The Peanut Crunching Crowd
Listening to Innocence and Experience - The best of Blake Babies
Why is smell the most evocative sense? You would think that sight or sound would give the most intense impressions of things past but one slight whiff of some scent from childhood can bring so many memories back. Today seems to have been marked by a higher-than normal number of such impressions. There was a plasticy burning smell, this morning, which made me, think of our front room from when I was quite small. I used to burn plastic things in the fire, which apart from being incredibly dangerous in several ways made the whole room smell disgusting. Then there was a smell of grilling peanuts (where from?) which took me back to Bali and all the Sate I ate while I was there. Of course, the problem with smell as a memory jogger is that you are often not able to tie down the proper source and so are left with a hugely disconcerting overdose of emotion without any idea where it has come from. My day is often a confused mass of smells and so many of them seem to have a link back to what I always think are important events. Maybe it is just the intensity of the recollection that makes me think it is important.
We had snow here early this morning though none stuck so no chance of throwing number one son out in the garden with his snowsuit to see if it does what it says on the tin. Well maybe it will happen. Instead, it just kept on raining. Just call me Lt. Kije. I am looking forward to a few hours just quietly reading over the next week. That was my favourite bit of Christmas when I was a kid, just being able to take whatever book I had got as a present and sit somewhere warm to finish it. I came across a few of those presents in the bookcase (there is a second row - like sharks' teeth - hidden behind the cool covers, which are allowed to be seen). There were several books by Nigel Calder and loads of Astronomy books. Anyway, my present this year is The Ancestor's Tale which promises all of the old magic though if you want the evolution/creation debate, then go the US Amazon Site. See you all later.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
Loud, Louder and Loudest
Listening to {fill in your own guess here}
emails to rdeweyden@hotmail.com
Defining Cliché.
I cannot be bothered to put the accent on. Oh well, yes I can. I know is mucks up the text but it should be there. Cliché should only be so if it is already within experience. But then when does Cliché become familiarity of vice-versa? And when does this stop sounding like pretentious rubbish, designed to fill up a slack Friday?
I have been listening to In C a lot recently with a view to using some of the festive free time to implement my programmed version. I can't have listened to it properly because it is only now that I know that the length of each segment is irrelevant to when the start of each drops into the whole thing. Each bit is designed to just fit in anyway wherever it starts. This makes the job of programming it so much easier. The instructions are here if you want to try it for yourself. I don't sight-read music though I have just been able to follow the score quite easily. It seems simpler to follow a piece fragmented this way than to stay up with a conventional melody. I would like to do Six Pianos as well but the score costs real money. I have the first bar in a book on minimalism and although changing the volume of each track creates a huge amount of variation, it seems not quite proper. Do you have the feeling you have read this all before?
Listening to {fill in your own guess here}
emails to rdeweyden@hotmail.com
Defining Cliché.
I cannot be bothered to put the accent on. Oh well, yes I can. I know is mucks up the text but it should be there. Cliché should only be so if it is already within experience. But then when does Cliché become familiarity of vice-versa? And when does this stop sounding like pretentious rubbish, designed to fill up a slack Friday?
I have been listening to In C a lot recently with a view to using some of the festive free time to implement my programmed version. I can't have listened to it properly because it is only now that I know that the length of each segment is irrelevant to when the start of each drops into the whole thing. Each bit is designed to just fit in anyway wherever it starts. This makes the job of programming it so much easier. The instructions are here if you want to try it for yourself. I don't sight-read music though I have just been able to follow the score quite easily. It seems simpler to follow a piece fragmented this way than to stay up with a conventional melody. I would like to do Six Pianos as well but the score costs real money. I have the first bar in a book on minimalism and although changing the volume of each track creates a huge amount of variation, it seems not quite proper. Do you have the feeling you have read this all before?
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Big Shouty Crowd
Listening to Secret World Live - Peter Gabriel
You can just guess how good this website is going to look.
A nice day, late in the year, pretty much like now and almost unreadable like some wittering diary, make poetry of prose. This is clean weather, a day with nothing bad and the promise of rest and riches to come. Or maybe hiding in a corner or behind the curtains where you really are hidden from everyone else. The dreamers dream and stand back, trying to find science in all this religion. I am still hiding and this book is just perfect. It is red science, the engineering of the Soviet space programme or something that once and for all proves evolution is not just a theory but is indeed complete and unequivocal fact, fact and more FACT. I am ten again, like just before the war, with no anticipation of being a machine gunner. I would be too young even to lie about my age. The sent me back to my books and that quiet corner with no more than a clipped ear.
Sometime back in the sixties I found art, all those huge and glossy books at the back of the library. I almost couldn't lift them but I covered the table with them and turned over every page and looked closely at every picture and photograph. The sun always shone in from the side, always lighting the dust in the air. I there I was half way up the stairs like Kermit's nephew, and still with a book. Never read the words except those in books without pictures. Duduk sounds in the background make the dust dance and show up the grief and sadness of the wars that went on all the time over the sea. People I knew shouted, at me sometimes, but head down in all those words, I could easily ignore it all. Until I remembered the B52s pouring towers of bombs into the jungle and making communists of everyone down below. I saw riots in Ireland and I think I can even recall some of the Paris stuff from 1968. And still the dust dances.
Now it is as if I cannot concentrate on these things I read; everything is just too real and no book has the level of escape it once did. I still long to sit behind the curtains or down at the bottom of the garden and waste whole halves of the day there. No music has the emotion it once had. Sometimes I put on proper black vinyl records and the crackles cannot drown out that analogue emotion. Music these days is ALL digital and clean and nothing seems to connect. Sometimes I think that vinyl has a spirit that CD plastic doesn't; the ghost of the disk perhaps, some animist deity that we should placate with record cleaner and a lint free cloth. I cannot write anything and this sentence is false.
I crawled up under the stoop and the world turned into flashing lights, like an aircraft coming into land at night. All the debris the family had stored, crowded in on me and cut my face. I still have the scar; sometimes the baby looks at it quizzically and then changes expression as if he knows what happened all those years ago. And between us, after I came back we started a band. I played the bass not very well and it was good. The vibration went through me and I was mended. And this music, this minute is the best thing I have ever heard; and tomorrow, the track I am listening to will be the best thing I have ever heard.
Rare Vinyl
Jagged records scraped, make this girl gutter,
a wince like lemon juice on blues and jazz,
the rare and breakable in cardboard,
glossed and cleaned like lovers held
in gentle sleeve and plastic.
And each one touched has made a tear,
as if I have her whole life in these discs,
as if she lived in some hole before she came;
a vinyl freak so freaked by us, the enemy.
I hold up Blues, edgewise spinning
with my eye for dust at dust and static,
a greasy alien threatening the blackness
with my own powder, my flaking skin.
Until she cracks. This disc is mine,
my father, the only voice I have.
And in the guttering, the wow and bend
of this deck, this state-of-art machine,
I am not suitable, could not love enough
the green-haired freak, the bluesman.
I wrote her poetry, all girls dreams,
such gritty stuff, the death of bass,
technicians noise I thought, but swinging
through the night and rain like Steinbeck
Hemmingway and Lowell.
I made her African, a polished, white colonial
ex-patriot on white verandas with her gin
while all around the falls made white sounds
in the woodwork and the clouds.
And it all vanished, sucked out of me
and spat back flat and drained of words.
Blues girl scraped and made me gutter,
a wince like lemon juice on blues and Jazz.
Listening to Secret World Live - Peter Gabriel
You can just guess how good this website is going to look.
A nice day, late in the year, pretty much like now and almost unreadable like some wittering diary, make poetry of prose. This is clean weather, a day with nothing bad and the promise of rest and riches to come. Or maybe hiding in a corner or behind the curtains where you really are hidden from everyone else. The dreamers dream and stand back, trying to find science in all this religion. I am still hiding and this book is just perfect. It is red science, the engineering of the Soviet space programme or something that once and for all proves evolution is not just a theory but is indeed complete and unequivocal fact, fact and more FACT. I am ten again, like just before the war, with no anticipation of being a machine gunner. I would be too young even to lie about my age. The sent me back to my books and that quiet corner with no more than a clipped ear.
Sometime back in the sixties I found art, all those huge and glossy books at the back of the library. I almost couldn't lift them but I covered the table with them and turned over every page and looked closely at every picture and photograph. The sun always shone in from the side, always lighting the dust in the air. I there I was half way up the stairs like Kermit's nephew, and still with a book. Never read the words except those in books without pictures. Duduk sounds in the background make the dust dance and show up the grief and sadness of the wars that went on all the time over the sea. People I knew shouted, at me sometimes, but head down in all those words, I could easily ignore it all. Until I remembered the B52s pouring towers of bombs into the jungle and making communists of everyone down below. I saw riots in Ireland and I think I can even recall some of the Paris stuff from 1968. And still the dust dances.
Now it is as if I cannot concentrate on these things I read; everything is just too real and no book has the level of escape it once did. I still long to sit behind the curtains or down at the bottom of the garden and waste whole halves of the day there. No music has the emotion it once had. Sometimes I put on proper black vinyl records and the crackles cannot drown out that analogue emotion. Music these days is ALL digital and clean and nothing seems to connect. Sometimes I think that vinyl has a spirit that CD plastic doesn't; the ghost of the disk perhaps, some animist deity that we should placate with record cleaner and a lint free cloth. I cannot write anything and this sentence is false.
I crawled up under the stoop and the world turned into flashing lights, like an aircraft coming into land at night. All the debris the family had stored, crowded in on me and cut my face. I still have the scar; sometimes the baby looks at it quizzically and then changes expression as if he knows what happened all those years ago. And between us, after I came back we started a band. I played the bass not very well and it was good. The vibration went through me and I was mended. And this music, this minute is the best thing I have ever heard; and tomorrow, the track I am listening to will be the best thing I have ever heard.
Rare Vinyl
Jagged records scraped, make this girl gutter,
a wince like lemon juice on blues and jazz,
the rare and breakable in cardboard,
glossed and cleaned like lovers held
in gentle sleeve and plastic.
And each one touched has made a tear,
as if I have her whole life in these discs,
as if she lived in some hole before she came;
a vinyl freak so freaked by us, the enemy.
I hold up Blues, edgewise spinning
with my eye for dust at dust and static,
a greasy alien threatening the blackness
with my own powder, my flaking skin.
Until she cracks. This disc is mine,
my father, the only voice I have.
And in the guttering, the wow and bend
of this deck, this state-of-art machine,
I am not suitable, could not love enough
the green-haired freak, the bluesman.
I wrote her poetry, all girls dreams,
such gritty stuff, the death of bass,
technicians noise I thought, but swinging
through the night and rain like Steinbeck
Hemmingway and Lowell.
I made her African, a polished, white colonial
ex-patriot on white verandas with her gin
while all around the falls made white sounds
in the woodwork and the clouds.
And it all vanished, sucked out of me
and spat back flat and drained of words.
Blues girl scraped and made me gutter,
a wince like lemon juice on blues and Jazz.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Music for 12 Clarinets
Listening to New York Counterpoint by Steve Reich
Note sure I feel worthy enough to write anything here. You know when things keep progressing in a satisfactory manner and then catastrophe theory dictates that everything switched round and the path is in some other direction. I am not going to try and please anyone other than myself today. It is impossible to sail a course down the middle of all the requirements put upon one by simple day-to-day things.
The House Full Of Toys
A strong scent here,
the smell of things left out,
to clear themselves
after years in the attic,
in the dark.
I think of all these toys,
with eyes and minds
and place them high
up in the room,
so that they may see
all that happens here.
I build my birth high
in coloured towers
made with bricks and
waterwork to steal all sound
and make it hide again.
They take me, insensible
up the ladder to their prison
and have me tied down in boxes
where the winter wind
comes in the gaps
and freezes them.
A year of dark immobility
has made them mad at me
enough to spike me,
pain me with their safe eyes
pulled out and sharp
and dangerous.
Listening to New York Counterpoint by Steve Reich
Note sure I feel worthy enough to write anything here. You know when things keep progressing in a satisfactory manner and then catastrophe theory dictates that everything switched round and the path is in some other direction. I am not going to try and please anyone other than myself today. It is impossible to sail a course down the middle of all the requirements put upon one by simple day-to-day things.
The House Full Of Toys
A strong scent here,
the smell of things left out,
to clear themselves
after years in the attic,
in the dark.
I think of all these toys,
with eyes and minds
and place them high
up in the room,
so that they may see
all that happens here.
I build my birth high
in coloured towers
made with bricks and
waterwork to steal all sound
and make it hide again.
They take me, insensible
up the ladder to their prison
and have me tied down in boxes
where the winter wind
comes in the gaps
and freezes them.
A year of dark immobility
has made them mad at me
enough to spike me,
pain me with their safe eyes
pulled out and sharp
and dangerous.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Shut your North and South
Listening to Lovelife by Lush
I'm not really a fan of costume dramas. Usually you will find me with my head in a book muttering at the unreality and anachronism in some flouncy, Austen thing. However, I have to say I was glued to North and South the past few weeks. It might be that I think it was mentioned quite a bit in Nice Work as the archetypal Industrial Novel which it obviously is. North and South in book form is now safely residing in the place up to now taken by Ulysses and my regular forays into the shed of hell are brightened by the chance that Nice Work will turn up sometime. Nice Work was adapted for TV some years ago and was so close to the book that I have trouble sorting out images from my head and those from the film but well worth a reading anyway.
I suppose its all those dark, satanic mills and consumptive coughs which took North and South above the normal dramas of manners. I have to do a rethink here because the Films of Sense and Sensibility and Emma were very good and gained me points with my wife because I started opening the car door for her again after seeing them. Apparently there is an accepted system of points which husbands are able to gain for doing various things for their wives. From what I remember, the allocation is not as logical as you might think with small things gaining more points.
Anyway, now that I have gone all Mr Darcy on you, some big ideas. I watched the documentary about the making of the Band Aid 20 single (got yours yet?) and I thought about all the various famous people who lend their names to all sorts of causes around the world. There are obviously common themes to a lot of these causes so how about a meta-cause, a look at the root causes of everything that needs people to say that something is wrong. Its not as if anyone can argue that most of the campaigns and things are wrong. Political Freedom, Freedom from Hunger, justice etc; they are all things that unless you were pig-headedly anti-social cannot be described as unnecessary. They all come about through inaction or as side-effects of other things. Remember when Bob Geldof was trying to talk to Mrs Thatcher (Any time soon Elvis!) and she tried to justify the Government's actions? We can remember Bob Saying "people are dying now" but what did Mrs T reply? No idea! It was just complicated twaddle designed to try and maintain a safe and comfy position for - well whomever. My wife humbled me again last night when I went off into this rant when she said that I am always complaining rather than actually doing anything. I think the suggestion was to join Amnesty which has me thinking. I managed to restrain myself from setting up a whole-salary direct debit there and then but she is so right. Watch out for this self-righteous prig. Someone is coming to get you.
Listening to Lovelife by Lush
I'm not really a fan of costume dramas. Usually you will find me with my head in a book muttering at the unreality and anachronism in some flouncy, Austen thing. However, I have to say I was glued to North and South the past few weeks. It might be that I think it was mentioned quite a bit in Nice Work as the archetypal Industrial Novel which it obviously is. North and South in book form is now safely residing in the place up to now taken by Ulysses and my regular forays into the shed of hell are brightened by the chance that Nice Work will turn up sometime. Nice Work was adapted for TV some years ago and was so close to the book that I have trouble sorting out images from my head and those from the film but well worth a reading anyway.
I suppose its all those dark, satanic mills and consumptive coughs which took North and South above the normal dramas of manners. I have to do a rethink here because the Films of Sense and Sensibility and Emma were very good and gained me points with my wife because I started opening the car door for her again after seeing them. Apparently there is an accepted system of points which husbands are able to gain for doing various things for their wives. From what I remember, the allocation is not as logical as you might think with small things gaining more points.
Anyway, now that I have gone all Mr Darcy on you, some big ideas. I watched the documentary about the making of the Band Aid 20 single (got yours yet?) and I thought about all the various famous people who lend their names to all sorts of causes around the world. There are obviously common themes to a lot of these causes so how about a meta-cause, a look at the root causes of everything that needs people to say that something is wrong. Its not as if anyone can argue that most of the campaigns and things are wrong. Political Freedom, Freedom from Hunger, justice etc; they are all things that unless you were pig-headedly anti-social cannot be described as unnecessary. They all come about through inaction or as side-effects of other things. Remember when Bob Geldof was trying to talk to Mrs Thatcher (Any time soon Elvis!) and she tried to justify the Government's actions? We can remember Bob Saying "people are dying now" but what did Mrs T reply? No idea! It was just complicated twaddle designed to try and maintain a safe and comfy position for - well whomever. My wife humbled me again last night when I went off into this rant when she said that I am always complaining rather than actually doing anything. I think the suggestion was to join Amnesty which has me thinking. I managed to restrain myself from setting up a whole-salary direct debit there and then but she is so right. Watch out for this self-righteous prig. Someone is coming to get you.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Toxteth O'Grady and the Peak Freans Trotsky assortment.
Listening to Treasure - The Cocteau Twins
The Cocteaus are always worth a listen. Lorelei, the second track on Treasure is indeed flawless. And unlike My Bloody Valentine, they didn't take years to create that perfection. (Despite this, MBV will be next on the playlist.) I can remember the first snatches of stuff through the wall from my flatmate's room; it was Victorialand, which isn’t exactly archetypal, but it did the job. I have this problem with things that are not real, computer games are only worth it if they are close to reality and for this reason I have a problem with songs. Why sing about something when you can just talk about it. That sounds terrible from someone who claims to be a poet and you may be wondering how relevant it is to my argument. The fact is that Elizabeth Fraser's voice is just another instrument. All the songs are just about music without any of the poetry that can often seem at odds with the raw emotion of the sounds and rhythm. I know you can sometimes hear the words but even then I am sure that the phrases are just used for the fact that they scan and sound nice in the overall feel of the music.
And is one of these songs lifted from Golden Years by Bowie?
Listening to Treasure - The Cocteau Twins
The Cocteaus are always worth a listen. Lorelei, the second track on Treasure is indeed flawless. And unlike My Bloody Valentine, they didn't take years to create that perfection. (Despite this, MBV will be next on the playlist.) I can remember the first snatches of stuff through the wall from my flatmate's room; it was Victorialand, which isn’t exactly archetypal, but it did the job. I have this problem with things that are not real, computer games are only worth it if they are close to reality and for this reason I have a problem with songs. Why sing about something when you can just talk about it. That sounds terrible from someone who claims to be a poet and you may be wondering how relevant it is to my argument. The fact is that Elizabeth Fraser's voice is just another instrument. All the songs are just about music without any of the poetry that can often seem at odds with the raw emotion of the sounds and rhythm. I know you can sometimes hear the words but even then I am sure that the phrases are just used for the fact that they scan and sound nice in the overall feel of the music.
And is one of these songs lifted from Golden Years by Bowie?
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Pis-Pronounced Worms
Apparently I have been mis-pronouncing the word 'rural' for years. Someone commented on my yokel version, which for ages I have thought was the received pronunciation of the word. The dictionary says (if you excuse what I may be mistakenly thinking is a pathetic fallacy) it should be 'roar - rall' rather than my 'roor - rall'. My wife tells me that she avoids the word 'Almond' because I always correct her audible 'l' and say 'AaahMond' though I have to say that all versions seem to be allowed. 'Says' rather than 'ses' also annoys me but that too is also allowed. You might ask why I moved to Liverpool but that would be dangerous and wrong of you.
Anyway, the reason I had to mis-pronounce 'rural' was that we were talking about strange subjects at school. We had to do rural science, which involved Bee-Keeping, knowledge of stock and crop rotation in its modern form (rather than in history). Our rural science teacher was an ex-farmer and was a stickler for neatness; no crossings-out were allowed other than with a simple double ruled line. He used to provide us with animal versions of those paper dolls that you have to dress. The outline of the animal on one page was accompanied by a set of cutout internal organs that had to be stuck on in the correct place. Nice! It may sound snobby but this was obviously because the local authority thought that so many of the kids at our school (Location Here) only had the option of working on farms. I'm not sure how many actually ended up doing that but from Friends Reunited it seems like it wasn't many.
Don't tell me about the spelling mistakes. This keyboard is bouncing like a trampoline champion.
Apparently I have been mis-pronouncing the word 'rural' for years. Someone commented on my yokel version, which for ages I have thought was the received pronunciation of the word. The dictionary says (if you excuse what I may be mistakenly thinking is a pathetic fallacy) it should be 'roar - rall' rather than my 'roor - rall'. My wife tells me that she avoids the word 'Almond' because I always correct her audible 'l' and say 'AaahMond' though I have to say that all versions seem to be allowed. 'Says' rather than 'ses' also annoys me but that too is also allowed. You might ask why I moved to Liverpool but that would be dangerous and wrong of you.
Anyway, the reason I had to mis-pronounce 'rural' was that we were talking about strange subjects at school. We had to do rural science, which involved Bee-Keeping, knowledge of stock and crop rotation in its modern form (rather than in history). Our rural science teacher was an ex-farmer and was a stickler for neatness; no crossings-out were allowed other than with a simple double ruled line. He used to provide us with animal versions of those paper dolls that you have to dress. The outline of the animal on one page was accompanied by a set of cutout internal organs that had to be stuck on in the correct place. Nice! It may sound snobby but this was obviously because the local authority thought that so many of the kids at our school (Location Here) only had the option of working on farms. I'm not sure how many actually ended up doing that but from Friends Reunited it seems like it wasn't many.
Don't tell me about the spelling mistakes. This keyboard is bouncing like a trampoline champion.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Who do you think I am?
The edition of Who do you think you are? we were all waiting for last night. Meera Syal has been on my radar for some years, long before Goodness Gracious me I am sure. I am certain that I was intrigued that she had written a book when Anita and Me came out.
I sat through the programme last night with that that tingly feeling you get from a truly exceptional piece of music and just thinking about it has brought that feeling back. Both of Meera's grandfathers were involved in the Freedom movement protesting against British Rule in India. Her Mother's father, Phuman Singh, was involved in an episode when the British barred Sikhs from worshipping at the temple in Jaito. Many men marched from the Golden Temple at Amritsar (Possibly the best religious building in the world) and many were shot. Phuman Singh was imprisoned for eighteen months before the Raj relented and opened the temple for worship again. Eventually he received a Freedom Fighters medal for his part in the defiance.
As a postscript, we now have an idea where some of the elements of Granny in the Kumars come from. Meera visited her mother's old house in the Punjab, a bucolic mess of Buffaloes and people in a muddy yard. She was allowed to take a piece of the house for her mother who on receipt of it, took a deep sniff and said "It smells of India - Dung!"
The edition of Who do you think you are? we were all waiting for last night. Meera Syal has been on my radar for some years, long before Goodness Gracious me I am sure. I am certain that I was intrigued that she had written a book when Anita and Me came out.
I sat through the programme last night with that that tingly feeling you get from a truly exceptional piece of music and just thinking about it has brought that feeling back. Both of Meera's grandfathers were involved in the Freedom movement protesting against British Rule in India. Her Mother's father, Phuman Singh, was involved in an episode when the British barred Sikhs from worshipping at the temple in Jaito. Many men marched from the Golden Temple at Amritsar (Possibly the best religious building in the world) and many were shot. Phuman Singh was imprisoned for eighteen months before the Raj relented and opened the temple for worship again. Eventually he received a Freedom Fighters medal for his part in the defiance.
As a postscript, we now have an idea where some of the elements of Granny in the Kumars come from. Meera visited her mother's old house in the Punjab, a bucolic mess of Buffaloes and people in a muddy yard. She was allowed to take a piece of the house for her mother who on receipt of it, took a deep sniff and said "It smells of India - Dung!"
Serious Point Warning
It seems that Human life is so little valued these days that it is possible for people to argue over the number of civilians killed in a war (and I think you know which one I mean). How can no one be sure whether the number is 98,000, the number given in the Lancet study, or 4000 which is what Jack Straw said was correct. Do we have some type of destructor gun which makes the body vanish like the Daleks' exterminator?
It is also nice to know that the intelligence services are on the top of their game as normal. Who would have guessed this? Obviously they have been spending all their time working this out rather than counting the bodies. Sorry! Maybe I should avoid the slightly satirical tone because it should not really be treated as a joke. Do I think too much?
Can't think. I want to write something comparing the case of the Israeli officer who shot dead a 13-year-old girl to that of the Israeli soldiers who posed naked in the snow so please do not think I am being biased in any way. Which case led to dismissals from the army? I think you may be able to guess. And then making the Palestinian violinist play at a checkpoint simply made me think of the Holocaust. Same for many other people I think. Maybe a grass-roots not-in-my-name campaign amongst the Israeli people is a good thing but, as I always say when writing about these things, there is no solution that results in a complete end to the problem. We can only hope that it gets no worse.
It seems that Human life is so little valued these days that it is possible for people to argue over the number of civilians killed in a war (and I think you know which one I mean). How can no one be sure whether the number is 98,000, the number given in the Lancet study, or 4000 which is what Jack Straw said was correct. Do we have some type of destructor gun which makes the body vanish like the Daleks' exterminator?
It is also nice to know that the intelligence services are on the top of their game as normal. Who would have guessed this? Obviously they have been spending all their time working this out rather than counting the bodies. Sorry! Maybe I should avoid the slightly satirical tone because it should not really be treated as a joke. Do I think too much?
Can't think. I want to write something comparing the case of the Israeli officer who shot dead a 13-year-old girl to that of the Israeli soldiers who posed naked in the snow so please do not think I am being biased in any way. Which case led to dismissals from the army? I think you may be able to guess. And then making the Palestinian violinist play at a checkpoint simply made me think of the Holocaust. Same for many other people I think. Maybe a grass-roots not-in-my-name campaign amongst the Israeli people is a good thing but, as I always say when writing about these things, there is no solution that results in a complete end to the problem. We can only hope that it gets no worse.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Random Rando Rand Ran Ra R
Nothing for a week! Was it that long really? I do apologise. I wasn't entirely idle; The first review here is mine. I don't think there were any poems but I don't put many of them up anyway.
Something is not quite right with the week. We should be in the ramp up of euphoria that is supposed to accompany the end of the year! Why isn't it here yet? Why does everything seem so futile? Anyway this is all I feel like writing today so bye for now. Not even going to bother with the spellcheck.
Nothing for a week! Was it that long really? I do apologise. I wasn't entirely idle; The first review here is mine. I don't think there were any poems but I don't put many of them up anyway.
Something is not quite right with the week. We should be in the ramp up of euphoria that is supposed to accompany the end of the year! Why isn't it here yet? Why does everything seem so futile? Anyway this is all I feel like writing today so bye for now. Not even going to bother with the spellcheck.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Quincy MD.
Amazon dutifully delivered the Restored Ariel yesterday. (In a private car by the way). I know I have all the poems already and so I have just bought it for the facsimile and drafts but the comparison with the thin, red edition I have always had is striking. The foreword by Frieda is breathtaking yet measured and I am sure will provide material for the adjustment of all the old dissections. The main point is of course its analysis of Plath and Hughes as real people rather than the literary deities and focus for two different camps. It would be glib to say that the foreword could be summarised as "Calm down" for it is actually quite angry at points; as angry as the rarefied atmosphere of literary life appears to be for us outsiders anyway.
There is no point in any specific review of the poems apart maybe from The Swarm which as I may have mentioned has suddenly made itself know as one of my favourite Plath poems though it has not yet overtaken Electra On Azalea Path.
Amazon dutifully delivered the Restored Ariel yesterday. (In a private car by the way). I know I have all the poems already and so I have just bought it for the facsimile and drafts but the comparison with the thin, red edition I have always had is striking. The foreword by Frieda is breathtaking yet measured and I am sure will provide material for the adjustment of all the old dissections. The main point is of course its analysis of Plath and Hughes as real people rather than the literary deities and focus for two different camps. It would be glib to say that the foreword could be summarised as "Calm down" for it is actually quite angry at points; as angry as the rarefied atmosphere of literary life appears to be for us outsiders anyway.
There is no point in any specific review of the poems apart maybe from The Swarm which as I may have mentioned has suddenly made itself know as one of my favourite Plath poems though it has not yet overtaken Electra On Azalea Path.
Friday, November 12, 2004
The Return of the Return of the Return of .....
Listening to Loveless by My Bloody Valentine
Strong-armed Sally broke away from her homeland and came to live in America. I'm not sure which part but the back yards of the houses on the edge of town were the last bit of human landscaping for hundreds of miles. You could walk in a straight line out of Sally's back door and not come to another house for days. I see an evil light in the sky here, a permanent sun-through-cloud type of light with no sunrise or sunset. I had the first degree awarded to an illiterate and it shows. How bad can it get?
Sally loved some man from here and that is why she moved but no one can remember who it was. Her love got lost in the loud music she liked, stuff that frightened most of the locals who thought it dangerous and foreign. She was reported to the authorities who decided she was harmless but annoying. They could not find any law to make her stop so she is allowed to carry on playing this noise as loudly as she likes. Sometimes a gap-toothed old-timer comes to her door and screams for some peace. She might turn the volume down for a bit but within the hour, when the old man has trundled away back to his Jack Daniels, she turns everything up to eleven again and the rattlesnakes slither for the hills.
Sally's back garden is sandy, just a part of the desert rolling over her property and into her emotions which are sandy also. She eats alone always and has no real friends inside the state boundaries. Years ago, when Sally was a teenager, she would sit overpowered by her love for this man from here. He might let her buy him a drink but he never really loved her back. Sometime later she may have moved back here, over the Atlantic. She liked to think she came home on a romantic liner but really she flew. And what is so spooky about this is that she never went back again. This dusty town is where she was born, and first fell for that loud-mouthed warmonger who never returned her calls. She thinks she still loves him but that doesn't matter because he is dead by his own hand in a roundabout sort of way. He killed someone he thought was bad and they got a gang together and came for him. Sally was there; she scratched a few people or maybe tried to calm everyone down but in the end he just died there in the dust. They never buried him. Sometimes he is still on TV when they want to make a point or sell something for old people. But he is definitely dead and not moving.
Listening to Loveless by My Bloody Valentine
Strong-armed Sally broke away from her homeland and came to live in America. I'm not sure which part but the back yards of the houses on the edge of town were the last bit of human landscaping for hundreds of miles. You could walk in a straight line out of Sally's back door and not come to another house for days. I see an evil light in the sky here, a permanent sun-through-cloud type of light with no sunrise or sunset. I had the first degree awarded to an illiterate and it shows. How bad can it get?
Sally loved some man from here and that is why she moved but no one can remember who it was. Her love got lost in the loud music she liked, stuff that frightened most of the locals who thought it dangerous and foreign. She was reported to the authorities who decided she was harmless but annoying. They could not find any law to make her stop so she is allowed to carry on playing this noise as loudly as she likes. Sometimes a gap-toothed old-timer comes to her door and screams for some peace. She might turn the volume down for a bit but within the hour, when the old man has trundled away back to his Jack Daniels, she turns everything up to eleven again and the rattlesnakes slither for the hills.
Sally's back garden is sandy, just a part of the desert rolling over her property and into her emotions which are sandy also. She eats alone always and has no real friends inside the state boundaries. Years ago, when Sally was a teenager, she would sit overpowered by her love for this man from here. He might let her buy him a drink but he never really loved her back. Sometime later she may have moved back here, over the Atlantic. She liked to think she came home on a romantic liner but really she flew. And what is so spooky about this is that she never went back again. This dusty town is where she was born, and first fell for that loud-mouthed warmonger who never returned her calls. She thinks she still loves him but that doesn't matter because he is dead by his own hand in a roundabout sort of way. He killed someone he thought was bad and they got a gang together and came for him. Sally was there; she scratched a few people or maybe tried to calm everyone down but in the end he just died there in the dust. They never buried him. Sometimes he is still on TV when they want to make a point or sell something for old people. But he is definitely dead and not moving.
It's About Dublin
The Palm pilot is a might emptier this morning because I have finally finished reading Ulysses. It has taken me longer to read that it took Joyce to write it. Well it has been longer since I started reading it. I started again for this cycle but from some of my Blog entries you can see when I re-started. Reading through all of Molly Bloom's speech at the end I struggled to get over the 'what on earth is she on about' feeling but that soon became a powerful image of the inside of someone's mind. It ended exactly right and as the Preface says, despite many suggestions that it is unfinished it is probably the most concluded book ever. I was tempted to start on Dubliners but I think a break from Joyce is required. Actually, I was tempted to start Ulysses again after purchasing one of those companions which explain all the references and locations. Staring again should really be reserved for Finnegan's Wake shouldn't it? The bottom line is that often I was not quite sure what was going on (a bit like the John Peel show) but perseverance is worth it for the easy roll down the hill to the end. A great book. Read it in your lunch breaks and be amazed.
Talking about John Peel has reminded me of something I wanted to check. One of the great treats on his show was a session by Ivor Cutler who must surely feel a bit cut off now.
Listening to Dead Can Dance by the way. Very Loud.
Like some small gig at the Flying Picket it is, when the music was so loud it hurt and the band I knew stood in the spots making them burst over the walls. I took photographs and they were good, like the ones in the NME. They used one of them on their flyers. The bassist joined Electrafixion for a bit. We saw them in some small place in Liverpool. My friend was in the last few months of being pregnant and the music was too loud. She had to leave because the baby (now ten) was dancing along or maybe protesting. But Ian McCulloch looked good in his shades as always. I wasn't allowed to take photos then and the drink came like water until the eardrum buzz made the music like some repeating mantra, losing all its meaning and even melody, just feedback in the night and intoxicated students.
Take those headphones and press them into your ears to get the bass into your skull. It seems to blank out not only sound but vision as well, a rattle that becomes sight and sound.
The Palm pilot is a might emptier this morning because I have finally finished reading Ulysses. It has taken me longer to read that it took Joyce to write it. Well it has been longer since I started reading it. I started again for this cycle but from some of my Blog entries you can see when I re-started. Reading through all of Molly Bloom's speech at the end I struggled to get over the 'what on earth is she on about' feeling but that soon became a powerful image of the inside of someone's mind. It ended exactly right and as the Preface says, despite many suggestions that it is unfinished it is probably the most concluded book ever. I was tempted to start on Dubliners but I think a break from Joyce is required. Actually, I was tempted to start Ulysses again after purchasing one of those companions which explain all the references and locations. Staring again should really be reserved for Finnegan's Wake shouldn't it? The bottom line is that often I was not quite sure what was going on (a bit like the John Peel show) but perseverance is worth it for the easy roll down the hill to the end. A great book. Read it in your lunch breaks and be amazed.
Talking about John Peel has reminded me of something I wanted to check. One of the great treats on his show was a session by Ivor Cutler who must surely feel a bit cut off now.
Listening to Dead Can Dance by the way. Very Loud.
Like some small gig at the Flying Picket it is, when the music was so loud it hurt and the band I knew stood in the spots making them burst over the walls. I took photographs and they were good, like the ones in the NME. They used one of them on their flyers. The bassist joined Electrafixion for a bit. We saw them in some small place in Liverpool. My friend was in the last few months of being pregnant and the music was too loud. She had to leave because the baby (now ten) was dancing along or maybe protesting. But Ian McCulloch looked good in his shades as always. I wasn't allowed to take photos then and the drink came like water until the eardrum buzz made the music like some repeating mantra, losing all its meaning and even melody, just feedback in the night and intoxicated students.
Take those headphones and press them into your ears to get the bass into your skull. It seems to blank out not only sound but vision as well, a rattle that becomes sight and sound.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Saigon
It was so long between me seeing those bombers and what did that all mean, those falling, black tubes? At five before the end of the sixties, that was the only news I knew, that everywhere was at war and yet here was always peaceful. Nearly always! What war lasted for so long? They must have it wrong for I was either at school being told to be quiet or running about in the fields and parks with no worries at all. My dad sheltered me from all that; he hid any trouble from me and coming home was a retreat from the black world of the B52s into a safe blanket-lined den. It was only later that I knew they were B52s and much later that I knew that a B52 was also a hairstyle and a rather strange group who took no part in the Vietnam war. And then that general shot the crying boy and we all thought he had something missing. Know the real story and maybe some sympathy will switch positions. We are illiterate and proud, knowing just enough to be here and logged in. Knowing just enough to know that we know just more than anyone. All those years when I thought I was dumb and here we are and me so arrogant as to really believe that I can spell better than anyone. Really it is the machines which keep us going, checking the spelling and the grammar as we go like so many fairies in the background. So many people and so little intellect, just enough education to breath and bang the rocks together.
They hadn't heard of electric folkies then. Maybe Dylan had wound up the Fisherman's jumper brigade with his electric performance but you had none of the fey techno stuff that skitters round the ipod earphones these days. Everyone trying to be Nick Drake rather than Nick Cave. That was murder. Soon I will have everything I have ever listened to or written stuffed on some grain of dust implanted under my skin and I will be happy. No more stuff to buy, ever. There isn't anything left to do and so maybe we will just shut down and listen to all our music in one go. 2500 CDS; that's nearly a year's worth of music in one go but then again so many are listened to over and over. You must know what they are by now and how are we coming along with that project to database the lost. Those Tibetan ones may be coming out of the garage soon.
And all those teenage dreams come crashing down in a fit of embarrassing memories, of missed opportunities and being turned down by beautiful girls. She was in white and would have broken had I touched her, spinning away in pieces leaving me in some scenery red-faced and wanting to be eaten by the hell beneath. The ground never opens up when you want it to. The real ones are hidden in your friends, the foul-mouthed ones who teach the kids to swear while mother is out of the vehicle. It is all so hard to beat and what do you want on your tombstone?
I am so sick now. The room is not quite right, maybe not spinning yet but guttering back and forth in preparation. In Limbo with Virgil and the other boys it is so sad but still a permanent existence, peaceful with time to read but so alone despite being with excellent company. Is it real despite not believing? The whole world at the end of this keyboard, not a thing hidden, the president's shoe size, maybe just a haircut and how stupid is that? This dream is short and happy.
Lapsed? Me? With my reputation?
It was so long between me seeing those bombers and what did that all mean, those falling, black tubes? At five before the end of the sixties, that was the only news I knew, that everywhere was at war and yet here was always peaceful. Nearly always! What war lasted for so long? They must have it wrong for I was either at school being told to be quiet or running about in the fields and parks with no worries at all. My dad sheltered me from all that; he hid any trouble from me and coming home was a retreat from the black world of the B52s into a safe blanket-lined den. It was only later that I knew they were B52s and much later that I knew that a B52 was also a hairstyle and a rather strange group who took no part in the Vietnam war. And then that general shot the crying boy and we all thought he had something missing. Know the real story and maybe some sympathy will switch positions. We are illiterate and proud, knowing just enough to be here and logged in. Knowing just enough to know that we know just more than anyone. All those years when I thought I was dumb and here we are and me so arrogant as to really believe that I can spell better than anyone. Really it is the machines which keep us going, checking the spelling and the grammar as we go like so many fairies in the background. So many people and so little intellect, just enough education to breath and bang the rocks together.
They hadn't heard of electric folkies then. Maybe Dylan had wound up the Fisherman's jumper brigade with his electric performance but you had none of the fey techno stuff that skitters round the ipod earphones these days. Everyone trying to be Nick Drake rather than Nick Cave. That was murder. Soon I will have everything I have ever listened to or written stuffed on some grain of dust implanted under my skin and I will be happy. No more stuff to buy, ever. There isn't anything left to do and so maybe we will just shut down and listen to all our music in one go. 2500 CDS; that's nearly a year's worth of music in one go but then again so many are listened to over and over. You must know what they are by now and how are we coming along with that project to database the lost. Those Tibetan ones may be coming out of the garage soon.
And all those teenage dreams come crashing down in a fit of embarrassing memories, of missed opportunities and being turned down by beautiful girls. She was in white and would have broken had I touched her, spinning away in pieces leaving me in some scenery red-faced and wanting to be eaten by the hell beneath. The ground never opens up when you want it to. The real ones are hidden in your friends, the foul-mouthed ones who teach the kids to swear while mother is out of the vehicle. It is all so hard to beat and what do you want on your tombstone?
I am so sick now. The room is not quite right, maybe not spinning yet but guttering back and forth in preparation. In Limbo with Virgil and the other boys it is so sad but still a permanent existence, peaceful with time to read but so alone despite being with excellent company. Is it real despite not believing? The whole world at the end of this keyboard, not a thing hidden, the president's shoe size, maybe just a haircut and how stupid is that? This dream is short and happy.
Lapsed? Me? With my reputation?
The Dirty Mouth of Edmund Burke
I took an alternative route to work this morning. I have recently found myself extremely dismayed at how many different ways I have of getting home in the evenings and yet each of them takes about the same time. I then get further depressed by the need to actually make these journeys. This hatred of the journey home regularly has me through the floor, stuck with all the other commuters in some traffic jam. In contrast, the few times I have had to take the train and bus have made me quite happy. I actually used to write poems on the bus which risks some derision in this city I suppose. Despite the tradition of musicality, I can avoid the generalisation made by Boris Johnson and say that poetry is still seen as slightly fey and suspect. Years ago, I used to write manual (i.e. using a pen) poetry during lunch hours, what was described by one of my colleagues as 'Wandering Lonely'.
Strawberry Picking
Treasures for us have to make me remember all that takes place this day. There is me so many years ago, wishing in the sunshine as that sweet fruit dipped and sugared made me happier. We were friends together in those fields at the start of your diary, two boys singing Gino and throwing strawberries at each other while the cold-war raged and fell apart. The farmer’s rich children came out in their whites for tennis and I thought they thought of me not much, a rural accent made glassy at the limit of my hearing and I am better than them, sharing this moment with what becomes literature.
And then it rained, rotting the fruit in the plants and they paid us to just pick, by the hour, how to save the field from mud and mush. It was flat but twice the piece rate to just extract that mushy red rot and burn it. Think of the sound of the rain on the dayglow coats, the pat-pat on the hoods. And the Gino boys were not there today. I thought of them, cool and rich from many punnets picked and rated highly by the matronly overseer, laughing and drinking in some city bar. I thought everyone was a poet then, not just spirit fiends and avaricious drunkards. Strawberry liquor ferments in the pools between the plants, a sticky glue that burns with the discarded fag ends, a slow drug promising an oblivion in the clotted congealed mess that flows against some lunar gravity, down my arms like scars.
Those fields are all flat now. We drove by the gatehouse the other day, a burned out flaky painted wreck that seems to say that the whole farm has folded. What happened to those bright girls in their whites? They have their bald husbands now or maybe some in tow for maintenance at least while they drink and spend the last penny I made for them in the fields. Taxed by tax and paper work, the farm failed and returned to the moor and deer. My children are still to young for this story but one day I will show them the comparison that hit me the first time I opened this book, this three-bookmarker that takes a year to read.
and so yes those boys came for me that night breathing fumes of rough cider I lived for just one night up to my ears in the smoke and music the walls of mud and straw just like they were for older kings against the smoke four hundred years ago no commas in any conversation marion made older in that bar we fell slower over the tables until the lock in came the landlord trying to throw us out gave up and gave us more drink until we slept as dawn came grey light over the trees and strawberry fields coy mistress in the upper clapboard kissed them teasingly and ran home laughing to the telling off for staying out she expected from the second i saw who came that night before mythology and ghosts in the woodwork teeth around the doorposts and then we were away to college alone again giving up naturally and starting again with a new set of friends boys who tried to be the gino singing angels and failed in the city rain fruit made sweeter by its rarity gave me pause and how we loved everything that was to come and is now
I took an alternative route to work this morning. I have recently found myself extremely dismayed at how many different ways I have of getting home in the evenings and yet each of them takes about the same time. I then get further depressed by the need to actually make these journeys. This hatred of the journey home regularly has me through the floor, stuck with all the other commuters in some traffic jam. In contrast, the few times I have had to take the train and bus have made me quite happy. I actually used to write poems on the bus which risks some derision in this city I suppose. Despite the tradition of musicality, I can avoid the generalisation made by Boris Johnson and say that poetry is still seen as slightly fey and suspect. Years ago, I used to write manual (i.e. using a pen) poetry during lunch hours, what was described by one of my colleagues as 'Wandering Lonely'.
Strawberry Picking
Treasures for us have to make me remember all that takes place this day. There is me so many years ago, wishing in the sunshine as that sweet fruit dipped and sugared made me happier. We were friends together in those fields at the start of your diary, two boys singing Gino and throwing strawberries at each other while the cold-war raged and fell apart. The farmer’s rich children came out in their whites for tennis and I thought they thought of me not much, a rural accent made glassy at the limit of my hearing and I am better than them, sharing this moment with what becomes literature.
And then it rained, rotting the fruit in the plants and they paid us to just pick, by the hour, how to save the field from mud and mush. It was flat but twice the piece rate to just extract that mushy red rot and burn it. Think of the sound of the rain on the dayglow coats, the pat-pat on the hoods. And the Gino boys were not there today. I thought of them, cool and rich from many punnets picked and rated highly by the matronly overseer, laughing and drinking in some city bar. I thought everyone was a poet then, not just spirit fiends and avaricious drunkards. Strawberry liquor ferments in the pools between the plants, a sticky glue that burns with the discarded fag ends, a slow drug promising an oblivion in the clotted congealed mess that flows against some lunar gravity, down my arms like scars.
Those fields are all flat now. We drove by the gatehouse the other day, a burned out flaky painted wreck that seems to say that the whole farm has folded. What happened to those bright girls in their whites? They have their bald husbands now or maybe some in tow for maintenance at least while they drink and spend the last penny I made for them in the fields. Taxed by tax and paper work, the farm failed and returned to the moor and deer. My children are still to young for this story but one day I will show them the comparison that hit me the first time I opened this book, this three-bookmarker that takes a year to read.
and so yes those boys came for me that night breathing fumes of rough cider I lived for just one night up to my ears in the smoke and music the walls of mud and straw just like they were for older kings against the smoke four hundred years ago no commas in any conversation marion made older in that bar we fell slower over the tables until the lock in came the landlord trying to throw us out gave up and gave us more drink until we slept as dawn came grey light over the trees and strawberry fields coy mistress in the upper clapboard kissed them teasingly and ran home laughing to the telling off for staying out she expected from the second i saw who came that night before mythology and ghosts in the woodwork teeth around the doorposts and then we were away to college alone again giving up naturally and starting again with a new set of friends boys who tried to be the gino singing angels and failed in the city rain fruit made sweeter by its rarity gave me pause and how we loved everything that was to come and is now
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Hi Honey! I'm Home.
This review of the Restored Ariel by Vanessa Curtis almost made me cry. The wonderful, happy-childhood images suggested by the new ordering are quite overpowering. Of course this doesn't mean that Ariel had become a kids' collection but all those bleak poems at the end so obviously did not belong in the collection. The Swarm, which is included as an appendix is actually one of my favourites though all the beekeeping poems are good. Still can't wait - still have to.
This review of the Restored Ariel by Vanessa Curtis almost made me cry. The wonderful, happy-childhood images suggested by the new ordering are quite overpowering. Of course this doesn't mean that Ariel had become a kids' collection but all those bleak poems at the end so obviously did not belong in the collection. The Swarm, which is included as an appendix is actually one of my favourites though all the beekeeping poems are good. Still can't wait - still have to.
He Buried Cheese and Important Papers
It was nice to see Ian Hislop on Who Do You Think You Are? After last week, when Jeremy Clarkson did nothing to disprove that he is a prat of the highest order, it was good to see a restrained but reverent programme. The final section involved a trip to Uig, on the West coast of The Isle Of Lewis which is where we had our honeymoon. Ian Hislop found it wet and miserable though he struggled through the wind with a massive golf umbrella to visit the few remaining stones, all that remained of the house of one of his ancestors. Our memories of Uig are of almost tropical sunshine, huge expanses of white, sandy beach and total peace and quiet. Even on the late summer bank holiday we saw few cars and fewer people walking. We had no TV and had to make to with the radio. One night we listened to a piping competition where one entry was what seemed like twenty minutes of drone - see ABoneCroneDrone for comparison. Now listening to Quiet for relaxation. Anyway, back to Uig. Despite the rain, I was suddenly extremely anxious to get back to Lewis; life in this part of the world seems pressured at the moment and there are rumblings of emigration from a few people I know. I have a problem with flying so for me any trip would probably have to be one way.
I have been away from regular blogging so long that I can't seem to get back into any proper flow. The poems aren't coming as quickly as they used to either. This may reflect the noticeable changes in the atmosphere here at work or just the pressures of an extra child who can no longer be put down without worrying about where he will get to. My daughter has taken a sudden and compulsive interest in history and keeps telling me things I didn't know like who started the Great Fire of London and exactly what delightful punishments were 'awarded' to Guy Fawkes. She shouted down the stairs last night to ask us how to spell 'bubonic' and then drew a picture of a smiling girl with spots in the midst of the Great Fire. I pointed out that anyone with the Plague would certainly not be smiling so she labelled the girl as having freckles. She also has an obsession with TS Eliot as a result of listening to Cats though we have managed to keep her away from The Wasteland.
What books have I missed mentioning?
Where Did it all Go Right? by Al Alvarez
Only a few hundred pages from the end of Ulysses, which after a struggle with the chapter going through the history of written English, has become a lot more interesting if a little slow. I am nearly at Molly's monologue/stream of conciousnness/observational, stand-up comedy (which by the way was the basis for the words to The Sensual World by Kate Bush.)
The big one coming up is the Restored Version of Ariel with facsimile drafts, notes for readings at the BBC and a foreword by Frieda Hughes. Can't wait but will have to.
Just to prove that there are some poems, a good one for you. I haven't posted many anyway but this is by way of sacrifice to the Gods of The Blogs who must have been getting uppity.
It was nice to see Ian Hislop on Who Do You Think You Are? After last week, when Jeremy Clarkson did nothing to disprove that he is a prat of the highest order, it was good to see a restrained but reverent programme. The final section involved a trip to Uig, on the West coast of The Isle Of Lewis which is where we had our honeymoon. Ian Hislop found it wet and miserable though he struggled through the wind with a massive golf umbrella to visit the few remaining stones, all that remained of the house of one of his ancestors. Our memories of Uig are of almost tropical sunshine, huge expanses of white, sandy beach and total peace and quiet. Even on the late summer bank holiday we saw few cars and fewer people walking. We had no TV and had to make to with the radio. One night we listened to a piping competition where one entry was what seemed like twenty minutes of drone - see ABoneCroneDrone for comparison. Now listening to Quiet for relaxation. Anyway, back to Uig. Despite the rain, I was suddenly extremely anxious to get back to Lewis; life in this part of the world seems pressured at the moment and there are rumblings of emigration from a few people I know. I have a problem with flying so for me any trip would probably have to be one way.
I have been away from regular blogging so long that I can't seem to get back into any proper flow. The poems aren't coming as quickly as they used to either. This may reflect the noticeable changes in the atmosphere here at work or just the pressures of an extra child who can no longer be put down without worrying about where he will get to. My daughter has taken a sudden and compulsive interest in history and keeps telling me things I didn't know like who started the Great Fire of London and exactly what delightful punishments were 'awarded' to Guy Fawkes. She shouted down the stairs last night to ask us how to spell 'bubonic' and then drew a picture of a smiling girl with spots in the midst of the Great Fire. I pointed out that anyone with the Plague would certainly not be smiling so she labelled the girl as having freckles. She also has an obsession with TS Eliot as a result of listening to Cats though we have managed to keep her away from The Wasteland.
What books have I missed mentioning?
Where Did it all Go Right? by Al Alvarez
Only a few hundred pages from the end of Ulysses, which after a struggle with the chapter going through the history of written English, has become a lot more interesting if a little slow. I am nearly at Molly's monologue/stream of conciousnness/observational, stand-up comedy (which by the way was the basis for the words to The Sensual World by Kate Bush.)
The big one coming up is the Restored Version of Ariel with facsimile drafts, notes for readings at the BBC and a foreword by Frieda Hughes. Can't wait but will have to.
Just to prove that there are some poems, a good one for you. I haven't posted many anyway but this is by way of sacrifice to the Gods of The Blogs who must have been getting uppity.
Guitar Tech 01/10/2004
Make me a new mother
here with the spots behind us
and I will have you,
your mind wrapped up
in this dress,
smelling the date I bought it,
the time I stop and fail.
I will soothe your fingers,
suck away the strings and blood
you lost for me.
I am gauze for you,
a sheeted window
for your kinks and risings,
or me, just mine.
I am in the dark stuff,
some uncrossed T
behind the smoke and cellars,
a margin, blank and desireless
like all the vacant ice
of fame for fame,
love in the wallpaper,
a sweat and stare for care
and antidote for leaving home.
I took the buzz from Blues
and sent it to the moon
in time to end the decade;
sold it for my talents
A misery, a noun for my neuroses,
has me city-wide,
a walker, a single eye and camera.
And I slip back, a dusty building stone
made living by some wild god,
a thrash against your standing
in some fantasy, some movie.
We fall back from verse to bridge,
technicality in this strobed act,
broken down to elements by light,
against the wall, and fragments,
of my love in pieces,
me made stupid by the rush of blood,
and you here now, sole capacidad,
a sinking raft, yellowing the deeps
with flares and chocolate as we fall
to dust made mud, made salt.
I write and love like taking notes,
missed adjectives and pronouns
make this letter like a command
to those I rule and hate.
Hold me here, and lower me
to sleep and high rise,
all we need in gutted cities.
I have taken centres out before,
killed landscapes with a fire
and freaked out whole towns
with the scream I practise nightly.
Make me a moment out of touch,
a sweet embrace out here
and cold on me has me breathless.
Witchy me!
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Home Truths and bangin' Techno!
Listening to Throwing Muses 2003 - VERY LOUD
It seems that John Peel's Death has sparked a few lapsed bloggers back to work (you know who you are and don't blame the kitten). I am devastated in a way that I cant describe. I used to listen to Peely's show on a battered clock radio after I was supposed to be asleep. It faded in and out on Medium wave with Radio Moscow sometimes blocking it out on the worst nights. Can't say that I enjoyed everything he played and there was a time when the only stuff I thought worth listening to was the Reggae but over the years I grew to like more and more. Anyone who has heard of the Comsat Angels only knows them because of JP's show. Da da dum. Gone and never forgotten.
If only the devastating news of the US Pres. Elec. result prompted as much writing. Maybe it will.
We have been back in Malvern for a week, well actually in Upton-upon-Severn really. The new camera took a beating but I haven't got things together enough to post anything yet. I can't actually send files to the site I use from here so it has to be done from home. Maybe some next week. We were accompanied by my nephew for a lot of the time and for an eleven-year-old, he seems to chosen the role of protector-in-chief of number one son. We visited the Avoncroft building museum and he pushed the buggy round all the mud and hills without complaint or prompting. Avoncroft houses the National Telephone Kiosk Collection (restrain yourselves!) with each one linked by a working Strowger exchange. Now I know all about how Strowger works; this site is still know as the Strowger works; but I have never seen a live exchange in operation. I really need to put the picture I took up don't I? There is also a Tardis which was disappointingly slightly smaller on the inside than on the outside. Still, it did light up if you called it and there were plenty of people of a certain age humming the Dr Who theme or making Tardis schwusharghschwsharghhhhh noises. My daughter loved it - only slightly less so that I did.
All is still VERY LOUD.
Listening to Throwing Muses 2003 - VERY LOUD
It seems that John Peel's Death has sparked a few lapsed bloggers back to work (you know who you are and don't blame the kitten). I am devastated in a way that I cant describe. I used to listen to Peely's show on a battered clock radio after I was supposed to be asleep. It faded in and out on Medium wave with Radio Moscow sometimes blocking it out on the worst nights. Can't say that I enjoyed everything he played and there was a time when the only stuff I thought worth listening to was the Reggae but over the years I grew to like more and more. Anyone who has heard of the Comsat Angels only knows them because of JP's show. Da da dum. Gone and never forgotten.
If only the devastating news of the US Pres. Elec. result prompted as much writing. Maybe it will.
We have been back in Malvern for a week, well actually in Upton-upon-Severn really. The new camera took a beating but I haven't got things together enough to post anything yet. I can't actually send files to the site I use from here so it has to be done from home. Maybe some next week. We were accompanied by my nephew for a lot of the time and for an eleven-year-old, he seems to chosen the role of protector-in-chief of number one son. We visited the Avoncroft building museum and he pushed the buggy round all the mud and hills without complaint or prompting. Avoncroft houses the National Telephone Kiosk Collection (restrain yourselves!) with each one linked by a working Strowger exchange. Now I know all about how Strowger works; this site is still know as the Strowger works; but I have never seen a live exchange in operation. I really need to put the picture I took up don't I? There is also a Tardis which was disappointingly slightly smaller on the inside than on the outside. Still, it did light up if you called it and there were plenty of people of a certain age humming the Dr Who theme or making Tardis schwusharghschwsharghhhhh noises. My daughter loved it - only slightly less so that I did.
All is still VERY LOUD.
Monday, October 04, 2004
And We're Back
Listening to Stories from the City, Stories from the sea
Well, as you may guess I watched the PJ Harvey session for BBC 4 on Friday and it was. I cannot do justice to the power and emotion that came across. You will find one song from the session on the website but lets hope there is a DVD of the whole thing. Want to write. Have not done anything for weeks I have just noticed though there have been a few off-line poems in the notebook one of which came straight after the PJ session. You never left my mind and one random thing after another came falling out of all that mythology into this blank space, the wall ready for posting. This world all gone to war. Cannot get enough together to carry on. The music just takes concrete and consistent thought and bundles it up into a mess of conscience and bravado.
Listening to Stories from the City, Stories from the sea
Well, as you may guess I watched the PJ Harvey session for BBC 4 on Friday and it was
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
The Secret Dairy
I did spell check that, though I didn't bother with yesterday’s entry. Find anything?
Listening to Random Playlist from media player - currently Breakout by Swing Out Sister.
Which reminds me that I didn't finish the top ten guilty secret records.
Today I don't really care about anything but myself and the music that is coming into my ears. I know I should be bothered about things but everything is just a personal thing. We watched Hotel Du Lac yesterday, a strange and slow play about not a lot though because it was from a Booker Prize winning novel(ette) and it is about a writer it did have a strange air of self-reference about it. I didn't think I would manage to keep interested but it was so short that I managed to stay awake. I should dig out the book sometime. I have three Booker-Prize-Winning books but I have only read one of them - Vernon God Little - though I have read my Cousin's book - Last Letters from Hav which was nominated but didn't win. I am racing through Carrie's War at the moment. I saw the first BBC version when I was ten and then read the book. The recent BBC version was excellent and I just happened to see the book while I was with my daughter at the library. I should have it finished by tonight. This is Nina Bawden's masterpiece. I must have missed so much of the subtle background when I read it all those years ago. At that time I though that Samuel Isaac Evans was the worst kind of nightmare you could have as an Evacuee. Knowing now some of the unspeakable horrors that other children went through it is difficult to make him out as anything other than firm but fair. All this makes me realise how safe my life actually has been. As you may have picked up from previous entries there has been one major bad thing in my life and it has left me with various hang-ups but then again my childhood was quite balanced despite this and I like to think that my Children's lives are happier than mine.
I did spell check that, though I didn't bother with yesterday’s entry. Find anything?
Listening to Random Playlist from media player - currently Breakout by Swing Out Sister.
Which reminds me that I didn't finish the top ten guilty secret records.
Today I don't really care about anything but myself and the music that is coming into my ears. I know I should be bothered about things but everything is just a personal thing. We watched Hotel Du Lac yesterday, a strange and slow play about not a lot though because it was from a Booker Prize winning novel(ette) and it is about a writer it did have a strange air of self-reference about it. I didn't think I would manage to keep interested but it was so short that I managed to stay awake. I should dig out the book sometime. I have three Booker-Prize-Winning books but I have only read one of them - Vernon God Little - though I have read my Cousin's book - Last Letters from Hav which was nominated but didn't win. I am racing through Carrie's War at the moment. I saw the first BBC version when I was ten and then read the book. The recent BBC version was excellent and I just happened to see the book while I was with my daughter at the library. I should have it finished by tonight. This is Nina Bawden's masterpiece. I must have missed so much of the subtle background when I read it all those years ago. At that time I though that Samuel Isaac Evans was the worst kind of nightmare you could have as an Evacuee. Knowing now some of the unspeakable horrors that other children went through it is difficult to make him out as anything other than firm but fair. All this makes me realise how safe my life actually has been. As you may have picked up from previous entries there has been one major bad thing in my life and it has left me with various hang-ups but then again my childhood was quite balanced despite this and I like to think that my Children's lives are happier than mine.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Angry in Tunbridge
It was nice to be confirmed as not yet having fallen into Daily Telegraphism last night. BBC3 showed the first part of Blood on the Turntable about the Sex Pistols and while it was slightly disconcerting to see how plain cuddy John Lydon has become ("I miss the silly sausage" - about Sid Vicious), I was still as angry about the various local dignitaries denouncing the Pistols and Punk Rock in general. Having said that, I bet all those bearded interferers went home to their Dave Brubeck records.
Currently Listening to Time Further Out by The Dave Brubeck Quartet - How is this man still touring?
Still, Tank-tops do have that effect on a lot of people.
Not that I was into Punk at the time. It all seemed a bit silly really but then again I was at a rural school so far away from the various haunts of John and Sid that most kids thought it was OK to listen to both Led Zepelin and The Sex Pistols at one go. John Lydon did once admit that he quite liked some prog-rock anyway.
It was nice to be confirmed as not yet having fallen into Daily Telegraphism last night. BBC3 showed the first part of Blood on the Turntable about the Sex Pistols and while it was slightly disconcerting to see how plain cuddy John Lydon has become ("I miss the silly sausage" - about Sid Vicious), I was still as angry about the various local dignitaries denouncing the Pistols and Punk Rock in general. Having said that, I bet all those bearded interferers went home to their Dave Brubeck records.
Currently Listening to Time Further Out by The Dave Brubeck Quartet - How is this man still touring?
Still, Tank-tops do have that effect on a lot of people.
Not that I was into Punk at the time. It all seemed a bit silly really but then again I was at a rural school so far away from the various haunts of John and Sid that most kids thought it was OK to listen to both Led Zepelin and The Sex Pistols at one go. John Lydon did once admit that he quite liked some prog-rock anyway.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Geronimo and No Links
So she comes up to me as I was sitting on the rail by the beach and said "what you doing here mate?" I was deaf so I didn't hear anything then. The horizon closed in blankly, throwing in the great hulks of ships until the sand was littered with the dismembered hunks of metal that would become the next popular car for the nations that make up the Asian Tiger. Out in the distance there are more ships, skitting along the line between sea and sky like little flies and other insects, creating their own dotted lines on the ocean. Tear them and split the seven seas. The ocean will flow into the caverns produced and we will be left with the huge gaps and the resulting climate change.
Down by the water, I felt some great heavy thing leave me. It shuddered out of me like the devil's tail and became one of the shadows you see in clear, ocean water when the bottom is sandy, some suggestion of a sea-monster but it could just be a bank of sea-weed. But this one skittered away like some underwater UFO, one moment just hovering, keeping station in the water and then streaking away, almost making thunder as the water rushed in to fill the gap it left. And now the day is sunny, a clear and cool calm day with no more darkness. That thing had me cowering for so many years and just one sight of the wide-blue sea has it out of me like water drops in a frying pan. It melts into the God-like lack of religion that has us all worshipping someone like Richard Dawkins. You don't believe me? Look at what goes wrong at the building-collapsing, community-massacring, children-abusing level and what justifies all of them? Some belief that your belief is the only correct one. We can't all be right and what makes you the rightest? Either you are all right in the commonality or you are all completely wrong. I know what I think. And all the time that nagging doubt behind everything you think about in this strand; what if I am wrong? I know I'm not but I have logic as back up, not the ishy-fishy, because-I-say-so preaching of the preachers. Do we need something spiritual? You bet we do. I could invoke God at this point but it would be a word. Today is special. Maybe today is the final end of the hedge fund I have in place that says I don't believe until you prove it. You have no proof. Maybe you say I am the proof, a complex collection of machinery and software that could only have been designed but it just seems so right to me that we have become so perfect because we have adapted to every situation without the need for a plan. We are right because we are here and if we were not here to contemplate out rightness then we would not ... I cannot finish that sentence logically. There is no right way of ending that sentence. You must be able to see what I mean. It is not deep philosophy.
My feet are caught. The sheet has wrapped itslef into my dream and in it I walk round the house, tied up, crippled by a few bits of cloth. This is no plan. Our mechanics will always be so powerfully correct but how we live our lives has no meaning other than for our bodies to exist in. Somewhere, it is a normal school day with the normal level of sadness and apprehension. Which is worth more? Want some more excitement in your day? Yes please! Think about it more and know the correct answer.
We Balinese have a certain attitude to life. If someone harms me, I should not harm him back. If someone throws shit at me, I will throw back flowers.
I Gde Wiratha: Owner of Paddy's Bar in Kuta, Bali, whose nightclub strip was bombed October 12 2002. Death toll: 202, mainly Australians, Indonesians
So she comes up to me as I was sitting on the rail by the beach and said "what you doing here mate?" I was deaf so I didn't hear anything then. The horizon closed in blankly, throwing in the great hulks of ships until the sand was littered with the dismembered hunks of metal that would become the next popular car for the nations that make up the Asian Tiger. Out in the distance there are more ships, skitting along the line between sea and sky like little flies and other insects, creating their own dotted lines on the ocean. Tear them and split the seven seas. The ocean will flow into the caverns produced and we will be left with the huge gaps and the resulting climate change.
Down by the water, I felt some great heavy thing leave me. It shuddered out of me like the devil's tail and became one of the shadows you see in clear, ocean water when the bottom is sandy, some suggestion of a sea-monster but it could just be a bank of sea-weed. But this one skittered away like some underwater UFO, one moment just hovering, keeping station in the water and then streaking away, almost making thunder as the water rushed in to fill the gap it left. And now the day is sunny, a clear and cool calm day with no more darkness. That thing had me cowering for so many years and just one sight of the wide-blue sea has it out of me like water drops in a frying pan. It melts into the God-like lack of religion that has us all worshipping someone like Richard Dawkins. You don't believe me? Look at what goes wrong at the building-collapsing, community-massacring, children-abusing level and what justifies all of them? Some belief that your belief is the only correct one. We can't all be right and what makes you the rightest? Either you are all right in the commonality or you are all completely wrong. I know what I think. And all the time that nagging doubt behind everything you think about in this strand; what if I am wrong? I know I'm not but I have logic as back up, not the ishy-fishy, because-I-say-so preaching of the preachers. Do we need something spiritual? You bet we do. I could invoke God at this point but it would be a word. Today is special. Maybe today is the final end of the hedge fund I have in place that says I don't believe until you prove it. You have no proof. Maybe you say I am the proof, a complex collection of machinery and software that could only have been designed but it just seems so right to me that we have become so perfect because we have adapted to every situation without the need for a plan. We are right because we are here and if we were not here to contemplate out rightness then we would not ... I cannot finish that sentence logically. There is no right way of ending that sentence. You must be able to see what I mean. It is not deep philosophy.
My feet are caught. The sheet has wrapped itslef into my dream and in it I walk round the house, tied up, crippled by a few bits of cloth. This is no plan. Our mechanics will always be so powerfully correct but how we live our lives has no meaning other than for our bodies to exist in. Somewhere, it is a normal school day with the normal level of sadness and apprehension. Which is worth more? Want some more excitement in your day? Yes please! Think about it more and know the correct answer.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Very Smug
After yesterday's trip into the no-brow world of terrible pop music, today we have an entry about Ulysses - Joyce - not Homer. I have been carrying Ulysses round in my Palm Pilot for a long time now which puts me down as pretentious enough doesn't it. Al Alvarez says that he used to carry a copy around in the mid-forties just to wind-up his Headmaster at Oundle so it sounds like he got over the thing before the end of his teens. He doesn't actually say that he finished it though. I aim to because for all its randomness, there are some sublime and locomotive passages which make you ache with how right it all is. Anyway, my smugness today is related to identifying the chapter I am currently wading through as being the Cyclops episode. Maybe it is just obvious to anyone with a Classical education but I was happy enough. Half-way through now. Maybe it will be finished by the end of the year.
What now? I had a quick attempt at making a panorama with the digital camera yesterday but I didn't keep the camera level enough. The software had a decent-enough attempt at sorting it out but it was not good enough to put up on the site. I am stunned at the quality of the images. I thought we were going to have to get a new printer but using coated Ink Jet paper and the current printer, the quality is excellent.
After yesterday's trip into the no-brow world of terrible pop music, today we have an entry about Ulysses - Joyce - not Homer. I have been carrying Ulysses round in my Palm Pilot for a long time now which puts me down as pretentious enough doesn't it. Al Alvarez says that he used to carry a copy around in the mid-forties just to wind-up his Headmaster at Oundle so it sounds like he got over the thing before the end of his teens. He doesn't actually say that he finished it though. I aim to because for all its randomness, there are some sublime and locomotive passages which make you ache with how right it all is. Anyway, my smugness today is related to identifying the chapter I am currently wading through as being the Cyclops episode. Maybe it is just obvious to anyone with a Classical education but I was happy enough. Half-way through now. Maybe it will be finished by the end of the year.
What now? I had a quick attempt at making a panorama with the digital camera yesterday but I didn't keep the camera level enough. The software had a decent-enough attempt at sorting it out but it was not good enough to put up on the site. I am stunned at the quality of the images. I thought we were going to have to get a new printer but using coated Ink Jet paper and the current printer, the quality is excellent.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Stammering
I am trying to drag myself up off the floor. So today we have list of Ten Guilty-Secret records prompted by stumbling across one of them on a tape in the car yesterday.
1. I Think We're Alone Now - Tiffany
Yes - we have to go for the biggie first. A triumph of unemotional commercial pop.
2. Carrie - Cliff Richard
Spooky this one and with loads of back-story.
3. Joe Le Taxi - Vanessa Paradis.
I played this about er approximately once. I can't remember anything else except that Lenny Kravitz had something to do with her.
4. Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley
You may think that I am covering up the truth here but I honestly bought this because I thout he was Virginia Astley's Brother. Her real brother is of course Jon Astley. Still got Rick's record - played once if ya wanna bid for it.
5. Coolest Cuts - Shakatak
Their album Night Birds was excellent - I first head it in a car driving back from London one dark and rainy night. The stuff which followed needed an image to make it work and I didn't know what worked. Apparently, they still hold the record for the longest bit of silence in the middle of a record though I always thought that was in Calling All the Heroes by It Bites (Who you may think should be on the list)
6. Ben - Marti Webb
A Charity record so it is slightly excused. I was sad when Ben Hardwick died. I have to say that Tell Me On a Sunday is a great album AND it has Elaine Stritch on it - the first person to say the F-Word on morning Radio 4 though we did hear This Be The Verse in the afternoon once. Yes – That is a long sentence isn’t it? Do I care? No!
This will have to be finished later as I can't actually think of any other records that I consider to be in this category. The first Kajagoogoo album is really quite good and all those Swing Out Sister records are not to be dissed in any situation.
I am trying to drag myself up off the floor. So today we have list of Ten Guilty-Secret records prompted by stumbling across one of them on a tape in the car yesterday.
1. I Think We're Alone Now - Tiffany
Yes - we have to go for the biggie first. A triumph of unemotional commercial pop.
2. Carrie - Cliff Richard
Spooky this one and with loads of back-story.
3. Joe Le Taxi - Vanessa Paradis.
I played this about er approximately once. I can't remember anything else except that Lenny Kravitz had something to do with her.
4. Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley
You may think that I am covering up the truth here but I honestly bought this because I thout he was Virginia Astley's Brother. Her real brother is of course Jon Astley. Still got Rick's record - played once if ya wanna bid for it.
5. Coolest Cuts - Shakatak
Their album Night Birds was excellent - I first head it in a car driving back from London one dark and rainy night. The stuff which followed needed an image to make it work and I didn't know what worked. Apparently, they still hold the record for the longest bit of silence in the middle of a record though I always thought that was in Calling All the Heroes by It Bites (Who you may think should be on the list)
6. Ben - Marti Webb
A Charity record so it is slightly excused. I was sad when Ben Hardwick died. I have to say that Tell Me On a Sunday is a great album AND it has Elaine Stritch on it - the first person to say the F-Word on morning Radio 4 though we did hear This Be The Verse in the afternoon once. Yes – That is a long sentence isn’t it? Do I care? No!
This will have to be finished later as I can't actually think of any other records that I consider to be in this category. The first Kajagoogoo album is really quite good and all those Swing Out Sister records are not to be dissed in any situation.
An Oil Tanker Off Japan
Listening to Umbra Sumus by Jah Wobble
An extra for you - some poetry by Jah Wobble - I particularly like I am a Complex Man.
So much complexity in the news at the moment. I spend so much time having to tell myself that the terrorists are just that - nothing more - and then the little voice at the back says "But why do they do it?" and I am off in to the realms of tracing back the reasons for everything. It seems so bad of me to try and do this in the face of the terrible thing that has happened but surely the cycle can only be stopped by realising that it is a cycle and that it has to be stopped. Simply jerking into a reaction to each move makes each move just an escalation. I am deliberately not trying to give you any specifics because away from the number one story, there are plenty of tales of suffering which involve far more people. Do you go to sleep thinking about Darfur?
Listening to Umbra Sumus by Jah Wobble
An extra for you - some poetry by Jah Wobble - I particularly like I am a Complex Man.
So much complexity in the news at the moment. I spend so much time having to tell myself that the terrorists are just that - nothing more - and then the little voice at the back says "But why do they do it?" and I am off in to the realms of tracing back the reasons for everything. It seems so bad of me to try and do this in the face of the terrible thing that has happened but surely the cycle can only be stopped by realising that it is a cycle and that it has to be stopped. Simply jerking into a reaction to each move makes each move just an escalation. I am deliberately not trying to give you any specifics because away from the number one story, there are plenty of tales of suffering which involve far more people. Do you go to sleep thinking about Darfur?
Friday, September 03, 2004
Stealing from the Sick and the Old and Weak
How bad do you have to be before no one jumps up to support you? They had a hard life under the bombs of the Russians; they saw many children killed and that made them want to kill more. How innocent does your victim have to be before your desperation is made completely clear? I can't focus; I never lived through any bad times. There were no machine gunners in my childhood, not real ones. My dad remembers stalking through the rubble of a bombed house while the woman who had lived there cried on the step. I want to make you cry but if you are not crying already then maybe you have no emotion. Maybe you don't care. Not enough of us do until it is ourselves we care about.
Listening to Gregorian Chant
How bad do you have to be before no one jumps up to support you? They had a hard life under the bombs of the Russians; they saw many children killed and that made them want to kill more. How innocent does your victim have to be before your desperation is made completely clear? I can't focus; I never lived through any bad times. There were no machine gunners in my childhood, not real ones. My dad remembers stalking through the rubble of a bombed house while the woman who had lived there cried on the step. I want to make you cry but if you are not crying already then maybe you have no emotion. Maybe you don't care. Not enough of us do until it is ourselves we care about.
Listening to Gregorian Chant
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Tithe! Tithe!
Very down at the current situation in North Ossetia and then this article about Médecin Sans Frontière is humbling and terrible at the same time. I can't tell whether the author's sign-off about reading time is supposed to be Ironic, or an indication that he has become blasé about the whole thing. I probably should not try analysing it at all. It all makes me think of the letter which the sister of a soldier killed in Iraq wrote to Tony Blair. It is a simple text though I am sure anyone in the PM's presence while he reads it will see him trying to dismiss it as a simplistic analysis of the situation from a person affected by grief. I actually thought it was amazingly restrained. It says all the things that we have in our heads but that we are afraid to voice in case we are seen as people without an understanding of the wider situation. Well I am coming out. I think that Britain joined the war in Iraq to avoid upsetting the president and that he started it for image, dad and oil just like Andrew Motion says. We may be simplistic but the things we want in life are simple things, things that do not arrive on the back of an army truck or in the bomb bay of an aircraft. I could complicate matter with my old argument about military personnel having to accept the risks but in this case, the 64 dead British troops have died for nothing tangible I can see. We are making the world a more dangerous place because of it. Those in power seem to sidle into some black spectre of Commander that is always placed and always leads us. No matter whom we vote for, the boss is infected with this evil and patronising character. I want this to be a scream and a shout for the dead. On our beloved leader’s terms, we should be in Sudan now. 0/10 -probably could not do better. I am one step away from crying at how bad things are and from the despair of having to live here with our current regime - and that is what it feels like to me.
Maybe I should not read the news. I remember during the first Gulf war, when we didn't have continuous news feeds to our desks. I would get home and read the paper at the Kitchen table, listening to the news and despairing. I was expecting (probably irrationally) to be called up and at that time I did not have the situation in my head clear enough to object conscientiously like my great mate, Oliver Postgate. Not a chance now. (Still Irrational you see.) I wish I were as eloquent as Oliver. He seems to have said everything I wanted to in the linked article. My education has failed.
Very down at the current situation in North Ossetia and then this article about Médecin Sans Frontière is humbling and terrible at the same time. I can't tell whether the author's sign-off about reading time is supposed to be Ironic, or an indication that he has become blasé about the whole thing. I probably should not try analysing it at all. It all makes me think of the letter which the sister of a soldier killed in Iraq wrote to Tony Blair. It is a simple text though I am sure anyone in the PM's presence while he reads it will see him trying to dismiss it as a simplistic analysis of the situation from a person affected by grief. I actually thought it was amazingly restrained. It says all the things that we have in our heads but that we are afraid to voice in case we are seen as people without an understanding of the wider situation. Well I am coming out. I think that Britain joined the war in Iraq to avoid upsetting the president and that he started it for image, dad and oil just like Andrew Motion says. We may be simplistic but the things we want in life are simple things, things that do not arrive on the back of an army truck or in the bomb bay of an aircraft. I could complicate matter with my old argument about military personnel having to accept the risks but in this case, the 64 dead British troops have died for nothing tangible I can see. We are making the world a more dangerous place because of it. Those in power seem to sidle into some black spectre of Commander that is always placed and always leads us. No matter whom we vote for, the boss is infected with this evil and patronising character. I want this to be a scream and a shout for the dead. On our beloved leader’s terms, we should be in Sudan now. 0/10 -probably could not do better. I am one step away from crying at how bad things are and from the despair of having to live here with our current regime - and that is what it feels like to me.
Maybe I should not read the news. I remember during the first Gulf war, when we didn't have continuous news feeds to our desks. I would get home and read the paper at the Kitchen table, listening to the news and despairing. I was expecting (probably irrationally) to be called up and at that time I did not have the situation in my head clear enough to object conscientiously like my great mate, Oliver Postgate. Not a chance now. (Still Irrational you see.) I wish I were as eloquent as Oliver. He seems to have said everything I wanted to in the linked article. My education has failed.
You've Got Swimming on Your Mind
Listening to Gala - Lush
I have just read this extract from Richard Dawkins' new book - The Ancestor's Tale. You will have to make up your own mind on how good the book is. My reason for mentioning the book is because I was struck by how Dawkins does not even bother to make any arguments for evolution against creationism. In his head (and mine) there can be no argument unless you think that you can compare a cartoon with real-life. He does mention creationism but only obliquely - that old favourite of the Bombardier beetle. I will not even begin this argument as it just gets me worked up.
I just made the mistake of looking for a few Creationism vs. Evolution sites. I have got to go and have a lie down. This page stands out as a useful overview of the various degrees of theory.
Listening to Gala - Lush
I have just read this extract from Richard Dawkins' new book - The Ancestor's Tale. You will have to make up your own mind on how good the book is. My reason for mentioning the book is because I was struck by how Dawkins does not even bother to make any arguments for evolution against creationism. In his head (and mine) there can be no argument unless you think that you can compare a cartoon with real-life. He does mention creationism but only obliquely - that old favourite of the Bombardier beetle. I will not even begin this argument as it just gets me worked up.
I just made the mistake of looking for a few Creationism vs. Evolution sites. I have got to go and have a lie down. This page stands out as a useful overview of the various degrees of theory.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Don't Drive For an Hour After Reading This Post
We had a final, family Summer Holiday trip yesterday. We went to the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry with plenty of buttons for me - er - my daughter - to press. I hardly thought of the museums of my youth though for some strange reason, Holden Caulfield in the New York Museum came to mind. Anyway, plenty of planes, and looms - lots and lots of looms and other cotton related machinery though none of them working (unlike those at Wigan Pier). The best bit is of course the hands-on gallery with all sorts of interactive button pressing and things to see and do. There is even a Jean-Michel Jarry type laser harp and air percussion though the results created by hundreds of kids just walking through the beams are not really musical. NOS was slightly bemused though never bored. The highlight of the day was NOT quite seeing Fred Elliott driving a Morgan through the museum precincts but it was slightly chilling for some reason. I say it was slightly chilling.
Digital Camera has been purchased so watch out for more visuals in future.
We had a final, family Summer Holiday trip yesterday. We went to the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry with plenty of buttons for me - er - my daughter - to press. I hardly thought of the museums of my youth though for some strange reason, Holden Caulfield in the New York Museum came to mind. Anyway, plenty of planes, and looms - lots and lots of looms and other cotton related machinery though none of them working (unlike those at Wigan Pier). The best bit is of course the hands-on gallery with all sorts of interactive button pressing and things to see and do. There is even a Jean-Michel Jarry type laser harp and air percussion though the results created by hundreds of kids just walking through the beams are not really musical. NOS was slightly bemused though never bored. The highlight of the day was NOT quite seeing Fred Elliott driving a Morgan through the museum precincts but it was slightly chilling for some reason. I say it was slightly chilling.
Digital Camera has been purchased so watch out for more visuals in future.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Clap, Clap, Grabowski
Listening to Labour of Love by Frente!
The second poem from the Heisenberg Suite
I had a day off yesterday and as you can see I got some really deep poems written. The cat was actually in a cat box on pram wheels but if you can't use poetic licence when you are a poet then when can you?
The Jonathan Meades show (actually Abroad again in Britain) was excellent this week. He was talking about Cragside, that wonderful faux Wealden house in Northumberland with all the gadgets. Meades also visited the swing bridge in Newcastle where he examined the letters from children thanking the bridge engineer for showing them how its worked. I only just caught that one of them was from Adam Hart-Davis - aged 61 and another from Fred Dibnah - aged 66. The rest of the programme was of course wonderful. Some people may say that Jonathan Meades is an infuriating and pretentious presenter but he does see to take a back seat at appropriate moments to let the images carry the message. My wife says that Cragside seems to lack character but I argued that even if it wasn't quite as well proportioned as somewhere like Chatsworth, it was interesting in a very engineery way. As it is NT and we are now family members, a visit to the other side of the country looks likely in the next few years.
Well that's your lot for today. Were you maybe expecting a random Friday?
Listening to Labour of Love by Frente!
The second poem from the Heisenberg Suite
Too Good For Gary 26/08/2004
A cat in a pram, of a colour –
some technical patter,
known to catty people –
but a nice, slatey coloured cat,
with eyes to match.
The sum of all cats over history,
makes images of minds unswingable,
an oriental cat of many thoughts,
not this mangy feline in a pram
on the way to the vet.
I had a day off yesterday and as you can see I got some really deep poems written. The cat was actually in a cat box on pram wheels but if you can't use poetic licence when you are a poet then when can you?
The Jonathan Meades show (actually Abroad again in Britain) was excellent this week. He was talking about Cragside, that wonderful faux Wealden house in Northumberland with all the gadgets. Meades also visited the swing bridge in Newcastle where he examined the letters from children thanking the bridge engineer for showing them how its worked. I only just caught that one of them was from Adam Hart-Davis - aged 61 and another from Fred Dibnah - aged 66. The rest of the programme was of course wonderful. Some people may say that Jonathan Meades is an infuriating and pretentious presenter but he does see to take a back seat at appropriate moments to let the images carry the message. My wife says that Cragside seems to lack character but I argued that even if it wasn't quite as well proportioned as somewhere like Chatsworth, it was interesting in a very engineery way. As it is NT and we are now family members, a visit to the other side of the country looks likely in the next few years.
Well that's your lot for today. Were you maybe expecting a random Friday?
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Poetry - Blog - Poetry - Blog - Poetry ...
Whiskey Tango Ghosts and Dear Catastrophe Waitress arrived in the post today which defines the soundtrack here anyway. Reviews later possibly.
We may have a new reader. My aunt has taken the plunge at last and got her computer. She is up and connected and I have of course put this URL into my reply to her first email. Hello there if you are here.
What goes on round here at the moment? I am having my normal discussion with myself about whether hypothetical questions actually need a question mark. Well do they? Someone email me and concrete over that debate.
This week's educative statement from my daughter on watching some cartoon with Polar Bears and Penguins in the same place. "Penguins come from the South Pole - The Antarctic and Polar Bears live at the North Pole - The Arctic - with Father Christmas." Hopes dashed for a scientific career - she is talking about being an actress like her friend Angela (Lansbury).
I had several weird dreams yesterday, one of which involved driving the car backwards and seeing other cars coming towards me but never hitting me. All seemed positive in mood so I am not really sure how to attach any interpretation to them. There was some altercation with a small yob who was stealing bits of the car from inside the radiator and that is even further away from bringing any meaning to mind.
More on those two new CDs later.
Whiskey Tango Ghosts and Dear Catastrophe Waitress arrived in the post today which defines the soundtrack here anyway. Reviews later possibly.
We may have a new reader. My aunt has taken the plunge at last and got her computer. She is up and connected and I have of course put this URL into my reply to her first email. Hello there if you are here.
What goes on round here at the moment? I am having my normal discussion with myself about whether hypothetical questions actually need a question mark. Well do they? Someone email me and concrete over that debate.
This week's educative statement from my daughter on watching some cartoon with Polar Bears and Penguins in the same place. "Penguins come from the South Pole - The Antarctic and Polar Bears live at the North Pole - The Arctic - with Father Christmas." Hopes dashed for a scientific career - she is talking about being an actress like her friend Angela (Lansbury).
I had several weird dreams yesterday, one of which involved driving the car backwards and seeing other cars coming towards me but never hitting me. All seemed positive in mood so I am not really sure how to attach any interpretation to them. There was some altercation with a small yob who was stealing bits of the car from inside the radiator and that is even further away from bringing any meaning to mind.
More on those two new CDs later.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Field Recordings
Listening to From Gardens Where We Feel Secure by Virginia Astley.
Why is Virginia Astley only on such things as Stuart Maconie's Specialist Corner? I was very uncool at college for admitting to listening to From Gardens .. but then I didn't care much. To be honest I can't really remember what my contemporaries were actually listening to at the time anyway. This always brings home how complex listening habits are. If your tastes are wide then you at least avoid becoming one of those genre prisoners who listen only to Appalachian Rockabilly or Hi-Energy Japanese Washing Machine music. (No sites I can find for either of those). From Gardens Where We Feel Secure just sounds like what summer should be. I can't say why but then I still don't care much. It might explain the poetry, which started about this time as well.
On that subject, I am trying to decide whether to put some up or not. Some of the recent stuff has tended to be diary-like noodling. Here is an example.
I wanted to document the day in a poem but it got away from me slightly. I should really concentrate on writing verse that sticks to its theme. I try to not use common phrases and that just makes things obscure. Oh Listen! There's the donkey.
And now a swing translated into a two-note piano phase. I could end up gibbering on the floor if this gets any better. You have the whole world and I have this.
Listening to From Gardens Where We Feel Secure by Virginia Astley.
Why is Virginia Astley only on such things as Stuart Maconie's Specialist Corner? I was very uncool at college for admitting to listening to From Gardens .. but then I didn't care much. To be honest I can't really remember what my contemporaries were actually listening to at the time anyway. This always brings home how complex listening habits are. If your tastes are wide then you at least avoid becoming one of those genre prisoners who listen only to Appalachian Rockabilly or Hi-Energy Japanese Washing Machine music. (No sites I can find for either of those). From Gardens Where We Feel Secure just sounds like what summer should be. I can't say why but then I still don't care much. It might explain the poetry, which started about this time as well.
On that subject, I am trying to decide whether to put some up or not. Some of the recent stuff has tended to be diary-like noodling. Here is an example.
Rattle 17/08/2004
Surfacing this morning, blowing tanks,
I arrow tides, a metal whale crowning
in this blue arena, this murky seaway.
And I am in the stream,
the lanes of oil and junk,
some random lines between the tips and dumps.
To see refugees, sunk seamen, dry for days
in rain and storm that covers all their enemies.
And I regret my missing of them,
how I leave all of them to dessicate.
The stopped soldier climbs a net
to tumble into shallow camber
where the water spills its ink.
I have the day as mine, all things in it
made real by how I choose them,
how I wish to kill a cat
or sink a ship and save the crew
The sad city is laid out here, insensible,
flat and open for dissection,
washed out with the temperance of ages,
the rain of summers to be forgotten.
The cat complains of weather,
how she may not leave the house,
may not play in sunny corners,
where the green cools the yellow sun
spotted over concrete of the garden.
Eaten, satisfied I drive this magic road,
this runway to a paradise of work.
Gas station scene, a Western Romeo,
brought down by lighted gasoline
has thrown himself three thousand feet
straight up to hell or heaven.
And over us the Hueys clatter,
a draft on us to damn our conflict.
Out of us the storms of worship,
come like venom spat by snakes,
a poison dinosaur of on-foot battles
raging years before we dig up skulls
and reconstruct the face.
Today is obtuse rattle,
a mix of split memory,
a neurone analogue
to show all the world as flow.
I wanted to document the day in a poem but it got away from me slightly. I should really concentrate on writing verse that sticks to its theme. I try to not use common phrases and that just makes things obscure. Oh Listen! There's the donkey.
And now a swing translated into a two-note piano phase. I could end up gibbering on the floor if this gets any better. You have the whole world and I have this.
PJ Harvey in a Red Dress
This is the voice of a true poet. I can't trail back to why I started reading about Clare Pollard yesterday but I am now a fan without having read any of her poetry, if of course the Clare Pollard of the linked article is the same as the poet. The two books are on the list. Excuse all the links.
Books are on the way, if that's not part of Ms Pollard's rant against the shopping society. No spell check today.
This is the voice of a true poet. I can't trail back to why I started reading about Clare Pollard yesterday but I am now a fan without having read any of her poetry, if of course the Clare Pollard of the linked article is the same as the poet. The two books are on the list. Excuse all the links.
Books are on the way, if that's not part of Ms Pollard's rant against the shopping society. No spell check today.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Twang, Twang, Twang
SScraweeaaallllll, Twaeaaeeennggg.
I'm just a kid in sweet shop today. She's coming along that road like a sexy tree in some warm, tropical wind, a blow of iris and orchids and sweet feet made soft in the salt-water of some sunny bay. Out in the road, someone starts their breakfast, a mix of chilli and eggs mixed up with something that western words cannot describe. This is just a bass line, no more to this song that this line and a few mumbled squawks from the old devil n charge. He she is, stopping by the windows to look at shoes or dressed, made real by all the men she must see in the glass, howling silently like the wolves in 1940s Warner B cartoons, tongues hanging to the dust and eyes out in front like shiny squash. This music sounds like it should be from some kids' show out n the mid-west, probably presented by uncle pappy and a puppet president called Cletus. The Spanish Moss hangs down, a curtain for her debut on this stage, this town of dust and depression. We all spent the night warm and comfortable but the blues had us then and we did not sleep. The blues had us certainly.
I thought I had the key that night, the direct line to God, straight up like an optical fibre with all that spirit bouncing around in it, up to the sky and out into the universe. I could choose to talk to God this way but what would I say? What do you say to someone with a questionable existence? This is a drugs song I think. Poppies and trash and moons. Yes there is some powdery stuff in there somewhere, some jangle and sparkle in that stuff he keeps wrapped up in his back pocket and doles out to friends in dark corners. He would take this woman with him if he could, some sort of control rod for the runaway reactor of his life, some brake to all this dark poetry that he thinks is the way forward. This might be a dire warning but I cannot do it to anyone. Live your life I say. It is not mine and as long as you choose not to hurt me I am happy.
Some blues key now. (Should that be capitalised?) And a twang or jangle for the rest of the day. We must be in the Netherlands now, in the Hague or perhaps some other town with 'The' in the title. There is some place, in Africa I think, with just one letter in its name but then again one letter, one syllable; what's the difference. All day long I watch this hourglass. Back in the spicy street, the chatter is of who dies in the bomb going off. The fan turns slowly in the ceiling and all this just seems like a search for images, of stereotypes of eastern streets and cheap boarding houses in those tropical storms. We could be in China, or Singapore or even some Southern part of America, North or South. The volcanoes rumble in the background, telling us so long beforehand how unhappy they are, how dangerous they might be in the next few weeks. They will die at their own hands, anthropomorphised out of existence and screaming as the hot rock burns ther throats. It's like some filmic lovemaking with all the clichés of passion made into rocks and mountains. We slip away, hand-in-hand, down to the boats under the rain of pumice and Pele's hair. The rocks built up in the bay, rafts of white floating stone and we walk out across it to our little tug, fired up and ready to go on the edge. The sky is lit with the explosions from the mountain up above - angry swearing from the middle of the Earth. How many has this geology killed tonight?
The world spins in the inside reflection on the window of this flat, in this tower block, in this grey, rainy town. There might be a face in that reflection but who cares today? Not so manic now, we have a small incident here, a door smashed in with some big yellow lump of metal, the splintered doorframe. And then a calm trawl from room to room, trying to find the spark of life that might be left in this tiny world. And then, off-camera a mumbled call to the other searchers and maybe a gasp from those who have not been here before. The personal things are gathered and the remains taken and disposed, made to walk an aisle to the ovens and sent into the atmosphere without memorial. It doesn't take a miracle.
This is a long life, spotted with small crises, births and the other usual things worthy of marking with gatherings. But what really means so much to all of us is the continuous rush of experience, the ability to choose the nice things, the great music, and the attractive and intelligent friends who know you well and who you can't offend. We are dizzy with all this. The deaths are intense but rare in this timeline, this trail of a thousand billion moments, all stored away somewhere in the massive corridors that make up minds. What great music makes us all great? We have this on repeat. We have the world defined and tied down. It has no suddenness for we have everything planned. I cannot tell you any more about how this works for it is part of that great spiritual con trick about leaving everything to God.
This whole town has so much in it, so many deaths and births , all in one day. I love it and hate it at the same time. I don't want it to happen because it is just going too fast for me to know about everything, but if it didn't happen then nothing would be interesting. Think about this and you will be ready.
SScraweeaaallllll, Twaeaaeeennggg.
I'm just a kid in sweet shop today. She's coming along that road like a sexy tree in some warm, tropical wind, a blow of iris and orchids and sweet feet made soft in the salt-water of some sunny bay. Out in the road, someone starts their breakfast, a mix of chilli and eggs mixed up with something that western words cannot describe. This is just a bass line, no more to this song that this line and a few mumbled squawks from the old devil n charge. He she is, stopping by the windows to look at shoes or dressed, made real by all the men she must see in the glass, howling silently like the wolves in 1940s Warner B cartoons, tongues hanging to the dust and eyes out in front like shiny squash. This music sounds like it should be from some kids' show out n the mid-west, probably presented by uncle pappy and a puppet president called Cletus. The Spanish Moss hangs down, a curtain for her debut on this stage, this town of dust and depression. We all spent the night warm and comfortable but the blues had us then and we did not sleep. The blues had us certainly.
I thought I had the key that night, the direct line to God, straight up like an optical fibre with all that spirit bouncing around in it, up to the sky and out into the universe. I could choose to talk to God this way but what would I say? What do you say to someone with a questionable existence? This is a drugs song I think. Poppies and trash and moons. Yes there is some powdery stuff in there somewhere, some jangle and sparkle in that stuff he keeps wrapped up in his back pocket and doles out to friends in dark corners. He would take this woman with him if he could, some sort of control rod for the runaway reactor of his life, some brake to all this dark poetry that he thinks is the way forward. This might be a dire warning but I cannot do it to anyone. Live your life I say. It is not mine and as long as you choose not to hurt me I am happy.
Some blues key now. (Should that be capitalised?) And a twang or jangle for the rest of the day. We must be in the Netherlands now, in the Hague or perhaps some other town with 'The' in the title. There is some place, in Africa I think, with just one letter in its name but then again one letter, one syllable; what's the difference. All day long I watch this hourglass. Back in the spicy street, the chatter is of who dies in the bomb going off. The fan turns slowly in the ceiling and all this just seems like a search for images, of stereotypes of eastern streets and cheap boarding houses in those tropical storms. We could be in China, or Singapore or even some Southern part of America, North or South. The volcanoes rumble in the background, telling us so long beforehand how unhappy they are, how dangerous they might be in the next few weeks. They will die at their own hands, anthropomorphised out of existence and screaming as the hot rock burns ther throats. It's like some filmic lovemaking with all the clichés of passion made into rocks and mountains. We slip away, hand-in-hand, down to the boats under the rain of pumice and Pele's hair. The rocks built up in the bay, rafts of white floating stone and we walk out across it to our little tug, fired up and ready to go on the edge. The sky is lit with the explosions from the mountain up above - angry swearing from the middle of the Earth. How many has this geology killed tonight?
The world spins in the inside reflection on the window of this flat, in this tower block, in this grey, rainy town. There might be a face in that reflection but who cares today? Not so manic now, we have a small incident here, a door smashed in with some big yellow lump of metal, the splintered doorframe. And then a calm trawl from room to room, trying to find the spark of life that might be left in this tiny world. And then, off-camera a mumbled call to the other searchers and maybe a gasp from those who have not been here before. The personal things are gathered and the remains taken and disposed, made to walk an aisle to the ovens and sent into the atmosphere without memorial. It doesn't take a miracle.
This is a long life, spotted with small crises, births and the other usual things worthy of marking with gatherings. But what really means so much to all of us is the continuous rush of experience, the ability to choose the nice things, the great music, and the attractive and intelligent friends who know you well and who you can't offend. We are dizzy with all this. The deaths are intense but rare in this timeline, this trail of a thousand billion moments, all stored away somewhere in the massive corridors that make up minds. What great music makes us all great? We have this on repeat. We have the world defined and tied down. It has no suddenness for we have everything planned. I cannot tell you any more about how this works for it is part of that great spiritual con trick about leaving everything to God.
This whole town has so much in it, so many deaths and births , all in one day. I love it and hate it at the same time. I don't want it to happen because it is just going too fast for me to know about everything, but if it didn't happen then nothing would be interesting. Think about this and you will be ready.
E is for Enthusiasm
I just heard about Travis backing up Susie Hug on her new record - A is for Album. This entry has been prompted by listening to the second album by The Katydids who glowed briefly in the late eighties/early nineties. The first and eponymous album was by far the best though Shangri-la still surpassed most collections of its ilk. (Can you tell I have been reading the review on the media player?) Anyway, I may see about getting the new one but it’s only available from certain places. Many of my Friends heh?
Excuse me while I bliss out to Some Mysterious Sigh.
3-2-1 - You're back in the room. Actually I have decided now that Shangri-la is nearly as good as the first album. Must be getting old.
So what has happened at Scouse Towers this week? Every organisation in Liverpool seems to have attached a Capital of Culture badge to their logos in recent months. I suppose the problem is that the culture in Capital of Culture has been widened in scope to include basically everything which humans experience. After all, I suppose that is what culture is all about anyway. Never mind. As a poet, I can quite safely say that I am covered. Not that you'd know from these pages. Let's see if there's anything for you today.
How's that? It proves my credentials if not my talent.
Well I finally finished Vernon God Little. I was steeled for a squalid ending. You will have to read it to find out whether I was justified. I can say that I was gradually drawn into the story which had (as I am sure you have found out if you have read a few proper reviews) plenty of echoes of The Catcher in The rye and even The Bell Jar. Worth reading for my previously-made assertion that this is how Martin Amis thinks he writes but doesn't because too much Martin Amis comes through in all his narrators. VGL took so long to finish because I read Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now in the middle - stacked as it were. Now HKIMN takes me back where Andrew Collins took me with Where Did It All Go Right? Mr. Collins is a nice guy with wide areas of interest and yet he still distills the ache of the first day away from home into an easily-readable but punchy paragraph. I left home at 18 and I had exactly the same sense of despair on the first day at college rather than the first night away. I'm all OK now though - I think. Now confusingly, I am also about to start another book called Where Did It All Go Right? This is Al Alvarez's auto-B. Report on that later maybe.
Good Byche
I just heard about Travis backing up Susie Hug on her new record - A is for Album. This entry has been prompted by listening to the second album by The Katydids who glowed briefly in the late eighties/early nineties. The first and eponymous album was by far the best though Shangri-la still surpassed most collections of its ilk. (Can you tell I have been reading the review on the media player?) Anyway, I may see about getting the new one but it’s only available from certain places. Many of my Friends heh?
Excuse me while I bliss out to Some Mysterious Sigh.
3-2-1 - You're back in the room. Actually I have decided now that Shangri-la is nearly as good as the first album. Must be getting old.
So what has happened at Scouse Towers this week? Every organisation in Liverpool seems to have attached a Capital of Culture badge to their logos in recent months. I suppose the problem is that the culture in Capital of Culture has been widened in scope to include basically everything which humans experience. After all, I suppose that is what culture is all about anyway. Never mind. As a poet, I can quite safely say that I am covered. Not that you'd know from these pages. Let's see if there's anything for you today.
Fading Away
Rain falls at me, vocations in the spheres and lenses
downed by salty fluctuations,
each drop a carrier of other routes
of other universes, where the famous dead
still live and eat with me.
The wide drawl of me as southerner,
an American, has dragged this wave-equation
back through many miles of cracking air,
of radio and Heavyside to singularity of now.
That’s me up there, the calm and cool,
protected by guitars and lights and monitors.
I dream then of being now and normal,
of tea and afternoons in rainy, cheap resorts,
with oil and scandal fading on my fingers,
an affair someway back in life,
made clear in all the glass of time
as one-way street, as me up there.
The right way comes to me,
a festering of half-caught phrase
and resonating, Celtic poetry.
This preacher, black, at the sea-edge
declaims Civil War nostalgia
with a sniff and gesturing
from filmic dreams and scientific shadow.
How's that? It proves my credentials if not my talent.
Well I finally finished Vernon God Little. I was steeled for a squalid ending. You will have to read it to find out whether I was justified. I can say that I was gradually drawn into the story which had (as I am sure you have found out if you have read a few proper reviews) plenty of echoes of The Catcher in The rye and even The Bell Jar. Worth reading for my previously-made assertion that this is how Martin Amis thinks he writes but doesn't because too much Martin Amis comes through in all his narrators. VGL took so long to finish because I read Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now in the middle - stacked as it were. Now HKIMN takes me back where Andrew Collins took me with Where Did It All Go Right? Mr. Collins is a nice guy with wide areas of interest and yet he still distills the ache of the first day away from home into an easily-readable but punchy paragraph. I left home at 18 and I had exactly the same sense of despair on the first day at college rather than the first night away. I'm all OK now though - I think. Now confusingly, I am also about to start another book called Where Did It All Go Right? This is Al Alvarez's auto-B. Report on that later maybe.
Good Byche
Friday, August 13, 2004
Shaded and Jaded
Much rain this week. The sly and slimy snake with two heads has left the lake and is on the footless march to our building. Standing by the fountain this morning I saw the world with all its workings exposed, every thought and comma broken down to parts and laid out on the grass like one of those diagrams in a car manual. I could almost see the little lines linking the small and well-formed numbers to each component. I have here a diagram of the world and how to put it back together. Here is a solution for every problem, food for every starving person and a new mind for every melancholic. Lake and snake. See rhymes in all landscape and those starving girls with their notebooks and tiny writing, hunched up, darkly cool in the corners of the hospital. I loved all of them and knew deep down I could make them better, make them whole again. I have a blue tool box, filled with music and happy sounds, the sounds of going home for Christmas, filled with sky both grey and blue. These high clouds have shown you islands in the far Pacific and you hight above them like some dream of flying. We sledged over the edge here one year when the sky was grey to the horizon and down from the sky came millions of spirits, each flake possessed and subject to gravity. They tell me we were happy, holding each other onto the sledge as it hurtled down into the fog and white voided fields. We have all this snow to ourselves, a perfect sheet of nothing to join the dots on.
Where is the world going today? I still have the back off it, no place for these leftover bits and pieces. We must just sweep them under the carpet and hope everything still works. Maybe somewhere, some sad person will be better because we have lost their dark soul. Some goth will jettison her black dresses and all that dark make-up and instead lighten up. Well at least we made her parents happy. There was a drunk and sun-tanned shaven-headed man at the take-away yesterday. Some woman was with him, following his instructions over what to but but she was in those black clothes with dark eye-shadow and small-rimmed glasses. He was too intoxicated to ask his own questions but she understood him, shrugging and tutting when he stumbled next door to get the paper. She had to be his girlfriend but she might have been his daughter. I hope they didn't see all this floating into my head before them.
I sat once on my own in Belknap house and made music for it, floaty, drifty pieces where the machine made more of the sound than I did. Here is the lack of melody and drive that means so much to people now. Two ns in this sentence and no apostrophes. This is Spooky like love and relatives. How could these people have known so long be even friends of mine? How is my father my father? What makes a family? Turn it all up so loud that the very thoughts are knocked around and made more real. I think I love everybody at this moment. The trains come and go and seem to talk of art, some reference to old stuff, dusty paintings from at least a few years ago. And the fire said it was safe to go out, that the enemies had left. It was safe we thought. I'll make you smile. Those angels standing in the rain outside the only club in town, waiting to get in and drink themselves silly in the view of the made-up boys with there silly clothes. Once we tried to see Throwing Muses at the Poly student union. It was so full and there were no tickets left so we had to leave via various pubs on the way home. Disappointed we heard the Sundays doing their support slot and never knew what we missed. And Kristin ran after us with the list that our names weren't on, dancing down the boulevard like a dervish. Here she is, two people mixed up into one with talents spilling out. She is some benevolent goddess, listing with the weight of all her gifts and poetry. I am important, taking you through a lie just to explain it. It is a secret that I have a secret to keep no longer. And we are back trying to write down guitar music in words. Here is that word - squally - a perfect word, an overused word but still perfect for what it is used to describe.
It must sound so sweet, this music of bees and other flying insects. I sit back happy in this garden, shaded near the bottom hedge, in all the flowers and insects and lost in some book here. And yet all the insects are in some horror story. Their sweet life is one step away from disaster, from a flattening hand that will take them to mush in the quiet afternoon. How are we for time? 35 minutes? Plenty more to come.
Much rain this week. The sly and slimy snake with two heads has left the lake and is on the footless march to our building. Standing by the fountain this morning I saw the world with all its workings exposed, every thought and comma broken down to parts and laid out on the grass like one of those diagrams in a car manual. I could almost see the little lines linking the small and well-formed numbers to each component. I have here a diagram of the world and how to put it back together. Here is a solution for every problem, food for every starving person and a new mind for every melancholic. Lake and snake. See rhymes in all landscape and those starving girls with their notebooks and tiny writing, hunched up, darkly cool in the corners of the hospital. I loved all of them and knew deep down I could make them better, make them whole again. I have a blue tool box, filled with music and happy sounds, the sounds of going home for Christmas, filled with sky both grey and blue. These high clouds have shown you islands in the far Pacific and you hight above them like some dream of flying. We sledged over the edge here one year when the sky was grey to the horizon and down from the sky came millions of spirits, each flake possessed and subject to gravity. They tell me we were happy, holding each other onto the sledge as it hurtled down into the fog and white voided fields. We have all this snow to ourselves, a perfect sheet of nothing to join the dots on.
Where is the world going today? I still have the back off it, no place for these leftover bits and pieces. We must just sweep them under the carpet and hope everything still works. Maybe somewhere, some sad person will be better because we have lost their dark soul. Some goth will jettison her black dresses and all that dark make-up and instead lighten up. Well at least we made her parents happy. There was a drunk and sun-tanned shaven-headed man at the take-away yesterday. Some woman was with him, following his instructions over what to but but she was in those black clothes with dark eye-shadow and small-rimmed glasses. He was too intoxicated to ask his own questions but she understood him, shrugging and tutting when he stumbled next door to get the paper. She had to be his girlfriend but she might have been his daughter. I hope they didn't see all this floating into my head before them.
I sat once on my own in Belknap house and made music for it, floaty, drifty pieces where the machine made more of the sound than I did. Here is the lack of melody and drive that means so much to people now. Two ns in this sentence and no apostrophes. This is Spooky like love and relatives. How could these people have known so long be even friends of mine? How is my father my father? What makes a family? Turn it all up so loud that the very thoughts are knocked around and made more real. I think I love everybody at this moment. The trains come and go and seem to talk of art, some reference to old stuff, dusty paintings from at least a few years ago. And the fire said it was safe to go out, that the enemies had left. It was safe we thought. I'll make you smile. Those angels standing in the rain outside the only club in town, waiting to get in and drink themselves silly in the view of the made-up boys with there silly clothes. Once we tried to see Throwing Muses at the Poly student union. It was so full and there were no tickets left so we had to leave via various pubs on the way home. Disappointed we heard the Sundays doing their support slot and never knew what we missed. And Kristin ran after us with the list that our names weren't on, dancing down the boulevard like a dervish. Here she is, two people mixed up into one with talents spilling out. She is some benevolent goddess, listing with the weight of all her gifts and poetry. I am important, taking you through a lie just to explain it. It is a secret that I have a secret to keep no longer. And we are back trying to write down guitar music in words. Here is that word - squally - a perfect word, an overused word but still perfect for what it is used to describe.
It must sound so sweet, this music of bees and other flying insects. I sit back happy in this garden, shaded near the bottom hedge, in all the flowers and insects and lost in some book here. And yet all the insects are in some horror story. Their sweet life is one step away from disaster, from a flattening hand that will take them to mush in the quiet afternoon. How are we for time? 35 minutes? Plenty more to come.
Ironic and Maybe in a Good Way
Good article in the Guardian about renewable energy sources and the current wave of nimbyism etc about windfarms. Prince Charles' tirades against modern architecture used to give him some plus points for me but recent pronouncements have made him appear like some mad and irrelevant has-been.
Waiting for Dear Catastrophe Waitress from Belle and Sebastian and Whiskey Tango Priests from Tanya Donelly. Reviews soon maybe.
Good article in the Guardian about renewable energy sources and the current wave of nimbyism etc about windfarms. Prince Charles' tirades against modern architecture used to give him some plus points for me but recent pronouncements have made him appear like some mad and irrelevant has-been.
Waiting for Dear Catastrophe Waitress from Belle and Sebastian and Whiskey Tango Priests from Tanya Donelly. Reviews soon maybe.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
See You at Erwin's Coming-Out Party
Music is - for Eighteen Musicians.
I get annoyed by small things changing the way I see the day. I was happy enough this morning when I sat down here. In fact I was about to write what I thought would be some great poem and then just a tiny event, the knowledge of something imparted, made me so unhappy that I just shut down the document with the title of the poem on it and went off to read the paper and listen to MFEM again. I know these things should not get to me but the feelings they promote are like the Emitter on a transistor triggered by a tiny Collector. I should stop talking about it as this is making it all worse.
Read The Diameter of the Bomb and maybe things can be proportioned correctly. A killer Chord change and the truth. That other chord is redundant. Oh well. On to purgatory.
Music is - for Eighteen Musicians.
I get annoyed by small things changing the way I see the day. I was happy enough this morning when I sat down here. In fact I was about to write what I thought would be some great poem and then just a tiny event, the knowledge of something imparted, made me so unhappy that I just shut down the document with the title of the poem on it and went off to read the paper and listen to MFEM again. I know these things should not get to me but the feelings they promote are like the Emitter on a transistor triggered by a tiny Collector. I should stop talking about it as this is making it all worse.
Read The Diameter of the Bomb and maybe things can be proportioned correctly. A killer Chord change and the truth. That other chord is redundant. Oh well. On to purgatory.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Now his Jailer had an only daughter ...
Listening to On Air by June Tabor
I have just been looking at the various 360 degree photos of various places I know. I am getting quite homesick as it has been a long time since have been back here. Hopefully we will be visiting soon. The one of sledging on the hills is taken at the car park for the Western side ascent of the Worcestershire Beacon. We also used it for sledging and we have a family anecdote about either me or my brother sledging over the edge of the carpark and down into the path of the traffic on the main road below. I used to be sure that it was not me but after arguing about it for so long, the truth has been lost.
Of course I was never so mad for Malvern when I lived there; kids never like where they live until they move away from it. Nostalgia is only for the old anyway. We watched Trading Ages yesterday, part of the BBC's Time Of Your Life strand, in which a thirty-two-year-old man with no cares was transformed into a pensioner of 72. He was then dropped into various oldie clubs (day centres etc) and less wrinkly locations to give him an insight in what it would be like to be old. He was not happy and it was obvious that he was worried that he would end up like the various D&Js he became friendly with. Recently I have been aware of the rushing of time, not in any desperate sense; more like a detached observer of how age affects other people. All these 70 year olds were only 50 when I left home - that's ten years older than I am now. That sort of shift backwards through age brings home how fast things go. We all like to think we are going to remain cool and alternative in our old age, still listening to Peel (though for us wrinklies that is getting harder now he's been moved to 11 O’clock - Shame on the BBC - think about the old folks for a change) but the truth is we all probably start liking all the things we hate our parents and grand-parents liking.
Robert Brown is 40 years old, has no living grand-parents and only one parent.
Listening to On Air by June Tabor
I have just been looking at the various 360 degree photos of various places I know. I am getting quite homesick as it has been a long time since have been back here. Hopefully we will be visiting soon. The one of sledging on the hills is taken at the car park for the Western side ascent of the Worcestershire Beacon. We also used it for sledging and we have a family anecdote about either me or my brother sledging over the edge of the carpark and down into the path of the traffic on the main road below. I used to be sure that it was not me but after arguing about it for so long, the truth has been lost.
Of course I was never so mad for Malvern when I lived there; kids never like where they live until they move away from it. Nostalgia is only for the old anyway. We watched Trading Ages yesterday, part of the BBC's Time Of Your Life strand, in which a thirty-two-year-old man with no cares was transformed into a pensioner of 72. He was then dropped into various oldie clubs (day centres etc) and less wrinkly locations to give him an insight in what it would be like to be old. He was not happy and it was obvious that he was worried that he would end up like the various D&Js he became friendly with. Recently I have been aware of the rushing of time, not in any desperate sense; more like a detached observer of how age affects other people. All these 70 year olds were only 50 when I left home - that's ten years older than I am now. That sort of shift backwards through age brings home how fast things go. We all like to think we are going to remain cool and alternative in our old age, still listening to Peel (though for us wrinklies that is getting harder now he's been moved to 11 O’clock - Shame on the BBC - think about the old folks for a change) but the truth is we all probably start liking all the things we hate our parents and grand-parents liking.
Robert Brown is 40 years old, has no living grand-parents and only one parent.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
If all the World Were Paper ...
Listening to a random playlist from Windows Media Player.
(Currently Romance by Vaughan Williams)
The office ingress ambience is punctuated by many, many cries regarding the awfulness of the weather at the moment. Even our resident statistician (to degree level) has decided that this is an unusual summer and that we just have two seasons now. As you may know from previous entries, I quite like the rain though I don't like muggy weather that goes with it. A quick weather report for this morning is grey - headlights required - rain varying from slight drizzle to middling continuous. I have now realised that this is just talking about the weather and needs to be stopped before any more readers leave (or maybe just the one reader I have - you know who you are).
We went to Rufford Old Hall at the weekend to get use from our NT membership. This is a rather small and variously added-to building North of Ormskirk. Its main architectural attraction is the huge great hall that has everyone looking up. My daughter went round with the quiz that kept her interested. Even number-one son didn't fidget in his sling and seemed to be interested in something in each room. Not sure what that would be though. Final attraction for daughter was best part of an hour of close-up magic, which had me amazed despite my assertion that all magic is just tricks. I have to admit that I am far more impressed by a few sleight-of-hand tricks than David Copperfield making buildings vanish; you just know that somewhere, so many people must be in on the trick.
Apologies for this but the rain has just started again. It is heavy and wonderful, white noise at its best.
And now for some serious stuff. I read this article in the Guardian, with horror last week. Doctors still retain a lot of trust in society but for one (a young doctor I imagine) to report these feelings just shows that anyone can have immature, almost juvenile opinions even with all that education. The response should be read as well; the author puts my anger into far more eloquent prose than I ever could and is qualified to do so as well. As for any suggestion that Self-harmers are a burden on the Health Service, there are plenty of targets to attack before manifestations of mental illness; all the usual suspects. They could give us a war just to keep us amused. All of which makes me think of Newspeak for some reason. They think we are all blind. Which sounds very paranoid doesn't it? Time to go.
Listening to a random playlist from Windows Media Player.
(Currently Romance by Vaughan Williams)
The office ingress ambience is punctuated by many, many cries regarding the awfulness of the weather at the moment. Even our resident statistician (to degree level) has decided that this is an unusual summer and that we just have two seasons now. As you may know from previous entries, I quite like the rain though I don't like muggy weather that goes with it. A quick weather report for this morning is grey - headlights required - rain varying from slight drizzle to middling continuous. I have now realised that this is just talking about the weather and needs to be stopped before any more readers leave (or maybe just the one reader I have - you know who you are).
We went to Rufford Old Hall at the weekend to get use from our NT membership. This is a rather small and variously added-to building North of Ormskirk. Its main architectural attraction is the huge great hall that has everyone looking up. My daughter went round with the quiz that kept her interested. Even number-one son didn't fidget in his sling and seemed to be interested in something in each room. Not sure what that would be though. Final attraction for daughter was best part of an hour of close-up magic, which had me amazed despite my assertion that all magic is just tricks. I have to admit that I am far more impressed by a few sleight-of-hand tricks than David Copperfield making buildings vanish; you just know that somewhere, so many people must be in on the trick.
Apologies for this but the rain has just started again. It is heavy and wonderful, white noise at its best.
And now for some serious stuff. I read this article in the Guardian, with horror last week. Doctors still retain a lot of trust in society but for one (a young doctor I imagine) to report these feelings just shows that anyone can have immature, almost juvenile opinions even with all that education. The response should be read as well; the author puts my anger into far more eloquent prose than I ever could and is qualified to do so as well. As for any suggestion that Self-harmers are a burden on the Health Service, there are plenty of targets to attack before manifestations of mental illness; all the usual suspects. They could give us a war just to keep us amused. All of which makes me think of Newspeak for some reason. They think we are all blind. Which sounds very paranoid doesn't it? Time to go.
Friday, July 30, 2004
Maybe I Still Would
Just 70, Joan Bakewell's column in the Guardian is the best thing in it. The problem I have is that this makes me think that I am getting close to 70 as well. For all the years we saw her as an arty feminist, she has turned out to be an eminently sensible though still left-leaning defender of truth and decency. The last paragraph of this week's offering which referred to us all enjoying a decent single play on the TV, brought back fleeting images of the sixties as clearly as any strange and evocative smell of varnish on herringbone-pattern wood-block in school at the time. She is exactly right on the issue of drama on TV.
Having said this, maybe I should have watched The Long Firm, which from the review I read, was not what I was expecting. Not sure I would have liked watching execution by hot poker though which seems to suggest the level of nastiness which came in the second episode of the first series of Spooks (The Deep Fat Fryer). I gave up on Spooks after episode one though I caught various scenes in later shows one of which showed how easy it is for a hacker to make all the lights in MI5 headquarters go off. Ending sentences with prepositions again. Sorry! It has been a bad week.
Just 70, Joan Bakewell's column in the Guardian is the best thing in it. The problem I have is that this makes me think that I am getting close to 70 as well. For all the years we saw her as an arty feminist, she has turned out to be an eminently sensible though still left-leaning defender of truth and decency. The last paragraph of this week's offering which referred to us all enjoying a decent single play on the TV, brought back fleeting images of the sixties as clearly as any strange and evocative smell of varnish on herringbone-pattern wood-block in school at the time. She is exactly right on the issue of drama on TV.
Having said this, maybe I should have watched The Long Firm, which from the review I read, was not what I was expecting. Not sure I would have liked watching execution by hot poker though which seems to suggest the level of nastiness which came in the second episode of the first series of Spooks (The Deep Fat Fryer). I gave up on Spooks after episode one though I caught various scenes in later shows one of which showed how easy it is for a hacker to make all the lights in MI5 headquarters go off. Ending sentences with prepositions again. Sorry! It has been a bad week.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Jingle Jangle Man and Steam Engine Governor
Listening to FCD from the Guardian.
Next CD will be Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle and Sebastian.
Isn't it strange how getting some small thing done and out of the way can make the whole day seem like it has achieved something. In the mad Catch-22 world that is big business these days, it appears that five minutes success can outweigh whole days of fruitless effort. Many small successes have made life here very happy and when this upbeat ambience is backed with music from Zero 7 and Death in Vegas, all is right and well with the world.
Like I am still 12, I want to tell everyone about the music that I like but tastes are so different that I haven't bothered since I was .. er .. 12. The only time I ever managed to get a positive reaction to my enthusing about something was when my dad said he was quite impressed with the Kodo drumming (unfortunately this was the musical interlude on the Wogan TV chat show). My dad has taken British reserve to something like the level of Hugh Laurie's character Mr Palmer in Sense and Sensibility. Of course it is sad that I can only refer to a well known actor in a big film rather than the character from the book which I have not read despite pressings from my wife (and in future years my daughter as well no doubt).
All this excitement seems to be bubbling along in the background. Normally it is at this point that the control rods drop in and I start to look for problems on the horizon. However, presently all this seems to be below some sort of emotional parapet. I can say 'he happy' to myself which sounds like some hippy-drippy self-confidence exercise but so many times people say cheer up it might never happen (and to someone who is down that is really annoying) but when you ARE happy and smiling, they all begin to wonder whether it is all front and that underneath the tranquil waters the melancholic paddles are beating away like always. Well they are not. It may be obvious but I worry sometimes that analysing all this makes depression more likely but at the moment we are back to where I started this entry, with small successes outweighing the long periods of bad stuff.
And Belle and Sebastian are helping so much. Underneath all that jangly guitar pop, there resides the originals - the boy and his dog - with the theme tune I can still hum and the gentle action, which was in fact so gentle as to, be more like inaction. I am probably misremembering but it seemed like BAS was just aforesaid boy and dog wandering round some central European village.
Searching for info about Belle and Sebastian (Dog and boy - not band) I have found from TV Cream that Andrew Collins has the second volume of his memoirs out. So two things for imminent purchase. What more could you want - and for me the weekend starts here.
Listening to FCD from the Guardian.
Next CD will be Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle and Sebastian.
Isn't it strange how getting some small thing done and out of the way can make the whole day seem like it has achieved something. In the mad Catch-22 world that is big business these days, it appears that five minutes success can outweigh whole days of fruitless effort. Many small successes have made life here very happy and when this upbeat ambience is backed with music from Zero 7 and Death in Vegas, all is right and well with the world.
Like I am still 12, I want to tell everyone about the music that I like but tastes are so different that I haven't bothered since I was .. er .. 12. The only time I ever managed to get a positive reaction to my enthusing about something was when my dad said he was quite impressed with the Kodo drumming (unfortunately this was the musical interlude on the Wogan TV chat show). My dad has taken British reserve to something like the level of Hugh Laurie's character Mr Palmer in Sense and Sensibility. Of course it is sad that I can only refer to a well known actor in a big film rather than the character from the book which I have not read despite pressings from my wife (and in future years my daughter as well no doubt).
All this excitement seems to be bubbling along in the background. Normally it is at this point that the control rods drop in and I start to look for problems on the horizon. However, presently all this seems to be below some sort of emotional parapet. I can say 'he happy' to myself which sounds like some hippy-drippy self-confidence exercise but so many times people say cheer up it might never happen (and to someone who is down that is really annoying) but when you ARE happy and smiling, they all begin to wonder whether it is all front and that underneath the tranquil waters the melancholic paddles are beating away like always. Well they are not. It may be obvious but I worry sometimes that analysing all this makes depression more likely but at the moment we are back to where I started this entry, with small successes outweighing the long periods of bad stuff.
And Belle and Sebastian are helping so much. Underneath all that jangly guitar pop, there resides the originals - the boy and his dog - with the theme tune I can still hum and the gentle action, which was in fact so gentle as to, be more like inaction. I am probably misremembering but it seemed like BAS was just aforesaid boy and dog wandering round some central European village.
Searching for info about Belle and Sebastian (Dog and boy - not band) I have found from TV Cream that Andrew Collins has the second volume of his memoirs out. So two things for imminent purchase. What more could you want - and for me the weekend starts here.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Top Ten Irrational Fears
(Apologies to Ed Broom)
1. Tinsel - Bundles of soft scalpels if you ask me.
2. Full washing up bowls. Nothing should be out of the water or else what is the point?
3. Railings. They are OK if you don't climb on them but think of the mess!
4. Andrew Marr. Not sure how irrational that is but he becomes more like the Dead Ringers impression every time he is on.
5. Food in the keyboard. It's not too healthy down under these very fingers. I try and tip most of it out. Who eats all this stuff?
6. Dreaming of a crash which then happens. Too serious for you? Don't worry about it.
7. That the entire world will be defined by top-ten lists and no one will be able to think of anything outside hard facts. Self-reference is still the theme of this blog after all. See Orwell's essay on Newspeak, that bit at the back of ninety-eighty-four that you should have read at school but didn't.
8. Mandolins both musical and those for hard-boiled eggs, vegetables etc.
9. Yellow snow.
10. Henry Kissinger.
As you can tell the last few are jokes but there is one serious one which I have got over now (until I think about it tonight) which is trying to see the light in the fridge go off. No really!
(Apologies to Ed Broom)
1. Tinsel - Bundles of soft scalpels if you ask me.
2. Full washing up bowls. Nothing should be out of the water or else what is the point?
3. Railings. They are OK if you don't climb on them but think of the mess!
4. Andrew Marr. Not sure how irrational that is but he becomes more like the Dead Ringers impression every time he is on.
5. Food in the keyboard. It's not too healthy down under these very fingers. I try and tip most of it out. Who eats all this stuff?
6. Dreaming of a crash which then happens. Too serious for you? Don't worry about it.
7. That the entire world will be defined by top-ten lists and no one will be able to think of anything outside hard facts. Self-reference is still the theme of this blog after all. See Orwell's essay on Newspeak, that bit at the back of ninety-eighty-four that you should have read at school but didn't.
8. Mandolins both musical and those for hard-boiled eggs, vegetables etc.
9. Yellow snow.
10. Henry Kissinger.
As you can tell the last few are jokes but there is one serious one which I have got over now (until I think about it tonight) which is trying to see the light in the fridge go off. No really!