From The Root To The Fruit of House Music (SECOND EDITION)
Growing Healthy Vegetable Crops: The Hidden Life of Trees: The Hop Grower's Handbook: Making Liqueurs for Gifts: Miss Lady Bird's Wildflowers: Mushrooms of the Pacific Northwest: The Naturally Bug-Free Garden: The Organic Composting Handbook: The Organic Gardener's Handbook: Pacific Northwest Month-by-Month Gardening: Perennials for the Pacific Northwest: Permaculture for the Rest of Us: Plants You Can't Kill: Portland Farmers Market Cookbook: The Postage Stamp Vegetable Garden: The Power Greens Cookbook: The Pruning Answer Book: The Reason for a Flower: The Reason for Flowers: The Rodale Book of Composting: Rosemary Gladstar's Medicinal Herbs: Foundations of Natural Farming: From the Feed Trough: Gardening in the Pacific Northwest: Go, Little Green Truck!
The Greenhouse and Hoophouse Grower's Handbook: The Ground Beneath Us: Grow 15 Herbs for the Kitchen: Grow the Best Blueberries: Grow a Little Fruit Tree: Growing Healthy Vegetable Crops: Neal Kinsey's Hands-On Agronomy: The Hop Grower's Handbook: How to Grow World Record Tomatoes: Humane and Healthy Poultry Production: In the Shadow of Green Man: John Deere, That's Who! A Kid's Guide to Keeping Chickens: Lead with Your Heart.
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Learn to Draw Farm Animals: Letter to a Young Farmer: Letters to a Young Farmer: Making Liqueurs for Gifts: The New Cider Maker's Handbook: The New Horse-Powered Farm: The New Livestock Farmer: The Organic Farmer's Business Handbook: The Organic Gardener's Handbook: The Organic Medicinal Herb Farmer: Organic Mushroom Farming and Mycoremediation: The Organic Seed Grower: Organic Seed Production and Saving: Patrick's Great Grass Adventure: The Permaculture Earthworks Handbook: The Permaculture Guide to Reed Beds: The Permaculture Market Garden: Harry has collected a large bowlful of the dusky purple fruit and is wondering what to cook….
How did it sound in Cadogan Hall compared with the premiere in Holland last October — better, worse, different? I didn't think, when I was listening to it, I wrote the piece I wanted to write. But to a degree I feel that with every piece I write. Lost opportunities, ideas I could have developed — hard to say what exactly. You hear things that happened as if by accident, that could have turned out differently.
I wrote it under extremely difficult circumstances — Sheila was actually dying during that period. Moths are the metaphor…. It's about all those. It's about things that are no longer there. I'm nearing the end of my life, at least statistically.
But I didn't want to write something indulgent and poetic. You know about him and the moth? There was a sound, in a room, every evening. No one knew what it was.
Turned out there was a moth in the piano and it had set the strings vibrating in its attempt to escape. I was feeling sorry for moths.
There's a lot of prejudice. Some people see a moth and immediately want to kill it. And the fact that they're creatures of the night… And they eat your cashmere. But in fact there are only two kinds that eat clothes… For what it's worth I enjoyed it more. It's not to do with the quality of the performance. Both were very good.
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Aside from the question of mortality and extinction, you have always had a fascination with moths anyway, since childhood. Yes, I've always thought that if I had more time — one of those things you always think — I'd have found out more about them, but I've never succeeded. I've just read about them as an amateur. There used to be a thing on children's radio, a natural history programme.
I can't remember what the form was. He had a butterfly farm in Bexley, Kent. I remember writing to him, aged about 12, and got a funny typewritten answer. Then I got a catalogue, and you could buy all the butterfly and moth equipment. I got a butterfly net, and a thing called a relaxant tray which is a tin box with some sort of jelly in the bottom.
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Once they were killed they would be "relaxed" and you could set them on a cork board. I did all that. It was mostly moths. There weren't many butterflies around that area of the north at that time. You'd see the usual cabbage white, red admiral, tortoiseshell. But moths you could get with molasses and beer and paint it on the bark of trees.
Anyway, the cheapest thing — I had no money — to buy in the catalogue were silkworm eggs.
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I sent off for them and they arrived. They looked as if they'd been laid on cardboard. You know they're these huge moths — they're called worms but in fact they're moths. I kept them for a while. I put them in a drawer. Nothing happened for ages, God knows how long. And one morning I woke up and the whole wall was covered in these caterpillars, making their way — well I don't know where they thought they were going….
Wasn't your mother horrified at all these caterpillars crawling round your room? I used 12 Latin names — and 12 singers split into two six-part choirs, and multilayered. Robin's poem is interspersed.
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You can't really hear it as such. You're not meant to.
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The day is a mix of grey and gold. The season is on the turn. Through the window, the garden begins to look tired: I don't know what it is. It's roasted, this one. My relationship with this piece is very different from usual. I don't know what I'm doing or what it's going to turn out like. Many more ups and downs. Yesterday I was feeling quite depressed.
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In the depths of despair, really. But I wasn't when I got up this morning. Then I went to get some cash out of a hole in the wall and suddenly I saw a way forward. It's as if you are in a room with many locked doors and then you find that one opens and the sun's streaming in. Then the journey ahead looks clear. At least for a bit. It's quite interesting really….
The next day Harry rings me from London to say he has been thinking about the psychological aspects of writing this piano piece. It's hot and cold. Sometimes I see the way forward, almost every detail of the journey. At the beginning of the week I knew exactly where I was going.