CALLING ALL SHIPS
What are the ingredients that make the shipping forecast so great to listen to? Is it the litany of softly-intoned place names, many of which, only half-familiar, conjure up a kind of alternative map of the British Isles? (And which include, for good measure, the light relief of “Scilly automatic”, capable of being translated into a picture of some absurd automaton by thousands of minds on the edge of sleep.)
Like horoscopes or the wheel of the year, the parade of coastal stations is an attempt to create order out of chaos. And always in an impeccable BBC accent from a different era of certainties.
Then there is the hypnotic voice reassuring me that, enveloping our island, the air-pressure – I presume, though it’s never explained - is “rising slowly”, and “falling”. “Good.” On stormy nights, is there a kind of guilty comfort knowing that I'm in my snug berth while someone in a rain-lashed cabin tries to pilot their tiny vessel through the unbelievable force of the weather and the currents?
There's certainly the delicious knowledge that, while I’ll also have to wrestle with the elements today, it’s not quite yet…
Met Office guide to the Shipping Forecast
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Saturday, February 28, 2004
TIME BETWEEN
There's something in Whit by Iain Banks about "interstitiality" - I've forgotten exactly what it amounts to, but it's a cult religion where the intervals between events are the things that are really revered, so everyone learns to read between the lines.
I love time between - waiting for my flight in an airport (I try to arrive incredibly early so that I can take advantage of it); a long train journey; being snowed in (see 27 Feb). For the time to count as time beween, you have to have no access to anything that could tempt you to complete some nagging duty, or even embark on something creative. There's no opportunity to get it down on paper. There's nothing else for it but to look out of the window and reflect on the past and future. (Good Buddhists advise against this, but what the hell really? The mind will grow still of its own accord)
Next week is - honestly - National Procrastination week, by the way! Don't bring your laptop with you.
There's something in Whit by Iain Banks about "interstitiality" - I've forgotten exactly what it amounts to, but it's a cult religion where the intervals between events are the things that are really revered, so everyone learns to read between the lines.
I love time between - waiting for my flight in an airport (I try to arrive incredibly early so that I can take advantage of it); a long train journey; being snowed in (see 27 Feb). For the time to count as time beween, you have to have no access to anything that could tempt you to complete some nagging duty, or even embark on something creative. There's no opportunity to get it down on paper. There's nothing else for it but to look out of the window and reflect on the past and future. (Good Buddhists advise against this, but what the hell really? The mind will grow still of its own accord)
Next week is - honestly - National Procrastination week, by the way! Don't bring your laptop with you.
Friday, February 27, 2004
Thursday, February 26, 2004
A Luciferan rant, or "it's your DNA, stoopid!"
THE GARGOYLE
A cry wakes me at dawn
Birds starting to swarm
I can’t escape – nailed to my fate
Rain cuts little holes
Trickles down my nose
I can’t escape – nailed to my fate
Fingers in my mouth
I’m always facing south
Just let me at the stoneman, let me at the stoneman
Let me at the stoneman who left me this way
Did He carve me these horns
For ravens to perch upon?
I can’t escape –nailed to my fate
Too dumb to cry
Mouth gaping wide
I can’t escape…
Hymns to the sky
I only despise
Just let me at the stoneman, let me at the stoneman
Let me at the stoneman – I’ll chisel his face
My gaze has gone blank
No way to pass the time
I can’t escape…
I spit filthy streams
Rats interrupt my dreams
I can’t escape…
People scurry and point
Ravens anoint me
Just let me at the stoneman, let me at the stoneman
Let me at the stoneman – I’ll chisel his face
a stonecarver's Gargoyle facts and links
THE GARGOYLE
A cry wakes me at dawn
Birds starting to swarm
I can’t escape – nailed to my fate
Rain cuts little holes
Trickles down my nose
I can’t escape – nailed to my fate
Fingers in my mouth
I’m always facing south
Just let me at the stoneman, let me at the stoneman
Let me at the stoneman who left me this way
Did He carve me these horns
For ravens to perch upon?
I can’t escape –nailed to my fate
Too dumb to cry
Mouth gaping wide
I can’t escape…
Hymns to the sky
I only despise
Just let me at the stoneman, let me at the stoneman
Let me at the stoneman – I’ll chisel his face
My gaze has gone blank
No way to pass the time
I can’t escape…
I spit filthy streams
Rats interrupt my dreams
I can’t escape…
People scurry and point
Ravens anoint me
Just let me at the stoneman, let me at the stoneman
Let me at the stoneman – I’ll chisel his face
a stonecarver's Gargoyle facts and links
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
SMILE
Brian Wilson came to London to play his great lost masterpiece. We were reminded by a band member how all of this music, by turns beautiful, fragile and exuberant, had poured from this man's soul during an intensely creative period. Waves of music, brimming over with harmonies running playfully round the triumphant main melody left us spellbound.
Poor Brian sat in the middle of his finely honed triumph, bewildered and alone. Like the birthday child willing himself to join in, but not knowing exactly how, his body swaying, hands moving to and fro in a vain imitation of a dance, face set as grim as a stone.
review of Smile at RFH, London
Brian Wilson came to London to play his great lost masterpiece. We were reminded by a band member how all of this music, by turns beautiful, fragile and exuberant, had poured from this man's soul during an intensely creative period. Waves of music, brimming over with harmonies running playfully round the triumphant main melody left us spellbound.
Poor Brian sat in the middle of his finely honed triumph, bewildered and alone. Like the birthday child willing himself to join in, but not knowing exactly how, his body swaying, hands moving to and fro in a vain imitation of a dance, face set as grim as a stone.
review of Smile at RFH, London
Monday, February 23, 2004
THE LANTERN STALL AT WOMAD
It was the end of the festival, although he was trying hard not to think about that. Another clasp of mundane duties was about to set in, the dispensation of timetables and regularities. He pushed it to the back of his mind and concentrated instead on a few coloured ribbons fluttering against the darkness. The heat of the day hung thickly, making him feel as if he were in another country.
The crowd, he knew instinctively, were his people. When was the last time he’d felt that? And how would it be possible to get among them more? For someone who was comfortable with being an “outsider”, it presented interesting, hitherto unimagined, possibilities. Once he caught himself smiling carelessly at some long-haired Guinnevere and this earned him a brightly curious look, triggering a kind of unbearable longing, not just for her but for her whole pagan village she hailed from, with its maypole and autumn fires. For all he would ever know, she was quite ordinary, but that wasn’t the point. His mind was able to effortlessly conjure again, bursting with images sudden, shocking and Medieval. If only he could stay on for one more day and re-learn the art!
The lantern stall was difficult to pick out at first because of all the other glaring lights that competed for his attention. Something unearthly and at the same time immensely cheering about the candlelight drew him on. He came into its orbit and entered a quiet space, unlike anything else he’d seen at the festival. Everything glowed.
The lanterns themselves were roughly made from a grey metal which framed the irregular stained glass panes. They had been carefully hung from the framework of the tent and were cloaked by its heavy material. Clustered in various shapes and sizes, shining together as if celebration. They sent out splintered rainbows into the watching dark. The percussion instruments and other merchandise scattered around the edges of the tent were picked out in patches of soft colour. And there was no doubt about it. Tonight the whispering flames were alive.
He stared, utterly captivated, like a choirboy who first rests his gaze on the immensity of the cathedral, silenced by the spellbinding beauty, probably unnoticed by all but himself. You could go to all the ludicrous art galleries in the world, he thought, wade through the endless talk of critics and stare at the walls for hours, without finding such a spectacle. The poor fools!
“This is the most beautiful stall in the place,” he said in a hushed voice to the slightly bemused owner. How many people had said the same thing in psychedelic reverence? Behind a table, surrounded by luminous patterns and boxes in which nestled semi-precious stones for sale, she told him a little about how the stall had evolved over the years. He half-listened, wanting only to communicate the sheer joy of being here, and his respect for her, the author of all this.
The conversation broke off with no real resolution. Important not to say too much. Especially as he wasn’t buying. No souvenir could recapture it. The earth teems with beauty. Nothing can be preserved.
It was the end of the festival, although he was trying hard not to think about that. Another clasp of mundane duties was about to set in, the dispensation of timetables and regularities. He pushed it to the back of his mind and concentrated instead on a few coloured ribbons fluttering against the darkness. The heat of the day hung thickly, making him feel as if he were in another country.
The crowd, he knew instinctively, were his people. When was the last time he’d felt that? And how would it be possible to get among them more? For someone who was comfortable with being an “outsider”, it presented interesting, hitherto unimagined, possibilities. Once he caught himself smiling carelessly at some long-haired Guinnevere and this earned him a brightly curious look, triggering a kind of unbearable longing, not just for her but for her whole pagan village she hailed from, with its maypole and autumn fires. For all he would ever know, she was quite ordinary, but that wasn’t the point. His mind was able to effortlessly conjure again, bursting with images sudden, shocking and Medieval. If only he could stay on for one more day and re-learn the art!
The lantern stall was difficult to pick out at first because of all the other glaring lights that competed for his attention. Something unearthly and at the same time immensely cheering about the candlelight drew him on. He came into its orbit and entered a quiet space, unlike anything else he’d seen at the festival. Everything glowed.
The lanterns themselves were roughly made from a grey metal which framed the irregular stained glass panes. They had been carefully hung from the framework of the tent and were cloaked by its heavy material. Clustered in various shapes and sizes, shining together as if celebration. They sent out splintered rainbows into the watching dark. The percussion instruments and other merchandise scattered around the edges of the tent were picked out in patches of soft colour. And there was no doubt about it. Tonight the whispering flames were alive.
He stared, utterly captivated, like a choirboy who first rests his gaze on the immensity of the cathedral, silenced by the spellbinding beauty, probably unnoticed by all but himself. You could go to all the ludicrous art galleries in the world, he thought, wade through the endless talk of critics and stare at the walls for hours, without finding such a spectacle. The poor fools!
“This is the most beautiful stall in the place,” he said in a hushed voice to the slightly bemused owner. How many people had said the same thing in psychedelic reverence? Behind a table, surrounded by luminous patterns and boxes in which nestled semi-precious stones for sale, she told him a little about how the stall had evolved over the years. He half-listened, wanting only to communicate the sheer joy of being here, and his respect for her, the author of all this.
The conversation broke off with no real resolution. Important not to say too much. Especially as he wasn’t buying. No souvenir could recapture it. The earth teems with beauty. Nothing can be preserved.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
link to George Monbiot's site
There's the weblink for the site I mentioned. This is one of the places where you can find out what's really afoot.
THE DIONYSIAN AND WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT
I wonder how to respond to the strangeness of reality. Given that the world is ruled by forces seemingly beyond my control; the environment is hugely damaged; and almost no one wants to talk about it!
I find a lot of inspiration in Nietzsche - I was talking about him to my housemate last night (also a fan!) Nietzsche was dealing with a different set of problems - disillusion with German/European culture, as well as chronic loneliness, lack of recognition of his talents, etc. But his identification, or description rather, of the world chimes with me: a shifting reality that it's difficult to come to terms with, something like the Dance of Shiva where "everything that man instinctively desires - namely unity, stability, meaning and goals - is lacking." (Safranski - Nietzsche: A Philosophical Biography)
He ended up naming this chaos the Dionysian, a term he'd been using since his first work where he identified this impulse as essential to Greek tragedy. His response to the Dionysian cosmos: joy!
When I find myself all at sea, pulled this way and that by forces that I scarcely understand, my life determined by threads of random chances, it's clear I have to swim and somehow catch a wave, keep my head above water, possibly shout to the better swimmers. (This happened to me in Thailand last summer, when I almost drowned. Only a 3-minute experience, but hard to forget.)
How to react to a face-to-face encounter with the Dionysian?
1. A theistic reaction - deny the chaos, interpret it differently, see the waves are not really engulfing you, but part of a benign - and essentially unitary - pattern.
2. The Buddhist reaction - don't be attached to the idea of living or dying, or to any particular conception of the sea. Just relax - you'll swim better.
3. Nietzsche's reaction - acceptance. Accept the inherently tragic side of life, including death, without illusions; in fact affirm it! And forge ahead. Eventually, with practice, you'll enjoy it so much, you'll be splashing around like a kid.
I don't think any of these responses has a greater validity than any other. What counts is facing up to the experience itself. No one comes away unchanged.
I have so much more to write about Nietzsche - the whole drowning idea just occurred to me now, by the way, and is very personal; it's not really a close reading of his ideas. What I like most about him is that - as my housemate said last night - he's always provocative. He always stirs you up with completely outrageous statements so that you have to think, "if I don't agree with that, why not?" Thought games.
"It is absolutely unnecessary for you to argue in my favour; on the contrary, a dose of curiosity, as if you were looking at an alien plant with ironic distance, would strike me as an incomparably more intelligent reaction toward me."
Irony? That I didn't expect!
There's the weblink for the site I mentioned. This is one of the places where you can find out what's really afoot.
THE DIONYSIAN AND WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT
I wonder how to respond to the strangeness of reality. Given that the world is ruled by forces seemingly beyond my control; the environment is hugely damaged; and almost no one wants to talk about it!
I find a lot of inspiration in Nietzsche - I was talking about him to my housemate last night (also a fan!) Nietzsche was dealing with a different set of problems - disillusion with German/European culture, as well as chronic loneliness, lack of recognition of his talents, etc. But his identification, or description rather, of the world chimes with me: a shifting reality that it's difficult to come to terms with, something like the Dance of Shiva where "everything that man instinctively desires - namely unity, stability, meaning and goals - is lacking." (Safranski - Nietzsche: A Philosophical Biography)
He ended up naming this chaos the Dionysian, a term he'd been using since his first work where he identified this impulse as essential to Greek tragedy. His response to the Dionysian cosmos: joy!
When I find myself all at sea, pulled this way and that by forces that I scarcely understand, my life determined by threads of random chances, it's clear I have to swim and somehow catch a wave, keep my head above water, possibly shout to the better swimmers. (This happened to me in Thailand last summer, when I almost drowned. Only a 3-minute experience, but hard to forget.)
How to react to a face-to-face encounter with the Dionysian?
1. A theistic reaction - deny the chaos, interpret it differently, see the waves are not really engulfing you, but part of a benign - and essentially unitary - pattern.
2. The Buddhist reaction - don't be attached to the idea of living or dying, or to any particular conception of the sea. Just relax - you'll swim better.
3. Nietzsche's reaction - acceptance. Accept the inherently tragic side of life, including death, without illusions; in fact affirm it! And forge ahead. Eventually, with practice, you'll enjoy it so much, you'll be splashing around like a kid.
I don't think any of these responses has a greater validity than any other. What counts is facing up to the experience itself. No one comes away unchanged.
I have so much more to write about Nietzsche - the whole drowning idea just occurred to me now, by the way, and is very personal; it's not really a close reading of his ideas. What I like most about him is that - as my housemate said last night - he's always provocative. He always stirs you up with completely outrageous statements so that you have to think, "if I don't agree with that, why not?" Thought games.
"It is absolutely unnecessary for you to argue in my favour; on the contrary, a dose of curiosity, as if you were looking at an alien plant with ironic distance, would strike me as an incomparably more intelligent reaction toward me."
Irony? That I didn't expect!
Friday, February 20, 2004
FOLLOWING A STRANGE GOAL
Where do I start? I want to use this as somewhere to post rants, ravings and insights into the nature of reality! These are the kind of things you can't talk about in the pub. A while ago, I made up my mind never to ask people, "what do you do?" but rather, "what makes you tick?"
Isn't that the way to get started? Cut to the chase. People get startled instead. But, come on, I don't have time to hear the over-rehearsed breakdown of your boring schedule, and I wouldn't expose you to mine. I want to know what makes you tick. Right now. "Even if it's for two minutes only, it'll be a START."
I'm a monkey at a keyboard!
First things first: this monkey wants to note we're in a strange boat (thank you, Mike Scott) sailing on a strange sea, heading for a strange goal. I don't understand the goal! Not at all. Maybe someone can explain?
Where the hell do the politicians think they're taking us? It seems to be a voyage out on to a dark sea, to an unknown continent that may not even exist. All very heedless. Following maps that we all know don't match the terrain... Old 19th Century things, most of them, dog-eared and lunatic.
By the way, for a sane political perspective, go to www.monbiot.com and read the article (early December 2003) about the oil supply. But ssshhhh... it's a secret!!!
So anyway, I find myself co-opted, press-ganged almost, on to this strange boat. And I don't believe in the cartography of the politicians. Or even most of the artists... The only good protest song I've heard in years is the Radiohead one "You and Whose Army". Where once there was questioning and beautiful
provocation, now there is only an eerie silence.
I've got a few obscure texts I go back to sometimes: Nietzsche (Why is he so good? more later); Buddhist thinking; idealistic nostalgia - come on, you need opiates on this voyage - like "All You Need is Love"; Roy Harper gigs; Julian Cope's rants; Straw Dogs by John Gray; a lot of films. Most of the good literature these days is in films.
It's good to know that some other people sense the strangeness of the goal! There is absolutely no need to pretend. We are all sailing to the edge of that Viking world...
How to react? Have a larf? Surfing Yahoo personals, I find nearly all the girls are just craving "someone that can make me laugh... gsoh essential..." Yes, l know why and I like to feel those pleasure-chemicals too, coursing through my veins.
But the fact remains. The strange goals will still be there: "economic growth"; "the war on terror"; and everywhere you look, celebrities grinning back at you!
The Captain's message breaks in: "Don't worry, everybody - just a bit of turbulence on the voyage. Tune back to the eternal entertainment channel... because there will ALWAYS be Saturday football and celebrity sex and the political soap-opera and the Today programme and the 100 greatest TV moments ever and the Booker of Bookers and the latest episode."
Well, what a comfort. Thanks, Cap'n!
My friend Helena sent me this (prose) poem last year. My favourite little map at the moment. From a book I haven't read, An Unexpected Light by James
Elliot:
WANDERER
I have always wanted to sail the South Seas, but I can't afford it
What these people can't afford is not to go
They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline
of "security", and in the worship of security we
fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and
before we know it our lives are gone
What does a person need - really need? A few
pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six
feet to lie down in and some form of working activity
that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's
all - in the material sense. And we know it. But we
are brainwashed by our economic system until we
end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time
payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetary, playthings
that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.
The years thunder by, the dreams of youth
grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the
shelves of patience. Before we know it the tomb
is sealed. Where then lies the answer? In choice.
Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or
bankruptcy of life...?
If any of this rings a bell, I am at alicewasmad@yahoo.co.uk or avatar68 (Yahoo Personals). I'd love to hear from anyone else who feels a little disorientated!
N
Where do I start? I want to use this as somewhere to post rants, ravings and insights into the nature of reality! These are the kind of things you can't talk about in the pub. A while ago, I made up my mind never to ask people, "what do you do?" but rather, "what makes you tick?"
Isn't that the way to get started? Cut to the chase. People get startled instead. But, come on, I don't have time to hear the over-rehearsed breakdown of your boring schedule, and I wouldn't expose you to mine. I want to know what makes you tick. Right now. "Even if it's for two minutes only, it'll be a START."
I'm a monkey at a keyboard!
First things first: this monkey wants to note we're in a strange boat (thank you, Mike Scott) sailing on a strange sea, heading for a strange goal. I don't understand the goal! Not at all. Maybe someone can explain?
Where the hell do the politicians think they're taking us? It seems to be a voyage out on to a dark sea, to an unknown continent that may not even exist. All very heedless. Following maps that we all know don't match the terrain... Old 19th Century things, most of them, dog-eared and lunatic.
By the way, for a sane political perspective, go to www.monbiot.com and read the article (early December 2003) about the oil supply. But ssshhhh... it's a secret!!!
So anyway, I find myself co-opted, press-ganged almost, on to this strange boat. And I don't believe in the cartography of the politicians. Or even most of the artists... The only good protest song I've heard in years is the Radiohead one "You and Whose Army". Where once there was questioning and beautiful
provocation, now there is only an eerie silence.
I've got a few obscure texts I go back to sometimes: Nietzsche (Why is he so good? more later); Buddhist thinking; idealistic nostalgia - come on, you need opiates on this voyage - like "All You Need is Love"; Roy Harper gigs; Julian Cope's rants; Straw Dogs by John Gray; a lot of films. Most of the good literature these days is in films.
It's good to know that some other people sense the strangeness of the goal! There is absolutely no need to pretend. We are all sailing to the edge of that Viking world...
How to react? Have a larf? Surfing Yahoo personals, I find nearly all the girls are just craving "someone that can make me laugh... gsoh essential..." Yes, l know why and I like to feel those pleasure-chemicals too, coursing through my veins.
But the fact remains. The strange goals will still be there: "economic growth"; "the war on terror"; and everywhere you look, celebrities grinning back at you!
The Captain's message breaks in: "Don't worry, everybody - just a bit of turbulence on the voyage. Tune back to the eternal entertainment channel... because there will ALWAYS be Saturday football and celebrity sex and the political soap-opera and the Today programme and the 100 greatest TV moments ever and the Booker of Bookers and the latest episode."
Well, what a comfort. Thanks, Cap'n!
My friend Helena sent me this (prose) poem last year. My favourite little map at the moment. From a book I haven't read, An Unexpected Light by James
Elliot:
WANDERER
I have always wanted to sail the South Seas, but I can't afford it
What these people can't afford is not to go
They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline
of "security", and in the worship of security we
fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and
before we know it our lives are gone
What does a person need - really need? A few
pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six
feet to lie down in and some form of working activity
that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's
all - in the material sense. And we know it. But we
are brainwashed by our economic system until we
end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time
payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetary, playthings
that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade.
The years thunder by, the dreams of youth
grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the
shelves of patience. Before we know it the tomb
is sealed. Where then lies the answer? In choice.
Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or
bankruptcy of life...?
If any of this rings a bell, I am at alicewasmad@yahoo.co.uk or avatar68 (Yahoo Personals). I'd love to hear from anyone else who feels a little disorientated!
N
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