June 8, 2017

Yesterday. A waking dream:

An American motorcar (like a 1950s Chevy), maroon and dusty (like Kerouac’s), seen from high up, sped across the Brooklyn Bridge; then, ochre sunlight reflected off a field of frosted grass; then, a narrow, tall, and dimly lit gallery corridor with smooth walls of satin cream emulsion; then, dust fell slowly against a background of great darkness.

Today. 9.00 am: On my way to the bus stand, I passed by the Buarth Hall to view the Polling Station. I met our former Mayor Sue Jones-Davies, who was concerned about the slow show at that time of the morning (when one would expect people to vote on their way to work). Of all elections, this is not the one people should choose to be apathetic towards:

I took the 9.40, T1 TrawsCambria bus to Glangwili General Hospital, Carmarthen. Rain was periodic throughout the journey:

En route, I listened to the Beatles’ Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, fifty years after it’s release. To my mind, George Martin’s contribution was co-equal with that of the band. Moreover, it was the limitations of the recording equipment at the time that was, in part, responsible for some of the most significant breakthroughs in creative analogue manipulation. In principle, the more sophisticated and capable a technology, the less room there is for innovation. The Beatles’ music was never dark enough for me. It lacked a sense of sublimity, anxiety, anger, and transcendence.I turned to progressive music, jazz, and classical music for an expression of those dimensions of reality.

12.30 pm: Today, I suffered the same fate as my Stylophone of late. My body was circuit bent. An upwards of 100 mA electrical charge passed through the nervous system of each of my lower ams. My hands convulsed like galvanised frog’s legs. Fascinating and painful in equal measure. Electricians were the worst patients, I was told, because they spent all their lives avoiding electrocution; (and this was nothing short of that). The consultants had such interesting kit in the examination rooms. Now, this I must try one day, when I need my head examined (which folk have often advised). Which socket can I plug my guitar into?:

7.00 am: Time out means catch up. Back to the mundanities of academic admin until the beginning of the election coverage and a protracted night and early morning moaning and groaning in front of the television. I fear there’ll be little cause for cheer. Pot noodles and other combustibles to the ready:

11:59 pm: I predict a hung parliament if the outcome is anything like that suggested by the Exit Poll. (To be continued …)

 

 

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