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.
Saturday 23 January 2010
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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