Well, despite getting my camera all happy and serviced last week I didn’t take it out with me this weekend on my numerous adventures around the cube, stokes croft street fest, the lido, the dancing-round-your-living-room party, leigh woods, more lido and easton. So here is a picture of some pea soup i made recently – it has the tenuous connection of being the last time I picked wild garlic in the woods which i also did today… and its the kind of thing that people seem to expect from blogs. Utterly irrelevant.
Trying to sift out all i wrote today and make something sweet and beautiful out of it before my untidy mind and inbuilt nihilism make it feel ragged and tired and less worthwhile. Lone soul wandering I find myself on a word journey. Parcels of words seem to flock together in a way while cycling through woodlands that forces me stop and record them every time I come to a patch of sunlight in trees. Often I smile into the air to myself at thoughts I’m having; little impromptu incarnations of the now, recessed and looked at through the inner kaleidoscope. The world refracted through me – no-one else will ever know it.
Navel-gazey morning drinking coffee on the sunlit sofa turns into navel-gazey afternoon on two wheels; passing through woods and suburbs, by turns the rankling whiffs of sun-stewed car upholstery and the divine breaths of hot mayflower from the froth-blossomed hawthorn. I am happier than I was Thurs/Friday: I have met new people and old faces; bumped into nascent frineds; spent time with good friends who I see little and had unannounced visits from best soul mates. I need these little pots of interaction to stand me as fuel for the solitary days. Fill my mind with something to think about, turn over… the trouble is, I love to wallow in melancholia, touch everything with an elegiac mournfulness – and what better day to wallow than a sultry sunday afternoon? Its definitely some kind of perverse pleasure in life but i need to keep a hold of when to put the brakes on, when to stop my malicious psyche turning these things into sources of self doubt. I met someone on Friday whose collarbones proclaimed that ‘everything in life is a balloon’. I love this thought – it has so many uses. Think i need to internalise this idea as a possibility. Remember that everything can be filled with air and let go on the breeze and that its all brightly coloured and beautiful; shiny and transient. (ok, go no further missy, stop envisaging the sad balloons in the corner of the party that are half-deflated and a little baggy around the edges…)
I can’t make sense of my two sides, the creature of such terminally tragic thoughts walks hand in hand with the self-reliant entity wrapped up in my own impenetrable world which no-one sees. Sometimes I am both all at once. I wonder if it is the fear that no-one might ever discover what I really think that creates these vacuums of dystopia that I can disappear into for days….
Its all about nature at the moment. My senses are filled with hawthorn flowers. I wrote a list of things I like today, including finding slow worms, and an hour later found one curved in a flourish on the path in front of me. A big beetle hit me in the face as I cycled. A bumble bee was swept up as I biked into its trajectory. Kate and I decided that my flat is on the Maybug flight path due to all their unwanted clumsy buzzing traffic through the wide open windows. I look up from beside the fishing pond at Pill and all I can see are oak leaves in the most intense shades of luminous green and shadow black against a sunlit sky of pale eye-blue. The path along the river is all glaring yellow hedgerow flowers which I try and fail to pick with my left hand as i cycle, blue horizons, thick grasses and hazy rolling flats.
I have had the most fantastic of ear worms today, so good I sing along as I ride my bike too fast for a winding pedestrian sunday path. Air Algiers by Country Joe, ‘hopped on a plane from oakland new york, oakland new york, new york to marseilles, hopped on a plane oakland new york to marseilles, pigs on my trail, hey I got to make my get away. I got a one way ticket, I’m flying air algiers; think i’ll go to the Kasbah, cool it for a couple of years’ and Blackbird by the Beatles, ‘blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings* and learn to fly, you were only waiting for this moment to be free, black bird fly, into the light of a dark black night.’ (* i always wondered if the bird had broken wings already and was being told to go out and fly them anyway or if it was being given broken wings as a present…not sure which is the sadder picture in my head)
Chance and felicity smiled on me yesterday as I went several times to the door of the cube and rang the bell to retrieve my lost phone… i was met each time with the pitch black square letter box of silence until I was rescue by an unscheduled keyholder…would have been quite a different weekend if i had been incommunicado for the whole time. i shudder to think, and shudder to be so dependent on such a little slip of black plastic wizardry.
Found these two quotes on this rather good blog entry from local art project Central Reservation:
*As Susan Sontag said, silence is never pure, after all, your heart is always beating.
*Nothing seems to me the most potent thing in the world – Robert Barry, 1968
Feeling in a mood just to share words I like rather than writing in a coherent fashion. The above quotes seem to set the mood. My favourite song lyrics have to include Tales from Black by Tunng, they are so laden with sadness and enigma…I like the line that hints at the deep rooted knowledge that when they find her and lock her up, that’s it. no escape. grind down the key… is it because of inherent distrust of the self and knowledge of a capacity for badness or because of a knowledge of the inherent unfairness and lack of understanding of the outside world? Or is it part of a deep seated myth of the dark side of women propagated by the church, propped up by myth, reaffirmed in popular culture… Brings to mind the Led Zep song Dazed and Confused: Been dazed and confused for so long, it’s not true/Wanted a woman, never bargained for you/Lots of people talkin’, few of them know/Soul of a woman was created below. I must say, disagree with all this inspiration towards misogyny as I emphatically do, the idea of female stealth and wisdom being far above the capacity of the male ego is somewhat appealing…
Anyway, this is Tales from Black:
She washes all the young blood from her hands in the sink
And she knows that the lights will be there for her
Breaks down the bodies to dark subtle ink
And she scrawls on the parchments that hang in the air
She rides a horse over stones in the night
And she closes her eyes and lets go of the reigns
She knows the radios run through the night
And she knows that the lights leave the prettiest stains
She builds a shrine and a typing machine
And she curls up to write down her tales from the black
Prays for a soft breeze and cool gentle rain
And she prays for the bodies that rise slowly back
She knows the dunes where the steel cities grow
And she knows when they jail her they’ll grind down the key
She knows the lights lay the heaviest blows
And she knows that the sand must submit to the sea
She builds a bird out of plywood and gold
For to carry the old souls on up to the sun
Turns on the TV and sits in the cold
And she dreams that sometimes she’s the prettiest one
She knows the thrill of the chase in her veins
And she knows that the sinking’s a trick of the light
Prays for the silence and cool gentle rain
And she prays that the radios run through the night
And just for sheer entertainment value because his writing makes me laugh, here is a small excerpt from Silas Wynd’s invite to “the party that no-one remembers”. masterful…
I Drink Because I Like It & Because I Don’t Like You When I’m Sober. You’re Prettier When I’m Drunk. I’m Richer When I’m Drunk And If You don’t Like Me You Can Fuck Off & I’ll Bother Someone Else. It Doesn’t Matter Where I am or What I’m Doing, What I’m Wearing or Where Tomorrow Is. It’s a Party and There’s Drink and There’s Boys & There’s Girls And Some of Us Know Each Other And Some of Us Don’t. We May Be Friends, For The Night or For Life, We May Mate, In The Toilets, On The Stairs in The Bushes, On The Beach in The House, In the Car, It May be Just Once, It May Not Be Fun. But One Day It’ll Be Beautiful & I’ll Look Into Your Eyes And Know I’ve Mated For Life. If You, Any of You, There’s So Many of You Now, Had Known That Too I Wouldn’t Be here And I Wouldn’t Be Asking You To Join Me. I’d Be At Home in Bed in Our House in The Country, By the Sea, With Our Children, Dog, Cat, Pony, Chickens, maybe a couple of Horses, Allotment & Orchid House, Volvo on The Drive And Worries About Next Terms School Fees, And Wondering When I’ll Next Have A Minute To Myself For a Wank.