule, which is unusual in an Yeoman family of the Irish Republican kind. But there you go.

Wonder what my dining companions will be like?
johnny9fingers: (window)

Sunday.

Oh well...
Life is, as we all know, a transient thing. What Camille Paglia termed as 'The Outrage of Incarnation' ends in the tragedy of the loss of incarnation, and the death of persona/personae.
I've started getting over the outrage part, but only at the expense of appreciating the tragedy. Damn, I miss my angry and uncaring youth.
I still, however, find no excuse for the warble in the Opera Singer's voice.
It's even worse when they attempt Bach with a modern vibrato. Whatever happened to the note, pure and unadorned, in the right place with the right inflection?
I also have to face other facts: I am no longer the musician who took such pleasure in the bratty outrage of rock 'n' roll. I have replaced an encyclopedic knowledge of Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, and The Stones et al, with a love (but less of an understanding) of 'Classical' music, and this process has been ongoing for more than twenty-five years.
In my pretentious, angry, and uncaring youth, I attempted to transcribe bits of Bartok's 3rd string quartet for electric guitar.  (Bob Fripp nicked the Pizzicato movement of Bartok 4 for his 'Larks Tongues in Aspic pt II'; so there was precedent.) Thereafter I had a love/hate relationship with the extreme modernists, and perversely, Bach; which ran alongside a love of American influenced vernacular music.
But the past ten years, of choice, all I've listened to is BBC Radio 3. I've made the excuses; that I was setting up my harmonic vocabulary for the day: if I were to be arranging or writing parts I'd often find I'd recycle ideas I'd been listening to on Radio 3 during the drive into the studio - often combining something obvious and tuneful with post-Stravinsky dissonance or even atonality.
But in fact I listen to pop and rock music to dissect it; in terms of sounds, arrangements, and production. Most of it doesn't do it for me, anymore.
Sibelius, though, is a different matter. As is Beethoven.
I play in studios, I play in function bands; occasionally I teach, when I can be bothered, and only if the pupil can convince me he/she is serious and prepared to do the work - but I no longer love it. It is no more my east and west, and its breadth seems as narrow as the horizons of a teenage mind - which as we know, centres on girls (if you're that way inclined), money, and getting off one's face, to employ an argot of recent past. Or there's Kurt, godblesshispoorsoul, and his ilk, with whom I have much sympathy, and to whom I can still listen (just about).
But after the sound of the Dual Rectifier (Mesa's Metal Head), there hasn't been anything new.
We've just lived through the songwriting equivalent of the Elizabethan age of Dramatists. After Marlowe, Shakespeare, and Jonson, it all went downhill for some time. The irony of the fact is that just as we achieve the ability to record and store information on a vast scale, all the great great creative genii are doing something else - probably computer games.
I know, because I'm part of it - I'm good at what I do (when I can be bothered), but I can't say I'm a genius - but actually, when I look at all the people around me - all of whom are educated and talented - I still don't see genius.
Remember: Genius is the enemy (or overlord) of even the very good indeed.
There is no obvious Goethe, no Schiller, no Eliot: and this is because learning isn't valued for its own sake, merely for its application or relevance. Even the Dandyish Bohemian intellectual is a stereotype so long past its sell by date it is almost antediluvian.
Vespasian joked upon his death that he must be turning into a god.
I feel I'm alive, but slowly becoming fossilised.

Funeral Wednesday.
Will finish short speech tomorrow, & rehearse it exactly twice.
Will probably have to amend it when Mike gets here anyway.

johnny9fingers: (window)
Mike and Alexis are down. It shifts the burden and is always so welcome.
M very depressed at Dad's condition, but it's not as if any of us has a magic wand.
Swollen ankle-joints mean I can barely walk, and this despite anti-inflamatory drugs from my Doc. Wrists seem to have got slightly better. But told not to put any pressure or strain on them, so no practice. Buggering flu.

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