Now playing - "Twisted"

(Thanks to J for, many years ago, introducing me to this wonderful Annie Ross track.)

My analyst told me that I was right out of my head
The way he described it, he said I'd be better dead than live
I didn't listen to his jive
I knew all along he was all wrong
And I knew that he thought I was crazy but I'm not.

My analyst told me that I was right out of my head
He said I'd need treatment but I'm not that easily led
He said I was the type that was most inclined
When out of his sight to be out of my mind
And he thought I was nuts, no more ifs or ands or buts.

They say as a child I appeared a little bit wild
With all my crazy ideas
But I knew what was happenin',
I knew I was a genius
What's so strange when you know that you're a wizard at three?
I knew that this was meant to be

Well I heard little children were supposed to sleep tight
That's why I drank a fifth of vodka one night
My parents got frantic, didn't know what to do
But I saw some crazy scenes before I came to
Now do you think I was crazy?
I may have been only three but I was swingin'.

They all laughed at Al Graham Bell
They all laughed at Edison and also at Einstein
So why should I feel sorry if they just couldn't understand
The litany and the logic that went on in my head?
I had a brain, it was insane
Don't you let them laugh at me
When I refused to ride on all those double decker buses
All because there was no driver on the top.

My analyst told me that I was right out of my head
The way he described it, he said I'd be better dead than live
I didn't listen to his jiveI knew all along he was all wrong
And I knew that he thought I was crazy but I'm not.

My analyst told me that I was right out of my head
But I said "Dear doctor, I think that it's you instead'
Cause I have got a thing that's unique and new
It proves that I'll have the last laugh on you'
Cause instead of one head... I got two
And you know two heads are better than one".

"... songs are sung"

When horses die, they breathe,
When grasses die, they wither,
When suns die, they go out,
When people die, they sing songs.

Velimir Khlebnikov

(Gorecki String Quartet No 3, Op 67)

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia (and poor audience)

Watching Hamlet in the open air at Oxford Castle. An efective, fast-moving (and heavily but appropriately cut) production. The first half grips the audience in the early evening sunshine. But in the interval, the heavens open. We huddle under umbrellas by the castle walls, watching the rain teem down on the stage and soak into our canvas seats. The interval is extended, the rain stops, the water is swept off the stage. The play resumes: Claudius's "Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens" gets a laugh. The rain resumes: soon it is torrential. As Laertes carries Ophelia's body through the puddle that was the stage ("Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia") it is clear that we cannot continue and the actors give up the unequal struggle against the elements. I have rarely been so wet! But not one of the audence left during the ten or fifteen minutes in which the performers were struggling to be heard against the rainfall and the lights illuminated the falling sheets of water.

Sleeper

I have just seen the most amazing sculpture, "Sleeper" by Guillermo Monroy. I've seen his work develop for some years: he sculpts with parts of defunct musical instruments and mixes visual puns about music, instruments and animals with art-historical references and his works carry remarkable power: I own a piece of his, using an old saxophone, which creates the most shocking silence imaginable.

But "Sleeper" is his masterpiece. A crucifixion: the cross is two railway sleepers and Christ's body is made from various instruments: an accordion torso, piano keys, various brass instruments. It is a real show-stopper. It speaks of the power of music, the history of art, and the weakness of humanity: it re-presents the most potent of images with truly staggering impact (and I wish I could express it better).

For me, its impact is more powerful than anything Damien Hirst has ever done (and I'm a great admirer of Hirst: I say this not in any way to play down Hirst's importance, but rather to show how powerfully this work tonight has affected me).

Red roses and red noses

My Latin reading group today was, for some end-of-year light relief after trying to make sense of Trithemius, reading Thomas a Kempis (and some members of the group were in a particularly silly mood). Which brought to mind this poem by Lord Berners:

Some people praise red roses
But I beg leave to say
That I prefer red noses -
Red noses are so gay.

A Kempis says we must not cling
To things that fade away.
Red noses last a lifetime
Red roses but a day.

Red roses blow but thrice a year,
In June, July and May.
But those who have red noses
Can blow them every day.