She Wears an Egyptian Ring, if Only Theresa May Did
I wish she did.
I was listening to Bob Dylan. I can’t read him, because it lacks everything about the performance that I love. He doesn’t do it in writing for me; apart from in phrases, aphorisms, weird lines that go on and on gathering momentum in me, counteracting other words that fly out at me from news stories: deal, betrayal, vote. Each time I hear those they seem more maligned, more battered by the unworldly imaginations of whoever’s speaking them. Caught in a trap. That’s a good one. Lost in Music. I can get lost in music, with all of its intensity and rhythm but only in a way that seems to set me straight. Robert Browning: Who hears music feels his solitude / Peopled at once.
You can find a piece of music now – on line, in your phone, on a CD, or on a record. Each time it sounds different, if you listening closely enough. I say now, because it isn’t too long you need to retreat to find a time when you couldn’t find a piece of music unless you could find somebody good enough to play it – and then they’d either have had to find the manuscript for the piece, or have remembered it. Writing’s a different matter, unless it goes digital, which it is. Turn off this computer or the server this page is stored on and bang go all the words. Nobody’s going to remember them as they are when they’re read. We’d have words more like music. Perhaps we already do, with deal, betrayal and vote. Words, all their dignity gone.
I wish someone had taught me to read like this and perhaps I’d have something more interesting to say. Don’t get me started on people learning to read.