Elsewhere and other stories

I had been concocting an essay on the theme of 'elsewhere' but stopped when I wanted to re-read Milan Kundera's Life Is Elsewhere to add it into the meandering cul-de-sac of ideas. I've read half of Kundera but can only find two titles upstairs so I don't know whose or which copies I read 25 years ago. However, now that it's arrived Life Is Elsewheres every bit as good as I remember it without necessarily adding much to the essay. In a big about turn, I've ordered all the missing Kundera titles and a recondite writing project looks like turning into a rewarding reading project. It could be my Kundera year, to add to those previous years when I read all of George Eliot, A La Recherche de Temps Perdu, Finnegans Wake, Julian Barnes. It seems like a good idea. Seven new titles on their way cost not much over £20.

In an unlikely maneouvre, not least because the horses continue to pay their way, I've had a tenner on myself in a poetry competition. I don't entirely approve of poetry as a competitive sport but, at the odds, it's almost worth the small gamble to get somebody else to produce a new title rather than edit and get it printed myself. It might not be right to announce the finer details here but the results are due in September so we'll see about it then.

Further to the upgrade of the Blue Room, the new CD/Cassette player was christened with Odyssey this morning taking the place of the overly formulaic Essential Classics. What a fine idea that was and what an immense act they were. I remain a great admirer of Chic, Tavares and the like but there's something clearly better about Odyssey's often almost symphonic world-weariness. The future of giving all kinds of other such underplayed records, and seeing if any old cassettes work, is worth looking forward to.

I did investigate Buffy St. Marie albums this morning. Soldier Blue was a deep and profound number 1 when I used to compile my own weekly hit parade. I was prompted to look her up when she was one of only three names familiar to me in an issue of The Wire that was passed on to me. The other two were John Cage and The Velvet Underground. The rest of it read like messages from another galaxy with its discussion of hardcore folk ragas, Andalusian grunge, electro-fado and every other crossover genre one could care to make up. While at the age of 13 or 14 I'd have been fascinated by it all, one eventually becomes mainstream and rarely even puts on The Faust Tapes or the Tuvan throat singers but there is no mainstream, no avant garde and no 'alternative', really. There's just music, some of which is niche and some of it that sells by the lorry load.