I lift a mode of title from Raven's March; I hope its crew will take it as an homage rather than a liberty.
Today's post will be brief, dear readers, and it is mainly intended to signal that Ink Quest will fall silent until at least the end of the week, as the Penquod is about to make its annual journey to an unnamed university in the north of England for external examining duties.
As the final part of this ritual involves my signing certificates that confirm students' final degree results, I always spend the days before my departure wondering about -- ponderink -- the colour of ink with which I will make my official mark. Two years ago it was Noodler's Eternal Brown; last year it was Noodler's Sequoia. What will it be this time around?
It would be a shame to break the Noodler's run and to ruin an inky trinity, but I'm currently considering Omas Sepia. I haven't written with this particular colour for a while, but longtime readers of this blog will know that it was the Great Brown Whale after which I chased for many months in the early days of Ink Quest. I still think it's one of the most elegant browns available, but I seem to have drifted away from it in recent times. Perhaps it's time for a renaissance.
I say that partly because I found my faith in another love restored last night. I have noted in many previous posts how Van Morrison is, along with Bob Dylan, one of my musical heroes. If I had to take just one album with me to a desert island, it would be Veedon Fleece. I've seen Morrison play live on probably something like 25 occasions, but I stopped going to his concerts in 2003. The recent albums were uninteresting, and the live performances had lost their magic. I decided to call it a day, rely upon the memories, and take refuge in the earlier recorded work.
After a break of six years, however, I went to see him play in Cardiff's Millennium Centre last night. Old friend Nixon, with whom I've seen Morrison on several glorious occasions, came over from London for the event, and, after some waterfront snacking, we took our seats and hoped for the best. I was expecting to be disappointed, but I soon found my breath taken away. The magic was back. Songs rarely performed live were unfurled. I think I'm right in saying that 'Fair Play' was played for only the second time since it was first recorded for Veedon Fleece. And I had barely recovered from the shock of hearing that song when we were treated to a sublime verson of 'In the Garden', during which Van faded the band out until all we could really hear was his acoustic guitar. He then whispered 'And your holy guardian angel' for what seemed like several minutes. That alone would have been enough to keep me happy for a lifetime, but then 'Streets of Arklow', also from Veedon Fleece, began. I've been waiting to hear this performed live for about eighteen years. Nixon, who knew this, glanced over and smiled. I nodded in shivered awe.
Before this becomes an issue of Rolling Stone, let's get back to ink, to ponderink. It seems only appropriate that, having refound my faith in Van Morrison, I should allow the Great Brown Whale back into my life and my pen. No guru, no method, no teacher; just Omas Sepia and a sense of wonder. Ink the garden.
Ink in use today: Herbin Cacao du Brésil.
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