I keep watching kids' films.
Some of them are really, really good. There's been a lot of Disney lately (who knew that university would yield such passionate cartoon fans?), which is often very good and only occasionally very bad.
However, the best thing I've seen in a long time is Spike Jonze's new film, 'Where the Wild Things Are'; based upon Maurice Sendak's picture book of the same name, it is a fantastic recreation of a child's imagination, but packs in a whole lot more. The almost allegorical characters, who look like monsters but act like humans, and the captivating performance by the cutest and yet least hammy child actor I've seen in a long time, are the driving forces of this beautiful picture.
Perhaps a third central force is the soundtrack; recorded by Karen O (of Yeah Yeah Yeahs), a few select collaborators and an untrained children's choir, it leaps from acoustic, campfire singalongs, to fast-paced "Rumpus" tunes, and never feels anything but entirely perfect for the film itself.
Director Spike Jonze, known best for his role directing the classic 'Being John Malkovich', has handled this film in an admirably daring way; it is so much more than a fun children's story, and is constantly poignant and thought-provoking. It would have been foolish to expect anything less from him, and I can only hope that these films provide a start to a much lengthier career as a director, continuing his trend in originality and beauty in motion pictures.
Sq.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Becoming a Writer
There has as yet been nothing to leave my fingertips that is worthy of publishing and reading by the general book-buying public.
I intend to change this.
Maybe I'll let you in on it, maybe I won't. It's my new-year's resolution, starting a few months early. Best to get a head start on these things, right? Being in this pool of talent where it is dealt with apathetically makes me want to break out and be active with what I can do.
Some people can write, so they write; some people can write, so they wait until they have an idea, and some people have to write before the idea comes or they'll never write anything. This blog deals with my aspects of the latter.
Here's to getting ideas and writing them.
Sq.
I intend to change this.
Maybe I'll let you in on it, maybe I won't. It's my new-year's resolution, starting a few months early. Best to get a head start on these things, right? Being in this pool of talent where it is dealt with apathetically makes me want to break out and be active with what I can do.
Some people can write, so they write; some people can write, so they wait until they have an idea, and some people have to write before the idea comes or they'll never write anything. This blog deals with my aspects of the latter.
Here's to getting ideas and writing them.
Sq.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Are you still there, Or have you moved away? I would love to go back to the Old House..
I returned home from university last weekend.
Stepping onto the platform, breathing steam in the gold-lighted night air, I was greeted by an announcement voiced with a thick regional accent. The accent of my very own region; it was the perfect welcome home. Then, driving through the black country roads as my family nattered to and around me.
We arrived home, to the original home where it all started and continues. There was a new welcome mat, new bowl, new soap in the bathroom. Tiny details that highlight how I have fallen out of step with the rhythm of my house.
Despite the tiny hitches the house remained mainly the same. A haven of soft materials and textures, mouth-watering scents and the sound of the wind whistling down into the hearth.
It made me miss home, it made me happy to have it all.
Sq.
Stepping onto the platform, breathing steam in the gold-lighted night air, I was greeted by an announcement voiced with a thick regional accent. The accent of my very own region; it was the perfect welcome home. Then, driving through the black country roads as my family nattered to and around me.
We arrived home, to the original home where it all started and continues. There was a new welcome mat, new bowl, new soap in the bathroom. Tiny details that highlight how I have fallen out of step with the rhythm of my house.
Despite the tiny hitches the house remained mainly the same. A haven of soft materials and textures, mouth-watering scents and the sound of the wind whistling down into the hearth.
It made me miss home, it made me happy to have it all.
Sq.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
The argument.
This evening, I was involved in what seemed outwardly to be a part-comical 'debate' with a man about whether or not women have acheived any equality, or whether I personally care or have done enough about women's rights, or something like that, or all of that.
The point is, I didn't enjoy it one single bit, for a lot of reasons. I am not a verbal debater. I can form and argument in writing, although often not for or against subjects such as this; I am terrible at vocalizing my views. To add to this, I did not have enough knowledge to back myself up. In short, it was a distressing experience where there should have been none, for the basic reason that I dislike confrontation.
Is there anything inherently wrong with being placid, mild and quiet? It is the way I have lived most of my life, and while I fear there is some pressure to suddenly become "millitant" (a word used endlessly, as an instruction for how I should be), I do not want to fall under it. Just because there is a belief that I should feel a certain way about a certain thing, and express this feeling in a prescribed way, it does not mean that I must do so. And I won't.
The point is, I didn't enjoy it one single bit, for a lot of reasons. I am not a verbal debater. I can form and argument in writing, although often not for or against subjects such as this; I am terrible at vocalizing my views. To add to this, I did not have enough knowledge to back myself up. In short, it was a distressing experience where there should have been none, for the basic reason that I dislike confrontation.
Is there anything inherently wrong with being placid, mild and quiet? It is the way I have lived most of my life, and while I fear there is some pressure to suddenly become "millitant" (a word used endlessly, as an instruction for how I should be), I do not want to fall under it. Just because there is a belief that I should feel a certain way about a certain thing, and express this feeling in a prescribed way, it does not mean that I must do so. And I won't.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
If he treats you right, I will be his friend, I will never sing this song out loud.
A beautiful song.
All that needs to be said, really.
Sq.
Monday, 21 September 2009
The Obvious Music Post.
So, you may or may not have heard about the emerging gang-style war between recording artists over the File-Sharing 'problem'.
On the 'For' side, we have a band of heavyweights including Blur (namely drummer Dave Rowntree), Annie Lennox, Robbie Williams and Radiohead. They have 'Featured Artists Coalition' studded onto the back of their leather jackets, and cruise around town with a megaphone, screaming 'New laws on file-sharing will alienate fans and break down the relationship between artist and consumer'. However, they don't say 'Don't buy our music, filesharing is all good!' - that would be absurd. They just don't want file sharers to be booted off the internet by proposed laws to suspend connections for serial offenders.
On the other side of town, we've got the 'Against' crew; they, as yet, don't have a snappy name like the FAC, but they boast pop giant Lily Allen as the leader of their gang, with prize idiot James Blunt popping out from behind her occasionally, going 'Yeah...' and 'You better watch out, guys'. They believe that file sharing is damaging to the music industry. They believe that it steals opportunity from up-and-coming artists.
Lily Allen owes her career to the internet. She was one of a trolley-full of MySpace prodigies, discounting the famous parentage she almost definitely benefitted from. It is only now that she earns money from record sales that she chooses to turn her back on its influence on the industry.
One story which has been used to illustrate their point is that of Taio Cruz. The massively popular, number one R&B artist's album was leaked three weeks early. As a result, it was nearly pulled by the record company. For me, this shows two things: that his record company, as only the most naive consumer would deny, do not value his material above profit. Now, I am not to say whether Taio Cruz is talented, whether his work is artistically valuable (but let's just say I don't really think it is) - his record company should not have even considered pulling the album, whether it was going to lose money or not. Oh, and the second thing it shows? The music industry is, again, as we all knew, run by the pockets of people who don't know or like music.
Who knows who'll win? All I know is, I am terrified of the effect that the money-driven music industry is visibly having on popular music.
Back at the start of the start of their career, top-notch art rockers Art Brut sang this slicing lyric:
"Honey pie, I don't know when it started
Just stop buying your albums from the supermarkets
They only sell things that have charted
And Art Brut?
Well we've only just started"
Now, it seems, only the supermarket artists are worthy of a spot as recording artists. Don't blame file-sharing. Blame the guys who decide whether a CD gets made or not. Blame the guys who decide to drop an artistically credible and loved band for not shifting enough units. Clamping down on filesharing won't cleanse the industry, if anything it will just propel label execs to look even more towards the potentially higher profits. Which, by the way, the artists only recieve a tiny fraction of.
FAC FTW.
Sq.
On the 'For' side, we have a band of heavyweights including Blur (namely drummer Dave Rowntree), Annie Lennox, Robbie Williams and Radiohead. They have 'Featured Artists Coalition' studded onto the back of their leather jackets, and cruise around town with a megaphone, screaming 'New laws on file-sharing will alienate fans and break down the relationship between artist and consumer'. However, they don't say 'Don't buy our music, filesharing is all good!' - that would be absurd. They just don't want file sharers to be booted off the internet by proposed laws to suspend connections for serial offenders.
On the other side of town, we've got the 'Against' crew; they, as yet, don't have a snappy name like the FAC, but they boast pop giant Lily Allen as the leader of their gang, with prize idiot James Blunt popping out from behind her occasionally, going 'Yeah...' and 'You better watch out, guys'. They believe that file sharing is damaging to the music industry. They believe that it steals opportunity from up-and-coming artists.
Lily Allen owes her career to the internet. She was one of a trolley-full of MySpace prodigies, discounting the famous parentage she almost definitely benefitted from. It is only now that she earns money from record sales that she chooses to turn her back on its influence on the industry.
One story which has been used to illustrate their point is that of Taio Cruz. The massively popular, number one R&B artist's album was leaked three weeks early. As a result, it was nearly pulled by the record company. For me, this shows two things: that his record company, as only the most naive consumer would deny, do not value his material above profit. Now, I am not to say whether Taio Cruz is talented, whether his work is artistically valuable (but let's just say I don't really think it is) - his record company should not have even considered pulling the album, whether it was going to lose money or not. Oh, and the second thing it shows? The music industry is, again, as we all knew, run by the pockets of people who don't know or like music.
Who knows who'll win? All I know is, I am terrified of the effect that the money-driven music industry is visibly having on popular music.
Back at the start of the start of their career, top-notch art rockers Art Brut sang this slicing lyric:
"Honey pie, I don't know when it started
Just stop buying your albums from the supermarkets
They only sell things that have charted
And Art Brut?
Well we've only just started"
Now, it seems, only the supermarket artists are worthy of a spot as recording artists. Don't blame file-sharing. Blame the guys who decide whether a CD gets made or not. Blame the guys who decide to drop an artistically credible and loved band for not shifting enough units. Clamping down on filesharing won't cleanse the industry, if anything it will just propel label execs to look even more towards the potentially higher profits. Which, by the way, the artists only recieve a tiny fraction of.
FAC FTW.
Sq.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Poster boys and 90's toys.
It feels strange that I am re-awakening my love for Thunderbirds and Gerry Anderson productions.
The fact that they were made in the 60's, made a comeback around 1999 to the early 2000's, and were even remade into a dire modern film with 'real people' surely shows their enduring appeal. My brother was obsessed with all things Gerry Anderson, right down to Fireball XL5 and Joe 90 around 2000 and I, living in the same house as him, ended up watching a lot of the programmes and playing with a lot of the toys (don't tell anyone, I would have been 10 and 11 at the time - far too old to be zooming Thunderbird 2 around Tracy Island).
My favourite was, at the time, probably Stingray, or Captain Scarlet. However, now I'm a bit older, the black and white retro sophistication of Fireball XL5 appeals a bit more, while the others do still stand as great kids' TV. The always menacing villains, from the classic 'Hood' to the futuristic, almost visionary Mysterons (see below for the Portishead song of the same name) and the peripheral characters such as Lady Penelope and Parker, as well as the Captains of all colours in 'Scarlet', made these expertly made, marionette-driven programmes seem all the more real and exciting. It wasn't the same as Disney Pixar, it was personal and the characters of the makers shone through. Who cares if the mouths don't move properly? Who cares if they make the most of hand shots, because they use real hands? Who cares if sometimes you can see the strings?
Life's not perfect, these programmes just reflected that. Until the end, that is, when of course the day would always be saved by our heroes. But who'd watch next week if we all died at the end?
Sq.
The fact that they were made in the 60's, made a comeback around 1999 to the early 2000's, and were even remade into a dire modern film with 'real people' surely shows their enduring appeal. My brother was obsessed with all things Gerry Anderson, right down to Fireball XL5 and Joe 90 around 2000 and I, living in the same house as him, ended up watching a lot of the programmes and playing with a lot of the toys (don't tell anyone, I would have been 10 and 11 at the time - far too old to be zooming Thunderbird 2 around Tracy Island).
My favourite was, at the time, probably Stingray, or Captain Scarlet. However, now I'm a bit older, the black and white retro sophistication of Fireball XL5 appeals a bit more, while the others do still stand as great kids' TV. The always menacing villains, from the classic 'Hood' to the futuristic, almost visionary Mysterons (see below for the Portishead song of the same name) and the peripheral characters such as Lady Penelope and Parker, as well as the Captains of all colours in 'Scarlet', made these expertly made, marionette-driven programmes seem all the more real and exciting. It wasn't the same as Disney Pixar, it was personal and the characters of the makers shone through. Who cares if the mouths don't move properly? Who cares if they make the most of hand shots, because they use real hands? Who cares if sometimes you can see the strings?
Life's not perfect, these programmes just reflected that. Until the end, that is, when of course the day would always be saved by our heroes. But who'd watch next week if we all died at the end?
Sq.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Issues of Gender and Identity.
Not for me, I'm 100% on both - well, gender, at least.
Instead, the case of 18 year old Caster Semenya, the female runner being tested on suspicion of being a male.
For a woman, especially a woman of 18, identity is something which is still being determined. As a successful sporting personality, Semenya has been subject to media attention and pressure which most would find it difficult to deal with, and to now have to face, due to a breach of confidentiality, millions of people who ask if she is really a woman would be demoralising and upsetting.
However, in the public eye, Semenya has proved to be strong and unwavering in her identity (not as difficult when you know you are indeed female), in a way which surely proves that her gender is not to be questioned. Recent tests found her testosterone levels to be around three times the 'normal' amount for a woman; and yet testosterone levels are one of the least conclusive tests for gender as they can vary so widely.
What is perhaps the worst aspect of this story is that she was told to be tested because she ran a race at an extraordinarily fast pace. To consider that this must mean that she is a man is frankly offensive, and something which shows the extent to which women are still considered weaker and inferior to men, and which proves that gender equality is something which is still far from being achieved.
Sq.
Instead, the case of 18 year old Caster Semenya, the female runner being tested on suspicion of being a male.
For a woman, especially a woman of 18, identity is something which is still being determined. As a successful sporting personality, Semenya has been subject to media attention and pressure which most would find it difficult to deal with, and to now have to face, due to a breach of confidentiality, millions of people who ask if she is really a woman would be demoralising and upsetting.
However, in the public eye, Semenya has proved to be strong and unwavering in her identity (not as difficult when you know you are indeed female), in a way which surely proves that her gender is not to be questioned. Recent tests found her testosterone levels to be around three times the 'normal' amount for a woman; and yet testosterone levels are one of the least conclusive tests for gender as they can vary so widely.
What is perhaps the worst aspect of this story is that she was told to be tested because she ran a race at an extraordinarily fast pace. To consider that this must mean that she is a man is frankly offensive, and something which shows the extent to which women are still considered weaker and inferior to men, and which proves that gender equality is something which is still far from being achieved.
Sq.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
"And what we had wasn't really what we'd come to expect"
The Beat That My Heart Skipped
Dan Le Sac Vs. Scroobius Pip.
When I said I'd be gutted if I 'had' to go to my 2nd choice uni, I was forgetting that how you imagine things is hardly ever how they turn out.
At 7.45am (Nobody woke me up) I checked my results; while they didn't meet my first uni offer, they are damn good, and fine to get me into my 2nd choice. Imagine my surprise when it seemed,according to UCAS, that my first choice uni had accepted me regardless of my lower grading? While I'm sure that anyone reading this will have heard my tale of woe a few too many times, basically I was mistakenly told I had a place when I didn't. When I found out, my heart skipped a beat, or two, or maybe three, I ran around like a crazy person, and then picked up the phone. The next two days were spent tirelessly trying to sort everything out.
The best thing to come out of it? Probably that I'm now not going to an incompetent university. My insurance choice has been extremely helpful, have handled the situation well and have made me so impatient to get there that I have almost forgotten the ridiculous trauma of those three days of panic. I say almost; I don't think this is the end of it.
Anyway, what an anti-climax. What do I do now? I just do not know. Maybe I'll just type a blog, listen to some music and start making a list of things to take to uni... Yeah. That sounds good.
Sq.
Dan Le Sac Vs. Scroobius Pip.
When I said I'd be gutted if I 'had' to go to my 2nd choice uni, I was forgetting that how you imagine things is hardly ever how they turn out.
At 7.45am (Nobody woke me up) I checked my results; while they didn't meet my first uni offer, they are damn good, and fine to get me into my 2nd choice. Imagine my surprise when it seemed,according to UCAS, that my first choice uni had accepted me regardless of my lower grading? While I'm sure that anyone reading this will have heard my tale of woe a few too many times, basically I was mistakenly told I had a place when I didn't. When I found out, my heart skipped a beat, or two, or maybe three, I ran around like a crazy person, and then picked up the phone. The next two days were spent tirelessly trying to sort everything out.
The best thing to come out of it? Probably that I'm now not going to an incompetent university. My insurance choice has been extremely helpful, have handled the situation well and have made me so impatient to get there that I have almost forgotten the ridiculous trauma of those three days of panic. I say almost; I don't think this is the end of it.
Anyway, what an anti-climax. What do I do now? I just do not know. Maybe I'll just type a blog, listen to some music and start making a list of things to take to uni... Yeah. That sounds good.
Sq.
Friday, 14 August 2009
The comforting ache/Of the summer holidays (doesn't exist)
(Maximo Park - The Kids are Sick Again)
They said I'd miss it. They being mum or someone, maybe even me. I guess I knew I'd miss it, because at the end of the day, the summer holidays are bullshit after 3 weeks.
You think 'YES! This is the rest and relaxation I get for all my hard work, I can finally do everything I've ever wanted to and life will be perfect!'. However, deep down, you know that the longer it goes on, the harder you're going to have to work to keep yourself from falling off the edge of late nights and late mornings, days in pyjamas watching DVDs and listening to music, occasionally reading books and planning when you're next going drinking.
Today, I think I faced up to the fact that the summer holidays, whether it's because it's not very summery, or because I live in one of the least exciting places in Britain, or a combination of these and other factors, are in fact like a disgusting Pergatory. Especially this one, where I am waiting for results which will change my life completely. I just began typing an essay, maybe to prove I could, maybe to bring back the feelings.
I have stoped part-way through to tell you this; I am sat in my kitchen, in the same place I wrote most of my coursework, with an empty mug (previously containing my coursework-encouraging fruit tea), music on in the backgroud and facebook open in a different window. Suddenly, I'm not so worried about Thursday (results) - maybe because my brain has tricked itself into thinking it can still change the outcome, thinking that this will be an award winning essay that will get me 100%, or perhaps because I know that I still love doing this, and that no matter what results come out, I'll go somewhere and get to do it for 3 years.
This is not to say that tomorrow, I won't stay in bed until 2pm again and not get dressed until half 3; this is not to say that I won't be terrified at 6am next Thursday morning, and that I won't be gutted if I have to go to my second choice uni. But it is comforting. And that's something.
Sq.
They said I'd miss it. They being mum or someone, maybe even me. I guess I knew I'd miss it, because at the end of the day, the summer holidays are bullshit after 3 weeks.
You think 'YES! This is the rest and relaxation I get for all my hard work, I can finally do everything I've ever wanted to and life will be perfect!'. However, deep down, you know that the longer it goes on, the harder you're going to have to work to keep yourself from falling off the edge of late nights and late mornings, days in pyjamas watching DVDs and listening to music, occasionally reading books and planning when you're next going drinking.
Today, I think I faced up to the fact that the summer holidays, whether it's because it's not very summery, or because I live in one of the least exciting places in Britain, or a combination of these and other factors, are in fact like a disgusting Pergatory. Especially this one, where I am waiting for results which will change my life completely. I just began typing an essay, maybe to prove I could, maybe to bring back the feelings.
I have stoped part-way through to tell you this; I am sat in my kitchen, in the same place I wrote most of my coursework, with an empty mug (previously containing my coursework-encouraging fruit tea), music on in the backgroud and facebook open in a different window. Suddenly, I'm not so worried about Thursday (results) - maybe because my brain has tricked itself into thinking it can still change the outcome, thinking that this will be an award winning essay that will get me 100%, or perhaps because I know that I still love doing this, and that no matter what results come out, I'll go somewhere and get to do it for 3 years.
This is not to say that tomorrow, I won't stay in bed until 2pm again and not get dressed until half 3; this is not to say that I won't be terrified at 6am next Thursday morning, and that I won't be gutted if I have to go to my second choice uni. But it is comforting. And that's something.
Sq.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Square sounds inspiring Square words.
Hello.
I had a brainwave. I don't know if you've noticed, but I title a lot of my blogs with lyrics and song titles. I also often reference certain songs.
So, I thought why not convert my blog into a playlist? I searched all the songs mentioned since the start of my blog, and the ones I could find (which is most of them) are now available to you with this link:
http://open.spotify.com/user/frenzyy/playlist/5gRVCAo6rL36AU1cQFk3zX
If you don't have Spotify, then you really should get it, it's free and will let you listen to all those albums and songs you always wanted to but couldn't afford to.
Enjoy the sound of my inspiration!
Sq.
I had a brainwave. I don't know if you've noticed, but I title a lot of my blogs with lyrics and song titles. I also often reference certain songs.
So, I thought why not convert my blog into a playlist? I searched all the songs mentioned since the start of my blog, and the ones I could find (which is most of them) are now available to you with this link:
http://open.spotify.com/user/frenzyy/playlist/5gRVCAo6rL36AU1cQFk3zX
If you don't have Spotify, then you really should get it, it's free and will let you listen to all those albums and songs you always wanted to but couldn't afford to.
Enjoy the sound of my inspiration!
Sq.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
And it looks like we might have made it...
Nothing can stop me loving Blur, and Graham Coxon. With every listen, Happiness In Magazines and Love Travels at Illegal Speeds (Coxon solo albums) get better. With every listen to Parklife, I am drawn back to my earlier years, way before I had any idea of how good the music was.
I started at Parklife, in the back of the car on a rainy Sunday, no doubt being dragged to some place of interest to my parents. I made my way, through the charade of Steps, through somewhere I can't really remember, to Franz Ferdinand, Maximo Park, a brief dalliance with The Ramones and The Clash, over to Klaxons, CSS, Shitdisco and Hot Chip. I stayed around there for a while, gathering Jimi Hendrix, The Rolling Stones, The Velvet Underground and Lou Reed with me, to emerge, and haul myself back to Parklife, by way of Bon Iver and Bloc Party, The Horrors, and a load of other stuff. Enough syndetic listing. (Or is it asyndetic? Who cares anymore...)
This summer I seem to have drawn myself into a personal experiment; now, with most past-times and hobbies, I am fervently interested for a few months, maybe years, and then slowly give it up. The only exceptions have been writing, and music.
Due to the availability of pretty much all the significant music ever made, I have been listening to as much music as I have free time in the past month or so. It has tested my love for sound; I have sometimes felt that there was literally nothing I could happily listen to. I have felt that music I have long loved is too superficial to withstand the over-listening; but, over all, I have become even more addicted to 'listening'.
Time doesn't seem well spent any more unless there was a good noise in the background.
This is a good thing.
Sq.
I started at Parklife, in the back of the car on a rainy Sunday, no doubt being dragged to some place of interest to my parents. I made my way, through the charade of Steps, through somewhere I can't really remember, to Franz Ferdinand, Maximo Park, a brief dalliance with The Ramones and The Clash, over to Klaxons, CSS, Shitdisco and Hot Chip. I stayed around there for a while, gathering Jimi Hendrix, The Rolling Stones, The Velvet Underground and Lou Reed with me, to emerge, and haul myself back to Parklife, by way of Bon Iver and Bloc Party, The Horrors, and a load of other stuff. Enough syndetic listing. (Or is it asyndetic? Who cares anymore...)
This summer I seem to have drawn myself into a personal experiment; now, with most past-times and hobbies, I am fervently interested for a few months, maybe years, and then slowly give it up. The only exceptions have been writing, and music.
Due to the availability of pretty much all the significant music ever made, I have been listening to as much music as I have free time in the past month or so. It has tested my love for sound; I have sometimes felt that there was literally nothing I could happily listen to. I have felt that music I have long loved is too superficial to withstand the over-listening; but, over all, I have become even more addicted to 'listening'.
Time doesn't seem well spent any more unless there was a good noise in the background.
This is a good thing.
Sq.
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Switch
Douse the air with laughs and breath, beer and drinks and this and that, we'll play a game and I'll make my eyes tell you everything, in my language that I always hoped you understood.
Back in the place where it began, with the warm inside and mirrored walls. Light bounces off the glass and the eyes, the speckled interior with stars and pictures.
This is the spell to turn back time.
Sq.
Back in the place where it began, with the warm inside and mirrored walls. Light bounces off the glass and the eyes, the speckled interior with stars and pictures.
This is the spell to turn back time.
Sq.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Plans.
I started writing this blog a long time ago. It used to be humourous, poetic, creative; it then morphed into a diary, or self indulgence and ponderings. It's often cryptic, often personal, and often not worth reading unless you have a cipher to decode the words with.
And that's not right. A public blog, which I encourage people to read, needs stories, opinions, something more than just me rambling on like I do all the time.
I watched what I wanted from this blog disappear from view.
Here's to watching it come back around again!
Sq.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
The Facade, The Persona.
I am at least 10 times more neurotic than most of you know.I hope that nobody reads this who will be directly affected by learning of my
neurotic tendencies, but then I have no idea what kind of person that would be.
Oh look, and now it's raining. Isn't that just perfect? I mean, I have spent all day reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (which, by the way basically goes 'Aren't mountains great? Cor, they're bloody great. And storms - OH! Whoops, just brought a mangled corpse to life... But look at those mountains!) and now I'm sat blogging the random thoughts that have come into my mind after stewing with Romantic literature for a few hours. It's raining. There must be some connection between these two factors, but I can't be bothered to find it, so overwhelming has my apathy become.
I went to London, it was very good. It was great. But it was also awful because I'm not always there, I can't always be there, and if I was, I might hate it.
-My moods tend to roll in cycles, of extreme contentment, perhaps even joy, to the basement of boredom and disillusionment. At the moment, I'm in a trough. Maybe it's the weather; maybe it's the absence of a purpose, other than to read and sleep, but I hope soon to be back at a peak, on a crest, looking down from an apex.
Although, from the apex, you never look down into the abyss; while from the abysmal, you constantly dream of the apex. And so am I doomed to live half in blissful forgetfulness, and half in a bored, dream-filled void.
Here's to the coming peaks... No, that's a lie. Here's to the depths of nothingness.
Sq.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Ennui sounds too good for what this is.
This might well be the most bored anyone has ever been.
It is not aided by the fact that my parents do not let me forget that I gave up my job, although do seem to forget themselves that I did so in order to focus on my studies, with their full support. Selective memory, I suppose.
Anyway, I want to do something crazy. This blog is by no means the way to do it, as I'm fully aware that my readership has depleted to zero and no-one gives a shit any more. Not that they did in the first place. This is self-indulgent, ridiculous rambling, and I don't know why I'm still doing it.
I think I'll move away. In a tent. Live in a tent for a few weeks just travelling the country. Alone.
It is not aided by the fact that my parents do not let me forget that I gave up my job, although do seem to forget themselves that I did so in order to focus on my studies, with their full support. Selective memory, I suppose.
Anyway, I want to do something crazy. This blog is by no means the way to do it, as I'm fully aware that my readership has depleted to zero and no-one gives a shit any more. Not that they did in the first place. This is self-indulgent, ridiculous rambling, and I don't know why I'm still doing it.
I think I'll move away. In a tent. Live in a tent for a few weeks just travelling the country. Alone.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
The Passing of Branaghfest 09
As one of two attendants, and the main host of new underground festival 'Branaghfest', I find it is my duty to provide the one and only online review of the most up-and-coming film festival of 2009.
The idea for Branaghfest came from both me and a very close friend, after talking for at least an hour about the work of one Mr Kenneth Branagh. I had recently purchased 'Love's Labour's Lost' on DVD, and we planned to watch it, and perhaps some other Branagh films, at a certain time.
Who knew then that it would be so successful?
On the 14th of July, 2009, Branaghfest survived its first year as a festival, with two hardcore fans in attendance. The main events were Love's Labour's Lost, including DVD extras, Hamlet excerpts and and introduction filmed by Branagh himself. Complementing the event was salted microwave popcorn, a selection of squashes and juices, and an impromptu conference about the state of AS and A level English Literature education given by two professionals in the field.
We hope that Branaghfest 2010 can up the ante on 2009, perhaps showing a more varied selection branching out from Branagh's Shakespearean works; however, we mostly hope that there will be something new for us to savour, and we won't just end up watching episodes of Wallander...
Soon to be produced (might be): 'Branaghfest 2009' t-shirts. Only available to those who attended.
And remember, stay true to the Branifesto: 'Have Fun!'
Sq.
The idea for Branaghfest came from both me and a very close friend, after talking for at least an hour about the work of one Mr Kenneth Branagh. I had recently purchased 'Love's Labour's Lost' on DVD, and we planned to watch it, and perhaps some other Branagh films, at a certain time.
Who knew then that it would be so successful?
On the 14th of July, 2009, Branaghfest survived its first year as a festival, with two hardcore fans in attendance. The main events were Love's Labour's Lost, including DVD extras, Hamlet excerpts and and introduction filmed by Branagh himself. Complementing the event was salted microwave popcorn, a selection of squashes and juices, and an impromptu conference about the state of AS and A level English Literature education given by two professionals in the field.
We hope that Branaghfest 2010 can up the ante on 2009, perhaps showing a more varied selection branching out from Branagh's Shakespearean works; however, we mostly hope that there will be something new for us to savour, and we won't just end up watching episodes of Wallander...
Soon to be produced (might be): 'Branaghfest 2009' t-shirts. Only available to those who attended.
And remember, stay true to the Branifesto: 'Have Fun!'
Sq.
Thursday, 9 July 2009
You'll never fail like common people, You'll never watch your life slide out of view...
Michael Jackson's dead, apparently.
I'll never forget the moment I heard (nb. Imagine that said in a non-upset way, more with a reminiscent, wistful smile); it was Thursday night, we were leaving the Queen's head after suffering Kap Bambino and enjoying the new Metronomy line-up, and kept hearing people say 'Michael Jackson' and 'Michael Jackson's dead?' and 'Michael Jackson's dead!'. The natural reaction in times like these is, of course, to assume that it is a prank, a hoax, and that is precisely what we did.
Everyone was saying it, still, so we asked a trader of wax flares, who informed us with a stony expression that Michael Jackson was in fact dead.
At that moment it didn't really mean anything. At Glastonbury festival, as I suppose it must be at most festivals, you don't really have any connection with the outside world, physically (obviously) but also mentally and emotionally. This news didn't affect me in any way, other than perhaps a few 'I don't believe it's which were entirely genuine. I still don't, really, but that might have something to do with the constant stream of photos of a living Jacko.
At the time I found out, I don't think any of us had a clue that it would turn into such a big thing. It's the biggest death since Princess Diana, for sure, and people have really gone mental for it, mostly to the extent of acheiving a collective amnesia in public.
That is to say, that many have stopped condemning him for being extremely strange and suspected of abusing children.
However, in private, we've all heard and even made jokes. Why do we feel this need to go back on ourselves?
Look at this: 
When I visited Bristol Museum's Banksy exhibition (Banksy vs. Bristol Museum) this had been put up in the hallway which leads into the main exhibition. Next to it, as we waited to enter, was a man with a video camera asking passers by what they thought.
When it got to me, I sort of rambled about the jokes and things and how nobody said it in public, and then he asked this question:
"Do you think it's appropriate?"
I replied, after a short pause, that I felt that it was, and that it was good, and I liked it. It was painted 3 years ago, and before Jackson's death, nobody would have said it was inappropriate. What changes when he dies? If anything it becomes more relevant.
I loved the tongue-in-cheek candles and flowers below it, creating the shrine to the dead legend who's depicted luring children into his home. It was a great way to start a great look at one of our most revolutionary modern artists.
Go and see the exhibition, and stay true to your ideas, no matter who dies.
Sq.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Show me when it rains, The place you go to hide.
Wrench and a clench at my chest.
Whirlpools in my stomach and blood.
Dilated pupils,
Dry lips,
Fear.
Breath,
Two breaths,
Clearing noise in the brain,
Slowing torrents in the blood.
Sq.
Whirlpools in my stomach and blood.
Dilated pupils,
Dry lips,
Fear.
Breath,
Two breaths,
Clearing noise in the brain,
Slowing torrents in the blood.
Sq.
Monday, 6 July 2009
It really, really, really could happen, When the days, they seem to fall through you, Just let them go.
This is Somerset.
It may be one of the dullest places for an 18 year old to live; the extent of the nightlife a JD. Wetherspoon in the High Street, and Envy up the road for Fridays and Saturdays- if you don't want to be drinking in your kitchen or garden.
Sometimes, it's beautiful.
Sometimes it's infuriating.
Sometimes it makes me miss everywhere I've ever been.
Sometimes I'm glad to be home.
But then I guess there are trees and sun everywhere, and my attachment, and hate come from fifty years of other people's decisions, choices and preferences.
Sq.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
They came, They saw, They killed my faith in humanity and people with the same music taste as me.
Example & Don Diablo - Hooligans
'Where's all the Hooligans, The nasty music fans?' asks Example in his charming Cockney accent.
I feel compelled to answer that they were, for the most part, present in the crowds of Glastonbury festival last weekend.
I don't want to sound like an intolerant old biddy who has a problem with people enjoying themselves, but for me it seemed to go above and beyond the realms of acceptability.
On Thursday night, I lost all my respect for anyone with the same music taste as me. Perhaps my head was in a naive and romantic place where I believed that people who enjoyed the subtlety and intelligence of Maximo Park and Metronomy's music would be people I'd get on with. This, however, was proved to be spectacularly wrong by a throng of seemingly anaesthatised drones, punctuated only by the violent and inconsiderate groups of tall, hat-wearing, hairy sweaty men, often shouting 'Oggy', and 'Oi'.
On Friday, my faith was restored by a trip to the Park Stage, enduringly my favourite venue of the festival, to see the true romantics, Golden Silvers, on a rainy morning. My later trip back, to see the Horrors was similarly enjoyable, despite worries that their harder sound would attract a less gentle clientele.
On Saturday, my mood was punctured only by the somewhat out-of-place 'Woop-woop' which emitted itself during Franz Ferdinand's 'Outsiders' drum solo;
(Thanks to SpaceThisWatch for uploading...Ha.)
and the 20 minutes+ spent trudging into Shangri-La, unecessary I was sure. However, when I got in it was undoubtedly worth it, as I saw the exhilarating Africa Express soundsystem, and their riveting 2Hour jam.
On Sunday... The highlight for me had to be Blur, despite being next to a group of thirty-somethings who enjoyed placing each other on their shoulders despite obvious problems with balance, and extreme heckles from the people behind. During one song, the man next to me spoke so loudly that it impaired my hearing of the tune. I was not happy. My only sanctuary was, ironically, during the minutes he spent attempting to extract his girlfriend's tonsils, during which they frequently brushed me in their clunky attempts to move while kissing.
Unpleasant.
having written all of that, the great bits far outweighed the bits ruined by other people. Maybe I am destined to live alone with a cat, stare out of the window and get ratty when I can hear the noise from next door. But then I think maybe it's not too much to expect a festival such as Glastonbury to have a more laid-back atmosphere with more consideration for your fellow man. We were all in it together, but I just failed to feel the cameraderie I had known last year.
Expect more from me, now it's the summer holidays.
Sq.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Apologies
Despite feeling perhaps the most fluent I ever have, the blog has been taking a major back seat, as you can tell.
See, the education system is counter-productive. I spend my time learning about the religious reformations of the Tudor period, in order to completely buckle in the exam, and don't keep this thing current. Then I go and visit and old old library and some old old man tells me that you have to do no work for A-Levels any more. Like he's the authority on it.
Well, here you are; here's a token post, with a promise of more to come when this hellish ordeal is over.
Two years and many more besides,
For this paper and pen to decide
My future and destiny and all that shit,
But what's the point, if this is all it is.
Sq.
See, the education system is counter-productive. I spend my time learning about the religious reformations of the Tudor period, in order to completely buckle in the exam, and don't keep this thing current. Then I go and visit and old old library and some old old man tells me that you have to do no work for A-Levels any more. Like he's the authority on it.
Well, here you are; here's a token post, with a promise of more to come when this hellish ordeal is over.
Two years and many more besides,
For this paper and pen to decide
My future and destiny and all that shit,
But what's the point, if this is all it is.
Sq.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
May
Trail of Wax
Down the side of the beer bottle,
I trace the thin strip of wax;
Remember watching it roll,
Roll, liquid in the heat,
The way down the glass as it cooled.
Now, it sits stagnant, picked away
By long, bored nails.
And in the purpose of its existence
It fails.
sq.
Down the side of the beer bottle,
I trace the thin strip of wax;
Remember watching it roll,
Roll, liquid in the heat,
The way down the glass as it cooled.
Now, it sits stagnant, picked away
By long, bored nails.
And in the purpose of its existence
It fails.
sq.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Himglish and Femalese
I read an article today about a book called 'Himglish and Femalese' (or vice versa) which I found exceedingly enlightening.
It was about how men and women interpret what each other say in modern formats, for example texts, emails and tweets. It revealed that my long-term fear of being misunderstood by men when writing was in fact justified; a sad and disappointing revelation.
Men just cannot understand the nuances of online flirting (quite possibly because it is the most ridiculous platform for such an activity) and women spend time actively misinterpreting the meanings of what men write. This elementary inbalance in interpretation means one thing: it is almost impossible to flirt with a man (or woman) by any means other than in person.
Fact.
How interesting, then, that my generation have, in majority, spent much of their teenage years in front of a computer screen, socialising via the fingertips. I myself fear for my own social abilities. Now, I'm not saying that if it weren't for MSN and facebook I would be a socially adept and comfident character; I am merely wondering whether there will be noticeable effects in the so-called (somewhat condescendingly) 'MySpace generation' (because, presumably, that's all we've accomplished, along with our piss-easy A-Levels and some ASBOs).
It all makes me want to run outside and start talking to people. Come on, grab your coat and let's go for a drink.
Sq.
It was about how men and women interpret what each other say in modern formats, for example texts, emails and tweets. It revealed that my long-term fear of being misunderstood by men when writing was in fact justified; a sad and disappointing revelation.
Men just cannot understand the nuances of online flirting (quite possibly because it is the most ridiculous platform for such an activity) and women spend time actively misinterpreting the meanings of what men write. This elementary inbalance in interpretation means one thing: it is almost impossible to flirt with a man (or woman) by any means other than in person.
Fact.
How interesting, then, that my generation have, in majority, spent much of their teenage years in front of a computer screen, socialising via the fingertips. I myself fear for my own social abilities. Now, I'm not saying that if it weren't for MSN and facebook I would be a socially adept and comfident character; I am merely wondering whether there will be noticeable effects in the so-called (somewhat condescendingly) 'MySpace generation' (because, presumably, that's all we've accomplished, along with our piss-easy A-Levels and some ASBOs).
It all makes me want to run outside and start talking to people. Come on, grab your coat and let's go for a drink.
Sq.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Palpable Memory
>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkclIDu9K5c - Remember Me As A Time Of DayI'm looking at a green fabric-covered address book, on the office chair in front of me.
This relic has always lived in the house. Longer than me. I remember it; a strange thing perhaps, to recall, when so much else has been lost in the haze of passing time. I remember the smell. A false plant, perhaps, or was it real? It was spidery, a spider plant, and its pale green tendrils were veined with white.
They sat near the telephone, the adress book and plant, as companions on the waxy sill, seeing before them the same conifer and willow I see today, behind them a different lonely image, in tones of grey and brown. The sill is now smooth, as far as I recall, and the phone went years ago.
The numbers remain, in this clothy book, the front side slightly faded from facing the sun. The words written by hands now still, and messages which no longer relate.
Most emotive of all, the message in block capitals which reads "If anything happens to me, call..." and haunts my mind's eye. Was it fear, or as I sometimes wonder, a ready and knowing acceptance?
Fear is the uncompromising conquerer in my mind, at least.
This house knows me better than I know myself.
Sq.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
Captain von Trapp: My fellow Austrians, I shall not be seeing you again perhaps for a very long time. I would like to sing for you now... a love song.
What is 'The Sound of Music' about?
Religion; the idea that love for God can go hand in hand with sexual love, that just because you're not a nun doesn't mean you don't love God.
Love; a saccharine tale of two people from very different backgrounds who help each other find true happiness, through music, and the children they are responsible for. An idea of reward for good behaviour in life - "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good".
Wealth; an idea that wealth is not everything, shown through the comeuppance of the Baroness, and the eventual realisation of this fact for Max Dettweiler.
Childhood; the idea that childhood should not be constrained, a very romantic ideal that Maria brings to the Captain, and is eventually accepted.
No. For me, it's not really about anything of these things. Obviously, it is about all of these things, but in reality, it has one stand-out component; patriotism.
Not nationalism; in fact nationalism is the very thing it stands against, in its most extreme form, the third reich. Well, not it, the film, as such, but the character of Georg Von Trapp. Throughout the story, what with the general emphasis on Edelweiss, the austrian flower to which he sings his final love song, inspiring rapturous applause from the anschluss-fearing fellow Austrians; the focus on traditional Austrian customs, such as the dance which the Captain and Maria dance, the Lendler, and the pure Austrian-ness of the Lonely Goatherd. "More Strudel, Herr Dettweiler?"; the very same principle.
And then of course, there is the overt resistance to the anschluss which Von Trapp pulls out at the end; following the emotional rendition of 'Edelweiss', the family escape, to neutral Switzerland, over the mountains (by way of a curious Abbey scene consisting of hiding behind gravestones, which only ever showed me that Rolf is an absolute villain).
Displaying the Austrian flag at his party, confronting Nazi zealot Herr Zeller:
Herr Zeller: Perhaps those who would warn you that the Anschluss is coming - and it is coming, Captain - perhaps they would get further with you by setting their words to music.
Captain von Trapp: If the Nazis take over Austria, I have no doubt, Herr Zeller, that you will be the entire trumpet section.
Herr Zeller: You flatter me, Captain.
Captain von Trapp: Oh, how clumsy of me - I meant to accuse you.
Captain Von Trapp is a man who will stand for what he believes, stand against the regime which did, in the end, lead to so much loss, waste, regret and evil; and 'climb ev'ry mountain'. If only one Captain's stand could have prevented the war.
Here's a film made so much better by its element of truth behind the story.
Here's a film I love, if it's cool or not.
Sq.
Religion; the idea that love for God can go hand in hand with sexual love, that just because you're not a nun doesn't mean you don't love God.
Love; a saccharine tale of two people from very different backgrounds who help each other find true happiness, through music, and the children they are responsible for. An idea of reward for good behaviour in life - "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good".
Wealth; an idea that wealth is not everything, shown through the comeuppance of the Baroness, and the eventual realisation of this fact for Max Dettweiler.
Childhood; the idea that childhood should not be constrained, a very romantic ideal that Maria brings to the Captain, and is eventually accepted.
No. For me, it's not really about anything of these things. Obviously, it is about all of these things, but in reality, it has one stand-out component; patriotism.
Not nationalism; in fact nationalism is the very thing it stands against, in its most extreme form, the third reich. Well, not it, the film, as such, but the character of Georg Von Trapp. Throughout the story, what with the general emphasis on Edelweiss, the austrian flower to which he sings his final love song, inspiring rapturous applause from the anschluss-fearing fellow Austrians; the focus on traditional Austrian customs, such as the dance which the Captain and Maria dance, the Lendler, and the pure Austrian-ness of the Lonely Goatherd. "More Strudel, Herr Dettweiler?"; the very same principle.
And then of course, there is the overt resistance to the anschluss which Von Trapp pulls out at the end; following the emotional rendition of 'Edelweiss', the family escape, to neutral Switzerland, over the mountains (by way of a curious Abbey scene consisting of hiding behind gravestones, which only ever showed me that Rolf is an absolute villain).
Displaying the Austrian flag at his party, confronting Nazi zealot Herr Zeller:
Herr Zeller: Perhaps those who would warn you that the Anschluss is coming - and it is coming, Captain - perhaps they would get further with you by setting their words to music.
Captain von Trapp: If the Nazis take over Austria, I have no doubt, Herr Zeller, that you will be the entire trumpet section.
Herr Zeller: You flatter me, Captain.
Captain von Trapp: Oh, how clumsy of me - I meant to accuse you.
Captain Von Trapp is a man who will stand for what he believes, stand against the regime which did, in the end, lead to so much loss, waste, regret and evil; and 'climb ev'ry mountain'. If only one Captain's stand could have prevented the war.
Here's a film made so much better by its element of truth behind the story.
Here's a film I love, if it's cool or not.
Sq.
Friday, 24 April 2009
She said these wasp's nests in your head, These wasp's nests.
Today a wasp flew into my windscreen.
As I was ploughing through the air at a speed of 60mph, a piece of debris slammed into the glass in front of me. A piece of living, dying debris; a fear, a fuhrer of summer picnics.
Black wings, black body, punctuated by yellow hoops, an evil football strip, to terrify. There it was, prostrate, at my mercy. You can't sting your way through glass.
Its frail limbs struggled in the breeze, or perhaps there was still life in it. Trapped now between the screen and a wiper blade, it had no hope. Sadistically bent on revenge, I accelerated.
For all of the times you terrified me, wasps, this is my ultimate revenge.
I'm a terrible person, and I've made a terrible mistake.
Sq.
As I was ploughing through the air at a speed of 60mph, a piece of debris slammed into the glass in front of me. A piece of living, dying debris; a fear, a fuhrer of summer picnics.
Black wings, black body, punctuated by yellow hoops, an evil football strip, to terrify. There it was, prostrate, at my mercy. You can't sting your way through glass.
Its frail limbs struggled in the breeze, or perhaps there was still life in it. Trapped now between the screen and a wiper blade, it had no hope. Sadistically bent on revenge, I accelerated.
For all of the times you terrified me, wasps, this is my ultimate revenge.
I'm a terrible person, and I've made a terrible mistake.
Sq.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Victorian ice and Edwardian snow, You'll find yourself asking is there something below?
I spent some time in the snow, when it snowed all those days ago. On this very hill, in this very field. Now, it's a green field that I hardly recognise.
Is it strange that it's so mundane now, so banal and useless to me, when it was such a fairground before?
I was riding a bicycle through the lanes which meander through these fields and thought of the whiter times.
If anything I just felt warmer than the last time I'd visited these fields.
Snow melts. It's an ever useful metaphor for everything, isn't it. An over applied cliche which I have pandered to yet again. It really happened though - ay, there's the rub.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Under the snow and ice, a brush of normality stays hidden.
Sq.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
If Heaven and Hell decide, That they both are satisfied, Illuminate the 'NO's on their Vacancy signs...
The cost of inaction, procrastination.
What if I fail? What if I miserably fail to reach the bar they set? It's so easy. Every day that passes I get closer to falling, to failing and being a disappointed disappointment.
The 19th of August 2009; I won't sleep.
The 20th August 2009; Will decide my fate.
Of all the writers I'd love to study, how many would agree with me feeling so completely shit just for wanting to study them with people as enthusiastic as me, and learn from people who know so much more than me? Is it right to be able to give me such uncompromising criteria to meet to study the works of humans like myself, when those works are available to every man?
Not that I wish to devalue the degree. I want more than anything to learn from the experts, to become an expert myself. I suppose I want it so much that it's easier to deny that I can get it, in case I don't.
I guess I'm just terrified of falling short.
And I really hate History A-Level.
Sq.
What if I fail? What if I miserably fail to reach the bar they set? It's so easy. Every day that passes I get closer to falling, to failing and being a disappointed disappointment.
The 19th of August 2009; I won't sleep.
The 20th August 2009; Will decide my fate.
Of all the writers I'd love to study, how many would agree with me feeling so completely shit just for wanting to study them with people as enthusiastic as me, and learn from people who know so much more than me? Is it right to be able to give me such uncompromising criteria to meet to study the works of humans like myself, when those works are available to every man?
Not that I wish to devalue the degree. I want more than anything to learn from the experts, to become an expert myself. I suppose I want it so much that it's easier to deny that I can get it, in case I don't.
I guess I'm just terrified of falling short.
And I really hate History A-Level.
Sq.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
This is what you do to me, I close my eyes so I can't see, You let your love rain down on me
Love Reign Over Me - David Holmes (plays in background of clip)
Keep shut: Your mouth.
Telling you doesn't change anything, though. Maybe talking doesn't get us
anywhere. Typing to an invisible ether, to try and cleanse my soul. I convince myself it works, sometimes. Maybe none of this makes sense.
Something that does make sense is reading. Even if it doesn't resolve things, it lets you know there are others who can't resolve it too. The best response to a poem, in terms of emotional redemption, is perhaps the knowing 'Yeeaahh...', accompanied by a slow nod.
Surely that is the point of literature- of reading it, anyway; to find out that you are far from alone in the world. It's populated with people seeing things like you do and, while you may find absolute fucking idiots with no apparent regard for your feelings, there are those who exist who see what you see, and there is an unexplained comfort in that.
Sq.Wednesday, 25 March 2009
We walked under neon skies, you know it made me wonder why, why all the frequencies combine, for the cleaner brighter light.
British Sea Power - Lights Out For Darker Skies
I want to wrap the town in daisy chains and paint everything with a morning dew. I want to live among fireflies and drink mead in the dusky light, with the evening leaves turned teal. As the sun goes down I want to breathe the flowers and the damp beads forming atop the grass, and I want to collapse onto blankets on mossy pillows, my face vaguely illuminated by the single flames of waxen candles.
Sq.
I want to wrap the town in daisy chains and paint everything with a morning dew. I want to live among fireflies and drink mead in the dusky light, with the evening leaves turned teal. As the sun goes down I want to breathe the flowers and the damp beads forming atop the grass, and I want to collapse onto blankets on mossy pillows, my face vaguely illuminated by the single flames of waxen candles.
Sq.
Monday, 23 March 2009
Sunday.
It seems to me like it all changed on Saturday night. It was the end of a week of sun and happiness; of times that I'll never forget simply because they were bathed in warm light. Then it was time for work, back to the daily grind. 
"We need to rage through this life. "
As soon as Saturday was over, it was clear that things were final, as the clouds closed, heavy on the endless blue that had extended above us before.
So it's time to close it and wait for the next portal to happiness.
I'm trying to st
op associating songs, films, books, pictures, ideas, memories and words with things I don't like to remember, and I'm attempting to educate myself out of this habit simply by listening to/looking at (etc...) these things until their original neutrality is regained.
op associating songs, films, books, pictures, ideas, memories and words with things I don't like to remember, and I'm attempting to educate myself out of this habit simply by listening to/looking at (etc...) these things until their original neutrality is regained. As Coleridge basically said in The Nightingale, we shouldn't transpose our own (melancholy) meanings onto the things that nature (and, i suppose, general life) has given us in good faith. No nightingale comes into the world believing its song is infinitely sad, just as no song comes with a pre-packaged memory you should attach to it. Nick Hornby, a more modern voice on the subject asks:
"What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?" (Well, John Cusack said it, but Nick Hornby thought it)
Just because I listened to it then doesn't mean I can't love it again, now. Having said that, I'm not sure that I will ever completely lose this flaw in my personality. I take things and make them apply to me, and that's the way it is. (It's like that...)
"If there's one thing I can never confess, it's that I can't dance a single step. It's you. It's me. And it's dancing."
New songs make it all the better.
Sq.
Saturday, 21 March 2009
A glutton for punishment?
It seems I am.
Okay, these two things are exactly the same:
1) Becoming good friends with someone knowing they are about to leave for six months.
2) Getting into Pete Doherty when it looks like he might drop dead at any second.
I chose to do both. There are many other times that I have known that things would end less than preferably and have still dived in head first - those stories populate former posts; feel free to trawl through the archives as I always say.
Pete Doherty's new material seems far better than anything I've ever heard from him before. I keep finding new tracks, thinking 'I really won't like this' and being proved wrong. I am not jumping on any bandwagons as far as I know, I don't think anyone's particularly more enamoured with his new stuff than his old. My saddening disenchantment with the NME has led me to care not what they say any longer, so I don't know about them.
As far as my good friend goes... I hope he has a wonderful time.
You have to go and find your life, don't you. It's never just there.
Not for most people. Oh, and I have no regrets.
Hope it's all going well for whoever reads this.
Sq.
Okay, these two things are exactly the same:
1) Becoming good friends with someone knowing they are about to leave for six months.
2) Getting into Pete Doherty when it looks like he might drop dead at any second.
I chose to do both. There are many other times that I have known that things would end less than preferably and have still dived in head first - those stories populate former posts; feel free to trawl through the archives as I always say.
Pete Doherty's new material seems far better than anything I've ever heard from him before. I keep finding new tracks, thinking 'I really won't like this' and being proved wrong. I am not jumping on any bandwagons as far as I know, I don't think anyone's particularly more enamoured with his new stuff than his old. My saddening disenchantment with the NME has led me to care not what they say any longer, so I don't know about them.
As far as my good friend goes... I hope he has a wonderful time.
You have to go and find your life, don't you. It's never just there.
Not for most people. Oh, and I have no regrets.
Hope it's all going well for whoever reads this.
Sq.
Monday, 16 March 2009
What's the Word?
Ever tried spelling things out in alphabet magnets? Do, it's the best fun. For about 99p you can go mental with words and phrases that make no sense, or communicate your feelings to those around you in an awesome way. Sort of like facebook updates or Twitter for children (and me). 
So, I'm planning on uploading a photo of my magnetic 'Titanic' board every time I blog, so that you can see how I'm feeling, all visual like. Today, I'm feeling 'Dafodilz New Era'; although the first word is spelled wrong with a creatively used Q for a D, I think it fully sums up the sunny afternoon. I picked daffodils on the way home, feeling all Wordsworth-esque and pretty happy.
Isn't life acceptable when you have alphabet magnets and the sun is shining.
Sq.
(By the way, I took these photos. These are the very daffodils I picked)
Monday, 9 March 2009
Weekends and Bleak Days
The finer things in life. Not products, moments; sat on a shitty little beach towel, sand blowing in your sausage rolls and self deprecation, deprecation in general. These things happen and everything's pretty much alright. You find an afternoon, a day go by without thinking of the crap that isn't in front of you. Weekends can be the best days of my life.
Then it's back to the bleak days and it's all back. I need the weekend to redeem my soul, and the daily grind just takes me back to where I started. What's the point in all this redemption if it's gone when I get back to the day-to-day? There isn't a point. None of it is particulalry pointful. Sometimes sat on a beach, or being with friends and laughing can make it all clear for a moment, but the majority of time is spent wondering why those times are the exception.
The quality of the sand... The firmness of the ground... Imported sand and deported ground... From beneath my feet.
Sq.
Friday, 6 March 2009
These five gears and wheels could drive to her/But this carriageway can't take me there
As some of you may know, I have recently become obsessed with two documentaries on BBC4 on Thursday nights. I think it's just a general fault of my personality that I become obsessed with things. Both of them concern travel, especially in cars. This week, 'Touring Britain' used 1930s and 1960s Shell driving guides to explore Cornwall and Dorset, and it was a lovely way of seeing how people embraced the changing face of the landscape to include motors, depsite their (well-founded) fears of change. Secondly, 'Michael Smith's Drivetime' took a look at people who live on the road; funfair families, lorry drivers. He grows more angry at roads and cars with every episode, making me question why he decided to do the program in the first place, but his lyrical style and surprisingly fluid conceptions of how roads changed Britain make it a worhtwhile watch.
It's a fact that driving changes your life; I recently passed my test and see the changes in my life all the time. I even listen to music and wonder whether it would be good to drive to - for example the glorious 'Tonight' by Franz Ferdinand. I bought the two disc edition, which comes with the dub version of the album; almost a 'Hyde' to disc one's 'Jekyll'. I highly recommend doing so, as the second disc, entitled 'Blood' is almost another album, so it's great value- and the dub versions are fantastically weird and moody.
However, as far as driving to music goes, I did what everyone should, and made a playlist on my iPod consisting of 'Cars' by Gary Numan and several other care related tunes; 'Backseat Love' by NERD, 'On The Motorway' and subsequently 'Back on The Motorway' by Metronomy were in there too. Since my little car has a tape deck, I tend to waver between using the tape/iPod adapter and using 50p tapes I pick up from oxfam. There is also something to be said for the mixtape, the lost art of romance in music. I'm loving the tape, to be honest, and all of its bohemian, 90's excellence. Plus, it stops me being tempted to change tracks while driving, a proper safety plus.
Beep. Sq.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
The Beauty of Betjeman
Lies in the simplicity of his words.
With a poet like Wordsworth, Coleridge, Hardy or Blake, there is sometimes a certain masking of meaning with the words, which simply isn't present with Betjeman. In the introduction to the edition I have of collected Betjeman poetry, Hugo Williams writes:
"He lays out his wares for us to judge my his own standards, not his. Instead of a manifesto we get the whole man."
This is an idea I am wholly on board with, and while it has prompted criticism, from snobs and purists, it doesn't, and couldn't stop the ultimate end of poetry being fulfilled; people read it, and enjoy it. In fact, Betjeman's popularity seems fuelled by this accessible style, allowing people without the patience (perhaps) or trained eye of a metaphor specialist to enjoy poetry, and delight in the true purpose of this (to some degree) lost art; to feel like there are others out there who feel your feelings.
I urge you to read some Betjeman.
Sq.
With a poet like Wordsworth, Coleridge, Hardy or Blake, there is sometimes a certain masking of meaning with the words, which simply isn't present with Betjeman. In the introduction to the edition I have of collected Betjeman poetry, Hugo Williams writes:
"He lays out his wares for us to judge my his own standards, not his. Instead of a manifesto we get the whole man."
This is an idea I am wholly on board with, and while it has prompted criticism, from snobs and purists, it doesn't, and couldn't stop the ultimate end of poetry being fulfilled; people read it, and enjoy it. In fact, Betjeman's popularity seems fuelled by this accessible style, allowing people without the patience (perhaps) or trained eye of a metaphor specialist to enjoy poetry, and delight in the true purpose of this (to some degree) lost art; to feel like there are others out there who feel your feelings.
I urge you to read some Betjeman.
Sq.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
I'm starting the year again.
1st January 2009.
So, it's the beginning of the new year.
Watch/listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NzECTWzvYc
So, it's the beginning of the new year.
Watch/listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NzECTWzvYc
It's going to be a good one! This will be a better year. So far, what have I done? Well...
Got up, had a shower, thought about starting again, decided to do it, and got on my blog. Harlem Shakes make things easier. I like it when music makes a decision for you, there's something of the religious about it. I don't follow the bible, I follow my iTunes library, or elbo.ws, or youtube.
Today, I plan to do lots of work. I was going to go outside and do something, but as soon as I got up, the sun went in. I hate that.
And cleaning; a new start, demanding the removal of lots of old things. Lovely.
Happy 2009!
Delusional Sq.
Monday, 2 March 2009
Don't let the silence get you down, though you've been sitting here for hours.
I recently questioned a loss of something I held dear.
In the end, I saw that it made room for all the other things I could hold dearer.
I keep managing to do this, and I feel like I'm finally learning from my mistakes. Friend to more than friends is like one of those chemical reactions which is irreversible. Or so I've found in my life to date, I'm ready to be proven wrong.
Anyway, I'm getting fed up of talking like this.
Have you ever thought about the difference between a dustmite and a mountain? I have. I do all the time. I'm sure you do too. It's so vast, it seems impossible. You look at a mountain, manage to comprehend it, then get the confusing image of a tiny, microscopic dustmite in your brain. It throws it all out of proportion, yet obviously completely into proportion.
And then there's you, stood between the mountain and the dustmite; you, the mountain to the dustmite, the mountain looking at you as if a dustmite. You feel oddly included and at the same time excluded in the huge scale of everything.
In early modern times, they had a concept of the 'Great Chain of Being'; everything and everyone had its place in the ranking. Kind of like a TMF top 100 one-hit-wonders, but instead of 100, everything, and instead of one-hit-wonders... everything.
I wonder sometimes where I'd be, stood under the mountain, next to that dustmite.
Sq.
In the end, I saw that it made room for all the other things I could hold dearer.
I keep managing to do this, and I feel like I'm finally learning from my mistakes. Friend to more than friends is like one of those chemical reactions which is irreversible. Or so I've found in my life to date, I'm ready to be proven wrong.
Anyway, I'm getting fed up of talking like this.
Have you ever thought about the difference between a dustmite and a mountain? I have. I do all the time. I'm sure you do too. It's so vast, it seems impossible. You look at a mountain, manage to comprehend it, then get the confusing image of a tiny, microscopic dustmite in your brain. It throws it all out of proportion, yet obviously completely into proportion.
And then there's you, stood between the mountain and the dustmite; you, the mountain to the dustmite, the mountain looking at you as if a dustmite. You feel oddly included and at the same time excluded in the huge scale of everything.
In early modern times, they had a concept of the 'Great Chain of Being'; everything and everyone had its place in the ranking. Kind of like a TMF top 100 one-hit-wonders, but instead of 100, everything, and instead of one-hit-wonders... everything.
I wonder sometimes where I'd be, stood under the mountain, next to that dustmite.
Sq.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Too many times we've been postally pipped.
Haha, what a l-o-l-able lyric from my new beau, Elbow.
Anyway, it's all good. I hope you're good. I am good. I keep having these terrible moments of literary inspiration, where I think of some phrase, idea, sentence of even word which I think of using later, but never write down. I can't remember any of them. Anyway, onwards and upwards. I'll have to keep a pen and notebook on me at all times, and not be lazy when they come to me at night.
Those times of infinite struggle between being nearly asleep and being epically inspired are a nightmare.
Speaking of nightmares, I've had a few. I don't know whether this is normal, but since 'the change' in my marital status, I have been suffering from taunting dreams of the way it was before. Dreams where I end up pleading, and being accepted and things going back to normal. They were sickening, worrying dreams and they stopped me getting on with things for about half an hour every morning. However, the night before last I had a dream where I, in the latter stages of the 'reconciliation' within the dream, said that I didn't want to, mainly because of people's opinion of me being lowered; being perceived as a weakling.
It's important to make clear that fact that I never would do any of the things my earlier dreams depicted.
And so, I thought that perhaps if I continued to dream the dreams until they became dreams of my strength and refusal to return to the previous relationship, I would know that the book was well and truly closed within me.
Last night I dreamt that we were just friends. Straightforward friends, and it led to a half happy, half sad (but prevalently happy) feeling when I woke up. I hope that this means I can progress both in my dreams and in real life; I used to quote Gabrielle's "Dreams can come true", but here it was a case of my own mental state (dreams) cathing up with reality. I feel like they have.
And it's good.
And it's great.
(Euphoria)
Sq.
Anyway, it's all good. I hope you're good. I am good. I keep having these terrible moments of literary inspiration, where I think of some phrase, idea, sentence of even word which I think of using later, but never write down. I can't remember any of them. Anyway, onwards and upwards. I'll have to keep a pen and notebook on me at all times, and not be lazy when they come to me at night.
Those times of infinite struggle between being nearly asleep and being epically inspired are a nightmare.
Speaking of nightmares, I've had a few. I don't know whether this is normal, but since 'the change' in my marital status, I have been suffering from taunting dreams of the way it was before. Dreams where I end up pleading, and being accepted and things going back to normal. They were sickening, worrying dreams and they stopped me getting on with things for about half an hour every morning. However, the night before last I had a dream where I, in the latter stages of the 'reconciliation' within the dream, said that I didn't want to, mainly because of people's opinion of me being lowered; being perceived as a weakling.
It's important to make clear that fact that I never would do any of the things my earlier dreams depicted.
And so, I thought that perhaps if I continued to dream the dreams until they became dreams of my strength and refusal to return to the previous relationship, I would know that the book was well and truly closed within me.
Last night I dreamt that we were just friends. Straightforward friends, and it led to a half happy, half sad (but prevalently happy) feeling when I woke up. I hope that this means I can progress both in my dreams and in real life; I used to quote Gabrielle's "Dreams can come true", but here it was a case of my own mental state (dreams) cathing up with reality. I feel like they have.
And it's good.
And it's great.
(Euphoria)
Sq.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
"The Future's twisted, righteousness is coming back around.
A lovely British Sea Power lyric.
So, I'm really going to do this; I'm going to blog about something major. 'Breaking-up', this big fat thing that happens to people that happened to me. It's pretty weird; it wasn't my choice by any means, but then there had been all these undercurrents of lies etc. for a while, I guess. I was always worried about it. I won't go into specifics, I guess they aren't relevant if you don't already know them.
REDEMPTIVE - that's the word I was looking for earlier. I was trying to remember the romantic ideal, the power of nature for restoration of ourselves, and it's 'redemptive'. Must remember that.
Anyway, so I guess when you realise a part of your life is shut off so suddenly, that's the hardest bit to take. That I'll not be seeing people that I saw so frequently before, that I won't be going back to those places that were so friendly last time I visited, and that I'm not allowed to feel things I felt moments before. It's not (and I'm not being cruel, just honest) that I'll miss the person in question so much, as that I'll miss everything they were in my life. The joining of two people is never just that; it's something with infinite implications. He won't be in my house again, most probably. He'll never see things that he saw before, and neither will I.
It's difficult to comprehend, though not without its warnings, and I am shocked and upset, but by no means a victim. It's not secret that it was not an epic romance, it was what it was and now it's encapsulated in history. How much of it I'll remember a year from now I'm not so sure, but for now, while the wound is still crusting over, it's a funny thing, something that maybe I regret and maybe I don't, but something that was doomed from its inception - not in a dramatic way, I think we both knew it was - and it's just a case of coming to terms with the way that this happens.
What helps so much is friends, family; the people that don't break up with you, no matter who else they want. To have someone on the other end of a phone, the other end of a hug, just there waiting to tell you they love you is the best thing in the world. I thank you!
And so, with episodes of Masterchef and a cathartic popping of helium balloons, I bid him farewell; goodnight, travel well. When we could never say goodbye, we were holding on to something slowly releasing us from our grip; in a way, the beginning was the start of the real goodbye.
We walked the plank on a sinking ship.
I love you in the morning.
Whose house? Run's house...
And it's done.
Sq.
P.s - Sq's tip for writing inspiration - get into a relationship, and then be broken up with. It gets the old juices flowing.
So, I'm really going to do this; I'm going to blog about something major. 'Breaking-up', this big fat thing that happens to people that happened to me. It's pretty weird; it wasn't my choice by any means, but then there had been all these undercurrents of lies etc. for a while, I guess. I was always worried about it. I won't go into specifics, I guess they aren't relevant if you don't already know them.
REDEMPTIVE - that's the word I was looking for earlier. I was trying to remember the romantic ideal, the power of nature for restoration of ourselves, and it's 'redemptive'. Must remember that.
Anyway, so I guess when you realise a part of your life is shut off so suddenly, that's the hardest bit to take. That I'll not be seeing people that I saw so frequently before, that I won't be going back to those places that were so friendly last time I visited, and that I'm not allowed to feel things I felt moments before. It's not (and I'm not being cruel, just honest) that I'll miss the person in question so much, as that I'll miss everything they were in my life. The joining of two people is never just that; it's something with infinite implications. He won't be in my house again, most probably. He'll never see things that he saw before, and neither will I.
It's difficult to comprehend, though not without its warnings, and I am shocked and upset, but by no means a victim. It's not secret that it was not an epic romance, it was what it was and now it's encapsulated in history. How much of it I'll remember a year from now I'm not so sure, but for now, while the wound is still crusting over, it's a funny thing, something that maybe I regret and maybe I don't, but something that was doomed from its inception - not in a dramatic way, I think we both knew it was - and it's just a case of coming to terms with the way that this happens.
What helps so much is friends, family; the people that don't break up with you, no matter who else they want. To have someone on the other end of a phone, the other end of a hug, just there waiting to tell you they love you is the best thing in the world. I thank you!
And so, with episodes of Masterchef and a cathartic popping of helium balloons, I bid him farewell; goodnight, travel well. When we could never say goodbye, we were holding on to something slowly releasing us from our grip; in a way, the beginning was the start of the real goodbye.
We walked the plank on a sinking ship.
I love you in the morning.
Whose house? Run's house...
And it's done.
Sq.
P.s - Sq's tip for writing inspiration - get into a relationship, and then be broken up with. It gets the old juices flowing.
Monday, 23 February 2009
If you've got a head for figures then you'd better count me out/Almost beaten to the punch
Yelled Elvis Costello on his superior album 'Get Happy'. Good stuff.
So, is it wrong that I don't like William Wordsworth?
I feel like it is. I feel like, as an english literature student, I should be loving the Lyrical Ballads; I don't. And when I do, its Coleridge's poetry that I prefer. Here's why.
1) He (Wordsworth) over-sentimentalises things. I know that in the introduction he says he's looking at people in the extremes of emotion, and that's fine, but it makes it all seem so... implausible.
2) His style; his choice of words, although I get that they're ballads and have to be long and a bit sing-songy, it annoys me and I don't like reading it.
3) They hardly ever 'pack a punch'. All too often a poem that has rambled on for 4 pages concludes with almost nothing resolved, nothing really said, and you have to do A LOT of interpreting to get to any 'message'. And it's usually the same one; Nature is awesome. For everyone.
I get that it was a seminal publication at the time, that it was revolutionary and all that... But I just don't think it's that relevant. Not that I shouldn't be studying it, I should, I want to. I just don't love it.
Not so Sq.
So, is it wrong that I don't like William Wordsworth?
I feel like it is. I feel like, as an english literature student, I should be loving the Lyrical Ballads; I don't. And when I do, its Coleridge's poetry that I prefer. Here's why.
1) He (Wordsworth) over-sentimentalises things. I know that in the introduction he says he's looking at people in the extremes of emotion, and that's fine, but it makes it all seem so... implausible.
2) His style; his choice of words, although I get that they're ballads and have to be long and a bit sing-songy, it annoys me and I don't like reading it.
3) They hardly ever 'pack a punch'. All too often a poem that has rambled on for 4 pages concludes with almost nothing resolved, nothing really said, and you have to do A LOT of interpreting to get to any 'message'. And it's usually the same one; Nature is awesome. For everyone.
I get that it was a seminal publication at the time, that it was revolutionary and all that... But I just don't think it's that relevant. Not that I shouldn't be studying it, I should, I want to. I just don't love it.
Not so Sq.
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Give me moments, not hours a day.
Something happened just now.
I realised I'm nothing like I hoped I would be. When I was 15, I thought I'd be something with a lot more integrity than I have right now. When I was 16, I wanted to be a bohemian revolutionary. When I was 17, I declined into mindless chit-chat and at 18 I'm unhappy and doing everything for god knows what reason.
The pressure outside my vessel tries to compound me into this shape, this mediocre, censored shape of a person I can't recognise, and I'm wrestling with the walls that fall in on me, but it's a tough job.
Where's my identity? I seem to have misplaced it.
I left it with the people I lost touch with, with the ideals I forgot about and the bits of life that hide in the corners of my mind.
Like the shoe shop that used to be where Wetherspoon's is.
Or the way I read a book about philosophy when I was 12.
And the way I, just days ago, described my life as 'Bloc Party, breathing steam on a cold winter morning', as if it was, when I really only wish it could be.
Sq.
I realised I'm nothing like I hoped I would be. When I was 15, I thought I'd be something with a lot more integrity than I have right now. When I was 16, I wanted to be a bohemian revolutionary. When I was 17, I declined into mindless chit-chat and at 18 I'm unhappy and doing everything for god knows what reason.
The pressure outside my vessel tries to compound me into this shape, this mediocre, censored shape of a person I can't recognise, and I'm wrestling with the walls that fall in on me, but it's a tough job.
Where's my identity? I seem to have misplaced it.
I left it with the people I lost touch with, with the ideals I forgot about and the bits of life that hide in the corners of my mind.
Like the shoe shop that used to be where Wetherspoon's is.
Or the way I read a book about philosophy when I was 12.
And the way I, just days ago, described my life as 'Bloc Party, breathing steam on a cold winter morning', as if it was, when I really only wish it could be.
Sq.
Just one of those days when...
Nothing seems right.
When you buy the papers and it's all gone bad, and you think about the future and it's so uncertain you can't even picture it. When you listen to a song and it just doesn't mean the same as it used to, when you take a break because you have to.
One of those days where your head feels blurry, where you really need a drink and a laugh, but all you get is a mouthful of sand and a kick in the teeth. A day like my day.
A day where 12.15am is still today but all of it really happened yesterday.
Doesn't make much sense.
When you buy the papers and it's all gone bad, and you think about the future and it's so uncertain you can't even picture it. When you listen to a song and it just doesn't mean the same as it used to, when you take a break because you have to.
One of those days where your head feels blurry, where you really need a drink and a laugh, but all you get is a mouthful of sand and a kick in the teeth. A day like my day.
A day where 12.15am is still today but all of it really happened yesterday.
Doesn't make much sense.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
"Just a line in a song" - Part one of four.
Welcome to the first of four weekly posts which Square is giving you. Take it, take it and enjoy it and love it forever.
I'm going to pick a song each week with some kind of interesting twist or that I just like, and talk about it in typings. My first, for this week, is 'Porcelain', by Moby. Listening to this song, as I have many times, I realised that the lyrics were in stark contrast with the music. Listen on youtube:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=D1Fcaro25Ek
What are your perceptions of it so far? I thought that it was a pretty song, a song with a haunting but ultimately lovely sound, and one which could only talk of love. But no. Well, sort of; it's some good old bog-standard heartbreak. The lyrics, when you listen, tell a story of the deep frustration and angst of a love which was never fully returned, and the final break of that relationship. Through the contrast of lyric and melody, you feel some of the parodoxical contentment that the finality brings, with the regret and heartbreak of a severed love.
The inclusion of dreams and ideas of mortality in the verses synthesises the melody and lyrics in a way, as the ethereal piano and vocal, with the soft beat, all conjoin to make a record of that well known self-pitying (though no less valid for it) despair which comes from "This is goodbye".
Moby - Porcelain
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
In my dreams I'm dying all the time
Then I wake its kaleidoscopic mind
I never meant to hurt youI never meant to lie
So this is goodbye
This is goodbye
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Tell the truth you never wanted me
Tell me...
In my dreams I'm jealous all the time
Then I wake I'm going out of my mind
Going out of my mind
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Here, only half of the story is told, as after 'Tell me...' you really do get the sense of knowing your relationship is doomed. As the piano soars, the vocal kicks back in, it's a content yet conflicted contradiction, which just 'fits'.
The final aspect of the song is the self deprecation of the lover who has done wrong. The cliched "I never meant to hurt you, I never meant to lie" recreates the trite wording of a familiar feeling, something everyone understands.
Porcelain is about porcelain, how breakable and fragile it is, and dropping it on the floor, looking at all the pieces and admitting that you can't stick it back together.
I'm going to pick a song each week with some kind of interesting twist or that I just like, and talk about it in typings. My first, for this week, is 'Porcelain', by Moby. Listening to this song, as I have many times, I realised that the lyrics were in stark contrast with the music. Listen on youtube:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=D1Fcaro25Ek
What are your perceptions of it so far? I thought that it was a pretty song, a song with a haunting but ultimately lovely sound, and one which could only talk of love. But no. Well, sort of; it's some good old bog-standard heartbreak. The lyrics, when you listen, tell a story of the deep frustration and angst of a love which was never fully returned, and the final break of that relationship. Through the contrast of lyric and melody, you feel some of the parodoxical contentment that the finality brings, with the regret and heartbreak of a severed love.
The inclusion of dreams and ideas of mortality in the verses synthesises the melody and lyrics in a way, as the ethereal piano and vocal, with the soft beat, all conjoin to make a record of that well known self-pitying (though no less valid for it) despair which comes from "This is goodbye".
Moby - Porcelain
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
In my dreams I'm dying all the time
Then I wake its kaleidoscopic mind
I never meant to hurt youI never meant to lie
So this is goodbye
This is goodbye
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Tell the truth you never wanted me
Tell me...
In my dreams I'm jealous all the time
Then I wake I'm going out of my mind
Going out of my mind
Hey, Hey, Hey, Woman, it's alright.
Here, only half of the story is told, as after 'Tell me...' you really do get the sense of knowing your relationship is doomed. As the piano soars, the vocal kicks back in, it's a content yet conflicted contradiction, which just 'fits'.
The final aspect of the song is the self deprecation of the lover who has done wrong. The cliched "I never meant to hurt you, I never meant to lie" recreates the trite wording of a familiar feeling, something everyone understands.
Porcelain is about porcelain, how breakable and fragile it is, and dropping it on the floor, looking at all the pieces and admitting that you can't stick it back together.
Thursday, 15 January 2009
The Insult of the Ancyent Marinere...
As I have recently been studying Coleridge's epic poem 'The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere', I noticed that many of the lines of the poem serve superbly as insults, which really pack a punch. If you fancy really pressing someone's buttons, I recommend any of the following snappy lines:
'Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon!'
[You are as]'...broad as a weft'
'with black lips bak'd'
[You are covered in] 'mouldy damps and charnel crust
They're patch'd with purple and green.'
'Her skin is as white as leprosy'
'Her flesh makes the still air cold.'
'a ghastly crew'
'their stony eyeballs'
'it has a fiendish look'
'full plain I see,
The devil knows how to row.'
So there you go. Go away now, and offend at your will!
Cheerio
Sq.
'Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon!'
[You are as]'...broad as a weft'
'with black lips bak'd'
[You are covered in] 'mouldy damps and charnel crust
They're patch'd with purple and green.'
'Her skin is as white as leprosy'
'Her flesh makes the still air cold.'
'a ghastly crew'
'their stony eyeballs'
'it has a fiendish look'
'full plain I see,
The devil knows how to row.'
So there you go. Go away now, and offend at your will!
Cheerio
Sq.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)