Scotoma With Fortifications

Listening to Loveless by My Bloody Valentine

Reading Whiskey Galore by Compton MacKenzie

A wonderful book is this – dark and satirical but with warm and friendly characters and a to-die-for fade-out ending which now I come to think of it is a bit like Puck’s monologue at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The film is funny enough but the book has real depth and though a might less laughter-inducing overall is far funnier deep down in the long-term humour memory. It pokes fun at the officialdom that beset the stay-at-homes during the war and is in some ways a call to arms for a gentle WI-style of anarchy.

I desperately want to understand how time travel can be realised but it’s all just too paradoxical. I suspect that a childish interest in things that are not possible leads an adult to an investigation of the boundaries of the possible. Einstein started thinking about what it would be like to ride on a beam of light and of course keeping this in mind led him to develop the theories of relativity. My daughter has a friend who asks me all sorts of questions about relativity and time travel when he comes round for tea (before they disappear to play their Nintendo DSs at opposite ends of the room). I just wish I could answer them properly. The big question that get’s asked in the form of an assertion that it will happen is when it will happen. My view has always been that the non-existence of time-travellers proves that it will never happen but then that ignores all the paradox-busting loops and alternate universes that are proposed to do away with the peculiarities that arise from simply imaging a simple trip back. Maybe Doctor Who has got it right in that you will be able to jaunt backwards and forwards without too much damage occurring but I am sure the mathematically inclined amongst the definers of temporal transport will argue with that. I had so many sentences constructed to define what might happen but deep down in my head the illogcality of these ideas just render the statements meaningless – we need new vocabulary to handle it like Douglas Adams invented in THHGTTG. Could it be like the problems of understanding the fourth special dimension – you can define it in terms of mathematics (quite simple maths for the fourth dimension – just Pythagoras I think) but you just cannot see it because we have no mechanism for handling an extra dimension or time travel.

I want to write a poem but I just can’t seem to get started. I have so many ideas but none of them remain exciting enough for long. I have been spurred into thinking about this by some truly awful spoken-word stuff I have heard recently by someone who should no better – no names no see-me-after-school – but this is also what prompted the musing on time travel above. Martin Amis said this week, that poetry was dead – no one curls up with a poetry book at night any more. He is probably right about that but two things come to mind. Firstly the only time I ever curled up with a poetry book was when I read Philip Larkin’s collected poems after reading Andrew Motion’s biography of him which makes me wonder about who actually ever did curl up with a poetry book. Secondly does this actually mark the demise? He did refer to live events and this is probably where poetry is still quite healthy. You could hear poetry every night of the week on Radio 1 when Mark and Lard’s show was on – Simon Armitage and Ian MacMillan – he of the loud shirts and fruity Yorkshire tones. It would be nice to have that sort of commitment from broadcasters but it all seems to be talent shows and the abuse of anyone who seems fair game for the cocaine fuelled young things. And don’t you feel that we have all been got at by some huge practical joke with that Olympic Logo. I’m all for edgy but that looked like the start of some 80’s ‘yoof’ programme like the spoof one Ben Elton presented in The Young Ones. There must be someone laughing over their little mirror in the toilets somewhere over than wool-pulling. How did I get here from poetry? Well a little misdirection is always useful when you can’t think of what to write. I will make a point of reading some poetry tonight as there is nothing on the TV and nothing on disk yet. I will try some Auden maybe.