A strange day. I felt irrationally upset at the implied rejection of a friend who was always somewhat bullying and jealous towards me. I've never really felt envy. I believe that anyone can do anything if they really want to, it's just a matter of trying and repeated practice. There are some limits to what we can master (at 169cm, I'm too short to become a tennis champion) but there are very few exceptions. Maybe the world isn't as fair as I optimistically believe, but if so, then everything is more random or out of our control, and again there is no point in being envious. Envy is so irrational; if we like and appreciate someone, they can be an inspiration, if not, then why worry?
Romantic jealousy is slightly different I think, perhaps more biological and inherent, but then, I've hardly felt that either. Fate draws like people together and if they stay alike, they are inseparable. These paths are mapped by the fates.
These ideas inspired me and I began to explore the concept of envy and jealousy and drew an idea sketch for a future painting, my first in a few months. At times like this I miss painting, but then, I spend each day working on art. Every day is a balance and every day is precious. Every hour should be loved and appreciated!
My mood was still sour. I took a walk, and realised that my attitudes towards this person were pointless and irrational. To be envied is a compliment, and we are free to make, break, renew any relationship at any time, and all relationships are ultimately based on utility and need.
I returned home and started work on the new War is Over recordings for Fall in Green. The idea behind the poems was as an alternative war commemoration, marking the centenary of the end of the First World War, a series we were asked to compose and perform in November 2018 in Knutsford and Congleton libraries.
The first two poems, unusually by me (Deborah normally writes the words, I the music), are about old warriors. I wanted to avoid clichés. It seems silly, inauthentic, to write faux-sad poems about long dead soldiers that I have no connection to. Faux-sad war poems! The worst art!
Instead, I thought of the dead warriors themselves and about warrior's glory, a rare view, out of fashion; this is the exact opposite of Great War poetry. I thought that those dead warriors might feel insulted or patronised to be thought of as victims rather than fighters. This emotion was the basis of my two poems.
There is no music to these. In the live performance, I read the words while Deborah tolled a bell. I've broadly preserved this for the recording, although I did toy with adding rock guitars, I rather liked that but Deb thought that it was a bit too much like stadium rock and out of character, and I thought yes, perhaps so. I've added some flames and roars. Here are the words to the first poem, To Valhalla We Must Go:
Smash the sunset with Mjolnir's weeping fury!
Let crows explode from their castled cones
over the graves of gritted-teeth skulls.
Let their fists burst the blood soil
and banshee at the bad night.
The fight must never die, though we are home.
In august robes, the masters of entropy sleep
limp over thrones of marble decay
letters there to avoid memory
as blind as the dead,
the calcined trees of yesterday.
As trumpets herald midnight and silent guns
let wolves moan their savage flutes,
let moon rockets shoot at the moribund stars
and scream "no!"
Crucify nostalgia.
Set a new red flower to burn.
Set a new clock to wheel
and char the snow.
To Valhalla we must go.
