Bach: Beats cold and loneliness

The house is cold. My gas/electricity account is in credit but I’m experimenting with how many radiators I can do without.

The house is empty. Once we were a couple, now I am alone. Until oblivion carries me off: Next year? Months?

Happy about the Midterms but wish I could have shared the happiness with Veronica.

I turn to music because, after ten years of singing lessons, I know what music can do for me.

What kind of music? Triumphal? Nah, triumph is ephemeral. Music to match my qualified happiness, then. How about that ever-elusive all-time favourite? Difficult; so many, etc; and, autre temps, autre moeurs.

A moment’s deliberation and – hey! – it’s much easier than I imagined.

Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Lasts an hour; recognisably a work of genius; composed three-hundred years ago yet as fresh as the US’s first Muslim senator; lively, thereby, happy.

Details. Solo piano. Starts with a poignant yet simple air lasting about two minutes. Followed by 29 variations, all jewels in their own rights, all obviously melodically linked to the initial air. Air is repeated at the end. I have three different recordings by Glenn Gould, Andras Schiff, Freddy Kempf. Gould is an acquired taste (very fast), Schiff and Kempf both good but Schiff is very likeable in masterclasses.

Result. Ate my solitary lunch (ready-made macaroni, half a kilo of fresh fruit) constantly stirred by Schiff’s ability to differentiate. Strode out afterwards to provide a blood sample at medical centre..

Hallelujah

November 4, 2026. Wowee (squared)

To all those North Americans who've done me the honour of commenting on Tone Deaf I am wishing you be cascaded on, and surrounded by, a very slow moving warm tsunami thickly flavoured with Lux toilet soap capable of easing all bruises, rejecting all political slanders, increasing an awareness that Trump rhymes with chump, and making it possible for you to feel - again - a corporeal enthusiasm for your nation.

Minor reflection. Trump's popularity was always over-stated. Even Calvin Coolidge (died 1933) would have succeeded set against the sad invalid that was Joe Biden (Yes, I know Kemala was his actual opponent but her association with Biden was too close and, in any case, she was a late starter.)  

Osculatory approval

 

"misshapen in old age"

A kiss!

 
So fleeting; even worse, it’s inappropriate.
For surely I repeat my lengthy life:
Callow in youth; misshapen in old age.
Who would want such male inadequacy?
Amazed and inarticulate I ask why?
Then light breaks through via literature
 

For you are gentle reader, writer’s talk,
Allowing me to make amends,
To say I may have, sort of, lied to you.
But ah, the kiss was real enough
To press a woman and to thrill my glands,
Yet in a distant world that leaves you be.

Was I asleep for sleep is close to death,
A dull event that I am sure is marked
On next year’s calendar. An entrance to
A thousand thrills if I suspend all thought,
Instead of which, face up to
Unkissed darkness then oblivion.
 
But in the meantime why not some joy,
For thinking’s joy if we’re well disposed.
And I’m inclined to soft and fleshy thought
Of lips upturned with willingness,
That extra joy, that lay communion

I'm dissatisfied with the above. I'll add a rewritten version for comparison. In the past such tinkering has often been more interesting than the original.

A kiss!

 

That fleeting waft which calls up falsities,

Product of a timorous, futile early life:

Callow in youth; misshaped in later age.

Sex denied through male inadequacy.

I find myself amazed and asking why?

Hoping for answers in this unkempt verse

 

Gentle reader, please forgive me writer’s talk -,

Eg, a phrase like that -  to cover up

Inventive skeins that tie all thought in knots.

But ah, that kiss seemed real enough;

A woman pressed, my glands a'thrill,

To hell if it ignored reality

Perhaps I slept, that sleep that seems so close to death,

Dull death I'm sure that's marked in darkest black

On next year’s calendar. A gateway to

A thousand thrills if I suspend all facts,

Instead of facing up to

Unkissed darkness then oblivion.

 

But in the meantime why not some joy,

For thinking’s joy if we are well disposed.

Like me, inclined to soft and fleshy thought,

To lips upturned in willingness,

An extra joy, a lay communion

Two pairs agreed, close, heart to heart

Welcome to my new-ish world

As every fule knows, I am in my nineties. Am I thus part of an age-defined élite?

A case for Gemini, Google's man-living-in-a-barrel who loves tough questions. In fact I belong to 0.6% of the UK population which sounds tidgy enough to be rather special. Alas, when the percentage is re-stated in numerals I find myself one out of 625,000 souls and thus quite commonplace. Small confession: given my age I prefer to be called a "soul" rather than the fleshy, baggy collection of friable bones that is reality.

Two decades earlier I'd have been a rarer voter; UK nonagenarians have doubled in numbers since then.

I'm older than the tiny band of faithfuls who read Tone Deaf, so, what's it like being four-score years and ten (actually eleven)? Ignore the obvious stuff which I won't go into: forgetfulness, a corporeal structure which groans and creaks, a growing impatience with those who use language carelessly, diminished enthusiasm for cheap wine, a lack of interest in gardening that has expanded into a hatred... you can guess at all that.

But how about a more appreciative response to aspects of beauty in older women? Is this somehow crass, or anti-feminist? I hope not. What I see is calmer, less blatant. As  a twentieth-century Shakespeare might have said: these gliding, more detached adults wear their rue with a difference. The problem - for me - lies in articulating any such observation. Thus - you're not going to believe this! - I am uncharacteristically silent. 

I may not walk as I once did, without concentration. The likelihood of tripping is greater and the penalties more destructive. Sometimes it's as if I'm on a tight rope. Children overtake me. Men and women at doors, a long way off, see me coming and wait - often inordinately - holding the door open. I murmur my thanks and think: lento.

I have developed an insane desire for made-up potato salad. Faced with a choice I would prefer it to lobster, previously the height of gastronomic indulgence. Thank God it's cheap.

I have a foolish, utterly unjustified, belief I can speak mathematics. That equations are poetic. That I can terrify my liberal arts acquaintances with my knowledge. As with James Thurber: people often just walk away.

Death has become a neighbour. The sort that takes in one's undelivered parcel. Points out tomorrow's garbage collection day. Brings round a sponge cake still warm from the oven. Smiles and brushes away thanks with the least demonstrative of hand gestures.

My writing is, I think, more ambitious.

Should books win?

I am a widower. What does that mean?

Yes, of course. Once I was with wife; her death has left me wifeless. But might it be more than that? If I’ve thought about the word widower at all in the past I’ve imagined a condition: a man subjected to change, no longer whole, inevitably forlorn, wearing shabby clothes, tending to shun community, disappearing into a dwelling that is in itself anonymous, reading yesterday’s newspaper, rootling for food on the Reduced shelves. Walking down the street with eyes seemingly fixed on the horizon yet seeing nothing.

Just a minute! you say. It’s nothing like that. Fine, bugger off and write your own post. But see if you can avoid clichés. Leave me to my imagination, and to the unexpected.

Weeks ago I met a widow walking her dog. Her talk was articulate. Knowing that, for Veronica, there would be no funeral I asked the widow what was her experience of her husband’s funeral. Overwhelming tiredness, she said. See! Articulacy had caused her to think and to come up with a response that was conversationally non-instinctive yet immediately persuasive.

Veronica and I shared a number of beliefs and enthusiasms. But there were also differences, some quite radical. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I needed to be married to an individual not a female mirror-image of my inadequate self. As I mentioned earlier, during our poverty period we argued, often quite viciously.

The photo shows a Welsh dresser, an antique gift from my father, it's very old, probably worth a lot. I’ve never liked it. I’m not sure if Veronica liked it but she saw it as an opportunity to display a set of cups and saucers which had passed through her family over the years. This crockery is old but without value; it was acquired pre-war, a prize in a newspaper competition, and was treasured because prizes are rare in most lives. For Veronica it had a sentimental attachment.

She and I read a hell of a lot. Shelved books prevail in all the rooms including the downstairs loo. (“Why”, asked one of our guests, “did you think Anatomy for Nurses was appropriate?” Argumentatively I’d characterise that as an open goal.) The Welsh dresser is in the dining room, an under-used facility when we were a couple, even less so now. I’d love to get rid of the dresser and devote the whole of the wall behind to a monster bookshelf. Showing off, you say. Probably, I respond.

Veronica no longer lives here. The change could not harm her and I’m in need of a little indulgence. What do widowers do?

VPR - Here and there

Two months ago, to the day, my wife Veronica died. My initial reaction was one of guilt; we’d looked after each other during a 66-year marriage and somehow my caring hadn’t been good enough. The house was full of dark corners; my fault.

Some saw Guilt as inexact; how about Grief and its five stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance? I tried to fit these states into a mind beset with loneliness. They didn’t work and, in any case, there were caveats; the time-span for each of these five compartments can vary inordinately. Conceivably I was still denying death even though the box containing Veronica’s cremated ashes said otherwise.

So I turned to that part of my consciousness which, for others, is occupied by a religious faith; as Faulkner might have put it: continuing the creation of a wordy contrivance that had never previously existed. Progress was slow, sometimes non-existent. Never say writing is an easy way out. Not so surprising given that when the gates finally opened the view ahead bore very little resemblance to what had been covered in the preceding 80,000 words. Well, as we all know, Saul differs from Paul.

I wondered how Veronica would have reacted. For her entity still exists here and there. At the other side of our king-size bed. In the kitchen where, unlike her, I prepare unimaginative food. On the patio, waiting for something white and chilled. Listening to the Wotan–Brunnhilde dialogue. Squinting at small-type product labels in Tesco. Watching The Wire for the n-ty n-th time. Sighing at the weeds in the gravel garden. Daring to search the sky for the SAS helicopter. Waiting on Stanbrook for the free bus (thanks to the pensioner’s card). Taking a delivery  from The Wine Society. Presiding over Beef Wellington at Christmas. New Zealand. Cologne. Birmingham Symphony Hall. Somewhere in France in the Scirocco.

Memory, now even more precious.

Interregnum

Christmas 1966 in Pittsburgh. The grease besmeared
child grew up to become Occasional Speeder. The mess
in the foreground is the remains of a roast bird, type
 forgotten. Yes I know, all looks untidy but V is happy

● Two or three years ago - who cares about piffling dates - Veronica had a stroke. Which lead to the first signs of mental disruption. Carers came and went as I looked after her during the day. More difficult at nights when I lay on a folding bed and she on a reclining chair, both in the same room. She deteriorated; social services said she must go into a nursing home. Knackered beyond belief I protested. Foolishly. Other people were beginning to look - medically - at me. After seven months of further deterioration in the home Veronica died, death being what she had begged for.

At odd times, quite unfit for such work, I stole away and added a para or two to my novel, Rictangular Lenses, started a decade ago. Present wordage stands at 80,000 which probably means the MS is 75% complete. My 91st birthday occurred a fortnight ago and it's fairly certain I won't live to complete the first draft, never mind subsequent re-writes and corrections. Never mind. Writing is what I do.

What follows was written in very short bursts while I have been alone in the house. Often in the small hours.  There's no way I can summarise what happened in the preceding fifteen chapters and what will happen in the future is vague in my mind. Other than to say Lindsay, the central character, has gone out into the world intent on kicking the arses of any man who stands between her and financial success. Many sore bums behind her, Lindsay is now wealthy.

Amber, more of an acqaintance than a friend, is devoted to motherhood and the world has treated her badly More recently, after Lindsay left home, Lindsay's mother and her recently acquired husband took in Amber and her young son.●

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BUT Lindsay would have to wait for confirmation. Even after waking an hour later than usual, showering, washing up the evening’s glassware and sifting – vainly – through the fridge for anything that looked like breakfast, the second bedroom remained silent. Drink a likely reason.

Time passed. Lindsay phoned a local restaurant, announced her first name, spelt out an order, agreed an enormous price, returned the phone to its cradle.

A further hour passed. Finally the bedroom door opened and Amber slowly emerged, wearing Lindsay’s most expensive night dress and frowning at the daylight. “My apologies.”

“No problem.” Lindsay took up the phone, speed-dialled a number, announced her name and said “Go ahead.”

Gestured Amber to the easy chair she had approved  of the previous night. “No problem. My fault; too much drink. There is something you intend to tell me but we’ll delay that a while. Always assuming it has survived the booze

“Oh that’s clear as a bell.” Amber's voice clear and threatening.

Lindsay smiled. “I guessed that would be the case. But first we both need extra fortitude. I’ve got orange juice for starters, more follows.”

For some reason sipping orange juice inhibited further conversation until the doorbell rang and a welter of plastic containers were spread out over the dining table.

Perhaps the mere proliferation of bought-in food angered Amber. “What the hell’s all this?”

“Breakfast.”

“Shit. But then I suppose it says everything that needs saying.”

“Perhaps it does. You’re pissed off that I haven’t spent the last half hour mixing  up porridge and frying bacon. Because that’s what normal  people would have done and I’m not normal. And a labour-free meal doesn’t fit in with what you have in mind.”

“And how would you know what I’m thinking?”

“Punishment.”

Amber’s mouth opened but of words came there none. Only the harsh sound of thwarted breathing. Lindsay waited then realised the shot had hit its intended target.

“It’s simple really. You’ve had a hard life and you think it’s unfair that I haven’t. In fact you’ve meekly accepted what was handed out whereas I took hold of fate by the scruff of the neck. So you’re whining for equalisation. But never mind all that. We both need food so let’s eat. I’ll go as far as serving you with what you choose.”

In fact, much would go to waste since Lindsay had ordered all the options. Amber still refused to speak so Lindsay filled a large plate with small servings of everything and pushed it across the table. Given that it might irritate Amber further she limited herself to three slices of black pudding, cut into small pieces and placed on precisely engineered triangles of toast. Rounded off with a bowl of grapefruit.

After five minutes more of non-communication Amber picked up half a sausage and chewed it moodily. This appeared to remind her that she was – in fact – hungry and the rest of the food disappeared quite quickly. Lindsay placed a well-timed mug of black coffee in front of her and looked on expectantly.

Amber said, “How on earth could I manage to punish you?”

“Several ways. Emotional blackmail would be tempting.”

“Details?”

Lindsay laughed outright. “I’m not about to give you ideas so I’ll generalise. Some scheme that would bind the two of us together might seem attractive but it would be based on a false premise. You imagine I dislike you but that’s untrue.”