There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked (Isaiah 57. 21)
Bank Holiday. 3.15 am: Sleepless in Aberystwyth (reprise). I tossed and turned and stared into the darkness until 4.00 am. After which, I put in an hour’s work before returning to bed at 5.00 am and waking again at 8.00 am. 9.00 am: Saturday’s agenda hadn’t been fulfilled. To begin the day, therefore, I finished updating the account of new research outputs on my website. This gave my higher-reasoning functions a lie-in, and an opportunity to rev up on several cups of tea before it moved into writing gear. (‘Get go, Johnny’o!’, the ‘muse’ exhorted.)
11.20 am: (‘Off your backside, buddy!’, whispered the ‘muse’.) I took a pause, picked up my headless guitar, and wondered whether the forthcoming operation on my hand would be sufficiently successful for me to continue as a four-fingered guitarist. But a guitarist I’m determined to remain, even if I have to relearn everything I know about playing scales, chords, and arpeggios using only three fingers. That would still give me 50% more fingers than the great Django Reinhardt had at his disposal. Very rarely have I ever thrown in the towel. And then only because I recognised that the enterprise was not either in my best interests or worth pursuing:
Don’t give up on a cause simply because its: very difficult, frustrating, getting nowhere, complicated, beyond your abilities (it’ll stretch them), directionless (it’ll find its ways, eventually), apparently hopeless (if you remain optimistic, it may yet come to pass), cold shouldered by others (your own enthusiasm should always be enough), or criticised by others (your own integrity will see you through).
Fortified by the demon tannin, I reviewed last week’s work on the conference paper:
It was good as it stood. Now, it needed to build upon itself, deepen, thicken, and keep moving at a fair lick for the first twenty minutes of the delivery.
Lunch: I’ve always found the straightforwardness of cream of tomato soup to be utterly satisfying. It has been one of my comfort foods during times of illness, since I was very young. (Fish fingers and mashed potatoes, baked beans on toast (with lots of butter), and chip butties, come a close second.):
1.40 pm: A map was required, one that would delineate the network of scholarship, themes, groupings, and contours of the field that represents the theology of sound. I need to know what I don’t know and, as importantly, don’t yet understand. As I proceeded, the complexity of the potential interactions became increasingly evident. One must survey the landscape before deciding where to build the house. Presently, I’m attempting to lay my foundations in the middle of what a theological Spaghetti Junction (in my head, at least):
5.20 pm: Enough of this madness! I determined to honour the Bank Holiday with an evening off and vanilla ice cream.
Taken from their world