...les autres

I've just been out onto the local high street to run a couple of errands. Had a perfectly pleasant morning, getting up quite early and just pottering around the flat - feeling quite clear-headed and refreshed.

It's slightly odd at the moment when I walk out and round the corner. The house next door has been vacated recently, and is still standing empty: no curtains or nets, and one can see from the front window right through to the back of the property. In the large, empty front room, all bare walls and floorboards, is a single chair: its wooden surface disguised by cracked white paint; sat on it is a golden-haired doll, staring blankly.

It's rather eerie, one can begin to construct horror-movie narratives, especially when espying the doll on returning home in the late evening.

Anyway, I walked along the street, and as I neared the high street - the main shopping area in this part of the city - I felt my otherwise light mood start to plunge.

Saturday morning - therefore, other people. Lots of them.

My tolerance isn't what it used to be, and I think that's quite an understatement: years ago, back when I was still alive, it didn't seem like a Saturday unless I'd gone out on the bus and spent some time in the city centre, amid the throng and the bustle. These days I can hardly bear it, and unless I'm heading into the city for a specific reason, I'll avoid it like the plague. In fact I'm far more likely to get on the bike and head in the opposite direction, into the bliss that is the countryside.

There's nothing that winds me up more than people who either don't look where they're going - or worse still, don't care that they bump into you as though you're not there, who seem to act as though the street is solely theirs, or who seem surprised when they (say) take a few backwards steps, that there are actually other people behind them. So surprised that they don't even think to say sorry to the person they've just inadvertently elbowed or stepped on or whatever.

Surprised or ignorant, or both. People who never care to admit that they might be in the wrong.

So it's not without trepidation that I realise that, in an hour or so, I'll be heading out into the city centre. Thankfully, the reason for the journey is that I'll be going straight to the train station, off to go and see friends elsewhere, and it takes mere minutes to get from the bus stop to the station. I still know that there'll be way too many opportunities for my tolerance levels to be severely exercised though.

In an aside, I recall one of my more recent Saturday jaunts to the local high street (relatively bearable, at least compared with the hell that is the city centre) - one of my favourite shops is on a quieter side road, and I'd been perturbed to note that the shutters were down.

I bumped into the shop owner that same evening in the local pub - a nice enough bloke, but the weight of the world often seems to be perched upon his shoulders. I asked if everything was ok, I'd noticed that the shop wasn't open today.

The crestfallen look of sheer gravity and despair on his face was quite singular, and the ensuing conversation was a bit of a struggle: I was rather reminded of a certain comedy sketch - thankfully in this case, no fatalities ensued as a consequence.

2 today

I came to the realisation when I was on the bus this morning that it's two years ago today that I started this blog. I tend to have many odd moments of realisation on the bus mind you, but this one felt like it was worth a mention at least.

Two years, indeed, since I wrote my first post here. It was a Saturday and I think I was ever so slightly hungover, about to get dressed to the nines for a wedding.

Sometimes I'm surprised I'm still blogging - at least under the same pseudonym - other times I can't imagine much time passing without getting drawn back into it. Therefore I'm not going to come out with a statement along the lines of I'm still blogging against all odds - more like, against some odds.

I'm still here anyway.

It feels a much quieter place round these parts of late, other people move onwards, sidewards and sometimes off the radar seemingly altogether, for all sorts of reasons. Various gadgets (the Followers facility for example) make it necessary no longer to pop over to others' sites to see if they've written a new post - it's all up there on the dashboard. As with certain others I follow who have done so, I sometimes wonder about disabling such facilities.

Useful as they (and stats and so on) are, they can also serve as a distraction, a numbers game, which is completely beside the point of why I continue to blog.

None of which is voiced as a complaint or a pointed comment of any kind - I'm happy to get as many or as few visitors as I get - just an observation (after all, there are blogs I used to frequent, and now visit rarely if ever). There are, all the same, some visitors who have been a constant more or less from the start.

You're all welcome, should you be reading this.

Why does the rain

On Friday, just after work, I took a couple of colleagues up on their invitation to go for a couple of drinks before heading home.

Half an hour and I'll be there I told them, as I had a few things to tidy up and file away (more in a mental sense than a literal one).

I knew which pub they were in, it was just a few minutes walk away. When I arrived there I could see no sign of them either in the main bar or the back room. My colleagues both being smokers, I bought myself a pint anyway, making the presumption that they'd be having a cigarette out the back somewhere.

The barwoman had asked if I was looking for someone. A man and a woman I'd informed her, narrowing the odds down considerably (well it wasn't the busiest pub in the world). She pointed out how to get into the garden - round the back of the bar, turn left then right.

I got out there, pint in hand, and found a little enclosed area, verdant and charming - to the right was an awning with seats and space for a barbecue. To the left was a small enclosure with a little, open door - inside my two colleagues were sat on comfortable armchairs on a carpeted floor. It was a quirky, intimate space full of ornaments, a footstool and a solid old wooden table. As I sank into my all-too-inviting seat, I noted that the wall behind me was made of brick - it was part of the outside wall of the pub, backing onto the garden - whereas the remaining walls were wooden. It was like a garden or allotment shed which had been customised for maximum luxury within the means available.

It had the feel of a secret den, a cosy, homely little corner tucked away from the rest of the world. The roof was made of clear, corrugated plastic - so the space was light and airy too rather than dark and dingy.

I couldn't help but talk about what it reminded me of - one of my fondest memories, that of sitting in the greenhouse as a child (usually keeping one or more of the cats company, sprawled out on the trestle or the soil), especially at the onset of a heavy rain or thunder storm.

That feeling - as with being under canvas also - of being simultaneously exposed to the elements, and yet of being very comfortably insulated from them too. To be able to smell and feel the change in atmosphere as the storm hit, to be thrillingly close to it, but to remain warm, dry and comfortable. Only the cats would display any consternation, annoyed that the weather would be so rude as to disturb their sleep.

The sound of heavy raindrops hitting the glass of the greenhouse roof, just above one's head. And knowing that if the rain got so heavy, there would be little choice but to stay put until it had significantly eased off. I still recall the smell of the tomato plants, the paraffin heater, the bags of compost under the trestles.

Well my colleagues and I talked about all this, and then got on to talking about more contemporary topics, setting the world to rights and all that. I could see that it would be dangerously easy to stay here for hours, to settle in for the evening, had I not other plans.

Then, all of a sudden, the heavens opened and we had the heaviest, harshest showers of the year so far, huge drops of rain hitting the corrugated roof with such force and intensity that I couldn't hear the conversation any more. Rather than shout above it, we largely just opted to sit back in our huge armchairs and just listen, talking only when there was a momentarily lull.

It was fantastic. The sheer din just accentuated our cosiness. Then there was a flash of lightning, and a huge clap of thunder followed. Perfect! I hadn't intended to stop for long, but here I had no choice if I didn't want to get soaked through to the skin. In fact the colleague who was brave enough to get another drink during all this got a good soaking as she dashed between the exit of our den and the back door to the pub, a mere 20 feet away.

The lovely smell of the garden wafted through, fresh and refreshing. I just wished there was a paraffin lamp to light. The incessant rain impacting on the corrugated plastic a few feet above our heads continued for a good hour or so, and we three were pretty much enveloped and pleasantly stranded for that time. We managed conversation by leaning forward out of our armchairs and shouting above the din when it was at its heaviest.

Much of the time I was just happy to sit back and just drink in the atmosphere: to enjoy the moment and its powerful evocation of all those other memories, but this time with added beer. I got home an hour or so later than I'd planned, but I wouldn't have missed that for anything.

Undrunk

I stayed in last night, had a quiet evening to myself without a drop to drink.
Here are just some of the beers that didn't pass my lips:











There are, of course, many more drinks that I didn't have last night (including gin and tonic, for example), but it would be a pointless exercise to list or show photographs of them all.

Anyway, I feel good and rested now.

I'd been on a big shopping binge on Wednesday and Thursday - including said bottles of beer - in anticipation of the arrival of my namesake and another guest. I wasn't entirely sure when the former was due to arrive, and I hadn't heard from him Thursday night. Which was fine, though I did have a dream in the early hours of Friday morning. In the dream he rang me up and said how much he was looking forward to us playing another gig on Saturday night, and that he'd be over early Saturday in plenty of time.

I woke up with a shudder and thoughts of no, NO, he's got the days mixed up! Help!!!. I got up, switched on my computer, and there was an email from him - he'd be arriving late Friday morning. I dashed off a quick reply, relaxed and began to enjoy the fact that I'd got the day off work.

Now I didn't post any details up here of the fact that we were playing on Friday night, principally because anonymity is one of the key factors in enabling me to blog: it has its advantages but at times like this it also serves as a mild frustration.

Nevertheless, I'm not about to change that.

I'll talk about the gig itself in a subsequent post I think. When we did this kind of event last year, I was very much on the periphery of it all in terms of organising the whole thing - it was enough for me personally just to get enough material (and sufficient confidence in myself) together to get up and play. So it feels good to record that this year, I forced myself into the uncomfortable (for me) position of doing far more in terms of planning and liaising with the venue, the sound man and everyone else involved.

I hope that means that I'm more empowered to do such things on my own.

I also want to record again just how wonderfully odd it is to have a namesake from the other side of the world who is incredibly talented - and is one of the warmest, most personable individuals I'm lucky enough to be able to count as a friend.

Friday afternoon, as we were catching up with each other and making preparations for the evening's events, it was just delightful to sit and talk ideas and to have such a level of mutual understanding regardless of our different approaches towards creativity. For him to play a recording to me of something he's been working on, a piece which is just astonishing. For me to play him some of the music I was going to perform that night, and to see him shaking his head with a wide grin.

A sure-fire burst of enthusiasm, warmth and inspiration.

Thirteen posts in April

...just feels appropriate. Therefore, this is the thirteenth post in April.

That's all for now. See you in May.

A certain level of wanton derangement

Days before Christmas, I was stood in a friend's recently-acquired studio, in apprehension of a large painting he was working on.

He was rightly proud and pleased to have a studio, finally, to be able to invite me to see. I was pleased for the same reasons, and also because I was full of my own pride and sense of fulfillment at having played a central part in the creation of a huge mural for a project with the art group at work. I had my laptop with me, and was able to show him the photographs of the various stages of the project, and of its successful completion.

We were both, in many senses, in a good place.

Yet there was something that was daunting me a little: I wondered, since it had been far too long since I had been in such a situation, whether I would be able to gain anything of any worth or meaning from standing in front of this painting and its associated works? Could I, furthermore, impart any comments, criticisms or insights into the same?

The painter in question is, after all, one of my closest friends. That (for me) rare breed, the sort of person with whom I can fiercely disagree, be angry with, express frustration at, lock horns with: because we have for 20 years had sufficient mutual respect and understanding - both tacitly and overtly acknowledged - to be able to do those things, because we know it's ok to be able to. Of course that leaves so many omissions, in terms of the kind of values we share and the strength, support and unconditional acceptance we can give each other, which hasn't been without its most severe tests.

Anyway. I stood there feeling a little daunted, as mentioned, as my friend departed the room for a few minutes and left me alone in that space. I looked at the work. I moved up close to scrutinise the detail, I stepped back to view (quite literally) the bigger picture. I wondered whether the painting was matching the intentions he had expressed on preliminary works and related studies...I considered whether he might need to modulate this area given that it threatened to unbalance various other aspects of the composition.

I began to consider the implications of certain elements of what he was doing, and began to piece together a sense both of process and of meaning.

Then he walked back into the room and I debated his work with him for a good hour, leaving no stone unturned as we both relished some rather intense discourse. We gesticulated, pontificated, and even said some big and clever words and stuff.

It was exhilarating, not least because suddenly I was in the throes of something which used to be like bread and butter to me, that of being actively exercised within a critical and creative context. It also felt - and my friend agreed - like a missing jigsaw piece of one's mood and mental processes fitting back into place: an exaggeration, surely, but we both wondered as to how we'd managed to retain a sufficient level of sanity over the years with such restricted access to the kind of thing we always found to be not only fulfilling, but of fundamental necessity.

There is a converse, as I've remembered this week with all the hours that I've worked on my music. To be able to undertake such creative ventures in the first place, it feels as though one needs to be able to tap into a certain level of derangement within oneself. It also feels that it's healthy and necessary to be able to tap into such things, to channel them and to facilitate expression of them.

I know I'm not saying anything new or original by any means here (or that such a notion hasn't been viewed with cynicism), it's just that everytime I do engage afresh with such processes, it seems ever more apparent that this is the case.

It takes me back to the years in which I would wake in the middle of the night and realise that I'd neither switched off my mind (which would still be fitting melody lines into odd time signatures running concurrently) nor my computer, which would still be quietly playing cycles of music I'd worked on in a neverending loop. Or when I had to rearrange all the furniture in my flat while I was working on something: I can't even remember why now, but it had to be done, and until then I couldn't progress.

I also remember the occasions when a musical collaborator (the same friend above) and I would get hideously drunk and spend the night hours working on music...then there'd be a click of the tape machine as it got to the end. The sound would wake us up with a shock. Disorientated, we'd rewind the tape, listen back and look at each other with an expression which said, did we really just record that?

Not that such occasions are any real reflection of the sense of derangement of which I speak. They're purely surface, and even sound a little juvenile to me now: I would hope that any real glimpses are to be gained within the music itself.

Such derangement feels like a friend to be ignored at my peril, and I sometimes wonder about that.

Light and shade

I've been working consistently on the music this week. As well as the benefits of immersing myself in that and getting back in touch with all the good things about it (as well as giving my poor ears a bit of a battering), I think it's also lessened the blow of going back to work after a couple of weeks off.

As in, I feel ok, as opposed to feeling really pissed off and like I've got the weight of the world on my shoulders and everything's wrong and so on.

No, at least at the moment, I'm alright.

I really should take heed of such things.

Here are a couple of photos I took at the end of last weekend (and a fabulous weekend it was), they capture some of the mood and - if I may say so - I think they turned out rather well.









Oh, and somehow I've managed 250 blog posts on these here pages.

Leaps

Although I've had plenty of time off work recently - firstly through illness and then through taking annual leave for my birthday week - I haven't allowed myself much time to work on music.

Which has been fine, since I've had plenty of other things to be doing: most enjoyable they have been too.

But which hasn't been fine, since I've another performance-related deadline looming ever closer, which has been nagging away at me, and giving rise to thoughts and feelings such as the following:

I don't have enough time.
I'm not happy with what I've done so far.
It's going to be disappointing.
I'm not confident: with my work so far, with my abilities.
Maybe I'm just not that into it any more.
Maybe I haven't got that spark.
I'm letting myself down.
It feels like a chore.

Then I spend an evening like this evening - spending plenty of time, as much as anything, getting myself into a suitable frame of mind: not least doing what I can so as to try putting the above kind of thoughts to one side. One thing which seems to help, is to repeat to myself the following phrase:

I don't give a fuck.

The less pressure I put on myself to produce anything which sounds good, or which sounds like something someone else would like or even give a fuck about, the better. It's a mixture of a defensive posture and also a liberating one.

And yet, even as I loaded up the computer software and gathered my haphazard array of instruments and devices, it seemed like it wasn't going to be fun. Again, a chore, a reflection on what I wouldn't be able to achieve.

Time to tell myself something yet again: it doesn't matter if I spend an hour producing something terrible, embarrassing or appalling. Just spend the time doing it all the same.

And so to work.




Hours later, I've re-emerged, having had a whale of a time, and having made great strides in one particular piece I'm working on, seemingly effortlessly. With confidence, with playfulness and with an eye on how to take it further and make it even better.

I feel energised, I feel it's part of my language again, I feel a great sense of possibility.

I feel none of the things highlighted above in red.

At times like this (even after my first day back at work today), I love it, and I feel in touch with something utterly, joyously nourishing.

I'm going out for a walk for a short while, then maybe I'll calm down and be able to get some sleep later. It's still a lovely evening out there.

Three and nine doesn't equal twelve

For several years I didn't really celebrate my birthday, except in the most perfunctory of ways - a day or two back at my mum's, the opening of a few presents and so on. I suppose part of it was the attitude of not wanting to make a fuss, and whatever was informing that.

Throughout my twenties it was easy enough to celebrate anyway without making any kind of fuss: it was just a case of, as with everyone else's birthdays, heading down the pub and, er, that was it. But a few years after that, and when the regular crowd had dissipated somewhat, then a certain amount of effort and planning had to be undertaken just to get more than a handful of people in the same room/pub/cinema.

I think part of me really couldn't be bothered with making all that effort (which wasn't exactly that much effort in itself), but I wonder if some of it was about feeling somehow unworthy, or at least uncomfortable with such attention being placed on me. And then I'd invariably feel flat for not having really done anything to celebrate.

I became dissatisfied with this state of affairs, and so made sure that my friends and I at least went to the cinema, or went for a curry and then for drinks - the first couple of years of doing this, I was almost hilariously tense, and more than a little relieved when it was all over. Whether I was worried about making an idiot of myself, or just wanting the event to pass and to just be ok, I'm not sure.

Well I got used to it anyway.

This year I've already done some celebrating, I went out with Fire Byrd (it was her birthday late last week) and Queen Vixen at the weekend, for a marvellous night of curry, a few drinks and some fantastic conversation. They proved once again to be more than genial company. In fact I could converse with them candidly about many things which I would find difficult to talk about with non-blogging friends I've known for years.

Today I'm heading out with friends for lunch at a pub out in the countryside, and I feel very relaxed about the prospect. All being well there should be around ten of us, but I don't feel any pressure to do anything other than just enjoy being there.

I've got the week off work, too, and I'll be spending a couple of days away in the middle of the week.

I can hear the birds singing, and the sun is doing its best to make an appearance.

So, Happy Birthday me.

Alarm

Sometimes it seems as though the alarm has been ringing constantly, for hours, throughout the night: not quite rousing me into a state of consciousness, but acting like a barb: prodding and agitating those pre-waking thoughts which serve to disturb, to ready me to face the world again.

It's when I reach over and press the snooze button that the sheer silence seems like the real alarm, shocking me into awareness.

Such a sense of fraughtness is less to do with everyday travails on this occasion, I think, and more to do with the fact that I saw a very compelling and intense documentary film last night - more of which later.

Inbetween

A friend of mine, during a very unsettled period of employment (probably truer to say that than to say a very settled period of unemployment) said words which stayed with me: it's not going to work that's the problem...and being on the dole is ok in itself: it's the transition from one to the other that's the worst part.

Those words have held much which resonates for me in the years since I first heard them, in the sense of a transition from one state to another.

Such has been on my mind this week as I returned to work after a break lengthy enough to afford a decent rest, various changes of scenery, time spent doing interesting things, and time pleasantly wasted (and a little time spent preoccupied with worry, which for me at least is obligatory). A break lengthy enough to be able to look back on the first few days of it and think, now that seems like a long time ago.

A break lengthy enough to be able to let go of the need to steel myself against certain things.

So it was a bit of a shock to the system to return to work and remember that I had to actually do stuff. At various points my train of thought has been as follows:

ohshitIneedtobecalmbuthowcanIbecalmwhenIknowthatI'vegotthisthis
andthistodealwithandthenthere'sallsortsofthingsIwillprobablyneedto
dealwithwhichI'mnotawareofyetbutnodoubtallsortsofshithashappened
overthelastthreeorfourweekswhoamIagainwhatamIdoingagainthis
seemsmoredifficultthanIcanhandleohforfuckssakethinkofsomething
elselikeyourfavouriteFallalbumnotoolateIneedtoremembertofocusand
justnotgetworkedupaboutallthis

and

-and, as the situation in question presents itself, all those words fade away, or at least slow down (try juggling with three batons, and then with three pieces of tissue paper - that's the difference in the speed and intensity of thought process), and I'm then in the midst of what I was just worrying about. Being in the midst is calming because there's stuff to do, other people's stuff to deal with rather than to anticipate or worry about, and all those ...let's say, skills which I was worried had deserted me appear to have presented themselves exactly at the right moment, a bit like an airbag.

It's taken three days for that change from one state to another to feel a little more intuitive.

There's also a huge difference between being calm, and appearing calm.



I recall some years ago, following a - let's put it in the most charitable way possible - following a unique couple of years working within a unique set of circumstances, I'd taken some serious time out. I'd needed to, it was almost as though there was no choice in the matter. Fucking hell, I'd needed that time out.

Sometime later, following my signing up with a particular employment agency, I was being shown around a large building - my new place of temporary employment - a building which housed many vulnerable and/or challenging people at any given time. People with a whole range of needs, sets of problems, behaviours, circumstances, paraphernalia; things they had fled from, whether families, countries or other situations; conditions, diagnoses, prognoses and outlooks (I'll refrain from following that with - and that was just the staff).

I remember, on my initial tour of the building...here's the canteen, here's admin, here's the maintenance department, the housing and support divisions, their respective offices, here's one of the empty rooms (someone should be moving in tomorrow) - oh, and here's the manager's office.

The manager's office looked very nice, if a little spartan. A couple of moments passed. I nodded, as if to say, yes, I can see that this is the manager's office. Where to now?

My tour guides looked at me, and looked over to the empty chair.

I nodded again, intending to give the same signals as just mentioned.

My tour guides looked at me again.

The second time they looked over to the empty chair, it hit me. The agency had sent me to manage this place. Oh bugger. Despite the fact that the previous couple of rather unique years had set me against the idea of managing anything ever again (at least in an employment setting), I went and sat down, to diffuse the awkwardness as much as anything.

If I don't like the way it's going I thought, I can always go back to the agency.

Before many days had passed - it was only a matter of time, given the nature of the place - I was stood right in the eye of a rather intense storm. A storm which involved physical injuries, broken implements, angry and shouting residents, the police, staff politics and so much more besides - and I was the one expected to take control and deal with it.

I remember standing there watching chaos and its aftermath unfold and unravel, and realising with great dread and fear that this was precisely the kind of situation I was meant to take control of, to manage. I remember sheer terror and helplessness, and my knees trembling (seemingly) uncontrollably.

Just as clearly, I remember thinking that if I couldn't manage to stop my knees shaking, if I couldn't control my own responses, then there was no way I was going to be able to deal with anything else.

The moments I stood there, amidst the vestigial remains of the violence and disorder of this particular incident, probably lasted 20, maybe 30 seconds, but felt like hours. The first few seconds were amongst the bleakest, the most challenging, I can ever remember experiencing.

The next few seconds weren't so bad. During this time I managed to calm myself (or at least, to reduce my outward symptoms), to take a few deep breaths, stop the knees shaking, stop the constant whatifs.

I strode out into the storm and began to tackle the situation, all its chaos and complexities.

Hours later - it took several hours of non-stop organisation, discussion, outright confrontation - I had thoroughly tackled the situation in ways I had never thought possible, energised by the necessity of the transition from one state to another, and the staff team felt they had a manager. The change in me was such that the staff damn well knew they had a manager, since I made sure of it.

I don't know how this post reads, I'm not going to edit it - but the memory described is a source of strength at the present time.

Safety First

Just occasionally, I wonder if it takes something really "crazy" to happen, to serve as a reminder of how "normal" one is.

Other times I find myself wondering if there's more truth in the converse.

The weirdness/ R.I.P.

I mentioned in the last piece I posted up here that music is one of my obsessions.

Thinking about this then, in a way I would have expected myself to have written a post upon hearing the news that Mitch Mitchell, drummer with the Jimi Hendrix Experience, had died. Now I don't actually own any Jimi Hendrix albums, but I'm more than familiar with them - and one of the main things I like about them is Mitchell's drumming.

I'm not sure whether what follows is in accord with received opinion about him, but to me he's a fine example of the early rock drummers in the sense that while he could play the drums hard, fast and heavy, his style and technique also owed much to some of the great jazz players in terms of inventiveness, subtlety and being able to really swing. I love that kind of drumming, there's something that delights and fascinates me about it.

So it feels odd that my reaction to his death, sad and premature as it was, was really nothing more than muted. I'm not sure why that is, really, since I do hold him in high esteem as a musician.

Same goes for the far more recent, equally sad news that Ron Asheton, guitarist with The Stooges, has also died. Again, I don't actually own any Stooges albums, but I know them well and their influence is stamped firmly over many parts of my record/cd collection. There's a direct lineage from the Stooges, and Asheton's guitar playing particularly, to many of my favourite bands, albums and pieces of music.

But again, for reasons unknown to me, this news didn't affect me like I might have expected it to. As above, it's not for want of respect for him and his work. I'm not saying I would exactly be weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth, but certainly that it would have registered far more with me than it has done.

Today, however, I read the news online and saw that Patrick McGoohan has died aged 80, and that really did instil in me the kind of reaction oddly lacking with the previous two examples: a deep sigh, pause for a few minutes' reflection and the need to talk about it with the people around me.

I remember my mum mentioning The Prisoner as being "quite weird," before I'd ever seen or heard of it, but "quite weird" was bound to attract my interest. So when it was aired on Channel 4 - latish on Thursday nights around 1983 or 84, if memory serves - I can remember there being something hugely exciting and esoteric about it. It was baflling, intriguing, and thoroughly engrossing and thought-provoking.

It was one of those things that seemed a real highlight of the week: far beyond the mundanity of sitting watching television, it seemed so much more than that. Plus the fact that it was on a Thursday night - it was one of those things which served as a signifier that the weekend was imminent, and so it carried that kind of resonance that everything was just as it should be (of course if I've remembered this wrong then I'm talking rubbish, but we'll gloss over that).

Perhaps in a small way it represented a kind of marker for me: that I'd reached an age where there was no problem in me being able to stay up late to watch it; but, more significantly, that I was at an age where I could engage at some level with many of the concepts it presented and explored.

I haven't seen it since that rerun, some 25 years ago. Predictable though this may be, I won't be surprised if that changes in the not-too-distant future.

Anyway, with his death, it feels like we've lost another one of the good guys. Regardless of my described response about the passing of Mitch Mitchell and Ron Asheton, the same goes for them too.

Erik

I was really very pleased that one of the bloggers who has landed here in recent days found my post about a piece by Stars of the Lid, checked out the link to the piece mentioned and was, (and I quote) completely blown away.

That's just marvellous, and makes me smile. I did my best in that post in question to give a description of the music and the feelings it evoked, whilst aware that I don't exactly have an adequate grasp of vocabulary, at least as far as certain musical/technical terms are concerned. Not that I would let such things stop me.

Meanwhile, I've just been listening to Erik Satie: Danses de Travers, and Petite Ouverture a Danser (scuse the lack of little dots above the letter a and so on, I can't be bothered) amongst some choice others.

This is one such occasion where no amount of description would do justice to the music in question. But in terms of the impact - they've just stopped me in my tracks, once again. It's the kind of music which forces stillness and silence, and I'm left shaking my head in wonder.

I'm glad these things still serve to have such an impact upon me.

Update: here's a link to an interpretation of Petite Ouverture a Danser, which is along similar enough lines in pace and stuff (my descriptive powers really aren't with me today) to the one I have, which is on a cd entitled Piano Works by Reinbert de Leeuw.

Tidying up

I think it's probably not surprising that in the aftermath of the events described in the previous post, I've been having a lot of vivid dreams: some intriguing, some disturbing. The main part of one of last night's dreams that I recall was walking past a building which turned out to be a university for teaching people how to accost someone with a gun. I found out because as I walked past there was a gap through which I heard a noise and when I looked, I glimpsed all these people in what looked like a gym. They were rehearsing moves for knocking someone to the floor and then pointing the gun at their head.

Don't ask, because I don't know: and that's but one of many scenarios that have been generated in the depths of my subconscious mind this week. I think it must be part of the process of my brain unwinding after all the hopes, anxieties and excitement leading up to last Friday.

Mind you, I think it's also because my sleeping mind has actually had some space in which to project all this imagery, so quelled was it by voluminous quantities of post-gig alcohol over the weekend. Not that I got trashed, it was just that there was plenty of time in which drinking could be done at a steady pace.

Well I'm having an easy, quiet week. I feel in a way like I've finished reading a novel - here's a pause while I let it all sink in, and also while I notice the absence of the activity of reading it day in, day out. But it should soon be time to pick another one up and to start anew. More than one person commented on the infectious energy in my last post: it would be self-defeating of me not to make sure that this kind of thing remains prominent amongst my activities again from now on.

It should be achievable: there was, for a while, a disruptive, negative force in my life. Amongst other things I allowed it to divert me from what creativity I possess, and I remained for a long time feeling unable to get back into such habits. As I've noted before, thematic to an extent in this blog has been the effort to change this: and since that disruptive force is no longer there, except for the residual memories, then it's up to me to make sure I don't forget how last Friday (and the process leading up to it) made me feel.

Diversion (2)

It feels good to be sitting in warmth and comfort, having just enjoyed the delights of a simple but tasty salad with pastrami. Whereas outside the sky is looking ever more threatening (well less a threat and more a promise I would have said, on the evidence of the previous 24 or so hours): any minute now the heavens are surely going to open and it's going to absolutely twat it down with rain (to use a meteorological term).

I managed to get out on the bike for an hour or two earlier on, and it was a welcome diversion: due to the aforementioned weather I'd all but written off the chances of going out, and was lucky to get out during a relatively prolonged dry spell. It' s not that I've a problem cycling in bad weather (though the ferocity of the gusts of wind didn't exactly add to the appeal), more the case that a lot of the places on my various cycling routes tend to get waterlogged/flooded to the point of being impassable on a road bike, which hardly makes for an enjoyable ride.

I'd forgotten about this tendency until I found myself cycling along a road which had huge puddles on it, the biggest of which was just under a foot deep (and about 25 feet long). Thankfully that was the only such obstacle today and it was easy enough to negotiate (he says blithely, not caring about the nearby house which had sandbags up against the door).

The point of all this is that the cycling has helped me to relax, it was much-needed. I had a very productive day yesterday and got a lot of work done that I needed to do regarding the music. It was also one of those times where beer helped a lot, it helped me just to concentrate and focus to the exclusion of everything else.

Today however on listening back to where I'm at with it, I felt a lot of doubt creeping in: is this/am I any good? Is it/am I ridiculous? - and so on. So I've definitely felt the benefit of a change of scenery, of doing something relatively strenuous and which doesn't exactly require much thought or self-reflection.

On the other hand the sense of urgency which I'm feeling from time to time can actually be helpful, but sometimes it's good to take a step back or a complete diversion from it all, and at least I've been able to do that today.

Cheap Casio keyboards

I love them. I've been spending a lot of time with them lately. Most of the sounds that I'll be using when I play in front of an audience in the increasingly-near future have been generated from these: some pushed and pulled around to the point at which they sound entirely different, others pretty faithful to their original state. When I think about all of this, I can't help but laugh. Oh, there's usually a shiver of anxiety as well.

Light and shade

I awoke first thing, to notice that the same unearthly quality of light that defined yesterday's dying sun also illuminated its initial showing this morning: an all-encompassing sulphurous yellow glow which appeared not so much to bathe, but to positively drench all in its sights.

I returned for a while to sleep. When the alarm aggressively brought to an end some quite vivid and telling dreams, the first thing I noticed was the change in the light again: the warmth of its previous state now replaced by a frosty, foggy whiteness.

















A fine day, then, to follow through with my plans to head back up to Matlock for another day of walking. I was on my own this time. Company brings with it a completely different set of dynamics on days like this, whereas on my own my thoughts and moods tend to ebb and flow - in accordance with probably a whole number of factors - to sometimes seemingly bipolar extremes.
By way of illustration, here's a not entirely scientific equation:

Mood + thoughts = level of physical exertion +/- blood sugar levels +/- level of hydration (directly influenced by last night's alcohol intake at the pub quiz) + x (where x equals immediate surroundings and my response to them) + y (where y = any amount of memory triggers) x z (where z equals the amount of mental space for reflecting on recent events).

Simple.

So whereas at many points on my perambulations today I was eager, enthusiastic and full of energy, then at certain moments I either actively avoided particular places due to the memories and feelings they evoked, or I trod a very careful path through them to say the least.

On the one hand, the contrasts experienced on a day like this - warm, bright sunshine, yet with snow and frost underfoot - can be breathtaking, regardless of the relatively modest scenery of Matlock. On the other, it can be like returning to an old photograph: a reminder of absence, or of something diminished - a trigger for recollection, but always linked to the awareness that the moment, in being captured, is gone forever. Thankfully the former took precedence over the latter.

Taking a sidestep from all that, I found myself wondering if I might ever reach a point at which I feel I've taken enough photographs with the camera pointed directly against the sun: on the evidence so far, that looks pretty doubtful.

Oh, and I made friends with another cat.

Stream of consciousness (ish)

I'd threatened (if that's not too harsh a word) to anna mr that I would do a stream-of-consciousness post after she did one, a few weeks ago now. So here it is. It seems a good idea to do it right now because, following the previous post I wrote, and the wonderful responses it got from everyone, I've remained deep in thought about the whole blog-thing in relation to what I do and don't reveal. This has moved on to reflecting on what I choose to reveal - or not - about people around me.

I really don't want to think about it too much or it will stop me from writing about anything whatsoever. It would prevent me from writing about my mother, in whose company I've spent the weekend. It would also prevent me from writing about my grandmother, who lives close by to my mother and who will soon, all being well, reach the rather fine age of 92.

Again it feels like a question of motivation: I shouldn't really have any worries about privacy issues since no one here knows that much about me apart from what I've written, and anyone who does know more about me certainly doesn't know any of my family.

So where's the problem?

I tend to worry about these things, that's where the problem is.

But I want to write about how twisted my mother's hands are from arthritis. Not that arthritis is restricted to her hands (to understate the hold that the condition has on her): but they are, maybe, the area that I focus on other than her face. Hands are pretty crucial things after all. I'm used to seeing hers as they are now. I can't imagine the pain and frustration.

I used to feel guilty for not helping her out more. I go back home every so often and get mothered, and for a good while I used to think, I should be cooking for her, I should be offering to help out with whatever needs to be done. I changed my opinion, though, or came to a point of realisation: whenever she wants something done, she will ask. Otherwise she'll damn well get on with doing it herself, and she keeps as much independence as she possibly can.

She had an operation on one of her hands some time ago, to try and get the individual joints realigned to a more manageable degree. I rang her regularly and offered to go and see her at weekends if she needed help with anything at all: she responded with a list of jobs which needed doing, and she then described her frankly ingenious methods of getting round the problem of each individual task with the temporarily-limited means at her disposal . In other words, she didn't need my help or anyone else's, thank you very much: or if she did, as mentioned, she would ask.

My grandmother is becoming increasingly dependent on her: but at her (my grandmother that is) remarkable age, the fact that she still lives in her own home, the one she moved into when married, is quite something as far as I'm concerned. She's getting more unsteady as time goes on, and not just physically. At the end of each visit I say "I'll see you soon" or words to that effect. I'm increasingly conscious that there's only so many more times I'll be saying that: while that sounds like a sad thought, it's tempered by the fact that whatever happens, (to resort to a necessary cliche), she's had a damned good innings.

I'm often reminded of something my late grandfather said one birthday in the final few years of his life. He had a lengthy spell of illness and was clearly ever more aware of his own mortality, and one of his apparent coping strategies was to specialise in a fine brand of gallows humour. For a birthday present I'd bought him a new shaving kit. As he opened the box and saw what it was his eyes lit up, he smiled at me and said with enthusiasm, "Thanks! This will just about last me!" I remember bursting out laughing though being highly aware of the the truth behind the humour.



Note: I have to be honest (well I don't, but I'm going to be), this wasn't completely stream-of-consciousness, I had to stop and think and change a couple of things, but it's a lot more off-the-cuff than most of what I've written previously. It's a lot more spontaneous than next Thursday's post is shaping up to be, put it that way.

Home

This might not look like much, but it represents one of my earliest and most vivid memories.

I remember walking with my parents and my brother one evening. It was a gorgeous, sunny evening, like the ones we were fortunate enough to have this weekend. Although not in a particularly scenic part of Derbyshire, a couple of minutes on foot would lead us to a little network of paths and fields. Some were almost tunnel-like, covered overhead as they were by trees - then a change in direction would lead to an opening, to an expanse, relatively speaking.

I was knee-height to my mum and dad. I've a strong image in my mind of them being tall and me being dwarfed by them - my arm aloft to hold one of their hands, and a sense of walking alongside their legs. As we walked, it felt like an adventure - journeying to somewhere unknown and secret. Charting new territory. After reaching the end of one lane which was quite dark - sheltered from the sun by overhanging trees - we reached a gate which led onto a path, fenced at either side.

Out from the cover of the trees, the sun bathed everything in a warm evening glow. The structure of the fence was thrown into silhouette, the space between the wooden posts and bars acting as a picture frame through to the fields behind. This moment is precisely what's remained in my memory so vividly, has stayed with me ever since. The sense of nearness (the fence) simultaneously contrasting with, defining and acting as a barrier to a sense of distance (the fields), all illuminated by the gorgeous, gradually fading sunlight. All around was peaceful and gentle, this was a timeless moment, but that unattainable distance sparked off some kind of curiosity in me. At that age - three? - obviously I couldn't exactly think in a sophisticated way about what it meant or represented, but I was full of imaginings of what was over there.

Whenever I'm back in Derbyshire at this time of year, I always make sure I go out and revisit the spot where this moment happened. Not for nostalgia, at least not primarily. The main reason is that whatever it is that struck a chord with me, is still there. I go out there and think, and imagine. Of late, I've been bemoaning my lack of creativity. Out there I find ideas easier to come by. When I'm there, ideas don't present themselves: rather, they well up, like grief.





















I took the pictures on Saturday evening. They're very pixellated at this size, but far better if you click for the full image.