Thursday 27 November 2008

places in the sky





there are places in the sky
where beds, like birds, fly high
where walls do not exist
where the city cannot reach

there are places in the sky
where cement on girder dries
where dreams are not yet dreamed
where no lonely businessmen lament

where the fourth wall is in the mind
will it scare? will it excite?
"does sir want a room with a view?
or perhaps an interior to peruse?"

there are places in the sky
where round about, cars fly
where the city never sleeps
by the river, cool and deep


-- Post From My iPhone

Wednesday 26 November 2008

highway maintenance





highway maintenance lorries crawl
across the bridge, toward palace walls
commuters walk the rainshon arc
while sleepy trawlers trawl underneath

car'd commuters coffin by
crawl & scowl at lanes denied
the rest of us walk through the rain
To where our yesterdays wait...again

(1st test upload using new blogging app on iPhone.)

-- Post From My iPhone

Saturday 22 November 2008

stepping out



Well, I've spent the evening experimenting with my lovely new iPhone and although it wasn't my first choice when shopping for a new phone, I soon realized I wasn't actually shopping for a 'phone'...

...the times, they're a-changing, kids.

I hope this lovely new gadget helps me keep better track of all my favourite blogs, sites, newsfeeds, etc.

Of course, my rate of output here, on flickr and elsewhere will increase, too.

I can only hope the frequency/quality ratio remains acceptable.

This photo from my September trip to Barcelona seemed to match the sentiment behind this entry. I remember standing in the cool of the museum, moments before I took this shot, teasing myself, savouring the cool, still, dark moment; equally excited at the promise of the light and warmth.

Just. Out. There.

(I hope you like it.)

Sent from my iPhone








Tuesday 7 October 2008

The Bizarre Adventures of Lonely Green Girl

(found in a remote crevice of my flickrstream. made me smile, so thought i'd share it again here. maybe i'll try this again, soon?)

Monday 29 September 2008

Sifting The Soul From The Chaos...


You may recall seeing a rather excited post from me here a couple of weeks ago. It was written - and posted - on a Saturday morning, hours before a friend of mine was due to come over for the afternoon. An afternoon we had planned to spend recording, building, racketeering, deconstructing, constructing, re-constructing, creating, making. Great things.

Well, sadly - and as a few of you now know - that's not quite what the universe had in store for us that afternoon.

We got off to a furious n' glorious start. Everything we did, every idea we had, seemed inspired. And maybe it was. We were fuelled and inspired. We burned bright that afternoon.

But you know what they say about the candle that burns twice as bright...

...due to (sadly avoidable and unnecessarily) unforeseen circumstances, the afternoon ground to a heartbreaking halt after only a few hours.

I was absolutely gutted. And angry. And worried. And truly exhausted. I had tried to keep up, but I couldn't.

In fact, I was (and am still) so upset by how the afternoon was stolen from us, that it wasn't until earlier this evening that I was able to bring myself to have a brief, awe-struck, melancholic listen to what we recorded that afternoon. It's an almighty mess. A cacophony of lunacy. A bag of blagged ideas. But there are some gorgeous moments, lines and riffs too. It'll take more than a few upsetting hours to trawl through the wreckage, but I will. And soon. But slowly, for these things are riddled with memories and moments.

And memories and moments are where the beautiful poisons lie...

Looking at the recordings, I'm reminded of the day I walked into a studio; the morning after a mad italian punk band had spent the night in there. (I think they'd won a competition, you know the scenario; best demo wins 12hr recording session, blah, blah blah...). The place was a riot of wreckage and riffs. I remember my heart going out to the engineer who had had to hold the whole session together, and then make something of it. He looked utterly traumatized.

I identify with him a little now, as I look at the wreckage on my screen.

Panning.

Prospecting.

Sifting the soul from the chaos...

I had lunch with that friend today. He was cripplingly apologetic. I smiled and gently asked him not to waste his energy apologising and worrying. We are friends. And every soul on this crazy ride has his/her own path n' challenge. Their own mission, their own beast to slay. End of conversation.

We agreed that we got off to a storming start. We were on fire. But things happened, and - poor chap - his demons took over. We might try again. We might not. Not everything needs to be set in stone.

I want to pull a few versions of the track, a track, something - whatever it was that happened that afternoon - together. For him. For me. To show him that as horrific as it all got, nothing is ever, totally in vain.

There is always beauty in the horror. Just as there is always horror in beauty...

When i have found, cleaned, washed, loved and cared for it - if there's anything left - I will share it with you.

Saturday 27 September 2008

an unfinished passion


The main entrance to La Sagrada Familia, on the Passion facade, to the west.

There are three 'grand' facades, the other two being the Nativity to the east and the Glory - still to be completed - to the south.


I found the sculpture on the Passion facade particularly striking, being geometrically brutal, uncompromising and yet still very beautiful and intensely moving. Possibly because of the stripped back philosophy behind it's design.


Looking at it now, i'm reminded of the contrast between the sparse, angular portraiture (particularly on this, the west side) compared to the softer, flowing, organic - and at times, or maybe at first - confusingly overpopulated other facades of the cathedral.


Thinking on it now, i wonder; does size 'matter' in art? I don't think so. But it can remind you of things that do matter. Of the import of the subject matter...


Think of the countless classic works of art you've known of your whole life; works always described and touted as 'colossal' or 'huge', yet when you meet them, many of them are small, quiet, but still intensely beautiful and revolutionary creations.


I'm rambling. forgive me...


Of course, works on the cathedral are still ongoing. Many workmen, artists, architects and visionaries pass through, spending their careers here. One such man was Josep Maria Subirachs, who is/was responsible for the Passion facade.


There has been much debate (suitably passionate) about his contribution to the cathedral, not least because he made no comprises to allow his style sit more comfortably with Gaudi's design of the rest of the building.

Friday 26 September 2008

"the view from your balcony"



Let us forget any sadness
Together tonight
Pour me some wine
Turn off the light

And look at the view from your balcony
London through your eyes
No one but you to keep me company
Twenty floors up a high-rise

In a romance of the old school
If you lived in this tower block
You'd be a victim of the system
A subject for punk rock

But look at the view from your balcony
The sunset is searing the sky
And how proudly you are pointing out to me
London through your eyes

How like a prince in a castle
Viewing dominions below
Telling me now in a whisper
Something I needed to know

And look at the view from your balcony
London through your eyes
No one but you to keep me company
Twenty floors up a high-rise

(photo taken with my beloved old family friend - the bessamatic voigtlander - on the steps of La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. these lyrics came to mind as i raised beautiful bessie to my lucky eye.

by the way, title links to the tune, if you're curious.)

Tuesday 23 September 2008

"a dialogue between the public and the works of art they contemplate"

"The main job of the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya (MNAC) as a museum, apart from preservation, documentation and research, is to generate knowledge... After all, dissemination is another of a museum's chief purposes.

Furthermore, if one of the priorities of a country is also to explain and disseminate its art and compare it, whenever possible, with international art, the role of the MNAC as laid down in the 1990 Museum Law is central. This framework, too, gives a meaning to this guide, whose object is to establish a dialogue between the public and the works of art they contemplate, in an unbroken tour of almost 1,000 years of art in Catalonia, beginning with the presentation of a small, tenth-century altar and ending with the series of sculptures by Julio Gonzalez from the 1940s, or, in the case of photography, with the work of contemporary photographers. Nevertheless, the goal of the Museum has set itself of reaching as large a public as possible means that this tour must find a balance between the demands of the general public and the needs of connoisseurs and art scholars. This twofold demand, which is reflected in this guide, has been and is, for the Museum, a challenge and a stimulus. For this reason, it is a great satisfaction, both to me and to the Museum's team of specialists and professionals who have made it possible, that this guide should become an essential reference for anyone interested in the Catalan art of the last 1,000 years."

(extract from the wonderful introduction to the MNAC guide book, written by Eduard Carbonell i Esteller, Director of the MNAC to 2005.)

photo by bessie

Monday 22 September 2008

if i only could...


c'mon, baby
c'mon, c'mon, darling
let me steal this moment from you now...

c'mon, angel
c'mon, c'mon, darling
let's exchange the experience...

Sunday 21 September 2008

"My Client Is Not In A Hurry"


The Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família.

"George Orwell berated the 1930s anarchists for 'showing bad taste by not blowing it up.' They did, however, manage to set fire to Gaudi's intricate plans and models for the building, which was his final project before his death. Ongoing work is a matter of some conjecture and controversy, with the finishing date expected to be somewhere within the region of 25-30 years. It was hoped the masterpiece would be completed in 2026 to coincide with the 100th anniversary of Gaudi's death, although this now seems unlikely. This is, however, somewhat of an improvement on the prognosis in the 1900s, when construction was expected to last several hundred years; advanced computer technology is now being used to shape each intricately designed block of stone offsite to speed up the process...

Gaudi, who is said to have once joked 'My client is not in a hurry', is buried beneath the nave; he dedicated more than 40 years to the project, the last 14 exclusively."

(from the 2008 edition of Time Out's Barcelona guidebook.)

At the risk of stating the obvious, the cathedral is absolutely dripping with symbolism and imagery. (e.g. the cathedral sports 18 towers; 12 for the apostles, 4 for the evangelists, one for Mary and one for Jesus.)

Gaudi intended it to be "the last great sanctuary of Christendom".

It is a truly glorious, inspirational place; made all the more exciting because of the ongoing construction. An esoteric, organic labyrinth of religious imagery, cement bags and soft-drink machines... it could take an entire lifetime to explore fully. And probably longer to fully understand & appreciate.

Saturday 20 September 2008

"...dance the ghost with me..."


Well, I'm back from a very, very fleeting visit to Barcelona. I've not kicked off my shoes, or unpacked - or even opened - my bag. But, i had to plug the old digital camera in and see how some of my favourite shots came out.

This is the one shot I'm posting for now (more to come on flickr & maybe here).

This hand belongs to the lady who stole my heart away, only days ago. I turned a corner and there she was. Still. In her eternal sleep. Aside from all others. Removed. Elsewhere.

Bathed, glowing in the Barcelona September sun...

(For now, I'll not tell you her name or where we met. All will be revealed in due time...)

Oh, and did i mention that she's a little older than me? Always a good thing...

Now, i know she's not going anywhere, for several reasons. (Probably top of the list is that she's made of bronze.)

But i need to see her again.

Now, please.

Actually, i'll not bother unpacking that bag afterall. When is the next flight back?


(ps: i couldn't resist using that quote as a title here. possibly a different subject, but i suspect the lady in question is the same. funnily enough, it's from one of my favourite songs by one of my favourite bands. i'd love to think that they/he were equally moved by her; enough to write said song.)

Saturday 13 September 2008

2+2=5


Today, something quite exciting is happening. I'm taking part in my first collaboration for (counting...) at least eleven years...

A fellow songwriting friend is coming over at 1pm this afternoon. We've long spent coffee and lunch breaks talking about our ongoing writing & recording; excitedly discussing our weekend's work, consoling each other when we've hit creative brick walls; offering technical & creative solutions; challenging the other's (mis)conceptions about what could and should be done within a particular track, lyrically, orchestrally, technically, etc... We've swapped CDs on a Monday morning, desperate to hear something fresh, something new, something other than the track we've spent the weekend alone with; but falling back in love with our own work all over again, when we see the look on someone else's face when they hear it...for the first time...

Anyway, after months of talking about it, we're finally writing & recording something new together. We've talked about it for so long, but always in loose words, as a nebulous idea. would we start with one of 'his' tracks? One of mine? Something new? But then, would we both feel pressure?

It's not 'just' sitting down to create with someone else. It's not just someone else seeing you as you 'really' are; in your truest habitat; it's allowing someone all access, all trust, all influence in that place; while you are going through the process. Together.

Talk about terrifying and exciting.

We finally decided to do this, i think, partly because we both seem to have fallen into a period of creating and playing with loops. We've both been listening to lots more cinematic music than usual. (And anyway, i've long been a sucker for strings n' beats, as anyone who knows me knows.) We've both recently 'discovered' bands like Sigur Ros. And we both want to push our personal envelopes and rid ourselves of our personal comfort zones.

We both crave escape from our self imposed Little Empires...

So. The deal was that during the week just passed, we'd both start. I'd start creating loops and ideas within a 70bpm, Em framework. Nick has been working in a 140bpm, Dm set up. In about 2hrs, he'll knock on my door, with a CD of his loops in his pocket. We'll sit down, import them into my existing project and start piecing it all together...

Then, we'll fire up all the toys. The Alesis SR-16 drum machine; the Jen SX1000 synthtone, an ancient, wooden-framed 70's beast (which i'm convinced was the only machine used to soundtrack every episode of Dr Who - ever), and many more... Also joining the party, will be various guitars, basses, percussion instruments and probably some abstract vocal noises.

Oh, and an electric razor. (trust me - better than an e-bow on an electric guitar!)

And then, maybe, after hours of tinkering, laughter and noise; we might potter out of the proverbial shed with something quite interesting...

Whatever happens, I'm going to have a seriously fun afternoon. I hope you do, too!

Friday 5 September 2008

because


i sink
because i want to fall
into the arms of love

i cry
because i want to crawl
and hide 'til i'm strong enough

i cough
because i can't swallow
the lump in my throat too large

i resolve
to hold out until tomorrow
because nothing this cruel can last

Saturday 14 June 2008

fudge, baby!

somerset fudge at local weekend market. lovely stuff! (but melts in the summer sun.)

Wednesday 11 June 2008

all fingers n' feet

this is a test
to see between fingered lines
beneath the chest
to view the foot above the ground

this, here in blue
creased, and snapped and clipped for you
something bound by nature, true
yet still of air's ethereal crew

this is how things fell
what left me here remains as well
but changed to something distant and obtuse
challenging this heir, "no truce!"

this is how we futurescribe
we forge new words from tears n' sighs
in distance we reveal the most
when clinging arms fall still from ghosts...

(test posting from new iPhone) random shot, off the cuff lines. I hope you'll forgive my clumsy heart.)

Sent from my iPhone

Sunday 1 June 2008

"When It All Comes Together"

"When performing, it doesn't matter the brand, the colour or the cost.  All that matters is that the guitar and I are one. I have to feel that the sound or instrument comes out of me with the song, from inside, from the gut.  And it doesn't matter to me that I only know three or four chords.  With the left fingers on the frets, the heel of my right hand hugging the body of the guitar, letting just my right thumb lead and drive the rhythm sometimes it's magic, and I just believe that when it all comes together it's the right way for me to do it.  Like Jesse Barnhill did it.  Like Mama did it."

J.R.C.

March '94

(Johnny Cash's mother started to teach him how to play guitar when he was only three.  Apparently, from the age of four, he was taught by a local family friend named Jesse Barnhill on a Gibson flattop.) 


Thursday 29 May 2008

"Here we go again, on another great trip..."

something's got me (re)started. again...  
this afternoon, i took a couple of hours off work and went to Iguana Studios in Brixton, South London, with a demo-copy of my album in my bag, to sit down and talk plans through with the owner and main producer at the studios.  
it wasn't at this table. but i love this shot. the space, the freedom, the lighting, the pregnancy, the possibilities it holds... it looks like a stage set, to me.  
instead, we went and settled into the back room of this complex, just the two of us in a cramped little office, a demo-version of my album playing on one of the pcs, as we discussed ideas track by track...  
i really hadn't expected us to listen to the whole thing (and felt kind of bad, *making* someone go through all that?!), but he seemed to like it, so we did. i've recorded there before, and he seemed to like my new direction. he was honest and frank about what he thought worked and which tracks he felt didn't quite sit right with the rest of the album. he also said some totally crazy things, i mean such outlandish stuff, i blushed and moved the conversation right along....hmm... much like this...
there's something about working with a warm, friendly italian guy who has built his own studio. he is brutally honest about the 'industry'. nothing he said surprised or disheartened me, but instead reinforced my personal reasons for doing all this.  
he's a talented guitarist, who decided to build his studios within the shell of an abandoned WW2 bullet factory in South London. boxes and boxes of copies of his own album piled up and lined the walls around us, his beautiful acoustic guitar - handmade by a friend - lay on the sofa behind us...  
it has to be here.  
anyway, before i knew it, 2hrs had passed and we'd laid some rough plans to record the album... 
most likely we'll do it in 3 chunks, seeing as i haven't won the lottery (yet) and so, have to budget for all this... 
but like i told him, my main, central reason for doing this is my own sanity. this dog will not leave me alone, won't cease barking, yapping & snapping. but he did manage to talk me down from 12-tracks to 10, and suggested we record an e.p. first, and see how i feel after that...  
i am well aware that i need a realistic, calm partner in almost everything i do, and feel very lucky to have found such a great, honest producer. i reckon it'll take a year. but with Andrea on my side, i know it'll be a fun, if emotionally & financially draining ride!  
wish me luck!

Wednesday 28 May 2008

there's a light...

I've been listening to a lot of music recently. Probably more than usual.  Lots of old tunes; some rediscovered, some new to my ears.  Lots of new music, too.  All of which made me re-think what i'm doing musicwise.
 
I've been struggling and weighing-up a lot over the last few months; trying to work out exactly how i feel about it all, trying to work out why i write. Is it 'worth' anything? Is it 'worthy' of anything?  I've only ever written for me; to me, the songs i write are a kind of diary; a map to an emotional past. A kind of therapy. 
 
I think a well-crafted song, a well written line, can drag you right back "then & there"; to an ephemeral moment from decades ago. Like a scent or taste... it only takes one molecule, one note to transport us...
 
I've been painfully aware of how little I've been recording or writing recently.  So am booking some studio time v soon, with the firm intention of finally finishing "the album". (Corny, I know. But this dog will not leave me alone.)  There was a time when I worked to afford studio time or equipment.  Now it seems work barely affords me the energy or time to spend on the music.  How can that be right?
 
When I first started recording (oh dear, a very long time ago), it was with my best friend.  We'd make a night of it, swapping stories, telling jokes, dissecting the latest offerings from whatever band was bothering the cover of that week's NME.  Discussing ideas, or arguing about whether the bloke who produced that album would have been able to save this album, how this engineer went on to produce that album because of this guy, etc. We'd automatically fall silent, mid conversation, knowing that we both wanted to hear that lick, that chorus, that glorious bassline, that unbelieveable mistake again, then fall back laughing, discussing, learning, sharing...
 
Back then, we were neighbours.  He lived in the flat beneath the one I was sharing with my then girlfriend.  He had a tiny old tascam 4-track tape recorder, mysterious vinyl and a few guitars, including a very nice Epiphone semi-acoustic. I had my gorgeous black fender acoustic...
 
We'd spend the first hour or so of the evening debating what we were going to record. Generally, we took it in turns, one of his this time, one of mine next time round.  Whoever's turn it was, that guy would 'audition' songs for the other - playing them on the acoustic 'til one was agreed on. 
 
Occasionally we did very, very carefully selected cover versions.  Often we argued these matters out; if you had an idea or choice to put forward, you'd better be able to quantify and qualify it; we were incredibly hard on eachother and ourselves in all our musical choices and decisions.  But it was all fun, and we learned more about ourselves and eachother from each song we sang or heard, and from every conversation we had...
 
We both had different skills.  There were things we both loved in music and things we hated. Most of these we agreed on. Passionately.  One of the things I always admired about my friend was the way he always seemed to manage to maintain a cool overview of the night's proceedings.  Whereas I'd be jumping up and down getting so, so excited as another layer gently fell into place, revealing slightly more of the final picture; he'd stop and assess the situation, as if taking a step back from and out of a wall-encompassing hunting scene.  That was the difference between us (and probably still is); he would be standing back, calmly measuring our progress; while i ran, rabid and frantic, from the dogs in our pictures...
 
We seemed to have great respect and appreciation for eachother and for the songs we wrote and shared.  Although we never actually wrote anything together, we would play live together from time to time. Either helping eachother out at gigs, or having the time of our lives playing gigs & belting out the cheesiest of setlists - covers, harmonies, free beer, girls winking, beery-eyed from the corner of the bar, as we sang (wincing at this next confession) and on occasion, singing harmonies, back to back, into the same mic, finding new, if sometimes ironic joys, to play the corniest of songs, with two guitars, two mics, all the beer you can handle and your best friend at your side... Hell, we even got a dressing room at one gig.
 
"...the past is so beautiful, the future, like a captive snow..." (as someone once sang).
 
....so, pan forward 12/13 years later.  Time has passed, things have happened, relationships have ended, new ones begun, children have been born, lives have begun and ended.  Sad to say, we rarely get the chance to speak these days, but when we do, we always fall back into talking - and laughing - about "the old days" (doesn't everyone?); the gigs, the songs, the recording sessions, the peculiarly-close-closeness that comes from making music with another person.  We've shared a lot of history together.  Things have happened between and around us, that would tear other friendships asunder, but somehow that connection is there, and stays; whether we like it or not.
 
When we do talk, we always talk about how great the harmonies were. (Damn. It always comes back to the harmonies. I'm feeling *so* Phil Everly right now.)  How we seemed to tap into something new, something different, something greater, other, than either or both of us.  It seemed to flow... 
 
Everything must flow.
 
I know he's in the studio, recording an album this summer, and we've talked about how he'll let me know dates, I'll take time off work, go down there for a few days and we'll do our thing.  I've told him I'm booking some studio time this summer and he'll have to come up to London for the dates.  There are songs that I wrote during that period, that he heard before anyone else. Songs we recorded together on that 4-track all those years ago.  I only know those songs with his harmonies.  We have no choice in some things...
 
Typing these last few words, I can suddenly hear Neil Young singing. And it makes perfect sense...
 
"can we get it together, can we still stand side by side?
can we make it last, like a musical ride?"
 
 

Monday 26 May 2008

shelter from the storm

Aldgate Station.  this was the second photograph i took with Bessie (full name "Bessamatic Voigtlander"). sheltering from the torrential rain, enjoying torrential sunshine around lunchtime on Saturday 26th April 2008.
 
Aldgate Station has a strange and sad past - both in fact and fiction... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aldgate_tube_station
 
for some reason, this is probably my favourite shot taken on our first roll together. not sure why. there are a couple of others i'm also very fond of, but this one sends me...
 
i'll get this - and the others - up on flickr as soon as my dominant dongle dictates.

Saturday 19 April 2008

"Another Battle Lost & Won..."

The pain was already, in the truest sense of the word, extraordinary.  Like a coiled serpent, cramped and waking from it's slumber, it slowly swelled and pushed, birthing to life inside his skull.  It always woke foul tempered and hot breathed, straining and complaining as it surfaced from it's sleep.


He knew the pattern; the play of the battle that lay ahead.  Where it would deploy it's first wave of pain, how it would first push forward from behind his right eye; the nearest opening.  When this failed, it would try and take him by surprise, sliding and sliming around the right side of his head; spreading it's advance over twenty to forty minutes, as it snaked, pushing and burrowing round and down, into the base of his skull.  His body's instinctive response was equally predictable.  Sensing it's enemy's moves, it stretched; pulling his head to the left and down, as if in a vain attempt to pacify the enemy within, by offering it more room in which to stretch... never enough; the pain always stomping back, louder and harder as his head inevitably returned right and up, creaking, relenting, throbbing.


Sensing no real opposition, the poisonous beast swelled and breathed, flexing and waving it's long, bruising muscle as it rained hard, blunt pain down on every receptor that was slow and trusting enough to receive the new faith.  It pushed again, surfing past the base of his thundering skull and gushing with cruel euphoria as it galloped into and through the unguarded valley of his neck and charging, screaming out into the abandoned expanse of his shoulders.  Staking their claims as the fired through, arrows and thunderbolts of agony now fired randomly, wreaking havoc, wailing in victorious ecstasy as they stampeded, like satanic stallions over every aching centimeter of pounding, pounded, conquered flesh...


By this point in the battle, word had reached the body's council where they hid in some small quarter of the brain.  They were yet to be discovered by enemy spies, but this seemed a wasted advantage, as no brilliant or simple plan of resistance had yet been devised.  Or had ever been devised.  It was as if once the enemy had sunk back, bored with victory, fat on euphoria, fully pleasured on the pain it wrought; all memories of it's attack simply melted away.  As if something so terrible, so painful, so giant, could never happen again.  There was nothing to forgive, so there was nothing to learn.  There was nothing to remember, so there was nothing to forget... And so, each time, a new terror returns...


Unsure how to hurt or slow the enemy advances, the council decides on what it thinks the next best course to survive the attack. Torch the land. Kill the kingdom. Spread the pain. Share the pain. If we can't defuse, then we shall dissolve the pain.  Word is sent and scouts are employed to distract and lead the enemy in various tactical directions.  One band will jeer from the crest of the right shoulder blade and lead the enemy down into the spine.  The spine will crack and bow in writhing frustration; unable to defuse the pain, but instead, distracting and disseminating it.  Dividing like suicidal squads of seraphim, they split, leading the enemy along the ridges of the ribs, tearing, burning fields of muscle with enemy fire as they go; diving, hiding, waiting in dark crevasses in the stomach's lining.  Wave after wave of enemy chemical signals pour and swell after them.  The walls start to quake and buckle...


Elsewhere in the painverse, similar battles are being fought.  The hands twist and wring, feet buckle and hurt, marrow tickles and aches, as the black syrup of slow, thick, dragging, knifing, clumsy pain drags and sucks it's way, lazy giant suckerpunch after lazy giant suckerpunch, pounding and screaming through the suffering fleshscape...


And every time, the battle ends the same inevitable way.  The council, aching with frustration, complacent under the boredom of total, constant bombardment, desperate for a shift - any shift - in the game, sends it's last remaining scouts out, with The Final Message.


Like whispers in any army, waves of nausea, rumours of rumblings, hints of hurling have circused the various battlefields for eons in advance.  We'll push the enemy out. With one, massive, Almighty (yep, we've checked & he's on board with the plan), violent effluence, we'll turn this battered world inside out, hurling all unsuspecting invaders into the void that is Exterior...


The unifying command is executed with swift and damning efficiency.  Stomach and ribs are strained, sacrificed and bruised in the final, decisive pushes of battle.  Eyes glaze over and water out the last hiding agents still lurking in the skull.  Finally, the serpent and all it's writhing agents are gone...


The fleshscape shudders and sighs, shaking, exhausted into a slumber; allowing vital repairs healing and soothing to be undertaken...

Monday 14 April 2008

"Requires Gentle & Sensible Treatment..."

Well, here she is.  


Meet The Voigtlander Bessamatic, born in West Germany, sometime between 1958-63.  


To me, she instinctively and simply became 'Bessie', when we were finally reunited, after many, many years apart on Saturday afternoon. And I know. The name. Guitars aside - i don't generally name inanimate objects, but she has been a part of my life for as long as i can remember. Her tough leather coat has a warm, familiar smell.  She has captured me as a naked baby, bathing in a kitchen sink.  Witnessed me as a frowning toddler, frozen in back & white, peering up over the horizon on a day out at the park, peered down at me in the pram, immortalised my childish pout; recording moments from my birth to mid-teens.


Bessie belonged to my late father, who was considerably older than my mother, and had travelled the world to an impressive, adventurous degree by the time they met. (From the little I know, that's whole other, cinematic story.)  Unfortunately, I know very little about his life, as he & my mother weren't together long before i was born and he passed away only a year or so later.


My mum lent Bessie to my cousin, about 15 years ago, after she had expressed an interest in photography, so I'd not seen (or heard) the camera for a very long time.  I did, however, remember the unforgettable sounds of the shutter and the warm, mechanical snap-back of the rapid winding lever.  They are not easily forgotten.  Maybe I'm over-romanticising the matter.  Maybe because they are such beautiful, warm, distinctive sounds that i've known and recognised since my earliest days; maybe that's why they feel safe and true.


My mum & I don't often talk of my father.  I think, on many occasions, we have avoided talking about him because it - naturally - would upset us to see each other upset.  I remember (now, with a laugh), how one Sunday afternoon maybe 15 years ago, my mother, stepdad, my then girlfriend and i were sitting around the kitchen table after enjoying Sunday lunch together.  Somehow, my father made a rare appearance in conversation - doubly so, as his name very rarely popped up in 'company'. (Not through shame or embarrassment, but simply because his absence touched so deeply.)  Anyway, for whatever reason, his name came up that Sunday, and my mum started telling one of her few stories about him.  My emotions soon showed, which upset my my girlfriend, who also started crying, followed shortly by my mum.  So my girlfriend was crying, trying to comfort me; i was crying, trying to comfort my mum; and my stepdad - who saw the funny side of the situation immediately - wondered what on earth was going on with this weird wailing family!


This camera means so much to me not simply because it belonged to my father.  Of course that's a big part of it.  But because it's one of the very few personal items of his that have found their way to me; now that i'm old enough to value, appreciate, love and use them the way he once did.  I know he loved photography.  I know he used this camera; hell, he even pointed it at me a few times, apparently.  When i hold it to my face, i smell the same warm, leathered air he smelt.  As I peer through the viewfinder, it's the slow, gentle undulations of the same lightmeter needle that he watched all those lost years ago, that i watched today...


Bessie & I managed one or two shots in the sun (and torrential) rain today.  I felt very self-conscious raising the big old friend to my face in public, but it felt so right that any awkwardness was soon forgotten.  (In fact, any self-consciousness was more to do with knowing that my dad was probably watching me as my nervous fingers - suddenly one and a half yrs old again - gently, clumsily, learned their way around Bessie's warm, worn, worldly curves.)  


I am so grateful for being given the privilege of spending some time with as beautiful and graceful a machine as Bessie, and I am all too aware, than I do not 'own' her; but that it's simply my turn to look after her while our paths run together for as long as that may be...


The way her needle bounced as we found the right light.  The way she snapped shut - closing her eye on the world, with that characteristic sound, as if to say "yep, got it"; almost winking at me, as i peered inside her secret mind. It all feels right.  Feels like home...


PS: and can you believe it - i was lucky enough to find a scanned pdf documents (2 parts) of the original manual for Bessie online. Here are the links, if you're at all interested...  part 1 is http://www.cameramanuals.org/voigtlander_pdf/voigtlander_bessamatic-1.pdf and part 2 can be found here http://www.cameramanuals.org/voigtlander_pdf/voigtlander_bessamatic-2.pdf

Thursday 10 April 2008

"When You Smiled"


When you came

You seemed to step from leftfield shadows

You seemed to smile away all of my troubles

When you came


When you smiled

I felt my shoulders ease and sigh

I felt a weight disappear, denied

When you smiled


When we laughed

it was a gentle, easy thing

It was as friends waiting to begin

When we laughed


When we kissed

Not a planet crashed or slid

No one else knew what we did

When we kissed...


And now you're gone

There's nothing left here but the song

And the smile you gave me, it's still worn

Though now you're gone


(written 21:28 Thursday 10th April 2008, London.)




Something - a look, a smile - took me back 10 years on the way home tonight.  Took me back there; and back then.  We think we lose memories, forget tastes, smells, moments; and fear their loss; often at the cost of enjoying the moment itself.  But the slightest, most random things can bring them flooding back - brighter, clearer, sharper than ever - to be relived all over again.  The trick is, i think, we rarely know what the key is (what unlocks those memories?); or even that those memories are eternal.  I think they are. So maybe we never really 'lose' anyone or anything. Just my opinion, but i might be wrong...


btw - the photo seemed fitting.  I saw this disposable mask lying discarded at the bus stop earlier in the week.  I knew it'd been put there for a reason. Now I know. Thanks.


Thanks for stopping by & sharing.


Be happy.

Sunday 6 April 2008

When The Moon Takes Over

I miss you most
When the Moon takes over,
The sky turns black
And the stars roll in...
 
I loved you first
When you slept on my shoulder;
The arch of your back,
The touch of your skin...
 
(extract from an untitled poem from the yellow notebook. written 1.24am, 1st April 1998. London, SW1.)

Monday 24 March 2008

"When We Get There..."


The way you look at me - 
I can sense it sometimes.
The way things might well be
No scramble for digital time.

The way you laugh at me
When I say something silly or feel awkward.
The way I feel so free
To look you in the eyes and not flinch.

The way your fingers curved
That first time when we reached out.
The way it must have seemed absurd
To all the other faces in the crowd.

The way we found ourselves
Paused and looked up and down nervously
Thinking "eyes" and "lips"
And not allowing "could this possibly be?"

The way you trust me implicitly
Like your hair and coat - natural and free.
The ghosts of horses pass
And I finally had the courage to be me.

The way we hint at tomorrows
And you approve it with a cautious smile.
The way you suggest new air
And I know I'll be whole when we get there...

(Written: 11.20pm, Tuesday 10/10/00.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I seem to be revisiting old notebooks more than usual at the moment.  Revisiting, but not revising.  I believe that some things should remain as they fall.  Looking across from my desk, I was drawn to the old blue book that holds this particular memory.  

I hope you'll forgive my clumsy lines and thank you for obliging me by sharing them. If you stopped by to read them, you have my warm gratitude.

I'm afraid I can't give you much background on these particular untitled lines.  I think I recall who it was written to, for or about.

But I can tell you when it was written.  Because I have a habit of noting these things whenever I write.  I'm a little disappointed that I didn't record where I'd written it; I usually make a note of the postcode or country I'm writing in.  To me, when & where I write something is almost more important than what I write. 

I'm not sure why, but it works for me.

Maybe it's because I don't keep a diary. My attempts at songs and poems are my journal, it seems.  My default way of recording whatever matters to me enough to move my hand and heart.

 
Thanks for stopping by.  Be happy....

 


Sunday 23 March 2008

"I'm nobody, who are you?"

Today was a wet, windy, sunny, changing bank holiday Saturday.  Not much to do, you might think. 

 
A day spent pottering indoors, throwing the occasional glance out the window, checking on the ever changing weather. (If ever there were four seasons in one day, it was today in London.)

 
Not much to do, you might think. 

 
Unless you'd caught wind of the flashmob pillow-fight planned for 15:03 in Leicester Square.  (Actually, it turns out today was http://www.pillowfightday.com ). I decided to potter along with my camera at the ready, expecting a 5-10min crazed feathery battle waged - and contained within - a modest sized mob of pillow-wielding madmen.

 
Wrong.

 
I got there with moments to spare, entering from the southwesterly corner or the Square. I soon spotted 3s & 4s of giggling, excited people. Then more. Then a whole family, little kids laughing, jumping up and down.  Parents smiling, nervously.  But still clutching their own pillows.

 
Some had strangely bulging bags. Some simply had a pillow (or 2) stuffed under their arm as they kicked their heels and stared at their watches.  Waiting...  I walked past one group of 4 teenage boys, laughing and texting furiously in the final few minutes of peace.  Suddenly, one cried "We're getting ready for war!", and like pre-programmed pigeons, tens of people who had seemed to be strolling through the square, turned and headed for the northside. 

 
Charging. Running. Crying their war cries of "Sparta!" Laughing. Oh, and wielding pilllows...

 
Within seconds, a crazed mob of 150-200 people were swinging pillowcases around their heads, laughing in the bitterly cold sunshine; finally bringing their pillow down with a thump on their nearest unsuspecting fellow fighter.

 
The air filled with laughter, screams, sunlight, rain...

 
Teenage boys, teenage girls, old men, little children, mothers, fathers, drunks, tourists, all pummeled each other with their pillows. And abandoned pillows. Passersby stopped for 30 minutes at a time, watching bemused, confused and amused. Some picked up abandoned, burst, half-full pillows and joined in. Some ran away...

(The one-on-one fight between an old drunk and a little boy was particularly endearing. There seemed to be so many levels of understand - of trust - at play there in that moment. between the boy and the man, the man and the crowd, circled, watching, laughing, the boy and his parents - permission given, silent promise to be careful undertaken...)

 
I expected the fight to disband as quickly as it materialized, but i was wrong.  I thought the rain might break things up. It did seem to slow the fight for a few seconds, but the mob roared and fought harder. And laughed harder.

 
"We are Legion!" one tall, young man screamed, pillow held as far back as he could reach, for maximum swing; chest out, chin high.... charging. Laughing.

Hail came. Only to be greeted by cheers and renewed, red-faced laughing warriors of the feather.  Snow came. Faces only paused to turn upwards, cool and smile briefly, then fought on...

 
Every time a pillow burst, the hundreds roared, in unison, like a wild, miss-feathered, homeless beast. (But nothing like the first time.)

 
Little children laughed hysterically; so hard, in fact, that they couldn't swing their pillows with any great effect.
 
The 'fight' (really does seem the least appropriate word for it now), lasted for well over an hour.  

I carefully wandered in and out, through, around and under the mass.  I laughter harder with every (intentional and unintentional) swipe and thump I received in the snow, sun and hail. I walked away, feathered, battered and laughing, when the bewildered emergency street-sweepers moved in.  The fight was slowly disintegrating by then and the ground was warmed - inches deep - in abandoned down.  

A poignant thought hit me, as I walked away.  Some of those pillows probably went out in more style and with more excitement and laughter than they'd experienced in their whole 'lives'.

 
Pillows should be places for laughter.

 
I shot literally hundred of photos of the fight, from outside, from the skirts, from the fallen-back ranks of red-faced warriors regaining their breath, from the edges of mini-battles and sub-plots, and lots more from deep inside the feathery fury. 

It was so much fun.  I hope to upload a choice 10-15 shots to flickr over the next day or so.   It's all too easy to take wide crowd shots, i think.  So, I'll probably post this kind of shot.  Personal, brief, fleeting, hysterically heart-warming shots...  Portraits, not shots. Pictures that say "Hello! This is me. I was there. Happy Easter!"

But in the meantime, here's one I fell immediately in love with, once i saw it up on a bigger screen.  I seem to have taken (some intentional, some not) gorgeous shots of beautiful people, beaming with bank holiday joy and stranger-loving lunacy.  

It still blows me away.  I have no idea who the laughing lady is, but if you see this and recognise yourself, I'd like to take this opportunity to say thank you for such a glorious heartwarming, life-affirming gift that is this shot.  

To all at http://www.mobile-clubbing.com , huge thanks, much love and thank you for making my Easter Weekend.

Long may you run.

 

Friday 21 March 2008

Are You Happy?

I realise I'm quite an excitable person; but then, to me, seem to live in a sea of stimulus.  

I used to swing between wishing could stop being so deeply moved or affected by things I witnessed or experienced and thanking God I was 'awake' enough to savour the pain and joy all around us.

Now I know that's just the way it is.

And I'm grateful for that. I think.

Anyway.  This cutting is just one of those things.  A small regular column in the Guardian's Weekend magazine.  I think this interview was published sometime in the summer of 2007.  It blew me away immediately.  This young lady's spirit - her attitude, her matter-of-factness - struck me as truly inspirational.  I always worry about saying things like that about people who have experienced extraordinary events in their lives.  I think it's important to remember that they probably weren't born as 'extraordinary' people.  They may have been, but I imagine it's more likely that they are ordinary people who have lived through previously unimaginable events in their lives. And emerged as victors, survivors, and therefore appear as winners and heros to the rest of us.

Also, the fact that she has a pair of 'swimming legs' (and by allusion, almost certainly swims more often than I) puts me to sorry, dry a*sed, land-lubbing shame.

On reading this article the first time round, I immediately reached for the scissors, cut it out and stuck it on the back of a door. It's not something I do very often.  But I did that Saturday, last summer.  To remind me of the feeling that was already slipping - too fast - from emotional memory. I stuck it somewhere where I'd see it every single day.  To remind me that there are people who have survived incredible things. 

People who have rebuilt or reclaimed their stake in this crazy world. 

People who are taller and stronger than I could ever hope to be.  

People who are making more of their time on this rock than I am.  

So. Every day, Sophia Mason makes me smile. She makes me stop and think. She makes me promise myself that I'll try and stay 'awake' a little more each day that i pass by her gorgeous portrait on the way out the door.

She reminds me that I really should go swimming more often.

Sticking her back up on the door now, I'm struck by her beauty and strength.  Again.  If I ever had the good fortune to meet her, I'd like to think I'd pass this ordinary woman's "men from the boys" test.

Thanks for the inspiration and the reality check, Sophia.

Thursday 20 March 2008

Once

i remember you
i remember your room
your four poster bed
and that look that said...

 
i remember you
you introduced me to Neil
reclined in a tee-shirt
and watched us shake hands...

 
you tried to set me free
but that chain was a part of me


(a pretty heavily edited extract from an old song written back in 1997.  incidentally, the accompanying photo was shot two or three months shy of a full decade after these words were written, but they seemed to fit.)

Sunday 16 March 2008

1997

Weatherwise, it's been a typical March day today (if there still is such a thing in these changing times) and so, while it's been raining & blowing outside, I've found myself spending most of the day pottering, planning and invariably, reflecting.  

Out came stacks of old photo albums, soon followed by old writing books.  This is the inside cover of one of them.  The "Green Book". 

If i happen to see friends when i've got a new writing book with me (and if the mood takes me), i'll ask them to write something in the front if it.  Something to remind me of who and where i was, who i was with, how i was feeling, how far i'd come at the moment, on the day i started the next lap of songwriting.  Where it stood in my life. Something to tie it to the moment.

Well, on 5th February 1997, i was with two of my dearest friends (who happened to be going out together at the time); Sam & Simon.  (Incidentally, if I ever happen to catch the credits on The Simpsons' tv show, I always smile when i see Sam Simon's name come up, because it reminds me of Sam & Simon.)

Back in 1997, we all worked in the same small company.  Simon was a couple of years older than me, wise to the ways of the world; i looked up to him and we shared the same wicked sense of humour.  Sam was a blast of fresh air to us both; she was a gorgeous 19 year old, fresh from Devon and absolutely bursting with love, life and laughter.  I loved them both dearly.  Still do.

The three of us used to hang out reguarly (with the lovely Bex), whether over a few beers and a game of pool after work, or at each other's houses, at gigs, etc...

I had split up with my girlfriend of 5+ years at this time, and frankly, was a mess.  It was only thanks to wonderful, 'true' friends like Sam, Simon (amongst others - if you come by this way - you'll know who you are, and you know you have my eternal love & gratitude), that i made it through a truly nightmarish year or so.  

There is a point to all this...

It was in my darkest times that I seemed to be at my most creative.  I will always remember 1997 as one of my worst, most painful years, but also - and maybe more - as one of the most exciting, groundbreaking, rewarding and fun years of my life.  I wrote more songs that ever before.  I wrote better songs than ever before.  I was writing every day.  I started gigging properly in 1997.  It was the most terrifying and exciting thing that had happened to me since falling in love years before.  I soon learned that if i wasn't almost sick with nerves before going on stage, something was wrong and i'd have a lousy gig.  I was building up a following.  I was making a name for myself...  I came ridiculously close to selling one particular song to one particular chart-bothering girl-group of the time.  It got to the point where i was coming home to updates from the group's manager and record label A&R guy on how things stood with the band.  They were trying to 'break the States' and the tour had gone horribly wrong.  None of them were talking to each other and they were all flying in separate jets. I was told that if - 'if' - the band pulled themselves together and got back on track, then they'd take the song into the studio and think about buying it...

To clarify, I'm not giving you this level of info in order to massage my own ego - i know how (essentially) unimportant and transitory these things really are - but simply to illustrate just how ridiculously surreal my live had become.

In 1997.

It felt like anyday I could have got home to a message on the answer machine saying "...yep, we want the tune. you can quit the day job...".

As it goes, they split up and i didn't quit the day job. Thanks girls. No, really.

That summer, I also met "the one that got away".  Funny. I wasn't looking for love, intimacy, or a connection of any kind. But, she came along anyway.  We only knew each other for a few months; drifting as easily out of each other's lives as we did into them.  No big hellos or goodbyes.  But in some strange way, she moved me more deeply than anyone else I'd ever known.  (Incidentally, and this is strange, for someone so keen on photography; I never took a single photo of her.  All I have are memories of the moments we shared.  Still, peaceful moments when everything else simply melted away.) 

Her memory, kindness and smile will stay with me.  Always.  I've a very strange feeling/theory that she was somehow 'sent' to help me heal and set me gently back on track... and i will remain forever grateful to her and whoever - whatever - sent her to my aid.

But that's another story.

Like i said, it was a strange, harrowing and wonderful year.

Monday 18 February 2008

remembering light


















I remember you, but how?
Just how remains unclear.

I remember lights were low –
I think that I drew near?

I remember sadness, still;
A strange, low time of day.

I remember confusion, dark,
Sadness and dismay.

I remember the layout
Of the saddest room.

Maybe built within my mind.
Maybe. I don’t know.

I know that things changed that night –
I’m sure that it was night.

I know you can’t have given up -
That would suggest a fight.

I always knew the difference –
The way we stood apart.

Just a mother and her child –
No football in the park.

Few photographs – fewer words –
Maybe it hurt too much?

Even now, the tears roll forth
If you’re mentioned over lunch.

Writing this, I barely see
The words upon the screen.

Unsure why I started this,
And wondering where you’ve been…

Friday 4 January 2008



Happy New Year, Groovers!

Well. It's the first Friday of this new year they're calling 2008. Right now, i'm doing the neck thing. Head down to type a sentence, then head back to flex aching face (sinuses) & try for more air. This 'flu seems to have haunted me, danced around me, po-go'd through me, dragged around me & dragged me around since at least early October.
That's October 2007.
That'd be last year.
Of course it regrouped in time to return with festive vengeance.
And did a jig.
Ta muchly.

Festive Vengeance. Ooh. Band name?

Anyway...

Sorry, I do that.
A lot.

So. What have we learned so far this year? I've learned that a smile stiffens your resolve & makes you stronger. Strengthens your immunity to a mad and occasionally cruel world. And like all antagonistic elements, we're programmed early on to believe that "if you ignore it, it'll go away". Aren't we? I find that this rule can be quite erratic in it's application to "The World" when you take "The World" as one being.
Sometimes you find yourself "kicking against the pricks", but sometimes, yep, the pricks kick back. Ah well... Half the fun is not knowing, right?

So, we prepare ourselves for that and march on... into the great blau yonder. (Some words just 'look' better in German, i think.)

But where are we marching to?
Why are we marching there?
What do we hope to accomplish once we get there?
Have we planned our campaign sufficiently well so that we arrive on the other side of the ridge to the battlefield, soon after sundown the night before? After all, isn't it wise to set up camp, graze, rest up, check our armaments & review tactics before thundering down with the great dawn surprise attack?

I can see a few wrinkled brows from the other side of the screen, so will try and explain my thinking.
We all - or the majority of us, at least - will still be able to remember our 10 New Year's resolutions which we had probably decided & settled on by this time last week. My question is, how many of us can remember - if we ever knew - why we made those resolutions? Of all the things we could do with 365 days, at this point in our lives, why 'those' 10?
What is your mission statement?
What is your mission?
Did you choose to accept it?
Did it self-destruct in 30 seconds?

Please tell me it didn't.

As for me, well; the passing of the 365th day always feels like a gentle nudge followed by 'something' whispering over my shoulder, asking 'well? what's it gonna be?' And I guess somethings simply stay on the 'to do' list until they get done.
The things I reasonably hope to accomplish this year are...

1) Finish recording 'the album'.

2) Get fit & stay fit. (Is that 2?!)

3) Learn to be kinder to and more patient with self.

4) Learn to be kinder to and more patient with others.

4) Try looking at the things that scare me. After a while they might not look so scary. Might even be fun.

5) Photography - if i step out of the door with a camera in my hand, I must also step out of my comfort zone. Challenge my ideas & conquer my fears.

6) Paint more. Conquer fear of canvas! Take classes?

7) Do (more?) voluntary work.

8) Remember how to trust intuition & enjoy the childlike madness of going with it.

9) Visit my father’s grave. I know it's not 'where he is', but it's been far, far too long.

10) "...gonna get the girl, gonna kill the baddies & save the entire planet." (Sadly, not an original idea http://www.lastfm.jp/music/Pop+Will+Eat+Itself/_/Ruff+Justice
, but might be fun.)

Oh I don't know. There seems to be a lot of fear above. Maybe a few excuses.
(That'll be the 'being too hard on myself' bit.)
Seems like an awful lot to accomplish in 365 days. Better get started!

Good luck with your resolutions, if you have decided on any. And please, be kind to yourself; remember they're resolutions, not The Ten Commandments!

"Enjoy this trip. And it is a trip."

Stay Beautiful,

rx
(written early in the first hour of Friday 4/1/08 & posted several hours later...)