Looking for comfort at the time of Coronavirus

I may die

But not everyone will die.

I may die

But there will still be blue skies and green fields.

I may die

But I will have lived.

I may die

But my whole history has happened, is a reality.

I may die

And that matters to me, but not to the world.

I may die

But there will still be elephants and zebras (hopefully).

I may die

But there will still be daffodils and oak trees (probably).

I may die

And my whole consciousness cries out at the tragedy.

I may die

But maybe someone will read all my writing, hear all my recordings.

I may die

But you, reader, have not died.

 

 

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After ‘The Death of Marat’

Bath ss

Sharing with you this photo I took some years ago as a joke, to show John – referencing the famous painting The Death of Marat (1793), below.

It’s such a sensitive painting for me.  It had some significance for John, some humourous idea he had had that referred to it.  We used to comment on it – it’s often used or referenced in other contexts.

Of course dreadfully difficult in my circumstances now, I hate it really – but nevertheless, having come across my photo above, I wanted to show someone.

It sort of provides an example of how intellectual our relationship was (and what I’ve lost).

http://muddycolors.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/artist-of-month-jacques-louis-david.html

 

 

Another Spring

Daffodils 2018.jpg

Well the snow and cold weather are over (I hope) and I’ve suddenly been surprised by Spring!  These are daffodils in St James’s Park.

It’s brought with it a resurgence of grief – back to that horror of thinking that the person who was closest to you, who you were sharing your life with, has been snatched away, and will never see a spring again, will never see daffodils again.

I was shocked to think that it’s my fourth spring already since it happened – that I’ve seen four springs now on my own – and cried over the fact he’s no longer here with me.

We used to sit and look at blue skies together, and comment on how the enjoyment of the sky and nice weather didn’t depend on one’s wealth, how anyone could have that pleasure.  Now looking at a blue sky is difficult, because of feeling my loss of him, and his loss of being able to ever see the sky again.

It’s such a morbid thought, but for every one of us there will be the spring after we’ve gone, the first of those that we’ll never see.

Somebody else will be looking at daffodils (and maybe remembering us).

 

 

 

Programmes I don’t watch

These are TV programmes that we used to watch together, or he used to watch a lot, so I no longer ever watch them because it feels too sensitive, like that was another life:

  • Have I Got News For You
  • QI
  • Mock The Week
  • Only Connect
  • Doc Martin
  • Mastermind
  • University Challenge

These are programmes that I have started to watch again on my own, even though they are sensitive:

  • Family Guy (But never the musical introduction/theme song, because that was such a shared thing)
  • Would I Lie To You (I like this so much and it cheers me up)

(But how can I just return to watching things we used to watch, like nothing’s happened?  It’s not easy.   How can something so massive have happened to you, and yet the rest of the world, trivial things, just carry on the same?)

 

Comparing Cinderellas

Over the past few weeks I’ve been comparing two versions of a ballet – Prokofiev’s Cinderella.  One was a traditional version from Amsterdam, Dutch National Ballet, one a recording of the Matthew Bourne version set during the war, which I saw recently at Sadlers Wells but which was also on TV over Christmas.

The music doesn’t directly correlate as you switch between the two, but I’ve certainly become very familiar with bits of it.  I don’t know if I could say which of the productions I preferred, probably the more traditional one, but only by a bit, and both had interesting scenes and ideas.  For example in the Dutch version I particularly loved the groups of four seasons dancers, in different colours, bright green for spring, yellow for summer, red for autumn, then blue/white for winter, with the trees reflecting the same colours, so pretty.  And also how the trying on of the shoe was done, with a whole row of dancers moving forward by one on a row of chairs, with each one doing something slightly different or comical when it came to their turn.  And in the Matthew Bourne I liked particular moments, like the angel all in silver suddenly appearing on a mantelpiece, and the way the stepmother and family do a funny walk together in the hospital scene, so evocative and so cleverly matching the music.

I’m only just starting to bear to be able to listen to emotional classical music again.  The music of the final scene – I’ve just watched the ending of both versions, not an actual proper dance between the couple but a staged happy ending – when it comes in is SO affecting and emotional, it’s like the Rosenkavalier duet at the end, just magical, all ‘twinkly’, stunning how a piece of music can bring out such feelings in your heart you can hardly express, well done Prokofiev!

Just another musical comment.  It’s a well known thing in classical music and opera for example, that the tempo at which things were taken used to be slower in the past and in modern productions can be faster.  John and I used to discuss this a lot, he had an amazing feel for tempo and we both tended to agree about a preferred tempo.  In general, personally, I often prefer the more ‘old fashioned’ speed, and sometimes find things taken much too fast (many examples I could give in opera).  But listening to the main Cinderella theme repeated at the end of these two ballets – in the traditional one it was played over the credits, in the Bourne there was a wonderful danced curtain call – I really felt the traditional tempo was just that bit too slow and laborious, whereas it was much better, to my ears ‘right’, in the more modern version.

I felt so so sad that my partner that I used to be able to talk to about this sort of thing was gone – and so so sure that he would have agreed with me about the tempo, and about the astonishing musical beauty of the ending.

A Small Death

Farthing

One of my goldfish has died.  Farthing.  (Came after Orange, Lemon, and Clement.)

It was the most placid fish, and seemed to have a calming effect on the others.  It was a ‘neutral’ fish – it was never aggressive, never bullied the others, and it seldom got chased or bullied itself.  I thought of it as probably female because of this behaviour, but can’t be sure.

For about a week it became listless, sitting at the bottom of the tank and not swimming around.  I separated it yesterday morning and it was clearly not well, not able to right itself, floating on its side.

It once before nearly died, after I first got it, but somehow it recovered, so this had sort of been its extra life anyway (about two years).

I hoped it might survive but found it dead late last night.  I have buried it in a place that only I know.

It’s only a small death, but nevertheless… the spectre of death presenting itself again.

It does of course make you aware of the parallels of when a person close to you had their last few days and died.

Poor Farthing.  You shared a bit of my life with me, in a small way.

I do wonder whether the remaining fish, for a moment, in some part of their brains, notice the absence of one of their companions.  (‘What happened to that nice quiet orange fish with the big tail that we used to swim around with?’)  This is something we humans will never know – such a thought could not be detectable or measurable. Maybe if there were only two fish, the remaining one might change in its behaviour, indicating an awareness of loss.  But with several remaining, they all behave as normal and there’s no way of knowing if they know or care (unlikely).

Never mind, I care.