Tinnitus, Habits, International relations.

A slight persistent background whistle tells me I’m not invulnerable. Years spent happily rocking out in tiny clubs and gig venues, or blasting my bedroom walls with improbable sounds, have taken their toll. Whatever the aesthetic drawbacks of earplugs, I might have to acquiesce or end up a bit too Morrissey-esque for my own liking.

Habits. Habits at the breakfast table. Habits when I log online. An easy way to avoid the here and now, to let things slide a bit. Not that I’m beating myself up about them. That’s another habit you see. Better to give them the old knowing look of a disapproving but loving parent. I’ve got my eye on you…

Apparently I’m now in International Relations. Never in all my born days… I suppose it’s because of the new school reorganisation. SocCul has been broken up, and Anthro, IR and Geography, Development and Migration Studies have now been mushed together into a new ‘School of Global Studies’, casting us adrift from our kinfolk in Sociology and Gender Studies. I doesn’t really matter. But I was rather enjoying my Geographer Status. With its maps, networks, spaces and places, and without any of the romance of Anthropology or the hardnut theory-building of Sociology, Geography is sensitive geek chic par excellence. IR is all War, Order, Treaties, security – its Geography’s military-history obsessed slightly autistic cousin. It ain’t me babe.

Rottingdean Bluegrass

Saturday afternoon. I had just cycled into town, and was pedalling nonchalantly up Trafalgar Street in the North Laine when what should I spy but a four-piece Bluegrass band, a-pickin' and a-strummin' and a-wailin' and a-clatterin', live there on the pavement. How very Brighton, I thought, as I parked my steed and wandered over to suss them out. To be honest I was half expecting them to be some well-meaning but a bit rubbish. Dang me if they weren’t smart as a whip. Competing with the rumble of delivery trucks they made a fine old noise, with some lovely high-lonesome harmony singing and some seriously mean Banjo. After their set that drew enthusiastic applause from the denizens of the Great Eastern pub, I enjoined to enquire after their name. They are Amy Harrison and the Second Hand String Band, and a nicer bunch of unassuming music-lovers you couldn’t hope to meet. Catch them live if you can. Later that evening I dragged some friends out to a pub in Seven Dials to see them again, where, with a proper PA and more intimate surroundings, they sounded even better.


I’m resting my bones after a quite delightful Sunday excursion to Rottingdean, East up the coast from Brighton. It’s an interesting place, home to Rudyard Kipling at the turn of the last century, where he wrote Kim and some of the Just so stories. I also know it as home of the Copper Family, a folk-singing lineage, whose CD ‘Come Write me Down’ I have owned and cherished for about two years. Anyway, I had only been once previously, on a misty Easter morning bike ride with one of my old housemates, so it felt good to check it out properly. We got the bus out to Roedean school (a posh looking private boarding school on a hill out by the Marina), and hiked over the Downs, taking in an archaeological dig on the outskirts of Ovingdean, a climb over Beacon hill, past the windmill, and a final saunter down into Rottingdean in time for some lunch. We then lazed around on the beach, I answered the ocean’s siren call and had a much-needed dip, before finally moseying back along the coast path to Brighton. Lovely.


Term starts tomorrow. I am ready. Are you?

Guilty Pleasures

A busy one, today. Driving lesson between 11:30 and 1:30. The driving seems to have reached some kind of plateau, in a manner of speaking. I’ve been away for a few weeks so I’m a bit out of practice, I suppose. There are moments behind the wheel now where t all seems to slot together in a nice relaxed fashion. Other times when Jim has to put me right or talk me through. He’s a good chap, my driving instructor. I’ve had a few in my time, so I know enough to compare. Very calm, Jim likes his music, has a dry, slightly lugubrious voice, and is a ready fount of information about the various celebrities who reside in and around Brighton and Hove. He’s been teaching me since October last year, on the recommendation of my previous instructor Clive, a fiery ex-serviceman from the west country who’d yell and swear at other vehicles if he felt they were crowding me, and be similarly forthright in telling me if I made any mistakes. Before that, back when I was in Norwich there was Coleman, something of a Master in the Zen Art of clutch control. And finally, the first guy whose name I forget, who only taught me a few times before I went away to Uni, and whose only lasting impression on me was his insistence that I refer to the gear stick as the gear lever because gear stick was ‘American’. All in all, a diverse array of practical, mechanically - minded, provincially accented, decent fellows who did their level best to teach me how not to stall at junctions. I stalled today, having left the car in 3rd. gear at a junction. Ho hum.

Afterward, I was dropped in town and decided to embark on a spot of clothes shopping. If I was as enthusiastic about clothes, and as ready with a digital camera as my buddy Mark (see Diffractedthinking.Blogspot.com) I could provide you with lots of pretty pictures of the various hep items now adorning my wardrobe. Sadly this isn’t the case, although some of the items are indeed pretty. My relationship with clothes is a bit confused. I consider myself to have a pretty good eye when it comes to these things, an aesthetic commonsense probably inherited from my ex-Art teacher grandmother. If I see a particularly well-considered sweater or dress on one of my friends, I have been known to comment on it. However, in the last few years I have been tending more towards sobriety in the clothes-buying stakes, more often than not feeling reluctant to replenish my wardrobe for quite long stretches of time. This is of a piece, I think, with a slow abandonment of the pursuit of ‘hipness’, that engaged me for much of my late teens and early twenties, and covered music and social habits as well. Call it growing up, if you like, but also I think I’ve always had a slight ascetic bent, a touch of guilt, that makes me a bit uncomfortable with the idea of spending lots of money on clothes. Where that comes from I don’t know. It’s there. Yet if you leave it long enough, as I did, what happens? You look at your wardrobe one day, and you feel grubby. Then, you go out and spend lots of money on clothes. As I did, today. Nice clothes, for the most part. Whats wrong with that? Nothing really.

I’m beginning to get the sense that I might have a lot of time on my hands this term. I received my provisional grade for my dissertation, and it’s better than I thought. Still needs tweaking, and I have quite a bit of Fieldwork prep to be getting on with. I’m hoping to go to Sierra Leone in January for language training, the paperwork for which takes a few months to get processed. But I’m still without a regular weekly schedule. I suppose I could get things kicked off on the London side of things. I’ve a clutch of facebook and email contacts that I ought to start cultivating properly. If I could sort out a regular job or placement that would embed me in the SL scene then that would be a healthy start. But apart from work, I’d quite like to get involved in something extra-curricula while I’m Brighton. Walking? Guitar? Volunteering? Many options…

Dx

There and Back again

Seemed like longer than a week. In a good way. I’ve been up to the Abbey three times now and on each occasion it feels like this, rather Narnia-esque. Must be all the meditation. Feeling both refreshed, and tired. The trip back down from Northumberland took two days and included a taxi, a train ride, a looooong journey on a coach, a lift from my precocious, recalcitrant brother Nat in his new car, a bus ride (stood up), another train ride, and another bus, with a far amount of pedestrian lugging mixed in too. All in all, pretty whacked. So why did I travel literally the length of England just to sit around with a bunch of Monks? Good question. Why did Bodhidharma cross the Himalayas? Don’t ask me, I just work here.


Now I’m back, holed up in my Brighton garret, a mug of tea cooling at my shoulder. Back to the everyday routine, which doesn’t feel quite so everyday anymore. Boxes of yet-to-be unpacked Stuff still filling my bedroom. Some rather unexpected issues with our ex-landlord. The old PhD thing. Ah, the old PhD thing, waiting for me patiently like a stinky old stray dog who won’t leave until I give him a bowl of Winalot. Problems, obstacles, things to be gotten on with.

Dx

cheep

At home again, to the scuffling cheep of month-old chicks. My mum’s, they are currently - and constantly - having a confab in their specially heated run in the unused nook attached to the living room. Mum has recently branched out from egg production with the view to selling the full-grown birds to other would-be chicken enthusiasts, of which there are apparently an increasing number. An egg evangelist, if you will. So, if you’re interested in bijou poultry production, give her a call. Please, don't call me.


My friend Andrea sent me this quote by Rilke the other day. It relates to my current predicament, although I reckon its pretty good advice generally speaking. Suspiciously Buddhist-sounding too:


"Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day."

(Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Letters to a Young Poet')


I shouldn't hang around, as I have to go into town and buy trousers. Leicester, my old stomping ground. What it lacks in glamour, it makes up for in... um... curry.

D x

Be on your merry way...

Been listening to Jimmy Reed's 'High and Lonesome', one grimy, loooose blues-bump that always gets me howling at the rafters. Apparently he got turned down by Chess Records because his harmonica and guitar playing wasn't up to scratch. Don't know if they asked Muddy and co. They should know that its all about the Feel.


I'm off home tomorrow for a few days, then on Monday catching the National Express up to Northumberland to stay a week at Throssel Hole Buddhist Abbey (www.throssel.org.uk) . No retreat this time, just a guest, probably to be put to work digging/cooking/cleaning. My pleasure. It will be my third visit to this extraordinary place, and not a moment too soon. I need to take a step back from things. Been feeling rather disenchanted, not to say depressed, with my PhD, and I need to think clearly and carefully about what I want to do next.


Wind ruffling the branches outside my window.
Yet to make acquaintance with
this new day. What might happen,
is yet to be written.

D x

Here goes

Hello there. It has been made known to me that certain individuals who shall remain nameless think it might be a good idea to start writing a bit more. So here goes. My name is Dave. I am a man. I like the blues music and cups of tea. In this space I’ll be talking about both of those things, and possibly others too.

I live in Brighton at the moment. I am currently enrolled at the university of Sussex to do a PhD project on a West African Diaspora community in London. Such being ensconced in the cloisters and ivory towers of academia has been a source of not a little hand –wringing. However, it does give me the opportunity to explore some of my interests without too much interference from The Man.

‘What of these interests?’ I hear you cry. Well, young lion, they are many and varied. I have a fascination for the culture and history of Africa, particularly West Africa, as well as black music, the politics of landscape, the life of cities, and the idea of hybridity.

Music has long been a source of spiritual and emotional sustenance, ever since age 10 I stumbled across my mum’s secret cache of classic motown on cassette and nearly destroyed my bed from bouncing. Over the last few years I’ve veered decisively away from ‘the Current’ to wallow in blues, reggae, British folk, country, jazz, African pop and dance music. But I love it all. Living in a live musical hotspot has its advantages in this respect. Gigs aplenty.

I’ve also been a bit of a scribbler for as long as I can remember. However I haven’t been giving myself much space to indulge this aspect of myself, until now. So expect florid prose, angry writing, bon-mots and self-indulgent poesy. Like John Lee Hooker says, ‘its in him – its got to come out’.