Round and round we go

After some agonising, comparing, and general research, I took the plunge and got a new turntable — see below.

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Audio Technica LP120 USB

This is actually the fourth turntable I have owned. The first was a Dual. That was a rim drive (a technology I am not sure is still used), and had a fair bit of rumble. That was followed by a Sony direct drive. The Sony was incredibly reliable, as their products tend to be. It had some quite good features like a strobe band around the edge of the platter, so one could see whether the record was spinning at the correct speed or not. The platter itself was carbon fibre, supposedly, with funny little rubber mushrooms to support the record. That deck went through a house fire which buckled its dust cover so severely I had to take it off and throw it away. To my surprise, the deck still worked. It was still working when I reluctantly put it out on the nature strip over forty years later. So why did I get rid of it? I had no room in the stereo cabinet for a turntable.

It was succeeded by a much smaller Akai belt drive deck. This was a modest machine, sourced from Cash Converters for not very much money. I intended to use it just for ripping recordings from my few remaining LPs. I recently liberated the stereo from its cabinet and re-housed it in a new console, where I could now get at the back of it. I also got some LPs from the op shop, and a record cleaning machine. The limitations of the Akai were becoming more obvious as the quality of the vinyl improved. So when I saw the Audio Technica on sale online, I realised it would be a major improvement.

The major feature of this deck is the capacity to record vinyl records directly to a USB stick. However, I bought it for its other features:

  • direct drive (no messing about with drive belts)
  • S shaped tone arm (supposedly better for tracking toward the LP label)
  • prefitted cartridge
  • universal headshell, giving the capability to upgrade the cartridge
  • capacity to use
    • the deck’s inbuilt preamplifier, or
    • an external phono stage, or
    • the one in your amplifier. (The Luxman has a good phono stage with switchable impedance, and it seemed a shame not to use this.)
  • hydraulically damped lift control for the tonearm (although you need to lift the arm at the end of the record).

It even has a dinky little pop-up light so you see where to put the needle at the start of the disc. And, for members of the Illuminati (and the tinfoil hat brigade), one can actually play discs backwards. Yes, subliminal messages encoded onto The Beatles, David Bowie, and other such seemingly inoffensive artists, can be — ah — outed? Revealed? Whatevs.

The handful of Melodiya discs I picked up in a junk shop in St Kilda plays beautifully. I remember asking the assistant what the story was with these. Apparently no-one had picked them up from the dock after they cleared customs. Melodiya is the number one Russian record label; the discs I have date from the Soviet Union era. Material includes the Shostakovich symphony no. 5 (conducted by Maxim Shostakovich), four of the Sibelius symphonies with Rozhdestvensky, the Schumann piano concerto, and Schubert impromptus. The Russian orchestral sound is unique, particularly the brass playing — where else can you hear horns played with vibrato?

Other op shop finds, not all played on the new deck yet, include

  • Brahms: Alto Rhapsody, Wagner Wesendonck Lieder; Strauss orchestral songs, with Janet Baker
  • a Nielsen symphony
  • Debussy: La Mer; Ravel: Daphnis & Chloe suite no. 2, Pavane, with Szell and the Cleveland (extremely well played)
  • Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherezade with Leinsdorf (pristine condition, very good performance, and a great recording — the trifecta)
  • Beethoven: Pastoral symphony with Charles Groves (pretty good, as I recall)
  • Verdi: Don Carlo with Karajan (mono, from Salzburg Festival)
  • Schubert: Unfinished symphony and Rosamunde excerpts, with Paul Kletzki and the Philharmonia Orchestra (from the 1950s, the glory days for that band — how could you go wrong?)
  • Marschner: Hans Heiling and Der Vampyr (a gift from a mate — a terrific discovery of a composer I hadn’t heard of, let alone heard. Private recording.)

Some of the best of this bunch are World Record Club pressings. There is a story worth telling here — if only the business records from this enterprising outfit are still around. I had quite a few of their records in the 70s and 80s. Only two of these old-timers survive; a volume in the complete Haydn string quartets, with the Fine Arts Quartet, and the Sibelius Violin Concerto with a Russian soloist, Tossy Spivakovsky, and the London Symphony Orchestra. The latter is one I liberated from the music department at North Sydney Technical Boys High School. (I would return it, but the school closed down in the late 60s or early 70s.) This was the recording through which I got to know this work. I always liked Spivakovsky’s performance; it made me think of a soul wailing in frozen wastes. After a wash, the disc (although pretty worn) doesn’t sound at all bad on the new deck. I can hear now, however, that the soloist is balanced extremely close. Some things just ain’t the same forty years on!

A matter of judgement

There is a timely (for me) article in The New Daily: “How to be a great friend to somone with cancer“.

It makes some common-sense suggestions, which is always good. The major suggestion, reading between the lines, is not to feel as if you — the friend — have to do anything different. Stay in touch. Suggest outings and get-togethers, as you normally would. (Obviously, if your friend has mobility issues as a result of their cancer, you will bear this in mind.) Have a chat, as you normally would. Don’t feel you either have to talk about their cancer, or not talk about it. The tip about not feeling you have to make the big speech is a good one.

You may be surprised — or not — at what people can get used to. It is eighteen months since I was diagnosed. A cancer diagnosis goes from being a rock your life has run aground on, to just another category label. Male. Retired librarian. Likes cooking, gadgets, and cars. Cancer patient. They are all facets of my life. Obviously I give the cancer priority, but all these things are part of who I am. So I think the article is on the money with emphasising normality. Aiming for this is part of how I manage.

In this vein, cancer patients learn that not everyone is cool with talking about mortality. This is totally understandable. There is a time and place for all these things. We are not a society that encourages discussions about death. Some people need to talk about it. Others find it easier not to get into the deep and meaningfuls. There is no one size fits all approach.

I guess being friends with a cancer patient is like being friends with someone recently bereaved. As the friend, you feel awkward and not sure of what to say. So you don’t say anything. As the article points out, that is totally fine. A hearts and flowers speech is not required. What is not fine is if you avoid the person because you feel awkward around them. Then they have to deal with their friends not seeing them as well as with their loss.

Of course the bereaved person, or cancer patient, has responsibilities for keeping the friendship going as well. I’m not terribly good at these things. So I am saying this to myself — friendship involves putting yourself out there and taking a risk.

Cancer patients come in different shapes and sizes. We can be in quite different spaces according to the stage we are at in our treatment. I am in remission and don’t have a prognosis. Someone like me is not going to feel the same as someone who has a prognosis and receiving palliative care. But people whose lives haven’t been affected by cancer can’t readily make these distinctions. When they hear the word “cancer” they assume the worst. We, the patients, have to remind ourselves of this. Everyone is on the same journey, but all starting from a different place.

If you want an education, go to the library

I have just read an extremely interesting and encouraging article in the New York Review of Books called “In praise of public libraries“, by Sue Halpern. (I should add that, I am not a subscriber to the NYRB, and Halpern’s piece is not behind a pay wall, as far as I can see. The link provided above therefore should take you straight to the piece; let me know if not. As always, I apologise for cross posting.)

The title of her article may seem to promise a dusty and tedious motherhood kind of essay, as faded as those little baskets of pot-pourri one sees in an op shop. On the contrary! The article opens with Halpern’s pacy account of helping bring a public library to a small town in New York State, and how wildly popular this initiative proved. The body of the piece, however, is a review of a couple of books about American public libraries, Palaces for the people by Eric Klinenburg, and The library book by Susan Orlean. (The links in each title point to the Amazon entries.) She makes me want to read both these books — usually the sign of a good review.

One particular aspect of the review which caught my attention was the section devoted to Andrew Carnegie and his eponymous libraries. Public libraries would seem an unusual thing for a red meat capitalist like Carnegie to be interested in. The review explains how this came about. Carnegie, at the age of fifteen, was working as a telegram boy in Pittsburgh. A local iron manufacturer, Colonel James Anderson, allowed working boys to borrow one book a week from his private library. Carnegie’s experience of this philanthropy led him to write later in his Autobiography 

It was from my own early experience that I decided there was no use to which money could be applied so productive of good to boys and girls who have good within them and ability and ambition to develop it, as the founding of a public library in a community which is willing to support it as a municipal institution.

He put his money where his mouth was, to the tune of $1.6 billion in today’s dollars. This funded 2,509 libraries worldwide. Family members will know that one of these was in Mildura, where my family was living when I first saw the light of day. A voracious reader, Mum’s use of the Carnegie library was probably a factor in her enthusiasm for public libraries. This in turn doubtless contributed to my becoming a shelf monkey for over thirty years. (I am indebted to the Urban Thesaurus for this nomenclature.)

The NYRB piece sets the institution of public libraries squarely in the current climate in which libraries are being either closed, rationalised, or starved of funds. (This is happening here just as much as the United States.) Economic rationalists are sceptical that we need public libraries at all, now that we have Amazon, and Starbucks stores with free wifi. (I know — libraries don’t actually sell books — but apparently economics professors don’t know this.) Halpern provides the interesting figure that, in the Los Angeles County system, the annual per capita library funding figure is around USD$32, which equates to about nine medium-size Starbucks lattes. (In my local area, every $100 of rates revenue includes $6.68 of funding for libraries, arts and cultural services; about half of what is spent on emptying the bins and other “Environment and waste management” services.)

Rather than join the chorus bemoaning the irreparable damage being done to libraries in all sectors — municipal, university, and special — let’s concentrate on the positives. In the financial year 2016-17, the State Library of Victoria had more than two million physical visits, and over four million digital ones. More than a million people visited its exhibitions. A public appeal raised more than $500,000, a record for that institution. “Major gifts” raised another $25 million for its Vision 202 redevelopment plan (see “A year of records for Australia’s most popular state library”, media release 25 September 2017). Okay, that is one flagship library. But it shows that the public and funding sources — even when everything is supposedly available on the internet — are still prepared to support bricks and mortar libraries.

Where did I get the title of this post from? You are forgiven your overdue fine if you recognised Frank Zappa’s incisive words: “If you want to get laid, go to college. If you want an education, go to the library” (Brainy Quote).

 

Keeping calm & not carrying on (too much)

I was sitting in the waiting room of my lymphedema practitioner yesterday, reading ‘The tattooist of Auschwitz’. When she called me to come in, she asked what I was reading. When I told her, she said “That’s hilarious”. We established that she was referring, not to the book itself, but to the fact that she was reading it too. (We are reading it for our respective book groups.)

Why was I seeing a lymphedema practitioner? In recent weeks I have had a bit of swelling in the feet and ankles. This is quite often found in people who have had radiation treatment, chemotherapy, or lymph nodes removed. (Of course, I have had the trifecta.) The weather has been warm and pretty humid, which tends to make this condition worse. Anyway, I now have a lymphedema practitioner among the team keeping me in a well state. (Who knew that such specialised people existed?) Treatment involves wearing knee high compression socks, doing some lymphatic drainage (i.e. massage), and keeping the limbs elevated where possible. Walking (and exercise generally) is fine. Long periods of sitting with feet on the floor, and standing around, are not recommended.

Anyway, things are definitely headed in the right direction. (This is based on re-measurements of my feet and ankles.) Apart from this small inconvenience — with which there is no pain — I am still in remission and feeling fine. The last scan came up clear, PSA still undetectable, so I am continuing with the hormone treatment. (I get another implant every three months.)

Returning to ‘The tattooist of Auschwitz’; when someone in my book group said they would like to read it, I knew nothing about it. Judging from the title, it didn’t sound like a terribly cheery read. I had just suggested ‘The narrow road to the deep North’, however, so I didn’t feel entitled to object to it on those grounds. I’m glad I didn’t — I am enjoying it more and more the further I get through it.

One reason is that, in spite of being set in Birkenau prison camp, the killings and assaults it records are never rendered very graphically. So although it is clear what is going on, it never descends into Holocaust porn. Another is the style, which is clean and unadorned, and propels the narrative efficiently. Doubtless Heather Morris realised that, with a story like this, no flourishes or literary devices were required. If so, she made the right decision. For such a book, it is quite a page turner. The steadiness of the narrative pulse, and the unbelievable ingenuity of the characters in just staying alive, makes you believe that they will get out. (After all, someone survived to tell her the story, right?)

I found this story, of people showing such resilience in unimaginable circumstances, instructive after the Christchurch killings. Everyone will react differently to this event. I have been trying to find a justification for being concerned with, and going on writing about, mundane things. Of course — and I apologise for the cliché — life must go on. Cars must be serviced, bills paid, meals cooked, washing washed. These things don’t stop just because some total bastard has rent the fabric of so many lives.

Of course people in Christchurch are not just getting on with their lives, but are showing great resilience and compassion as well. If the alleged killer was trying to inspire hatred and rejection of Muslims, he has evidently failed. So many people went along to mosques and Islamic museums last Sunday — here and, no doubt, all over Australia and New Zealand — to express their sorrow for these murders. There has also been tremendous support for the right of Muslims to practice their religion.

Taking a closer look at this: we might assume (as I did) that freedom of religion is guaranteed under Australia’s constitution. This actually isn’t so. Australia has no bill of rights guaranteeing the right to practice a particular religion. There is a number of  implied rights in the Commonwealth constitution; these rights are generally taken to include religious practice. However, this implied right only applies in the Commonwealth jurisdiction. So the states and territories are theoretically free to make laws restricting the practice of a particular religion within their jurisdiction. (See the interim report of the 2016  Inquiry into the status of the human right to freedom of religion or belief (Australia. Parliament. Joint Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs and Trade)). 

If these events brought about a bill of rights, or other instrument giving proper protection for freedom of religion, it would not be worth the lives lost. But it would be something positive.

Nothing to see here …

We saw Dr Parente yesterday morning. The PSA is still undetectable, and I remain in remission. After receiving this good news, we went to the oncology unit, where I had another Zolodex implanted. (You will remember that this is the hormone treatment — androgen deprivation — that is aiming to starve the cancers of what they feed on.) The implants are about the size of a grain of rice and last about 3 months. They just go in in the abdominal fat, of which there is still plenty, even after the gastro! There is very little discomfort. I booked in the next appointments with Dr P & the oncology unit, for the next implant.

My beloved is going to Paris in early April for a few days. She will be representing her work at an international transport meeting. We thought of me going as well, and tacking a cruise or other expedition onto the end of her work commitments. However, there is bugger-all happening in that line at that time of year (too cold, I suspect). So I am going to hold the fort. Of course this depends on nothing going awry in the meantime, but (touch wood) all seems to be quite stable. I have been going to an exercise class for oncology patients run by Lauren, the exercise physio, and this is pretty good! I will be going back to the gym soon as well (I stopped for a few weeks with the gastro).

My lovely old Luxman pre-amp has spat the dummy again and is only working on one channel. This is a real bore as I have to disconnect everything, pull it out, and run it over to the valve amp guru in Glen Waverley. He will have it for however long he needs to ponder its mysteries — could be weeks. (His workshop is like an Aladdin’s cave of amplifiers, many much more expensive than mine. So he knows whereof he speaks.) This is not my first pilgrimage there, however, and to be honest I am a bit over the vintage gear. Maybe I should sell it on Gumtree and get a nice, soulless, reliable, solid state integrated amp!

Artists and parasites

Whether republicans or monarchists, we are all supporters of the GG (Guy’s Gut). So I knew you wouldn’t want to miss any twist in the tale. The final act of the drama unfolded like this:

  1. 11th: Saw GP A — not my regular one, who was unavailable. She gave me a pathology test kit, just in case I had something more than common old gastro. I dropped this off at a path collection point a few days later. When I didn’t hear anything about it, I assumed it didn’t show anything unusual. (The practice doesn’t contact patients about path results except if they show something urgent or out of the ordinary.)
  2. 18th: Felt worse over the weekend, so saw GP B (my regular). He rang the path lab. The test he was hoping GP A had requested, she hadn’t requested. So he asked them “Can you run an XYZ test on the existing samples?”. Yes, they could. On what I told him and my treatment history, he went ahead and diagnosed a likely Giardia infection. He gave me a script for Flagyl (an antibiotic) and a few other bits and pieces. I had to take the Flagyl for 3 days: no grog (haven’t been having any anyway).
  3. 20th: After having the Flagyl over the last 3 days, I felt dramatically better! GP B had hit the bullseye — good on him. Normal energy, appetite, number 2s, the works. As far as I am concerned, case closed. However, later that day, I got a message from the practice to ring them. I needed to make an appointment with GP A to discuss the test results (remember them?). I made a time for the following day.
  4. 21st: GP A told me it wasn’t Giardia after all, but Aeromonas. Apparently this is a more unusual species of bug, mainly seen in travellers. Same treatment, but it is less likely to recur than Giardia. (This is because the Flagyl kills the Giardia parasites, but not their eggs. A recurrence of symptoms after two or three weeks is therefore possible.) She recommended a probiotic to restore some of the gut flora that the Flagyl will have knocked out. Oh, and I am still off the grog for a few more days.

The most important thing: I feel normal. Today I walked nearly 13,000 steps (about 9.5 kilometres). Appetite, energy levels, and all functions back to normal.

I am re-reading The master, by Colm Toibin, for a discussion group on Saturday.  (For those who haven’t read it, this is his novel about Henry James.) When I checked the publication date, I was surprised to see it was published 14 years ago. I did my Honours thesis on James over 40 years ago, so when this novel came out, I was naturally interested to read it. I was impressed then with Toibin’s novelistic treatment of him, and I still am.

It strikes me, this time around, that there is a lot about social blindness in his treatment of Henry James. (Well, I have always thought of the concept as “social blindness”. An example of this is someone at a nude beach, who strenuously ignores the naked bodies in front of them. Of course, they are just as interested as anyone else would be. They are just not peering too obviously, to avoid the social stigma of being thought a pervert. Maybe someone can tell me what this is actually called in social psychological terms.)

In The master, James feels as if people can tell that he has — as he might put it — particular inclinations. (These crop up pretty early on, so it is no spoiler to disclose it here.) He loathes people inferring this about him, as anyone might. According to Wikipedia, homosexuality was a capital crime until 1861 in Britain, after when it continued to be regarded as a serious offence. Of course, no-one accuses James out loud! The niceties (social blindness) are thus preserved; the fictional James, however, feels vulnerability and shame.

With all these inferences and implications, Toibin infuses the early scenes of the book with a fair degree of tension. In this “faction”, James is portrayed as an observer of human behaviour. (Sargent’s portrait captures this aspect of his personality; as do the books.) That less fastidious people can apparently observe him just as readily adds an uncomfortable paradox. From memory, his sexuality is thought to be ambiguous. It appears that he renounced entanglements the better to write about them. The real Henry James was famously discreet in this as in all things.

 

No guts, no glory

I was originally going to call this blog post “Smörgåsbord”, and it’s not surprising I should have had food on my mind. I came down with gastroenteritis on Thursday, and since then I have subsisted mostly on dry toast, tea, water, and electrolyte drinks. Forays into peanut butter on the toast and lentil soup were unsuccessful. I have only been beyond the gates a couple of times since it all began; the excursion yesterday was to a GP in Camberwell. My loyal readership might think I am taking an attack of the runs a bit seriously to call in a medico. For those who have had immuno-suppressant treatments like chemotherapy, however, the recommendation I have read is to call in a GP if the gastro goes on beyond a couple of days. (This was also the suggestion of my oncologist Dr Parente, with whom I had a brief phone conversation yesterday.) So it’s not just me being a wimp!

A medication that Dr P recommended is called Gastrostop. This contains both loperamide, which helps the bowel contents to firm up, and another ingredient meant to reduce abdominal swelling (which can be quite painful). I can report that this combo works well. It is delivered via a chewable tablet, wherein lies its only disadvantage in leaving a bitter taste. (This may not happen for other people.) To get around this, I have been breaking the tablet up and swallowing it in water. When I did this this morning, I felt quite nauseated; fortunately, I wasn’t sick. This could have been related to my being unable to swallow the tablet fragments, and having to chew them after all. Maybe there is a reflex that makes you feel nauseated if you chew something you haven’t been able to swallow. For anyone remotely interested in how their tums work, I can recommend Gulp: travels around the gut, by Mary Roach. (The link points to the Boroondara Library service record.) This is a great piece of science writing. Just don’t read it in your lunch break: especially when she is talking about vomiting and elimination!

Further in this vein, a good source of information about gastroenteritis (which I sincerely hope you won’t need) is the Better Health Victoria web page . From this and other sources I learned that my gastro is viral, not bacterial. Bacterial is accompanied by vomiting and abdominal pain, and can be treated by antibiotics. Viral has neither of these effects, and can’t be treated by antibiotics, or anything much. The main recommendations here are rest, very plain food, water and electrolytes to replace the fluids. Paracetamol can help reduce fever, but won’t do anything for the gastro. (Something nobody points out — stay near a toilet — i.e. at home. And wash your hands every time you go. My beloved has so far not succumbed, although it is way contagious.) The BHV page is superior IMHO to the equivalent federal government one, which is well written, but contains some weird advice along the lines of “Eat normal meals if you feel hungry”. This is pretty much guaranteed to irritate the gut big time! Stick with dry toast, maybe chicken noodle soup, plain rice or noodles. Avoid coffee, alcohol, chocolate, butter, spicy food, and all other fun things. Some GPs feel that loperamide-based medications like Gastrostop prolong the condition by stopping you up, and thus inhibiting the virus from passing through the system. I tell you what, though — if you have been to the toilet ten times, a bit of stopping up starts to feel like a good thing! At the very least, if you want to get a half-way decent sleep, have one or two of these (as directed) before you go to bed.

Coincidentally with this happenstance, we have been down to one car (the GT) in which to get around. Someone ran into the Camry while my beloved had it parked at Chadstone shopping centre. (She wasn’t in it at the time.) Fortunately the driver of the other car left a note under her windscreen wiper, apologising profusely and including her contact details. After quite a number of phone calls, the mobile C-suite has a new bumper, paid for by the other lady’s insurance. Drop-off Thursday, recovered yesterday. (Fair play to the repairer, Capital Smart, for providing my beloved a free Uber ride home and back to the workshop in the wilds of Mulgrave.)

Things got faintly complicated when our insurer got involved as well. We had a comprehensive policy on the Camry at the time of the accident, and ended up paying them the excess on that policy for the current repair. (When our insurers are reimbursed by the other insurers, we should be fully refunded.) Before I got crook, I ferried my beloved around in the GT; fortunately she also had a couple of drives with me as the passenger. This came in handy when I couldn’t stray beyond the front door! She is a very capable driver, however, and got the hang of it in no time, looking very Agatha Raisin in her string-backed gloves and big sunnies. She ended up taking it out for quite a few spins, including a night-time trip to a pharmacy. We bought an automatic model partly so that we could both drive it, and this turns out to have been a good move. It is a very entertaining little device, and injects fun into the most mundane supermarket trip.