A Canvas For Our Yearning: Hauntology

 

- You Never Knew Me,

Outside the Window of Southampton General Hospital,

Art/Photography by Nocturnal Butterfly (2022)

"I believe that ghosts are part of the future"

 - Jacques Derrida

 I first came across the philosophy of Hauntology through David Stubbs' brilliant, fascinating book on the history of electronic music, Mars by 1980, and it is a concept that seems to carry more significance with each passing day. In essence, hauntology is the belief that we are accompanied by the ghosts of paths we could have taken, but didn't, in all realms of our lives: politically, individually, technologically, culturally and literally; essentially, every single area of our lives. It's often described as 'Nostalgia for Lost Futures', and Derrida sums up this feeling with the provocative statement, "To Be is to be Haunted." Of course, anyone who has the courage to really delve into their life and analyse where decisions were made or not made, will understand that this is an inevitable truth of our existence. With every path we take, we basically sacrifice whatever would have happened to us if we had decided on any other course. But that doesn't mean to say that we have to feel despair about the decisions we did make. It is simply an unavoidable reality in our lives. For it is equally true that if we had taken the other path at key moments, perhaps none of us would now be in the situations we currently find ourselves in, meaning that we would have sacrificed whatever we have now for the other reality we had chosen. So, in this respect, it is more about acknowledging these head-spinning, uncanny and unavoidable facts of our existence, and accepting the unconscious residue of the feelings of loss that will inevitably linger and remain. And even though I truly adore the life I have, despite my CF, which causes so much trouble and worry, I think I have actually got most of the big calls right, but there are most definitely areas where I can and need to improve greatly, and I do occasionally still have sleepless nights over something I said or didn't say in the past, with some of the instances I find myself contemplating often taking me back decades. But this realisation, I hope, has helped me to grow and learn. This way of thinking also makes a mockery of that pronouncement that I have been so often subjected to, by people who felt so proud of themselves as they said it and which they tried to convince both me and themselves contained such deep, spiritual wisdom, but which is actually a banal inanity: "I have no regrets." Excuse me, dear reader, but in my opinion, this is bullshit. A person who genuinely believed that would surely be just admitting that they actually have no genuine understanding of how life really works. In my view, it is surely a rather blinkered and self-satisfied idea to believe, and is perhaps, more accurately, simply a wilful denial of acknowledging mistakes, and the hurt we may have caused others, as this is pretty much unavoidable at some stages in our lives. But, in the main, whenever I think about my life and the things that have happened, I think and hope that I've got many things right. Especially, thank goodness, some of the very major decisions. But there are many instances where I most definitely do have regrets, and wish I'd done things a bit differently. Made more visits and phone calls to my Mum in the months before she passed away, for example, and some of the things I said to my Taid when he was approaching the end of his life, seem to me now to be woefully inadequate and naïve, considering the shattering, and ultimately sacred moment that is a human life reaching its end. I guess, looking back, I now realise that I actually just didn't have the intellectual or emotional maturity, or life experience, to deal with such a situation, especially as I too was enveloped by grief, as my Taid was a father figure to me, and one of the best friends I have ever had. But, sadly, I actually cringe slightly at some of the things I said at the time. I so deeply wish I could have done things better.

Confession, Vlastimir Hofman (1906) 

- National Museum in Warsaw

There have also been times when I have said ignorant, hurtful things to people I love, or didn't stand up for people I love, or myself, and those occasions will haunt me to the grave. Having CF, and suffering from PTSD because of childhood trauma, has certainly not helped me either, as when I need to make a split second decision around a new situation, I can quite literally freeze with fear in case I make the incorrect one, simply terrified that the one I choose could then turn out to be catastrophic. Which, in a sense, is Hauntology in advance, as I am fearful that it will be that one decision which will then lead to a reality that I didn't want, and which could have been avoided. But, obviously, without a crystal ball, I have no idea which road to take, and that sense of fear, which mainly comes form me being forced to make almost unthinkable choices when I was a boy, can manifest just as strongly now. As you can see, PTSD is truly an abominable thing to have to live with. And, then, of course, and this is where hauntology really speaks to my heart and soul, is the larger, societal, universal level of our existence. For this is pretty much punching each and every one of us in the face, every single day at this current historical moment. For as the Tories sadistically Slash 'n'  Burn our entire social fabric, the thought that so much of this could have been avoided if we had only voted for Jeremy Corbyn's Labour Party in 2019, strikes at the very heart of Hauntology. I voted for Labour in 2019 with a hope in my heart for our society that I'd never experienced before or have done since. (I mean,Tory-lite, Sir Keir Starmer... give me a break.) But Jeremy Corbyn's bold and audacious proposals could have genuinely made our society a fairer, safer, more flourishing and less divided space. Of course, the neoliberal extremists knew this, they knew that if his ideas worked it would transform people's lived realities and thought processes, and that their dog eat dog, capitalist, race to the bottom ideologies, which are so ingrained in our unconscious minds, would then begin to crumble, and that is why they then systematically destroyed any chance Corbyn had of winning, by either sabotaging him from within (the despicable, treacherous right wing of the Labour Party), and from without, which saw a hate, lies and smear campaign by the Murdoch press and the majority of the mainstream media that would have even made fucking Goebbels go green with envy. And look where all this has led us. One of the highest numbers of Covid deaths in the world, an NHS that is being ideologically underfunded, to a degree that will no doubt lead to people dying who otherwise wouldn't if this situation wasn't happening, mainly due to A&E and/or ambulance waiting times, and a general lack of proper care. The private utilities companies are basically holding us at gun point like fucking highwaymen from ages past, demanding that we, "Stand & Deliver, Your money or your life!" (Which will quite possibly be literally true for many this winter. But unlike Adam Ant, the utility business CEOs are all soulless, brute Philistines without a shred of art or style in their psyches, and most definitely not dandy). And, on top of all of this, the now impossible to ignore threat of the climate emergency. But with a different approach, and with one that acknowledged just how great a miracle it is that we and any life exists at all, on this beautiful, battered, fragile planet, and surely all of these situations would be very different. This is where Hauntology comes in, and it is speaking to me on a very deep philosophical level at this present time. I think these two pictures probably sum up the situation in a rather succinct way, because we got this spoilt, narcissistic, completely out of his depth chancer...

When we could have had this dignified, intelligent statesman, who, although he has his faults (as do we all - none of us are perfect, darlings), admirably just wants to build a better life for the vast majority of human beings...

No small wonder then that the Ghosts of what could have been, are hanging so heavy on our lives at this current time of crisis. The sadness and grief I am feeling at seeing our beautiful world being destroyed is off the scale. The world is dying before our very eyes, and we are practically helpless to do anything about it. It colours almost every feeling I have about being alive right now. We all unconsciously feel it, but our reality living in a capitalist system demands that we put on a fake positive front, and never admit that we feel that agony in our souls at what is occurring. And so it manifests in other, energy sapping ways, such as depression, which then provides the pharmaceutical companies with millions of prescriptions for anti-depressant drugs, thus exacerbating the problem as the root cause is never challenged and changed. The human race has had decades to try and sort this appalling situation out, but the rich and powerful, and the intolerably greedy and self-centred have ruined everything. All in the name of profit and a so-called individualism (of which our society's neoliberal version is actually an aberration - read Oscar Wide's The Soul of Man Under Socialism for the true definition of what genuine individualism and freedom could mean for us, both personally and societally; more Hauntology, right there, folks), and extremist, market economics, which would rather see the world go up in deadly flames and parch in drought (or horrendous floods once winter arrives) rather than admit its values are rapacious, indifferent and inhumane. It is a truly devastating situation.

And although it is only quite recently that I discovered the term 'hauntology' for the emotions and sensations that it describes, I find it interesting to consider that I have actually experienced what has been called hauntology for most of my life, without ever having known that there was a philosophical term and theory for it, or for being able to understand it in the detailed way I am now exploring. And it is a philosophy that is engrained in so much of the music that I listen to and have listened to so deeply throughout my entire life. (And the literature I read as well, come to think of it.) As ever, art often gets there first and articulates the truths we hold in our hearts and unconscious, long before a sharp, philosophical mind then sees the links behind these feelings and is able to apply a theory to them. And hauntology strikes me as being possibly the key subject and motif of much of the post-punk genre that I love, particularly in the work of Howard Devoto's Magazine, who gives a pretty accurate description of the feeling of hauntology in this brilliantly observed verse from 'You Never Knew Me', which is on their The Correct Use of Soap album:

"I don't want to turn around

And find I got it wrong.

Or that I should have been

Laughing all along."

- 'You Never Knew Me'  - Magazine

This sense of questioning oneself, and which in this instance is a pretty deep doubt, not only on the entire approach to how the narrator of the song is living his life, but also, of fate, unease and the unfathomable strangeness of it all, is deeply embedded in not only this song, but Magazine's entire canon. In fact, this feeling, and a profound sense of the alienation of modern life, saturates Magazine's music and Devoto's lyrics. And it's not only just arty, post-punk singers and bands such as Magazine (and particularly Joy Division) who explore these ideas, for it is also a staple that can be found in abundance in shiny, mainstream pop music, too, such as in Cher's plaintive, but deeply human cry against the irreversible nature of time, and of being haunted by a decision made that the singer of the song wishes she could now undo, and which is, in effect, a howl of rage against fate itself:

"If I could turn back time,

If I could find a way,

I'd take back all those words that had hurt you,

And you'd stay."

- 'If I Could Turn Back Time' - Cher

The human anguish and desperate longing expressed in this simple chorus is truly sublime. And these brief examples simply confirm to me what I'd already known, intuitively, all along. Residing in the best and brightest artists, whether that be shimmering pop, rock, dance music, post-punk, classical, and pretty much every genre of music that exists, there is often written, and sung, deep, philosophical truths, that could, at first glance, seem to be merely throw away disposable lines, intended mainly for singalong, mass consumption. But how incorrect that view sometimes is. But then, I guess there are many people, especially the conservative, business-minded, sensitive as a house brick types, whom will never hear any of this - whether that be the feelings of longing and sadness that is hauntology, or the wonderful music that expresses it - in any sense. Somehow I just can't imagine Boris Johnson, or people like him, ever having moments of self-reflection over decisions they have made in the past, even if those decisions led to thousands of unnecessary deaths and a burning country.

But hauntology speaks to me only too clearly at this present, incredibly mournful period, as we stand by, practically helpless, while the powerful make decisions that destroy individual lives, the Social Contract, and, quite possibly, in all eventuality, quite literally all life on earth. And how we can not feel this happening? It is us. We are not separate from our struggling fellow humans. And we are not separate from the natural world, either. We are as much a part of it, and as reliant on it, as the humblest sparrow or earth worm.

Epilogue:

As I write this, I am sitting in my hospital room, having been admitted, twelve days ago, with a problematic issue regarding my cystic fibrosis that has required a pretty aggressive approach to treat, and which will require an extra three months of additional treatment (on top of the mountains of medications and treatments I already have to do) at home before it hopefully settles down. The room I sit in right now, as the second set of three intravenous drugs that I need to save my life are administered, over the space of three hours this afternoon, is as warm as a baking oven. I can only safely make it through the day and evening because I have a huge fan about three feet away from me on continuous full blast. The CF Team and the nurses, and cleaners and catering staff on the ward, are a wonder, spending their days in PPE in stifling temperatures. I have the utmost respect for them. But there have been numerous times during this admission when staff shortages, which resulted in nurses being drafted in from other wards, etc, has had a detrimental effect on my care, and which came close to being serious on a couple of occasions last week. But it is not those nurses who are specialists in other wards, and who have been summoned to this ward to make up the numbers, who are to blame. Oh no. It is our despicable Tory government that are responsible, and the unforgivable way they are treating the staff and the NHS itself, through deliberate, chronic, ideological underfunding. What is wrong with these vile vampires? Is the billions that they and their cronies already possess not enough for them? They make me sick with their pathological greed. I desperately hope they are run out of town before they can do any more irreversible damage. And then, of course, as I reflect on all this, hauntology strikes at my heart once more when I consider how different and better things would surely be if Jeremy Corbyn had won the 2019 election. Just imagine it, a fully funded NHS, Prioritised Social Care, the railways and utilities nationalised, less food banks, less financial stress for millions of individuals and families, (which would then mean less anxiety and depression in the populace, and that energy could then be transferred to positive, creative thinking and projects), genuine attempts to tackle climate change, less deaths from Covid, the list really is endless. But, sadly, that is a path this nation chose not to take, and now we are paying a devastating price. And this situation so clearly demonstrates that feeling of a 'Lost Future,' a deep sense of what could have been, which hauntology suggests actually clings to us, individually and collectively, like a shadowy presence in our hearts and minds, and this is the profound idea that Derrida so accurately summed up in his penetrating statement...

"To Be is to be Haunted."

These two lovely pigeons in the picture above, have settled outside my hospital window to spend some time with me, every single day since I was admitted nearly two weeks ago. It is as if they have been checking in on me (even one of the physios noticed how they were actually craning their necks so that they could get a better view, and how she couldn't recall ever seeing any pigeons on this side of the hospital before), even though the area outside my room is only a bleak, industrial, Ballardian landscape, with precious little reason for them to be there, in terms of food, shading, or protection from predators. And thus, I feel truly honoured by their presence, and I have actually been fortunate enough to have had many wonderful and profound connections with our wild feathered friends, throughout my life. I just wish that I could get these two adorable scallywag pigeons a drink of water at this present moment, as they must be sweltering in the heat. But, sadly, hauntology is even colouring this magical, mystical occurrence in a kind of hazy, melancholy blue. Because I can't help but feel a great sense of sadness at the increased struggles they must be experiencing at the situation they currently find themselves in, (how they can find water and stay cool in this heat is a mystery to me), and, also, moving further into the future, of their chicks, and the generations to come, who will find things even more difficult as the climate emergency escalates. I just hope they can forgive us for what we have done, and are continuing to do, to what is essentially their world, just as much as it is ours. Even as an atheist, I could almost pray that they will be okay. Maybe they will find a way to survive, for, as William Blake wrote:

No bird flies too high if he soars with his own wings."

And so, faithful readers, until next time,

I do indeed remain, your very own, Nocturnal Butterfly. 

Just very softly.

- Collage by Joe Webb

Roxy Music and Life in The New Now

"When we submit to a profound experience of art, it's a rare reprieve from the everyday torrent of triviality and distraction." 

- Jazz Monroe, The Quietus

There are so many problems currently facing our society, and life on earth in general, that perhaps, more than ever, The Space Between that art provides is becoming even more important than previously in assisting our attempt to maintain sanity, stimulate the bliss that life can offer, and to simply shut out the despair and anxiety that can come in waves due to the crisis situation we find ourselves living through. I've always done this with the art I respond to, as I've always desperately wanted my life to be the richest and fullest experience it can possibly be, so I haven't really had to change my behaviour in any way to become more engaged and enthralled by the art that I love. But one thing that has changed massively because of Covid is that I have had to stop attending concerts, and as these have always been secular religious events for me, it has caused me no small amount of grief and distress to have to do so. I have been resolutely stoic about this situation for pretty much the last two and a half years, reasoning through the sadness at missing recent concerts by bands I adore and have followed since the 90s, and whose tours since that time I have never missed, until 2020, and which includes the Manics, James, Suede and Rufus Wainwright, among many, many others. But just recently, that stoicism has started to show cracks and become brittle, and the thing that has sparked it off is that there is currently so much enthusiasm about the hugely anticipated return of Roxy Music, who are playing some 50th (gulp!) anniversary concerts later in the year. But each time I see an online poster, video, radio special, or article, my heart is starting to shatter. Because I so desperately love these type of concerts and would dearly love to go but I have to face up to the fact that I might never be able to attend not only this one, but quite possibly, any gig ever again, as I'm still so vulnerable to Covid because of my CF. And maybe the reason why it's not being able to attend the forthcoming Roxy concert that is causing me so much distress is because I have only managed to see them live once in my entire life, unlike, for example, James and the Manics, who I have seen live at least twenty five/thirty times each since the 90s. As I have stated previously, these concerts had been my church and Lifeblood since around 1989. But I think there is a way out of this situation for me, and to do it, I have to just remind myself - when that pang of aching loss pierces my soul - of the words I have just written above: I have only managed to see them once in my entire life. That's correct, gentle reader. I have actually been granted the wonderful gift of seeing Roxy Music in concert, once, back in 2011. And that is a truly wonderful thing. And when I remember this, instead of feeling aggrieved and devastated at not being able to attend one of their forthcoming concerts, I can feel immensely grateful instead, and let the memories trickle into my consciousness, and let myself drown in the romance, glamour and lushness of their songs and the world that Bryan Ferry so brilliantly describes and evokes in his lyrics. Which brings me to another part of this 'loss versus gratitude' conundrum I now face because of fucking Covid-19 circulating in human society. When I first heard Roxy Music, back in 1981, (it was 'Jealous Guy' on a Chartblasters '81 compilation LP, and I didn't actually realise until I was about twenty that it wasn't their own song, but had been penned by John Lennon), and I loved the lush sound and the haunting saxophone. As a teen, I bought the Flesh & Blood album, and although I liked it, it was a bit too "adult music" for me at that time of life, so it remained hidden away after a few plays. But, as I grew older and my interest in Glam grew into a peacock's tail's proportions, what a treasure trove Roxy presented for me to fall headlong into. And the world that Roxy albums evoke is the kind of world where, for a few truly wonderful years, I was actually able to reside a few spellbinding times every year. A delicious, scintillating world of glamour, decadence, cocktails (make mine an espresso martini, please!), Art Deco, Roaring Twenties ambience, devastating romance ("You're dressed to kill, And guess who's dying?" - Dance Away), and a space where the Pleasure Principle reigns supreme over the dull, repetitive and mechanical aspects of the Reality Principle of so much of life (a heightened binary opposition for me due to the ever-increasing drudgery of my treatment burden, and the many months spent in hospital every year feeling very unwell indeed). And so, as I'm sure you can imagine, dear reader, spending real life moments in Roxy's hazy, sensual dream world seemed like a supreme gift from the very gods themselves when I had the opportunity to do so. And boy, did I make the most of it.

But first, let us go back to that live Roxy experience I am so relieved that I actually had back in 2011...

I can recall the lead up to getting the ticket for the gig as if it were yesterday, as it remains crystal clear, word perfect in my mind. I was excitement personified when I heard the news about the first Roxy tour in about ten years, amid many previously dashed hopes of new albums that then never surfaced, and festival only appearances that I couldn't attend because of my CF. I clicked on the link to purchase my ticket and suddenly saw... the price. It was was...gulp!.. extortionate, and much more expensive than usual concert ticket prices, even of well established bands. I then sighed a heavy sigh and resigned myself to the fact that I would still probably never get to see them live in concert. But that's when my Fine Lady stepped in with her usual, glorious, Elan vital (look it up on Google to see what it means) that she possesses in such rich abundance: "Look," she said to me, "I know it's a lot of money, but both you and I are well aware that all that stuff's just free market, capitalist bullshit that we can't escape from. You have raved about Roxy Music pretty much from the very first day we met, and you've never seen them live and I'm not going to let you miss what might be your one and only chance to do so. You're going to get to see Roxy in concert! We'll manage it somehow. Just don't go copping off with any of those Eno-crazed, cocktail-sipping Roxy sluts whilst you're there!" And I guess she did have a point, envious reader!... 

And so, there it was. Within five minutes of this conversation my ticket was purchased, and to my absolute delight and astonishment, I realised I was finally going to get to see Roxy Music live. These are the kind of precious moments we live for, and I will treasure the memory of that ten minutes or so forever, or certainly While My Heart is Still Beating.

Lydia: "You're going to get to see Roxy in concert. We'll manage it somehow. Just don't go copping off with any of those Eno-crazed, cocktail-sipping Roxy sluts whilst you're there!"

And so, the next few months were spent dreaming about the gig, and, of course, my darlings, wondering about what to wear! When the day finally came around I was a mass of excitement. It was a bit rare for me to actually be going to a concert on my own as My Fine Lady and I have very similar taste in music, so we almost always experience these things together, but she finds Mr. Ferry a tad irritating and "a bit of a sleaze ball", so it was only me this time, although on this occasion that was most probably a good thing as two tickets would have no doubt completely bankrupted us.

Anyways, finally, Roxy Day arrived and as it was at the MEN Arena in Manchester, Lydia dropped me off at the entrance and then went to meet up with her uncle (Manc Mark) for dinner and a catch up until the gig had finished. Like a child on Christmas morning, I meandered into the arena concourse. At first, it looked like a rather everyday, gig-going crowd, but gradually, more and more very glamorous looking denizens and sirens began to wander in from the misty Manchester evening, and soon, much leopard print and many sparkles could be glimpsed everywhere, and the knowing looks of recognition between those of us so elegantly clad warmed the cockles of my glittering heart. I took my seat just to the left of the stage and before too long, the house lights went down and the strains of  'India' filled the air as Roxy took to the stage. They then began with a blistering, wham bam, thank you ma'am, glam rendition of 'The Main Thing', which was actually one of the best opening songs I've ever witnessed, and which was so heavy and sultry compared to the the Avalon album version that it could almost have been Suede playing. They followed this with a pulsating 'Street Life', with Ferry crooning those lines which I adore so much:

"Come on with me cruising down the street,

Who knows what you'll see, who you might meet!

This brave new world's not like yesterday, 

It can take you higher than the milky way!

Street Life, Street Life... 

What a Life!"

The next two hours flew by and as well as hearing the well known songs and hits, to my eternal delight they also played some of the strange album tracks that I so deeply admire such as 'Sentimental Fool', and the Brecht/Kurt Weil inspired 'Bitter-Sweet', which beguiled and bemused with its choppy time signatures and unusual, changeable melody. The stage was also awash with a whole host of performers, ranging from backing singers to burlesque dancers, and as well as the spectacle that was happening on the stage, I found my attention being increasingly drawn to the backdrop, where a rich variety of images and films was playing out, with each song having its own montage, ranging from Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, through to various sultry Sirens of the night and many haunting visions of decadent, Neo-noir glamour. And the night ended on a monumental high for me as Roxy closed their set with the glacially chilling, 'For Your Pleasure,' which concluded with each member of the band gradually leaving the stage, one by one, until all that remained was the lonely piano player, tinkling out the song's icy, isolated refrain. It was a sensational way to end a mesmerising show.

Roxy in concert had proved to have been everything I hoped it would be, and although in many ways I felt like an outsider looking in on this dream world of glamour, artifice and sensual sophistication that Roxy's art conjures so seductively, little did I realise that before too long, I would actually get to share many moments where I sincerely felt that Roxy Dream World become a tangible Reality. For after my good lady and I had moved down south about a year later, and she had by this point become very well admired and established in her beloved new career as a therapist, and was happier and more contented than I'd ever known her to be, we also found we had a few reasons to embrace life in a slightly more extravagant way. To cut a long story (thank the lord for that, I hear you say!), firstly we had so many more options as to where we could go due to us now living in a cosmopolitan, thriving seaside town. And secondly, I was told by my consultants that literally I must go out and have fun whenever my health allowed, as I'd had a couple of really bad exacerbations with my CF, which included a bout of pneumonia, and also a longer term issue which prompted a complete emotional breakdown for a while on my part, as I simply couldn't deal with the stress that my health issues and the heightened awareness of my mortality were bringing. And so, almost like a drug item on my repeat prescription was added the consultant's insistent demand: when you are well enough, go out with that wonderful wife of yours who you adore and who adores you, and have the time of your life!

And I most certainly did as they demanded, darlings!, and we visited some incredible places, attended a couple of bizarrely beautiful events, and I was also instructed to enjoy a few drinks at the same time, as long as I didn't overdo it, and I soon came to fall head over heels in love with an Art Deco hotel that is only about five minutes away from us, which we subsequently frequented as often as we could, and which was the very epitome of so many a scene in Roxy Music's timeless songs:

As you can see, my darlings, we could have literally been existing in a Roxy Music song...

And during the precious periods of good health and stability at that time, when we did, indeed, let go of so much stress and worry, I lived in what I can only describe as a Paradise for somebody who sees life through the lens I do. (Buddhist asceticism is never going to be for me, darlings. When you spend months of your year in hospital, and many hours every day on treatments in an on everlasting struggle to maintain any semblance of health, to then not make the very most of those precious periods when you do have it would almost be a sin against life itself, in my opinion). But then, all too soon, came 2020, and I vividly remember reading a tiny article on The Guardian's website one morning in early January, about a cluster of cases of a new type of viral pneumonia, in a city called Wuhan in China, which had already, sadly, killed a few people. And I actually started crying. I remember thinking to myself, if this thing escapes into the larger world, it's probably all over for me. Of course, I had no knowledge of lockdowns, etc, at that point, and presumed that if this illness did indeed reach the UK, the probable response from our psychopathic, neoliberal extremist government would be to just carry on as usual, and if thousands and thousands of old and vulnerable people died, then that would be seen as perfectly acceptable. "Let the bodies pile high", as Boris Johnson is alleged to have said. And then, as we all know only too well, it did spread out of China, and before we knew where we were the whole world was struggling to control the disease we now know as Covid-19, and a full blown pandemic had seized us in its vice-like pincers. And, thank goodness, I am still here, having survived over two years of pretty much complete shielding, and despite the mountain sized problems that the pandemic had on my CF care, which changed dramatically. It is, however, over two and a half years now since I last went to a party or gathering indoors (the last time was a Frank Sinatra Tribute for Valentine's Evening in 2020), and I am still being advised by my consultants to only mix with friends or where other people are outdoors, as there is a much higher risk of transmission in indoor spaces. And so, with all this in mind, I could weep and wail and gnash my teeth, or I could reflect on the wonderful things I did whilst I had the opportunity, and furthermore, look forward to the different places and things I can do in outdoor spaces in the months and years to come. And it's the latter that I've chosen to do, and it has already proved to be an incredibly eventful Summer, some of it in a fantastic way, and some of it in not a very good way at all. I had an emergency admission to hospital in May for two weeks as I had developed a type of pneumonia again, and this time I needed to have a bronchoscopy for the first time as well. And now, at the beginning of August, I am in hospital yet again, this time because of different kinds of bacteria and allergies causing all sorts of issues in my lungs. It was incredibly strange and alarming to find myself sitting in our little garden, just a few weeks ago, during the two hottest days ever recorded in the UK, in my winter jumper, unable to get my temperature above 36.1, even though I also spent the day having hot drinks and eating only hot food. Needless to say, the consultants were very concerned about this, and hence, after having X-Rays, a CT Scan and blood tests to try and discover exactly what was going on, I am currently back in hospital, receiving three different IV antibiotic and antifungal therapies, steroids, and a whole array of physiotherapy devices to try and help me open up my lungs and clear my chest. But in between my last admission and this one, fortunately, Lydia and me were actually able to do a few wonderful, glamorous, and dare I say it, even Roxy Dream World style things. Firstly, to our utter delight, we were finally able to meet in person two wonderful new friends who we'd met online in 2021, and who have been a godsend to us during this time, as they are supportive, so much fun, incredibly stylish, and have helped keep our spirits up during those moments when they were flagging. (The four of us together - now THAT would make for a quite scintillating glam video, darlings!) I attended a wonderful online course studying Lord Byron's exhilarating epic poem, Don Juan (a blog about this is in the pipeline so keep your eyes peeled, dear reader!) We have also had Afternoon Tea at my favourite local hotel that I posted about earlier, we had a free afternoon where we sat and drank coffee at our local harbour, whilst watching the swans, and the boats coming and going, and feeling like we were at least once more a part of the Theatre of Life, and not hidden away backstage like forgotten about stagehands, and we have also discovered a wonderful Thai restaurant with outdoor seating, that has become a firm favourite, practically overnight. 

                                            

And so, as you can see, despite so much loss, (including plenty of poor health, on my part), there is still more than a just a touch of Roxy Dream World in my life, and, on a more general scale, so much joy to be found, and so very much to stay alive and be grateful for. Which kind of brings me full circle, I guess, to where I started this blog, and my emerging feelings of deep sadness and regret at not being able to attend Roxy's 50th Anniversary concert in October - and possibly any other concert as well. And yes, I will in all probability shed a few tears on the night that Roxy play, just as I did on all of the nights since 2020 when the bands I love were playing but I couldn't be there because of the risk of Covid. But I will also, just as I did then, take a step back, reflect, and smile blissfully at the memory of those former times, and content myself with the knowledge that I drained every last drop of joy and emotion, from every single one that I attended. And because I've been so incredibly lucky to have done all that. And I am still more than aware that despite my limitations and health issues, I am actually incredibly lucky. I am blessed with being married to a wonderful lady who is my genuine soul mate; we live in a beautiful part of the world which is barely five minutes away from the the Sea Breezes (that flutter). I receive wonderful care from the CF Team at the hospital, which is still, despite the neoliberal maniacs' best efforts, part of the wondrous (in idea and reality) NHS. We have a gorgeous little garden, with an enchanting array of mining bees, honey bees, butterflies, moths and hover flies. There are beautiful shrubs and bushes, sunflowers, and even a glorious Passion Flower which has taken residence on one side of our flat and whom we have christened Aphrodite. The Sparrow chorus regales us with their tunes every single day, and the wood pigeons, who have even started nesting now in the tree at the front of our flat, and on the wall above Aphrodite, coo and squabble  and make our hearts take a tumble. And because, not to feel this way about all this would be a terrible shame, and a waste of my life in all honesty, as my CF is a royal pain in the arse and no matter how hard I struggle against it, is not going to go away, and it will continue to give me troublesome, distressing episodes. But all in all, I don't think I've managed too badly. And when my health allows, my goodness am I going to make the most of it.

I also find it fascinating to consider my connection with Roxy Music, as I have to admit it is slightly different to the connections I have with most of my other great musical loves, such as Bowie, Freddie Mercury, Tim Booth, etc, in that with them I have an intense personal relationship (I even talk to Freddie in my dreams, sometimes, and ask him how he dealt with his illness and if he can offer any advice) with the personas of the singers, on top of my deep love of the music. But I don't really have that intimate connection with Bryan Ferry. But this fact actually gives me a slight distance, which it would be completely impossible for me to have with the ones I have just mentioned. I could try, of course, to not focus on them with such obsessive intensity, (who me, obsessive?!!!) but I think it would be a losing battle in all honesty. It would be like me asking Lydia to watch an Everton match on the laptop with me, and expecting her to be able to watch the whole match rather than just focus, with glittering eyes that shone like a prowling tigress, on every move made by her favourite player, Dominic Calvert-Lewin. It just wouldn't happen, folks. (And, really, in all honesty, who can blame her?!!)

And such is the case with me with Queen, James, etc, even though I genuinely admire all of the band members and appreciate their playing and contributions deeply. But with Bryan Ferry, I definitely do have that rare distance. I don't really hold any major grudges against him. It saddens me that he is a Tory voter, as he comes from working class mining stock in the North East. But he has also achieved what so rarely happens to individuals from the working class, in that he has amassed great wealth and got to live and party among the wealthy, the fashion designers and models, and the demi-monde. I also remember Nick Cave's lovely story in his selection of poems The Sick Bag Song, where he recounts a time he had fallen asleep by the swimming pool at Bryan Ferry's house. Nick writes:

"I awoke to find Bryan Ferry in his bathers, standing in the swimming pool. He was white and handsome and very still.

I haven't written a song in three years, he said.

Why? What's wrong with you? I said.

He gestured, with an uncertain hand, all about him.

There is nothing to write about, he said.

I love this little anecdote, and it confirms to me how I imagine Bryan Ferry to be in my mind. It makes him a little more vulnerable and human, haunted by the enuui that hovers like a dark angel around some of the songs (i.e, In Every Dream Home a Heartache), and which makes their entire body of work so much more profound. He seems to be famous for his grand politeness and quiet charm, and as being the epitome of the artistic gentleman. And whilst I would never vote Tory, if I had his wealth, and I could live in a grand palace on the banks of the River Arno in Florence (for that's where I would like to be if that was the case, at least for a few months of the year, as for the rest of the time I would still prefer to be right where we already live, here by the sea, which I have come to love so deeply), and also attend Eyes Wide Shut style decadent soirees with my sinsational wife on my arm, as well as perhaps being able to own original paintings by the likes of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Klimt and Monet, would I be able to refuse? I'm not so sure. Anyway, all this just means that I am able to love and be enchanted by Roxy Music with an element of distance that I don't really have with the other great musical loves in my life. I think I would actually compare it with the way I look at Botticelli's masterpieces The Birth of Venus and Primavera. I see the glorious art but not really the artist, as I know next to nothing about Botticelli himself. But the beauty and romance that ebbs from every corner of those wonderful paintings also emerges in every note, lyric and visual reference in the art of Roxy Music. And that's how I experience it, and as you have probably gathered by now, patient reader, I truly adore it. I am also saddened by the fact that Brian Eno was only in Roxy Music for the first two albums, but there is no way I would stop listening to them just because he left. Eno is a fascinating artist, and brought a magic to Roxy that they obviously couldn't replace, but I also love the majority of what he has gone on to do outside of his time with Roxy, whether that be his extraordinary solo ambient albums, his work with Bowie, producing James and U2, and more recently, his absorbing interviews about how we try and solve the myriad problems facing our society and the world at large. But he is a key component of Roxy's legacy, and their work is far richer for having had him play a gargantuan role in it.

So, gentle reader, here ends today's sermon. To close, I would say these few things. Listen to the music you love, wear the clothes that make you feel the best and most unique you can feel, ignore the prudes, puritans and conservative anti-life brigade, embrace the ones you love and care about whilst you can, read your favourite books and watch your favourite films, as, in all honesty, we can't be too sure in this crazy world whether we'll still be here one week but be French fries by the next. So, my friends and comrades, never forget to enjoy the beauty of all the arts, if that's your thing, the natural world, and/or whatever it is that makes your heart flutter. It's going to be a tough old autumn and winter, the vast majority of us are going to be poorer, we are being shafted each and every way we turn by the powers that be, and the coming forecast is most definitely for storms. And, make sure you try and embrace, with all your strength and will, whenever and however you can, that feeling that is described in the words of one of Roxy's finest songs, and which is, quite simply...

The Thrill of it All.

Thank you for spending a portion of your precious time with me, dear reader. And until next time, I remain, as ever, your devoted, Nocturnal Butterfly.

XXXX

"But as she says,
It pays to win.
So she plays to win,
She plays to win."

- 'Flesh and Blood,' Roxy Music

"Where strangers look for new love,

I'm so lost in love...

Over you."

- 'Over You,' Roxy Music