I awoke this morning a genius, full of wise things to note on the blog.
I fell back to sleep and woke again, and found I'd forgotten the lot.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Housework Avoidance
The urgency to make another posting has taken over from the (non) desire to do housework.
I saw four redwings out there today, being chased by blackbirds; here are two of them. I saw two bluetits, a wren and a robin as well. The little birds came back after I shifted that hanging bird feeder thing with seeds to where they could see it from the sky.
Before that I had been performing an interesting excavation of the kitchen cupboard, to the strains of Jim Byrne's lovely album, which I will review soon.
Angelica? Intriguing, I bought it for it's stringy plasticky green-ness. What's it for?
Crystallised violets, bought in Italy three years ago, I somehow thought that perhaps Italians lived on a diet of crystallised violets, tomatoes, olive oil and wine and this helped them to be good painters and ride Vespas.
Vanilla pods- loads of them! In long glass tubes like test tubes, which I have washed and will use either for my pretend chemistry set or as sniffing-tubes, because they still smell of vanilla.
What are sniffing-tubes, you ask? Not sure, as I've just invented them, but I'll be sure to elaborate when the idea has matured.
Lots of cinnamon. I just kept thinking of cinnamon toast when I was out and must have bought cinnamon every time. Atishoo!
Cocktail sticks: wishful thinking about parties and a half-orange with cheese'n'pineapple, probably.
There are also mysterious and possibly poisonous things in cardboard packets which I don't dare to throw away.
Anyway, here is the recipe for cinnamon toast in case you wondered what it was.
1. Make toast
2. Butter it
3. Sprinkle sugar on it
4. Sprinkle cinnamon on it
5. Put under grill until sugar and cinnamon melt and mix
6. Eat, perhaps with a mug of hot chocolate to wash down
A Gig Tonight
Yes, I have a gig tonight at Monkey Chews, a pub with food, 2 Queens Crescent in Chalk Farm, NW5 4EP
It is free to get on and I think I am on at about 8 p.m.
It is free to get on and I think I am on at about 8 p.m.
Afterthought
I got so agitated after that last post that when I was performing the 41st housework, cleaning out the kitchen cupboard to the strains of Northern Soul, I knocked over a huge drum of cocoa powder, which fluffed out in clouds all over the kitchen and all over me, coating the floor, the chair I'd mountaineered on to reach the shelf, the worktop, my dungarees (yes, I was in hillbilly mode) and even vertical surfaces with its matt brown powder.
It's all cleaned up now, and I distracted myself from the horrors of warfare with a Big Thought about whether the currants I found in a jar are OK to make rock cakes with.
How suburban! This is why housewives end their days on ever-increasing prescriptions for tranquilisers. Or glass after glass of gin and tonic, ice and a slice.
This gives me my proper heavy-duty New Year's resolution. I resolve to put serious time and effort into campaigning against the sale of weapons, and warfare in general.
It's all cleaned up now, and I distracted myself from the horrors of warfare with a Big Thought about whether the currants I found in a jar are OK to make rock cakes with.
How suburban! This is why housewives end their days on ever-increasing prescriptions for tranquilisers. Or glass after glass of gin and tonic, ice and a slice.
This gives me my proper heavy-duty New Year's resolution. I resolve to put serious time and effort into campaigning against the sale of weapons, and warfare in general.
Starts Easy, Ends Hard
I've spent the last couple of days methodically doing lots of things my feet have not wanted to move me towards. I have marked forty essays (more to come, unforchly), paid forty bills and done forty houseworks (both more to come, unforchly).
I have played forty guitars too, though, which has been a total lifesaver as usual.
I am trying to remember to practice old songs as well as write new ones, and sometimes I forget the chords and have to work them out from scratch. I don't write them down as I don't know what a lot of them are- they are weird ones I make up to fit in to whatever I want to hear. I did buy a guitar chord book but it's buried under a pile of papers at the moment.
I have also done a bit of drawing, for Peter and the Penguins, and when the Art Shop opens again after its long New Year break I am going to Investigate Pens. It is part of the New Year Plan to seriously start drawing again as well as musicking more than ever.
I see this recession as an opportunity to spread my creative wings even more and flap about like a blissful idiot while everyone else is moaning. Honestly, what can we all do about it? The thing that concerns me infinitely more is that aggressive men are still wasting money on destroying people's lives, families and homes, claiming historical justification for this.
Sixty per cent of British manufacturing income comes from manufacturing weapons. That's why we all live so nicely in our lined-up houses with our white goods, plentiful food and smug attitudes to people in the developing world.
Those bombs, mines, bullets, grenades, and other horrific ways of injuring, maiming and killing people all over the world have 'Made in Britain' stamped upon them.
I have played forty guitars too, though, which has been a total lifesaver as usual.
I am trying to remember to practice old songs as well as write new ones, and sometimes I forget the chords and have to work them out from scratch. I don't write them down as I don't know what a lot of them are- they are weird ones I make up to fit in to whatever I want to hear. I did buy a guitar chord book but it's buried under a pile of papers at the moment.
I have also done a bit of drawing, for Peter and the Penguins, and when the Art Shop opens again after its long New Year break I am going to Investigate Pens. It is part of the New Year Plan to seriously start drawing again as well as musicking more than ever.
I see this recession as an opportunity to spread my creative wings even more and flap about like a blissful idiot while everyone else is moaning. Honestly, what can we all do about it? The thing that concerns me infinitely more is that aggressive men are still wasting money on destroying people's lives, families and homes, claiming historical justification for this.
Sixty per cent of British manufacturing income comes from manufacturing weapons. That's why we all live so nicely in our lined-up houses with our white goods, plentiful food and smug attitudes to people in the developing world.
Those bombs, mines, bullets, grenades, and other horrific ways of injuring, maiming and killing people all over the world have 'Made in Britain' stamped upon them.
Monday, January 05, 2009
John Hegley at the 12 Bar
Last night I decided to meet up with Joan the Animator and see John Hegley play at the 12 Bar. We both know him- she because he goes and does writing workshops with her quiet animation students, and I because the Chefs drummer Russ Greenwood used to be in the Popticians with him, and Russ's brother Nick plays bass with him still. On the way there, as I walked down from Tottenham Court Road tube, a man came up behind me and asked me if I was French.
'No', I said. 'Why?'. 'Because you look as though you might be'.
Well this led to all sorts of thoughts.
"Did you have brussels sprouts for your tea? You look as though you did'.
"Have you got an aunt called Moira? You look as though you do'.
'Will you be taking the day after tomorrow off work to go shopping? You look as though you will'.
'Has your sister just had triplets? You look as though she has'.
And so on.
Anyway.
It was chilly in the 12 Bar and I went to the newly refurbished loo, or perhaps I should say, reverse-furbished. It was always pretty awful, but they have downgraded it to utterly disgusting and you honestly couldn't tell which one was for men and which one was for women, apart from the third one which was obviously for men. I resolved to drink the minimum amount that evening in case I had to go back!
Joan turned up, attractively pink with cold at face points, and wearing a black puffa jacket as thick as an Antarctic duvet. We sat for a while chatting until Nick, John and Vicky the trombone player joined us, and I was persuaded to sing backing vocals for Stetson Jim's song later on.
We followed them through to the cave-like live room and listened to songs about guillemots that sit on the window sill a lot, bungalows, gay men and other real life things. John Hegley is funny and scary simultaneously; I liked seeing him with a band- they were very good. The drummer (who became and Uncle ten minutes ago, according to a relative in the audience) was light-handed and brisk, and Nick is a very skilled and musical bass player. Me and Joan decided that Vicky had Audrey Hepburn potential were she not a tomboy, and her trombone playing really iced the musical cake. It was a quirky musical evening with a very warm-hearted audience and was infinitely better than staying at home and watching the telly. When Stetson Jim did his song I sat on the edge of the stage and read the lyrics off a scrap of paper, as I can't even remember the lyrics of my own songs. Musically, it was a very interesting night because there was quite obviously a degree of spontanaiety in the way the band was working.
And what a funny little venue it is. I have often wondered how it dares to exist in the trashy, cheap, money-riddled West End that steamrollers the heart out of everything. But there it is- shabby, with its own style of acts, sometimes packed, sometimes deserted, tatty, dirty, but completely charming.
Awful Joke
What happened to Winnie the Pooh when he grew up?
He became a Teddy-Boy, along with his friend, Quifftopher Wobin.
He became a Teddy-Boy, along with his friend, Quifftopher Wobin.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
The Ants
It was summer, or maybe Easter, in the 1970s, and the 1st Wylam Guides were camping somewhere in Northumberland with a group from Gosforth, possibly near the Kielder Forest or possibly near Rothbury. It was warm and sunny, and we were all very jolly: rough, smooth, rich, poor, urban and rural. Carol, from Wylam, was my best friend. She was a hard kid but we got on really well. She called me Macadamized Cheese and I made her laugh and she made me laugh.
We were all really excited one day because we were going off orienteering, which meant you went into the forest with a compass and a map in groups of six, found something (I can't remember what) and then came back. I was the Patrol Leader. I am not sure why as I was bad at everything except drawing, but I'd developed an authoritative demeanour that meant everyone trusted me. My patrol seemed to consist of all the oddballs but I liked that and so did they.
The camp was surrounded on three sides by wooded hills, and we started off, climbing through the bracken, brambles and ivy-scrambled trees, laughing and talking and fooling around, looking at our feet, the trees and each other but not at the map. We probably walked for about an hour in this way until we came to a track through the trees, a double-line of sandy soil where a farm vehicle obviously passed regularly. 'Ha ha ha', we chortled, until Susan said 'Look!'.
If you looked closely at the sandy tracks you could see they were seething with ants, millions of tiny bustling quivery-antennaed creatures, climbing over each other, weaving through crowds of each other, piled in trembling layers.
Susan was obviously upset but I was a country girl and I reassured her all the time, and we strode over them, heading towards a patch of light ahead, which I was sure was a field, but having lost contact with the map, not sure which field. We brushed the ants off us as well as we could and climbed over the wooden fence, jumping down on to a mound of wood shavings...
...which turned out to be a HUGE ants nest. They were dotted all over this open area in the wood- it was impossible to tell if they were man-made or ant-made, but there were loads of them, all busy, busy, busy, giving the impression of a haze with all the micro-activity upon them. They were massive, some reaching waist-level. These ants were fierce and red and bigger, and there was a collective resentment in the way they reared up as we approached. Although they were still tiny, the sheer quantity of them was nerve-wracking; we had disturbed them in the private planning and execution of whatever it was that they did, and they didn't like it, and there were more of them than us. We were clodhopping, stupid, slow giants in their sophisticated antworld.
One by one we began to freeze with terror. Nobody knew where we were, especially not us, and there was not another human being in sight, and no sound except a sort of sinister rustling. I tried to keep calm and look at the map while everyone else started twitching and shrieking and trying to stop the critturs darting about all over their trouser-legs. We tucked our trousers into our socks, and in slow-motion took what seemed to be an age to pick our way across the field, fright freezing each one of us in turn until the others called out encouragement to keep moving.
Finally we reached the furthest edge of the field and clambered over the fence again, shuddering, into the cool shade and an area where the ants seemed to be the safer black sort and not the nasty red ones we had encountered in the clearing. Our voices choked as we spoke and we focused on getting Out. At least under the trees the ants were operating in one dimension- they were on the ground and not piled up in great fear-inducing heaps. Deaf with the horror of it all, we crowded together and carried on.
It took us all day to get back to the camp. I don't know how we did it, because we totally abandoned the map and just walked. Gradually, the ants faded out and we started to hear the sound of other human beings doing ordinary things, voices oblivious to the awful experience we had just been through. We crackled through the undergrowth and down the sloping hill to the camp, almost afraid to believe we'd finally got back to somewhere safe.
It was impossible to explain to anyone what our day had been like. The collective fear had gripped us like wire. The ordinariness and calm of the camp seemed unbelievable for several hours. But being young, we put it to one side next day and got on with enjoying the rest of the outdoor experience.
Except, every so often, Carol hissed 'Antssssss', and stopped the six of us in our tracks.
We were all really excited one day because we were going off orienteering, which meant you went into the forest with a compass and a map in groups of six, found something (I can't remember what) and then came back. I was the Patrol Leader. I am not sure why as I was bad at everything except drawing, but I'd developed an authoritative demeanour that meant everyone trusted me. My patrol seemed to consist of all the oddballs but I liked that and so did they.
The camp was surrounded on three sides by wooded hills, and we started off, climbing through the bracken, brambles and ivy-scrambled trees, laughing and talking and fooling around, looking at our feet, the trees and each other but not at the map. We probably walked for about an hour in this way until we came to a track through the trees, a double-line of sandy soil where a farm vehicle obviously passed regularly. 'Ha ha ha', we chortled, until Susan said 'Look!'.
If you looked closely at the sandy tracks you could see they were seething with ants, millions of tiny bustling quivery-antennaed creatures, climbing over each other, weaving through crowds of each other, piled in trembling layers.
Susan was obviously upset but I was a country girl and I reassured her all the time, and we strode over them, heading towards a patch of light ahead, which I was sure was a field, but having lost contact with the map, not sure which field. We brushed the ants off us as well as we could and climbed over the wooden fence, jumping down on to a mound of wood shavings...
...which turned out to be a HUGE ants nest. They were dotted all over this open area in the wood- it was impossible to tell if they were man-made or ant-made, but there were loads of them, all busy, busy, busy, giving the impression of a haze with all the micro-activity upon them. They were massive, some reaching waist-level. These ants were fierce and red and bigger, and there was a collective resentment in the way they reared up as we approached. Although they were still tiny, the sheer quantity of them was nerve-wracking; we had disturbed them in the private planning and execution of whatever it was that they did, and they didn't like it, and there were more of them than us. We were clodhopping, stupid, slow giants in their sophisticated antworld.
One by one we began to freeze with terror. Nobody knew where we were, especially not us, and there was not another human being in sight, and no sound except a sort of sinister rustling. I tried to keep calm and look at the map while everyone else started twitching and shrieking and trying to stop the critturs darting about all over their trouser-legs. We tucked our trousers into our socks, and in slow-motion took what seemed to be an age to pick our way across the field, fright freezing each one of us in turn until the others called out encouragement to keep moving.
Finally we reached the furthest edge of the field and clambered over the fence again, shuddering, into the cool shade and an area where the ants seemed to be the safer black sort and not the nasty red ones we had encountered in the clearing. Our voices choked as we spoke and we focused on getting Out. At least under the trees the ants were operating in one dimension- they were on the ground and not piled up in great fear-inducing heaps. Deaf with the horror of it all, we crowded together and carried on.
It took us all day to get back to the camp. I don't know how we did it, because we totally abandoned the map and just walked. Gradually, the ants faded out and we started to hear the sound of other human beings doing ordinary things, voices oblivious to the awful experience we had just been through. We crackled through the undergrowth and down the sloping hill to the camp, almost afraid to believe we'd finally got back to somewhere safe.
It was impossible to explain to anyone what our day had been like. The collective fear had gripped us like wire. The ordinariness and calm of the camp seemed unbelievable for several hours. But being young, we put it to one side next day and got on with enjoying the rest of the outdoor experience.
Except, every so often, Carol hissed 'Antssssss', and stopped the six of us in our tracks.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Grids
Funny how humans reduce everything to grids. Knitting patterns- grids. Computer music programs- grids. Guitar necks- grids.
I once devised a project that involved making music out of a knitting pattern. You played the music into the computer, it made a visual grid and a piece of knitting came out the back. I even found a knitter in Aberdeen who would work on it, too, and some enthusiastic supporters. The problem was I just didn't have time to do it, just to have the idea.
When I make knitting patterns I usually work it out on a grid but then get more confident and do it freehand. When I program music I have to remind myself to be a listener not a watcher, cos if I'm not careful I become fascinated and distracted by the little coloured columnar pop video I'm creating on the screen.
Lots of folk dances work on grids too and I imagine the weaving as people are galumphing about in formation. Of course that actually happens physically in Maypole Dancing. Strange that such physical things are reduced to geometry, and I know that is always one of the problems with notation, because you can't notate emotion in music or indeed the stamina that it will take different dancers to get through a dance. Notation is a sad little world of its own; I have a very funny picture of a bird with its song carefully notated out beneath it, without the fresh air, the temperature, the other ambient sounds, the age of the bird or the purpose of the song.
I hope you like the folksinger jumper. It was knitted all on one big needle and I have always meant to do sleeves, but then I didn't get round to it and realised that all the best folksinger jumpers are tank tops anyway, aren't they?
Drat
I've spent liderally the whole evening trying to upload a video of Helen and the Horns on to firstly Myspace, then this blog, then AF Acoustic Collective, then Youtube, then Myspace again, twice, firstly from this Mac and then from a PC.
It's just not gonna work!
Bah!
Poo!
Merde!
Humph!
Bumph!
Grumph!
I did upload a weird demo called Slow Down on to Myspace though which is a scary song for some reason.
Reminds me of Smeg from King Kurt who couldn't be in the same room as Eleven Moustachioed Daughters by the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band; he was terrified of it. My terror-song is The Laughing Policeman. I have to leave the room and come back when it's finished; I even need a helper to come and fetch me in case I come back in too early, and hear a little bit of it by accident.
It's just not gonna work!
Bah!
Poo!
Merde!
Humph!
Bumph!
Grumph!
I did upload a weird demo called Slow Down on to Myspace though which is a scary song for some reason.
Reminds me of Smeg from King Kurt who couldn't be in the same room as Eleven Moustachioed Daughters by the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band; he was terrified of it. My terror-song is The Laughing Policeman. I have to leave the room and come back when it's finished; I even need a helper to come and fetch me in case I come back in too early, and hear a little bit of it by accident.
Friday, January 02, 2009
More About Bins, Mysteriously
I bought a new wheelie bin from the Council for fifty quid last week.
There was another new one on the front path today.
The old one come back, rejuvenated?
Yet another new one from the Council?
Someone trying to help?
What do I do?
Phone the Council?
Steal the second bin and try to get a refund for the first one?
Nothing?
Start selling bins on eBay?
Meanwhile, when I got back last night some tosser had spread the contents of both bins, dry messy bin and splodgy smelly food'n'green waste bin, all over my neighbour's drive, which I had to clear up in the freezing dark at 10 o'clock before they came back.
I think I'l go and live on Mars.
There was another new one on the front path today.
The old one come back, rejuvenated?
Yet another new one from the Council?
Someone trying to help?
What do I do?
Phone the Council?
Steal the second bin and try to get a refund for the first one?
Nothing?
Start selling bins on eBay?
Meanwhile, when I got back last night some tosser had spread the contents of both bins, dry messy bin and splodgy smelly food'n'green waste bin, all over my neighbour's drive, which I had to clear up in the freezing dark at 10 o'clock before they came back.
I think I'l go and live on Mars.
Dance?
On this my day of rest I am sitting idly wondering if it's possible to dance The Dashing White Sargeant to Rockin' Girl.
I don't think it quite works. I am trying some others though. The Gay Gordons, The Miltiary Twostep, The Eightsome Reel (the dance that drove patient Uncle James almost to tears when he tried to teach it to his clumsy nieces and nephews).
I don't think it quite works. I am trying some others though. The Gay Gordons, The Miltiary Twostep, The Eightsome Reel (the dance that drove patient Uncle James almost to tears when he tried to teach it to his clumsy nieces and nephews).
What I Bought Last Year: a Festival of Fibs
I bought a new hoover
When I went to Vancouver
I bought some old pants
When I went to France
I bought a blue biro
When I went to Cairo
I bought some maracas
When I went to Caracas
I bought a new loo
When I went to Peru
I bought a huge palace
When I went to Dallas
I bought an old fork
When I went to New York
I bought a silk turban
When I went to Durban
I bought a veranda
When I went to Uganda
I bought some ripe cheese
When I went to Belize
I transplanted a kidney
When I went to Sydney
I bought a pipe cleaner
From old Argentina
I bought me a phone
From Sierra Leone
I bought a bin liner
When I went to China
I bought a nice song
When I went to Hong Kong
I bought a red mac
When I went to Iraq
I bought a sauce pan
When I went to Iran
I bought a toy crane
When I travelled to Spain
I bought a new home
When passing through Rome
I bought some rank vermin
When I went to Dunfermiline
A box of pink tissues
When I went to Mauritius
I bought a fine pistol
When I went to Bristol
I bought something frilly
When I went to Chile
I bought a new clock-o
When I went to Morocco
I bought a guitar-a
When I went to the Sahara.
Hey-ho for my greed!
Now there's nothing I need.
When I went to Vancouver
I bought some old pants
When I went to France
I bought a blue biro
When I went to Cairo
I bought some maracas
When I went to Caracas
I bought a new loo
When I went to Peru
I bought a huge palace
When I went to Dallas
I bought an old fork
When I went to New York
I bought a silk turban
When I went to Durban
I bought a veranda
When I went to Uganda
I bought some ripe cheese
When I went to Belize
I transplanted a kidney
When I went to Sydney
I bought a pipe cleaner
From old Argentina
I bought me a phone
From Sierra Leone
I bought a bin liner
When I went to China
I bought a nice song
When I went to Hong Kong
I bought a red mac
When I went to Iraq
I bought a sauce pan
When I went to Iran
I bought a toy crane
When I travelled to Spain
I bought a new home
When passing through Rome
I bought some rank vermin
When I went to Dunfermiline
A box of pink tissues
When I went to Mauritius
I bought a fine pistol
When I went to Bristol
I bought something frilly
When I went to Chile
I bought a new clock-o
When I went to Morocco
I bought a guitar-a
When I went to the Sahara.
Hey-ho for my greed!
Now there's nothing I need.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Happy New Year!
And I mean that. Stuff the recession- take control of your own life and make it work for you. Having scraped through the one in the 1990s with very little work, two babies and an empty fridge, I'll punch this one's light out if it tries to do me in Grrr!
As for yesterday, the dratted Norovirus got me and I spent most of the day in the bathroom making extraordinary sound effects and shaking with the ague, wearing three jumpers and a scarf and hallucinating about small animals.
Tomorrow, I will write a sensible, measured and intelligent (ha ha) posting, but today is for resting and appreciating the taste of a lovely cup of tea.
As for yesterday, the dratted Norovirus got me and I spent most of the day in the bathroom making extraordinary sound effects and shaking with the ague, wearing three jumpers and a scarf and hallucinating about small animals.
Tomorrow, I will write a sensible, measured and intelligent (ha ha) posting, but today is for resting and appreciating the taste of a lovely cup of tea.
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