WFH: DAY 127. 8.30 am: A communion. 9.00 am: There was an overnight accumulation of inbox fodder to address, and various other reading to catch-up on. I paused at these observations made by the guitarist and composer Robert Fripp:
In the US is it acceptable, personally and professionally, to hold a faith (even, to be held by a faith). In contemporary England, to profess a faith is tantamount to holding high a banner: Spot The Loony. An alternative vocabulary is needed, if we seek to go out into the world and engage in forms of debate, and avoid dismissal as (at best) harmless and best avoided. Faith in England is best engaged quietly, below the surface, while invisibly informing our external choices, decisions and actions (an active spiritual life is almost completely about getting our hands dirty IMO).
(Robert Fripp’s Diary, August 30, 2020.)
Personally, I’ve not received anything other than a tacit and respectful acceptance of my faith from those who are of no religion. The subject of my creative work (which as remained unchanged since the early 1980s) might suggest that it’s the fruit of a deeper conviction and a broader commitment. (I don’t think that I could’ve ploughed this furrow for so long as a casual observer of God, spirituality, religion, and the Bible.) So, folk aren’t surprised. In Wales, in the past, we’ve had a tradition of unselfconsciously wearing faith on our sleeve. For the most part, this has been an expression of confidence rather than of arrogance. This outlook has been part of my cultural heritage. The only hostility that I’ve ever experienced on account of my beliefs was as an undergraduate fine art student. Some of my work was either stolen or defaced; words were said; and laughs had at my expense. But all that came with the territory. Retaliation and complaint were never an option.
10.00 am: The next account to present itself for sonification concerned two Methodist women travelling to Tŷ Gwyn, Carmathenshire, around 1753:
They heard the voice of one singing psalms coming to meet them. They knew the voice to be the voice of John Williams. When the voice came near, it slackened and grew weaker (when came within twenty yard’s distance); when just over them, the passing voice ceased, yet was soon renewed; and when about twenty yards distant, the voice was as strong as before. They heard some of the words, which were from Psalm 105. They did not hear all of the words, but the beginning and ends of the stanzas, which they heard with much surprise.
Williams had died and been buried a month earlier. The Sunday following their audition of the disembodied voice, when worshiping at a Dissenting meeting house in Cwmllynfell (on the border of that county), the same psalm was ‘given out’. Their encounter had been ‘prophetic’.
Interpreting the account would not be straightforward. Questions arose from the text’s silences — from within the spaces between words. The spirit sung the psalm. Very likely, it was a paraphrase of the biblical version. But did he sing it in Welsh or English, and to what tune? The women were walking, whether in the daytime or at night-time isn’t disclosed. (People walked and spirits appeared often at night.) What else did they hear as they travelled: birdsong, the tread of their feet, cattle in the fields, the wind in the trees, and rainfall? The two witnesses would have been rather more perplexed (‘surprised’) than alarmed at the phenomenon, I imagine. After all, they’d known the singer and knew the Scripture. No evil spirit would be singing God’s word.
The first few questions required an expert musicological opinion. Dr Rhidian Griffiths is my go-to scholar for such matters.
1.45 pm: Following lunch, I returned to the wind samples that I’d recorded during Storm Frances, and resumed my acquaintance with the summary sheet on auditory phenomena referred to in Jones’ books. The aim was to determine how many compositions remained, and which of those sounds mentioned in the text weren’t situated in a sufficiently well-developed narrative to form the basis of a composition. However, my intent has been to incorporate into the suite examples of all the main classes of sound. By some means or other, I’d stick to my guns.
3.15 pm: I made a set of modulations of the wind sample. They have, as yet, no place in the scheme. But they may be called upon. 4.30 pm: An outing. Around the benches on the avenue, school children — reunited for the first time since March — sat closely, on each other’s laps in some cases, and maskless.
7.30 pm: Dr Griffiths had replied already, helpfully, and at length. His findings and willingness to resource materials would enable me to press ahead with the new composition (‘John Williams’ [working title]) very soon. The evening was set aside for various types of admin. I listened to the afternoon’s recordings in the background.