Thursday, December 6, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A lovely cold day in Sussex.
Brrr ! A Turner
sunrise, looking from the high part of Ashdown Forest as I drive from East
Grinstead to Crowborough, seen through distant veils of falling snow. Hills beyond hills, and their crowning woods,
are silhouetted as if on fire and shrouded in smoke.
A spotted fawn and his mother nibble the icy grass on the
snowy first tee of the golf course as I slowly descend the drive to the hotel at
Ashdown Park.
A gaudy woodpecker swoops right past my windscreen, a flash
of emerald green and yellow green, and settles less than five yards from the
kerb on a sunlit bank of grass as my truck rolls slowly through a roundabout
in, of all places, the busy North Terminal of Gatwick Airport. For a moment I look down on his tightly
folded wings and the great scarlet flash on his head and neck, and he looks
back at me.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
.jpg)
Saturday, December 1, 2012
3BT
Slowly turning at a dangerous corner in Ashdown Forest, I look
down from the cab of my truck on a jay that forages on the sunlit floor amongst dull copper coloured beech
leaves, and for just a second or two I am able to enjoy the underlying pink tints
in his iridescent plumage.
Three people
are talking loudly to their mobile phones during the journey home on a red
double-decker at dusk. Two are speaking
in languages that might be from tropical Africa, and one from somewhere in Asia,
like China, and being seated close to one another, each feels they must raise
their voice.
A visual
anomaly appears on a busy corner at Clapham Junction. A young woman is leaving a fancy dress shop
wearing a lightweight reindeer costume made from a thin soft stretchy tactile sort of fabric with a
little wagging tail sewn on the butt, and somehow that wiggly tail communicates more about body form
and body language than any little black dress might do.
gentlemen prefer ...
mick, from sligo, probably the best irishman that ever lived, bids me farewell at the end of the week
we speak about painkillers ... in his opinion the best is and always will be beer
which reminds me, i tell him, that i have a bottle waiting in the fridge
i am too ashamed to admit it has lain there almost a month
he says' " i expect you can hear it talking to you ?"
the fridge is five miles away from our workplace
i cup a hand behind my ear for a moment
"no, mick ! she's singing to me !""
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
3BT, 25th November 2012
A little flock of starlings are “grazing” on the west end of Clapham Common, a minute or two on the grass alternating with a minute or two in one then another of the big trees. Their gentle conversations are carried on in soft sweet whistlings. The morning sun is very low, barely grazing the rooftops and as they fly away before wheeling back towards me, so their glossy backs catch the light and turn from steely grey to shining bronze.
I download a novella from Project Gutenberg, first published in 1888 by
Henry James, called the Aspern Papers. By
“editing” every line whilst I transfer it from one page format to another, I am
able to read it closely. In the first paragraph,
I learn that the setting is Venice, a favourite location. How easily he evokes the charm of an old palace by the naming of parts. And then he makes me
smile at his protagonist’s gentle folly … on every page.
The soggy leaves are breaking down in to a brown porridge along the
verges and hedgerows. I had hoped for an
opportunity to gather and preserve some dry leaves for a little memorial bonfire
at the solstice. I remember sitting in
the cab of the truck during a morning break last week before the storms, and watching a fat wood
pigeon who was pottering amongst such dry leaves at the kerbside until a
curious squirrel had approached. The wary
bird took off vertically and the downdraught from his beating wings left a
clear circle, about four feet in diameter, as the leaves were blown aside.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
when we used to drive cars for a living, my wonderful friend joe bialik asked what i thought was the best driving record ever ? ... maybelline, maybe !
ecoutez ...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RAfxiyMKAk
MaybelleneMaybellene, why can't you be true
Oh Maybellene , why can't you be true
You've started back doin' the things you used to do
As I was motivatin' over the hill
I saw Mabellene in a Coup de Ville
A Cadillac arollin' on the open road
Nothin' will outrun my V8 Ford
The Cadillac doin' about ninety-five
She's bumper to bumper, rollin' side by side
Maybellene
The Cadillac pulled up ahead of the Ford
The Ford got hot and wouldn't do no more
It then got cloudy and started to rain
I tooted my horn for a passin' lane
The rainwater blowin' all under my hood
I know that I was doin' my motor good
Maybellene
Solo guitar
Maybellene
The motor cooled down the heat went down
And that's when I heard that highway sound
The Cadillac asittin' like a ton of lead
A hundred and ten half a mile aheadv The Cadillac lookin' like it's sittin' still
And I caught Mabellene at the top of the hill
Maybellene
Solo guitar
Monday, November 19, 2012
a suitably patriotic colour choice for an incognito expedition to ponty market in search of a dozen welsh cakes ...
... you could drive the effing thing right up to the effing counter in the effing market just like effing macdonalds
coming to a charity shop near you in the impending agony of choice season ... you wish !
picture via the wonderful "pleasurephoto"
http://pleasurephoto.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/beauty-in-strength-new-york-1964-hiro-americanborn-china-born-1930hiro-nome-darte-di-yasuhiro-wakabayashi.jpg
Sunday, November 18, 2012
later ... i wonder if it's too late to call a cab and knock on the door of 221b Baker Street ?
of course, if it happened in aberystwyth, then ... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malcolm_Pryce
after my pocket was picked in jermyn street this afternoon ...
... i went in to the churchyard of saint james' in piccadilly and sat on a bench until i'd regained some of my composure. On weekdays the flagstones are usually hidden by stalls selling books and trinkets. Today I found this stone laying right at my feet. James Gillray !
A favourite illustrator ...
... so just thinking of him lifted my spirits !
A favourite illustrator ...
... so just thinking of him lifted my spirits !
Saturday, November 17, 2012
3BT
On a
straight path across the Common, in pouring rain, a figure moves briskly from my
left to the centre of my field of vision, then turns and walks quickly ahead of
me and the old dog. An athletic young
woman, lean and shapely, with black hair, in a black sweater, black tights and black boots, carrying a
black rucksack. She moves with metronomic elegance. The soles of the boots
are a pinky sort of red, like a water melon, and she is walking beneath a
brolly of the same colour. Boots and
brolly are diffusely reflected on the wet asphalt path.
On the 87
bus which is trundling from Battersea Library towards The Aldwych, a lovely and
vivacious British-Jamaican lady wearing a scarlet coat wedges herself against a
rail near the front and preaches loudly to the packed and captive audience, her voice full of
raucous energy and laughter, on the theme of being grateful to Jesus for Life,
and then she sings All Things Bright And Beautiful … badly, but with amazing
grace.
At the
Wellcome Foundation there is a book-stand in the shop, displaying the short
picture book for the exhibition, a rich yellow jacket, the colour of English mustard, lettered
in black … Death, it says on the side of the stand, books and gifts to die
for. A small boy appears and stops
there, wearing the same colours, yellow jeans, black T-shirt, and with the
palest freckles and pale ginger hair. Life !
http://www.wellcomecollection.org/whats-on/exhibitions/death-a-self-portrait.aspx
off to Fortnum's later to check out their stock of Plymouth Sloe Gin
the burning question is .. can this year's window dressers attain the standards of the last ?
see the blog for last december 24th ...
http://thenewemotionalblackmailershandbook.blogspot.co.uk/2011_12_01_archive.html#1209936624159919784
see the blog for last december 24th ...
http://thenewemotionalblackmailershandbook.blogspot.co.uk/2011_12_01_archive.html#1209936624159919784
Friday, November 16, 2012
bad advice just pours out of me and my big mouth
after baring his chest for the cardiologist, a friend just learned that he has an inherited heart defect
so now he is sleepless and panicky
i consoled him with the notion that he has already survived sixty years with it
but then i couldn't stop myself from blurting out
"perhaps you should be baring your chest down at the tattoo parlour ... capital letters instructing DO NOT RESUSCITATE !"
time the coastguards put out a general mermaid warning to all shipping ...
http://doyoucomeyeroften.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/notes-and-observations.html
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
3BT, 11th November 2012
One. After four or five days of prevarication, I
find a suitable sentence to end a letter, using a freshly discovered story about real people who are long gone. A story that still has no proper ending but will leave my
readers’ eyebrows shooting up with a mixed note of suspense, incredulity, and
scandalized laughter.
Two. More than twenty years ago, some friends took
me up on to the roof of Painswick House on a moonlit night. You could make out distant hills and woods whilst
the polished sky was so bright. We had
explored the lovely library of the house and I had re-discovered there that slightly
scandalous poem by Edna St Vincent Millay which begins “ I being born a woman, and
distressed …” and so I showed it there
and then to a third party whose willing person I was developing a passion for
at that time, a passion that growed and growed, but has long since been set
aside.
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn wtih pity, -- let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn wtih pity, -- let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
A lovely moment that I had since forgotten. But, anyways,
The Loved One hath brungen home a precious and scholarly booke, Sir Roy
Strong’s The Artist and The Garden, and she placed it on the lectern by the
window after I’d hurriedly read the first two chapters. So, this morning, sleepless again, after about a week of intermittent and
aimless page-turning, I was looking at one of the less spectacular brown pictures,
printed small, and was admiring it’s decorative painted border.
It was painted by Thomas Robins in 1748 and is a poorly drawn representation of the “folly” named “Pan’s Lodge”, in the grounds of that same Painswick House, but is an imaginatively and splendidly preposterous invention on the part of the Artist. As Strong puts it, “Robins turns the grounds of Painswick House in to a rococo reverie of frolicking satyrs”. However, Robins’ value as an artist was in his talent for lively incident and he had produced a border full of birds, and even a bird’s nest, so that the border distracts the viewer from the picture's subject.
It was about five in the morning when I discovered this picture and a bright crescent moon had just appeared outside my window, next to a brilliant star. In that moment, which only lasted a few seconds, whilst my swivelling eye began to take in the details for the first time, and as I compared Robins' delineation of the two owls, so there came from the dark trees only a few feet away, the real hoot of a real owl.
It was painted by Thomas Robins in 1748 and is a poorly drawn representation of the “folly” named “Pan’s Lodge”, in the grounds of that same Painswick House, but is an imaginatively and splendidly preposterous invention on the part of the Artist. As Strong puts it, “Robins turns the grounds of Painswick House in to a rococo reverie of frolicking satyrs”. However, Robins’ value as an artist was in his talent for lively incident and he had produced a border full of birds, and even a bird’s nest, so that the border distracts the viewer from the picture's subject.
It was about five in the morning when I discovered this picture and a bright crescent moon had just appeared outside my window, next to a brilliant star. In that moment, which only lasted a few seconds, whilst my swivelling eye began to take in the details for the first time, and as I compared Robins' delineation of the two owls, so there came from the dark trees only a few feet away, the real hoot of a real owl.
Three. Later still, whilst re-reading between the lines of a
very good book that I’m “editing” about those dead persons, making some new intuitions,
joyfully, though too late in life to be of great use, about what is sensibly
called “Women’s Intuition.” A subject which should be part of the National Curriculum.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
the guardian prints an extract from an Owen Sheers poem which seems entirely appropriate for this weekend
photo from the internet .... (Reuters/USAF/Senior Airman Tyler Price)
Home to Roost (extract)
By Owen Sheers
Emai
I don't remember any of what happened.
Just those howls, like dogs, as we drove out.
The fields and trees all black and green.
Perhaps some of the very first rounds.
But nothing else.
Just those howls, like dogs, as we drove out.
The fields and trees all black and green.
Perhaps some of the very first rounds.
But nothing else.
I had to pick it all up second hand,
as my hearing came back in the chopper,
and then again in Bastion.
as my hearing came back in the chopper,
and then again in Bastion.
How when my driver had reversed
he'd hit a roadside IED.
How the explosion had hit a fuel tank, or ammo tin
right under me.
Shot me out, like a jack in the box,
60 feet. And then how it had all kicked off.
Rockets, grenades. The lot.
he'd hit a roadside IED.
How the explosion had hit a fuel tank, or ammo tin
right under me.
Shot me out, like a jack in the box,
60 feet. And then how it had all kicked off.
Rockets, grenades. The lot.
They took me straight to Rose Cottage.
A special room in the medical centre
deep among the tents and containers of Bastion.
A room for the lads or lasses who'd taken a hit,
which even the surgeons on camp couldn't fix.
A special room in the medical centre
deep among the tents and containers of Bastion.
A room for the lads or lasses who'd taken a hit,
which even the surgeons on camp couldn't fix.
It was manned, back then, by two blokes,
staff sergeants Andy and Tom. It was them
who took me in, off the ambulance,
and into their room. It smelt of sweet tea.
"That scent," Andy said to me. "It's the Eau de Toilette. Rose.
The Afghans insist we spray it on their guys."
"Don't worry though Arthur," Tom added on my other side.
"You'll soon get used to it. We did."
And then they laughed. Not for themselves
but for me, I could tell. And they carried on talking too,
chatting me through all they'd do,
as they put what they'd found of me onto a shelf,
saying "sorry it's so cold Arthur",
which it was, like a fridge.
Then they said "sleep well" before sliding it shut.
My first night of three in Rose Cottage.
staff sergeants Andy and Tom. It was them
who took me in, off the ambulance,
and into their room. It smelt of sweet tea.
"That scent," Andy said to me. "It's the Eau de Toilette. Rose.
The Afghans insist we spray it on their guys."
"Don't worry though Arthur," Tom added on my other side.
"You'll soon get used to it. We did."
And then they laughed. Not for themselves
but for me, I could tell. And they carried on talking too,
chatting me through all they'd do,
as they put what they'd found of me onto a shelf,
saying "sorry it's so cold Arthur",
which it was, like a fridge.
Then they said "sleep well" before sliding it shut.
My first night of three in Rose Cottage.
I saw them again just before I left.
When they slid me out into the light again,
still passing the time of day
as they placed me in the coffin
that would carry me home.
Always calling me by name.
"Not long now Arthur."
"You'll be back in no time."
Gently, they lowered the lid
then, like two maids making a bed,
they unfolded, smoothed and checked for snags,
before draping me in the colours of the flag.
When they slid me out into the light again,
still passing the time of day
as they placed me in the coffin
that would carry me home.
Always calling me by name.
"Not long now Arthur."
"You'll be back in no time."
Gently, they lowered the lid
then, like two maids making a bed,
they unfolded, smoothed and checked for snags,
before draping me in the colours of the flag.
• From Pink Mist, a verse drama by Owen Sheers, to be published next year by Faber. Theatre of War, a documentary about the play Sheers created with wounded soldiers, The Two Worlds of Charlie F, is on BBC2 on 13 November.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/nov/09/poem-home-to-roost-owen-sheers?INTCMP=SRCH
Thursday, November 8, 2012
.JPG)
Monday, November 5, 2012
sweet voices of reason ( part 99 ) ... oliver sacks talks about what hallucinations can tell us about human conciousness
.jpg)
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/blog/2012/oct/30/oliver-sacks-shares-hallucinations
http://www.ted.com/talks/oliver_sacks_what_hallucination_reveals_about_our_minds.html
and a subsequent book review from will self ...
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/nov/08/hallucinations-oliver-sacks-review?INTCMP=SRCH
and one from new york
http://nymag.com/news/features/oliver-sacks-2012-11/
Saturday, November 3, 2012
in conversation with dev ...
i took dev by surprise for this picture, holding the camera in my lap whilst we talked on a sunny park bench
we'd been talking about kindness and tolerance and he suggested that england was a far kinder place than india
we have pensions and welfare, and he has no fear of being neglected here on account of age and infirmity
then he went on to talk about dogmatism and conformity, saying that in india a family would often expect an unmarried daughter to commit suicide if she was having a child
and then he said that although he no longer believes in heaven and hell, he'd rather go to hell in the company of a "pandit", than go to heaven with ten thousand conformists
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pandit
the vulcan can no longer fly
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-south-yorkshire-19952395
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avro_Vulcan
when i was a teenager, during the difficult times we called the cold war, one might sometimes hear a single vulcan on its way north during a still night
they were armed with atom bombs and were supposedly prepared to cross the baltic if required, on their way to bomb strategic targets in russia, if war had broken out between east and west
the idea was that they would fly in beneath the radar whilst everyone was watching the exchange of inter continental ballistic missiles far above them
the engines crackled and roared like no other plane i knew and sometimes i fancied you might glimpse the flames as the plane climbed
i often used to wonder if tonight was the night ?
but the thought only came to me some decades later that we had been living "in a moral vacuum"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)