Mantra

Last night Lee, Ian and I traveled up to London to see Mantra by Karl Heinz Stockhausen at the Barbican. This was my first visit to the Barbican; it’s an impressive—if ugly—building, a bit like an unnecessarily extravagant Arndale Centre of the Arts, all concrete curves and spacious galleries, orange décor, and brick corridors.

The concert featured two pianos and sound projection, the piano notes synthesized to sound off-key. It was all too fragmented to hold my attention for long, but there were a couple of highlights. Lee fell asleep part way through the performance, then woke up to tell me in a hoarse whisper that he’d got cramp in his arms. The girl sitting next to him laughed.

We were cynical about all the Guardian readers there. I’m finding it too easy to be cynical and so I posture about virtually everything.

Lindsey is very distant and is in one of her less accessible phases at present, more often than not retreating to her room or sitting very quietly in the kitchen. I hardly know her anymore and find it incredible I once thought us so close,

Old routines resurface. Gareth has gone to stay with girlfriend Caroline. Stu is next door attempting to appreciate Beethoven and reading a book about cosmology.