February 3, 2016

The Ambush of Memory

 

When I started writing this Radio 3 was playing Beethoven’s Fifth. About a week ago a bunch of us handbell ringers sloped off after practise to go hear some fire-breathing orchestra detonate Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.  They played some other stuff first—very well too—and I noticed that two of the six double bass players were small, slight women* but mostly I had my head down over my knitting.  Knitting is my default these days.**  And it was (mostly) okay.  Change of air.  Change of scenery.  Change of people.  All good things (mostly).  My three companions were chatting away cheerfully about music during the pauses while I went loop-wrap-pull, loop-wrap-pull.***

And then the orchestra went dah dah dah DAAAAAAAH and I . . . lost it.  WHAM.  Small intimate train wreck.  Wept copiously all over my knitting.  Swallowed one hand and half a box of tissues in an attempt not to sob cacophonously .  Wanted a bag to put over my head so as not to blind everybody else in the theatre with the dazzling redness of my eyes.

I don’t even know why Beethoven’s Fifth.  It wasn’t Peter’s favourite or anything.  But (several of) Beethoven’s symphonies have been somewhat guilty pleasures for me for most of my life.  Beethoven’s symphonies—maybe especially the Fifth—are so . . . obvious. I love, oh, say, Messiaen, but I have to be feeling like a grown-up to listen to him.  Small children and dogs like Beethoven’s Fifth.†  I first fell under its spell when I was a small child†† And I think what happened is that I found myself staring down the long††† unravelling skein of years during which I have listened many, many times to Beethoven’s Fifth and . . .

I know this is a Stage of Grief. I hope it will be over soon. The grief won’t be over soon—you don’t get over the loss of someone you loved, that’s a no-brainer—but this not being able to go out in public without being frelling likely to make a scene is a colossal bore as well as a vicious circle since the more you don’t go out the more likely you are to melt down when you do . . . and the more likely the depths you will plumb while you’re sitting at home staring at the walls will get depthier.‡

So I do go out.  I’m going to see a live-streaming LA TRAVIATA this Thursday.  It’ll be great.  I can cry when she dies . . . .

This is a Stage of Grief. I know this.

* * *

* I assume they have finger, and possibly arm, extensions to get around the half a mile of those strings.

** It’s certainly my default in public.^ My default at home is mostly a milling hellmob wanting to know when something interesting is going to happen.  Now that we’re spending all our time at the cottage^^ which has very limited floor space due both to original square footage and the whole Things in Corners When There Are No Corners and the Rooms Are a Lot Smaller Than They Were Before There Were Bookshelves on All the Walls etc, this question is more urgent than it used to be.

^ WHAT AM I GOING TO DO about that frelling frelling FRELLING Jesus is my totally creepy boyfriend Modern Christian Worship NOISE?  I got through church this past Sunday for the first time without suffering comprehensive disintegration followed by bolting for the door and sitting in Wolfgang in the dark till I could frelling drive.+  But it wasn’t a good or a holy uplifting time.  GAAAAAAAH.  Sermons about the glory and beauty of life are bad enough but the singing . . . .  The long view is that I want to get back on the singing rota—St Margaret’s have no standards, fortunately and would be happy to have me back—because even before 16 December++ I’ve found the power ballad to God thing a trifle testing, and up on stage ‘leading’ cough cough cough turns it into a performance and I can flip the ‘performance’ switch+++ and the emotional manipulation factor is thereby dimmed.  BUT I need to reach a tipping point of self-control before I risk it.  The performance apparatus will stretch, gouge and support only so far.  It’s  maybe like a hammer to thud a few nails further in.  But it won’t abracadabra a frame to clamp you together.  ++++

+ I can’t remember now if it was last week or the week before that it was helpfully raining so I could sit in Wolfgang with the wipers going and nobody could see me chewing on the steering wheel.

++ Although I effectively stopped going to church after 7 September.  I was at Rivendell on Sunday evenings, like every other evening, and I still can’t get out of bed in the mornings when most people go to church.  Well, I can get up, but I can’t get sane and plugged together enough to drive a car, even a very well-mannered# car like Wolfgang before noon.  Two or three in the afternoon is preferable.

# which is to say lacking in youthful pizzazz and top end precipitancy

+++ Just so long as there’s at least one guitarist to hide behind

++++ MIXED METAPHOR ALERT. And now I’m going make it worse by telling you how the necessary planks are still holding up bird’s nests back in the forest somewhere.  I am trying to tell you I am nowhere near the tipping-back-into-prudence-and-rationality# point.

# Not perhaps that prudence or rationality were strong points before.

^^ Oh, and?, she tosses off lightly, have I mentioned that I’ve bought another house? A . . . you should forgive the term . . . third house?  I have spectacular cash flow problems that may result in a failure to buy dog food soon+ BUT I OWN THREE HOUSES.++  Briefly.  Poor Third House goes on the market as soon as I can finish getting it cleared out.  New House needs a name.  Second Third House? Fourth House Minus Two?  Daughter of Third House?  Seventh Cousin Twice Removed of Third House House? Numerical Confusion I Never Could Count House?  Gwendolyn?

+ This will delight the hellhounds of course. The hellterror, not so much.

++ It’s a long story. Next blog post.

*** I’m not going to say clickety-clack because I don’t clickety-clack.  I use wooden needles, not metal, and I’m slow so I might as well be silent too.

^ Not that this saves me from, for example, the stitch I dropped and then picked up again incompetently when I was knitting in bed one night and heard . . . the unmistakable sounds of a member of the hellmob downstairs throwing up. There is now a HOLE.+  I will sew it up during the seaming stage which, as we all know with McKinley knitting productions, never happens.++

+ In the knitting. Not the hellmob.  Or the kitchen floor.  The hellmob are all remarkably resistant to being left in a box by the side of the road.  They tend to climb out and follow me home again.

++ Which will be embarrassing in this case because it’s the latest in my attempts at a baby blanket. ONE OF THESE DAYS I’LL ACTUALLY FINISH ONE. Before the kid goes off to uni.#

# All right. Before the kid goes off to uni may be too much to ask.  By the time its first baby is born perhaps.~

~ But I still won’t have seamed it up and woven the ends in.

† The hellmob prefer LA TRAVIATA. But they’re okay with Beethoven’s symphonies.

†† And doubtless I was a dog in a previous life.^

^ I know Christianity doesn’t do reincarnation.  WE DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING.

††† Long long long. One of the tangential horrors of the current presidential-election follies is that these bozos are my age.^  These scary creeps are my generation. Forty years ago my generation were going to SAVE THE WORLD, especially from the politicians—and the politicians’ policies—of our parents’ generation.  Same old same old same old I DON’T NEED ANY ADDITIONAL REASONS TO BE UTTERLY DEPRESSED.

^ Ted Cruz is an infant.

‡ Also you are so unlike the self you used to be or thought you knew, blither blither quackety quack quack, and this current self is so exasperating and unseemly and difficult to manage^ that you, or anyway I, do find myself trying to ‘manage’ it/me like you might manage any other intractable problem.  What frelling works? Avoidance?  Confrontation?  Drugs?  Handcuffs and a soundproof dungeon?  Chocolate?  I haven’t found what works yet.

^ And liable to mood changes so supersonically fast, as you might say breakneck, you give yourself whiplash.+

+ It’s not that there aren’t good minutes#. There are just so many more bad ones.

# Getting sworn in as an ornamental laic doohickey by my monks was a good minute. Actually it was several good minutes in a row.  Even if they did occur at EIGHT FORTY FIVE FRELLING O’CLOCK IN THE SUPER-FRELLING MORNING.

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