I wonder Dear Stone. I read and I wonder.
Not a day goes by I don’t do one or the other. Of late I have begun to wonder what would happen if I stopped reading? On the other hand I never consider what would transpire if I ceased wondering. That won’t happen. The ceasing of wondering that is. I’d have to be dead to stop wondering. Or in a coma. Or under the influence of an anaesthetic. And I am in none of these unconscious states.
When I wonder what would happen if I stopped reading I always conclude; nothing momentous. Nothing of the magnitude of a shift in the laws of quantum physics such that allows say (in theory) the Earth to take leave of its orbit around the sun.
Naturally, I know that to be the case. I am not a crank. Or a fool. Or indeed a Crankie. Heaven forbid. This is not The Butterfly Effect revisited. No, what bothers me is; if I didn’t read what would I do instead of reading?
I joked to my wife I could become a Pseudo-Buddhist. Sit in a corner all day and chant.
She didn’t laugh.
I guess I am funnier on paper.
I beg of you: do not hold back on your laughter even if it is ironic in nature.
I was not reading when I wrote these words. Hard to read and write simultaneously. Wondering, yes, whilst listening to Debussy. One of those ‘best of’ ‘compilations you find on You Tube. An hour and twelve minutes long this one is. And before you accuse me of being elitist citing classical music, let me get this straight; I am a musical ignoramus. I cannot play a note. Or sing. I cannot read music. I know nothing about music. Only whether I like it.
I listen to all sorts but have by and large abandoned the popular music of my youth (seventies/eighties) in favour of what I call contemporary, which is in fact, by and large, stuff released this millennium.
Apart from Debussy et al.
I have a play list on You Tube I labelled ‘Contemporary’ that proves I am not just making this up.
I should say (in case you ever stumble across it) there are exceptions on this list. Not all of the tracks are strictly contemporary. Notably Funkadelic’s Free Your Mind, originated in another era.
Free Your Mind (and your ass will follow) the kingdom of heaven is within.
Ten minutes and six seconds of weirdness during which it is imperative you either, a) wear headphones or, b) sit facing your speakers situated equidistant from your ears, in a perpendicular fashion that is, to fully appreciate the phasing of sound back and forth between said speakers.
Some would argue there is a c) imperative but I won’t go into that.
‘Phasing’ was de rigueur back then, in 1970. I was seven in 1970. And six, too, before I turned seven.
Today phasing is old hat. And whilst everything with the exception of male mullets is potentially retro-fashionable, I am not aware phasing has attempted a comeback. I digress. Every conceivable style of music appears somewhere on one or other of my many play lists including the one I dubbed Contemporary, which is of course the most eclectic of them all as would become evident to you if you saw the others have titles such as ‘Jazz’ and ‘Folky Stuff’ and are not surprisingly less eclectic in nature.
More genres than you can shake a ukulele at. Alas, George Formby fans, nothing on there by the man himself.
I loathe the ukulele and try not to think about it. I do wonder however how the expression ‘shake a stick at’ came about?
What do you want to buy those for! You’ve more pairs of shoes than you can shake a stick at.
Why would anyone want to shake a stick at an inanimate object like a shoe I wonder, unless they are psychotic and then perhaps it would not appear such a crazy thing to do?
I am currently reading a novel by Adam Roberts entitled Stone. It’s an unusual tale. All of Roberts’ books are a bit strange. To say the least. This one however takes the biscuit. Another unfathomable idiom.
The narrator of Stone (who is psychotic and a murderer) addresses a stone.
Dear Stone. Did I mention Stone that…
In another of Roberts books – The Land of the Headless – the protagonist (and narrator) – in what is a first person narrative, has lost his head. I say lost, when in fact it would be more accurate to report his head was removed from his shoulders by force. When he was ‘executed’.
Fortunately for the narrator of the story (and the reader of course) his conciousness (as was his prerogative) got downloaded prior to his execution and subsequently uploaded into some facility grafted onto his central nervous system. A CNS minus the brain and the all-important vessel usually used for storing brains; namely a head.
The headless hero of The Land of the Headless must have saved Mr. Roberts a hell of a lot of writing time describing expressions, hairstyles and annoying ‘stage business’ such as picking his nose.
I should mention Debussy is through. Thank you Sir. It was a pleasure. I’m doing Sergei Rachmaninov now. The best of. Good stuff, but clearly not as talented as Debussy as the Russian’s compilation only runs to an hour and eight minutes.
Later on, as an antidote to these wonderful piano concertos I might just partake in a wee spell of Funkadelic. Free my mind. Observe whether my ass follows. Discover if the kingdom of heaven is within.
I doubt it but nevertheless I am prone to wondering am I not Dear Stone?