Back at my parents' house in Leicestershire. I seem to have reached a point where I'm having to look seriously at my life. I won't go into details, but after a couple years now of questioning and confusion I realise I'm going to have to work on myself before I can reach out to someone else.
Hmmf. Its okay, really. In fact its good, because to look at myself, I must also look after myself, I need to connect with others, to work on my health, to undertake healthy pursuits, take rest; to practice being 'happy', which is really more tricky than it sounds, but profoundly necessary. So yeah, if the tone of this here blog becomes a bit more circumspect and less 'jaunty', its only because the emotional depths of its author are being sounded for perhaps the first time.
Walking yesterday across fields along the footpath that leads from my house to the village churchyard, a route I've taken innumerable times from back since I was at primary school and used it as a shortcut home. Memory-saturated. The village itself is small enough that I pretty much know all of it, from the time I did a paper round and was made to lug enormous bags of Leicester Mercurys for the local newsagent, for which I got the princely sum of £4 a month and all the Yorkie bars I could eat. Obviously, every time I come back something has changed, new houses appearing where there used to be green space, posher cars in driveways, new faces behind the co-op counter. And I notice things differently, too. Like how silent the place is in the evenings, as residents vacuum seal themselves inside double-glazed bungalows. And how small the place is. I'm different, too.
The Geographer Doreen Massey writes of places not just as 'meaningful spaces', but as collected assemblages of trajectories, of the lives of their inhabitants as they interact with the wider world. Returning home, then, especially after a long time away, is always unsettling; the familiar is rendered poignant by the presence of the new, forcing one to measure the progress of our own lives in the changes.
Anyway, in terms of changing landscapes, my own is about to open up a bit more: I've got my mum to insure me to use her car. My first solo drive is therefore imminent. Wish me luck.
Monday, 26 July 2010
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Aklo Letters
'... I am going to write here many of the old secrets and some new ones;
but there are some I shall not put down at all. I must not write down
the real names of the days and months which I found out a year ago, nor
the way to make the Aklo letters, or the Chian language, or the great
beautiful Circles, nor the Mao games, nor the chief songs. I may write
something about all these things but not the way to do them, for peculiar
reasons.'
Arthur Machen, The White People
Sitting on the sofa at my friend's house on Southover Street, enjoying the luxury of a free morning. All is quiet - I suspect the others have all gone to their various workplaces (two, Jude and Vicky, are carers, the third, Nick, works at the Uni in IT services). Occasional traffic noise from the street outside, a passing chatter of voices. Silence. This is England.
Awoke early before my alarm. After lying in bed a few moments I remembered that the Zen group were having their early morning sit around 8ish - if I went NOW I could make it. I continued to stare at the ceiling for a few moments anyway; my mind still partly in another dimension. Then, something clicked on - up, on with clothes, down stairs, face wash, banana, bike, bag with cushion, cycle cycle cycle... I arrive at ship street gardens, the wee alleyway where lies the Meditation centre, to find the door locked, and me a half-hour late.
Such is life sometimes. Came back and spent the rest of the morning reading 'the White People' by Arthur Machen. I came across Arthur Machen referenced in a collection of stories by HP Lovecraft, the American Horror writer. Machen is one of his primary influences, and is similarly interested in hidden spheres and realms beyond the everyday that sometimes impinge on our consciousness; the uncanny, the darkly suggestive, the subtly, insidiously creepy. 'The White People' is about the diary of a little girl living in the Welsh hills who is taught mysterious secrets by her nurse, which may or may not be connected to Witchcraft. (OK, they are connected to Witchcraft).
The best thing is the way which she relates in unselfconscious, childish language things which she is only partly permitted to describe. The way she suggests things without going in to detail really sparks the readers imagination, as in the above quotation. I love this kind of playing-with-the-reader deliberate coyness. If I ever write a novel, thats how it'll be. Mischievous.
Anyway, so I'm having a wee breaky. Spoke to my supervisor yesterday who basically encouraged me to do the same. So I'm gonna hang out, read, talk to my friends and enjoy Brighton a bit while I have the chance.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Roving
Went for another urban ramble today. While this feels like a new development - the sudden impulse to just go outside, pick a direction and just walk, and see what's out there - it's also something that I remember doing, when the mood strikes me, quite often over the years.
For example, last Sunday, it was a nice day, mild, the snow had finally cleared and the sun was out. I thought, 'why not find out just exactly what that mysterious building, up there on the hill on the far side of the railway line, that looms down between the branches of the tree outside my bedroom window, actually is?' So I pulled on my favorite exploring shoes (DMs, obviously) and went for a looksee. Lo and behold, a residential home. And a lovely view.
At this point, the freshness of the day had sort of leaked into me, so I went a bit further, across Dyke road and into the suburban badlands behind Hove. Nothing much, just life going on quietly behind privet hedges.
Then, down the Drive, where I stumble upon a brilliant, ludicrous antiques and garden sculpture shop that was like a stone menagerie complete with goats, giraffes, frogs, gnomes, Buddhas, and piles of rusting wrought iron furniture.
Then, Hove high street, and, inevitably, the beach. Where I bumped into Keith and Rob, who I know from my parents' village in Leicestershire, from where they've recently relocated. What a coincidence. Back along the Seafront, taking in the air, kids and dogs and families and couples crowding the promenade, hearing a clip-clop, clip-clop sound behind, then being suddenly, hilariously overtaken by two unicyclists one of whom was banging two coconut halves together, a la Monty Python.
And then, gradually, by way of that New Agey shop in the North Laine that frankly reeks of incense and I normally avoid but they have a good Buddhist books section, home. OK, I had stuff I should have been doing and it frankly knackered me out for the rest of the day, but I thought, 'That was quite fun...'
So this time I went North, up Preston Drove. Again nothing and everything was happening. A gang of skateboarders, shuffling around for somewhere to air their skills. A cement mixer chewing over in front of a half completed house decked in scaffold. Cars backing out, florists, corner shops. Someone I vaguely know, out for a jog. The subtle changes in perspective as the road arcs up and round, suddenly staring down a road to have all of Brighton laid out beneath you, the sea a shimmer in the distance. A park, and a group of teenagers holding dark conversations ('why'd you beat up that guy?'). A tennis match. A feeling that I've been here before, at night, lost on my bike over a year ago. A book shop, and books. Uh-oh...
Actually it was that 'History of Walking' book, mentioned in a previous post, that's been egging me on in these weekend expeditions (perfect choice of word that). Although I would say its more a sort of 'chiming in with' an existing impulse to have a wander that I've got more time to indulge at the moment. Going out, just for its own sake, allowing oneself to be open to the world and participating in its changes, feeling the landscape cradling your feet, feels good.
For example, last Sunday, it was a nice day, mild, the snow had finally cleared and the sun was out. I thought, 'why not find out just exactly what that mysterious building, up there on the hill on the far side of the railway line, that looms down between the branches of the tree outside my bedroom window, actually is?' So I pulled on my favorite exploring shoes (DMs, obviously) and went for a looksee. Lo and behold, a residential home. And a lovely view.
At this point, the freshness of the day had sort of leaked into me, so I went a bit further, across Dyke road and into the suburban badlands behind Hove. Nothing much, just life going on quietly behind privet hedges.
Then, down the Drive, where I stumble upon a brilliant, ludicrous antiques and garden sculpture shop that was like a stone menagerie complete with goats, giraffes, frogs, gnomes, Buddhas, and piles of rusting wrought iron furniture.
Then, Hove high street, and, inevitably, the beach. Where I bumped into Keith and Rob, who I know from my parents' village in Leicestershire, from where they've recently relocated. What a coincidence. Back along the Seafront, taking in the air, kids and dogs and families and couples crowding the promenade, hearing a clip-clop, clip-clop sound behind, then being suddenly, hilariously overtaken by two unicyclists one of whom was banging two coconut halves together, a la Monty Python.
And then, gradually, by way of that New Agey shop in the North Laine that frankly reeks of incense and I normally avoid but they have a good Buddhist books section, home. OK, I had stuff I should have been doing and it frankly knackered me out for the rest of the day, but I thought, 'That was quite fun...'
So this time I went North, up Preston Drove. Again nothing and everything was happening. A gang of skateboarders, shuffling around for somewhere to air their skills. A cement mixer chewing over in front of a half completed house decked in scaffold. Cars backing out, florists, corner shops. Someone I vaguely know, out for a jog. The subtle changes in perspective as the road arcs up and round, suddenly staring down a road to have all of Brighton laid out beneath you, the sea a shimmer in the distance. A park, and a group of teenagers holding dark conversations ('why'd you beat up that guy?'). A tennis match. A feeling that I've been here before, at night, lost on my bike over a year ago. A book shop, and books. Uh-oh...
Actually it was that 'History of Walking' book, mentioned in a previous post, that's been egging me on in these weekend expeditions (perfect choice of word that). Although I would say its more a sort of 'chiming in with' an existing impulse to have a wander that I've got more time to indulge at the moment. Going out, just for its own sake, allowing oneself to be open to the world and participating in its changes, feeling the landscape cradling your feet, feels good.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Rough Notes on a Rainy Day
Ahey.
A sleepy-eyed blogger am I this afternoon, after staying up late to watch 'Searching for the wrong eyed Jesus' with at my friend Jenny's house. A fine film, a deliberately strange, dreamlike exploration of the American South from the perspective of one Jim White, an alt-country type who left the south and then came back, 'to get closer to God'. We meet prisoners, preachers, gun-toting bikers, miners, cops, born-again burger-bar proprietors and a host of other wild, weird, worrying characters who together attempt to explain why this region has produced art and music of such authority and power. The answer isn't stated so much as evoked. Poverty, intense, almost manichean religious belief, dark history and geographical isolation are all factors. White puts it more simply - 'its in the Blood'.
Anyway, that, a snatched 6 1/2 hours sleep and a morning spent squashing a cushion with the Zen Group mean I'm a tired hombre. The snow has gone, replaced by a gloomy drizzle that has kept me indoors. I've been trying to make the most of things and check out storage depot prices so I can begin to sort out a place to stow my junk while I'm away. Looking at my bookshelves and cd racks, I can probably do with getting rid of much of it, but sentimentality makes this a tricky exercise. Like the character in Hi-Fidelity who organises his records autobiographically, stuff tells me who I am.
Going to see 'the Songs of Nick Drake' at the Dome next week. Its an all-star tribute to the guy, curated by Joe Boyd, so it promises to be good. Looking forward to basking in gorgeous Robert Kirby string arrangements and get a nice solid hit of autumnal Englishness before I leave. Also planning to go to the Museum of London at Docklands, mostly for the London, Sugar and Slavery exhibition, but also to get a bit more historical context about London in its role as an Imperial centre.
Got a look at the Peace Corps' Krio language manual the other day, which made me look forward to getting stuck in to learning it. Apparently Krio is NOT a pidgin, but a lingua franca, and it contains words from over 20 African and European Languages. Cool. Also, decided NOT to take my guitar with me after all, basically because it would be too difficult to stow on the plane and I'd only worry about losing it. Also it would probably be an unnecessary distraction. So, rather than strumming chords I shall while away my spare hours writing words...
A sleepy-eyed blogger am I this afternoon, after staying up late to watch 'Searching for the wrong eyed Jesus' with at my friend Jenny's house. A fine film, a deliberately strange, dreamlike exploration of the American South from the perspective of one Jim White, an alt-country type who left the south and then came back, 'to get closer to God'. We meet prisoners, preachers, gun-toting bikers, miners, cops, born-again burger-bar proprietors and a host of other wild, weird, worrying characters who together attempt to explain why this region has produced art and music of such authority and power. The answer isn't stated so much as evoked. Poverty, intense, almost manichean religious belief, dark history and geographical isolation are all factors. White puts it more simply - 'its in the Blood'.
Anyway, that, a snatched 6 1/2 hours sleep and a morning spent squashing a cushion with the Zen Group mean I'm a tired hombre. The snow has gone, replaced by a gloomy drizzle that has kept me indoors. I've been trying to make the most of things and check out storage depot prices so I can begin to sort out a place to stow my junk while I'm away. Looking at my bookshelves and cd racks, I can probably do with getting rid of much of it, but sentimentality makes this a tricky exercise. Like the character in Hi-Fidelity who organises his records autobiographically, stuff tells me who I am.
Going to see 'the Songs of Nick Drake' at the Dome next week. Its an all-star tribute to the guy, curated by Joe Boyd, so it promises to be good. Looking forward to basking in gorgeous Robert Kirby string arrangements and get a nice solid hit of autumnal Englishness before I leave. Also planning to go to the Museum of London at Docklands, mostly for the London, Sugar and Slavery exhibition, but also to get a bit more historical context about London in its role as an Imperial centre.
Got a look at the Peace Corps' Krio language manual the other day, which made me look forward to getting stuck in to learning it. Apparently Krio is NOT a pidgin, but a lingua franca, and it contains words from over 20 African and European Languages. Cool. Also, decided NOT to take my guitar with me after all, basically because it would be too difficult to stow on the plane and I'd only worry about losing it. Also it would probably be an unnecessary distraction. So, rather than strumming chords I shall while away my spare hours writing words...
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Happy New Ear
Aloha and hello, my beautiful followers and fellow travellers,
A happy new year to you all. I hope you spent it wisely... New Years being one of those over-hyped holidays one walks a fine line between trying too hard (ramming into an overpriced club to get cruelly drunk) and not trying at all (me, most years).
Its come as something of a shock that people are actually reading this, so I'm endeavoring to effuse a bit more. To be more effusive. More talking.
I'm back in Brighton, again, for the final preparatory furlong before heading to sunnier (& sweatier) climes. And as if to speed me on my way, old man winter has gone to town with ridiculous amounts of snow and some properly cold weather to boot. My flat here in Preston Park being a drafty old tree-house at the best of times, I've had to resort to wrapping myself in towels for my evening meditation. Yes, moan moan bloody moan... its all fine really. Had a rather nice walk (read: hobble) around the park today, including a wee commune with the trees at the far side. I should have taken a photo really, it would have made more sense and I'd have avoided you lot thinking me mad. Madder. Whatever. Anyway, buses cancelled, nowt to do but busy oneself indoors. I've a stack of delicious looking books that I've accumulated over the christmas-hols, including a cracker entitled 'A history of Walking', which I'm in two minds to save for Freetown.
Casting out to my various SL-contacts (actually fewer than I'd thought) for possible connections when I get there. Don't particularly want to be mooching around on my lonesome, at least not all the time. No doubt I'll attract plenty of attention. The real question is: Do I take my guitar with me?
Reviewing a book for the house Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 'The Invisible Empire'. Catchy, and not bad either. The author is a former sussex PhD in Anthropology. It's a sort of mix of discourse analysis (how do texts represent the world?) and Ethnography (here is the world, as I saw it), about the debates around immigration and place in the East End of London during the early to mid-90s and early-to mid 00s. The Invisible Empire of the title is basically a reference to how public discourses about Britishness gloss over the violent history of the British Empire, and instead focus on things like the abolition of the slave trade, liberal reform, tolerance, trade etc, and in so doing, exclude ethnic minority histories and claims to belonging. Sort of thing. Anyway its right up my street, using lots of postcolonial theory and Gramsci and Foucault, although it could do with some pictures. The one on the cover is cool, a photo of the old gateway to the East India Docks taken in the late 19thy century. Must remember to include pictures when I write my book. Someone remind me, please?
D
A happy new year to you all. I hope you spent it wisely... New Years being one of those over-hyped holidays one walks a fine line between trying too hard (ramming into an overpriced club to get cruelly drunk) and not trying at all (me, most years).
Its come as something of a shock that people are actually reading this, so I'm endeavoring to effuse a bit more. To be more effusive. More talking.
I'm back in Brighton, again, for the final preparatory furlong before heading to sunnier (& sweatier) climes. And as if to speed me on my way, old man winter has gone to town with ridiculous amounts of snow and some properly cold weather to boot. My flat here in Preston Park being a drafty old tree-house at the best of times, I've had to resort to wrapping myself in towels for my evening meditation. Yes, moan moan bloody moan... its all fine really. Had a rather nice walk (read: hobble) around the park today, including a wee commune with the trees at the far side. I should have taken a photo really, it would have made more sense and I'd have avoided you lot thinking me mad. Madder. Whatever. Anyway, buses cancelled, nowt to do but busy oneself indoors. I've a stack of delicious looking books that I've accumulated over the christmas-hols, including a cracker entitled 'A history of Walking', which I'm in two minds to save for Freetown.
Casting out to my various SL-contacts (actually fewer than I'd thought) for possible connections when I get there. Don't particularly want to be mooching around on my lonesome, at least not all the time. No doubt I'll attract plenty of attention. The real question is: Do I take my guitar with me?
Reviewing a book for the house Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 'The Invisible Empire'. Catchy, and not bad either. The author is a former sussex PhD in Anthropology. It's a sort of mix of discourse analysis (how do texts represent the world?) and Ethnography (here is the world, as I saw it), about the debates around immigration and place in the East End of London during the early to mid-90s and early-to mid 00s. The Invisible Empire of the title is basically a reference to how public discourses about Britishness gloss over the violent history of the British Empire, and instead focus on things like the abolition of the slave trade, liberal reform, tolerance, trade etc, and in so doing, exclude ethnic minority histories and claims to belonging. Sort of thing. Anyway its right up my street, using lots of postcolonial theory and Gramsci and Foucault, although it could do with some pictures. The one on the cover is cool, a photo of the old gateway to the East India Docks taken in the late 19thy century. Must remember to include pictures when I write my book. Someone remind me, please?
D
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