shipwreck story

An old story surfaced today, like something from the deep. Ever the optimist and ready to embrace my calling. Right then, let's hope we can salvage something from the hold before her back breaks... like a scavenging horde, descending the cliffs and surgeing across the slippery rocks, I crash through the breakers... or something like that.

Ripping Yarns

Getting ripped, gently, at home. The plan was for Brick Lane, instead I’ve been nursing a domestic broadband failure, and contemplating a degradation of other, more fundamental, domestic affairs. Calls to the help-line seem to have facilitated a resumption of DSL services. Stephen Malkmus recording (Craigs)in background, off-key lazy blues. What else, it inspired ripping some stuff via limewire, cleaning the kitchen, attempting to ventilate the flat, and oh yeah… meditations on love, the thorny spectre of commitment, sharing space, and notions of the right thing to do.

This place is home, but I’m somehow alone... More gentle discordant effects from the back room, the day bright and warm despite the low cloud. Out of nowhere comes a beautiful and reassuring sensation that everything is gonna be okay, for all of us, even if we can’t have it the way that we might want it. A lot of it is just comedown, a temporary and partly self-inflicted malaise.

Great Haywire night out Friday, courtesy of Andy W – an accomplished, extended set. Assured technique, quirky sensitivity, and a dexterity with loops and effects. The funky but distinctly psychedelic ambience followed by an ethereal dawn walk to Tower Bridge. 30 hours later there’s a sense of too much electronically, and chemically, generated hedonism.

I’m sensible, but I gotta take a little more care, in lot of ways, not just the obvious. This episode is nicely rounded off with a partial download of The Cure’s Carnage Visors, and no I’m not gonna go into the significance of that track now, save to say its the the soundtrack of a short film I saw at the Hammersmith Palais, in 1981.

Solar-lunar

Walked the length of the Serpentine this evening, the first balmy evening of the year, and still the soft psychosis of full-moon prevails. Again I found myself thinking of the monks, and the abbots assertion that when one recognises their vocation, when it comes up and greets them, there can be no mistaking, denying or foregoing it. The birds sang and the traffic died away, and I had a lovely chat with Lloyd... and I felt time slipping down beyond the horizon.

After the other nights musings on the meaning of life, I lay in bed and traced the moon as it moved across the width of the bay window. It exuded a light so intense that it bled through the blinds, like a 100w bulb, so brightly that I forgot it was reflecting the light of the sun, momentarily seduced into believing it was a star in itself. Looking back, it was this night when the current existensialist theme, or meme, probably originated - with Trisha. A woman enduring a series of nervous-compulsive disorders. She was suffering, so they asserted, an acute crisis of confidence. As with more than one of the wannabe monks, this notion, or subject, of whether we avoid or accep big personal issues, situations, consequences. The impulse to escape them is real and present, but then they never get solved.

The lunacy foretold in this display has continued to influence proceedings at work and play, although I’m glad to say I’ve found some peaceful moments amongst the requirements of the E720 project. The trauma of last week has given way to a comparatively managable workload and responsibility, but in essence these are confused and significant days. Something more than the now waning moon threatens to bleach the bones of whoever I am, where I think I’m headed, or suppose or desire to be.

Well I Just Can't Help Believing

This might all sound very obvious, even simplistic. But I promise you it didn't when I began to write it...

You never stop being confronted with stuff you’d rather not experience. I’m not talking about extreme personal grief, a family tragedy or witnessing the death of a dying pet. I’m talking about everyday crises of identity, ideas about personal conduct, and concepts of spiritual growth. All of these events commence early in our lives, and we invariably assume, amidst the initial confusion, that they are a temporary thing, that such experiences are an infernal and yet necessary element of the initiation into adulthood.

Only later do we realise we are still enduring a variety of chaotic situations, excruciating dilemmas, painful truths. We slowly come to accept that these situations will most likely continue until we have settled down, sorted our career, marriage, embraced, or indeed resoundingly rejected the social conventions that bind the societies we have been born into.

But again it’s just not so. The obstructions and distractions of our lives continue apace with our immersion into adult life. I’m talking about matters of personal conscience – professional misdemeanours, dilemmas with friends, failed romances. And beyond these, more ethereal questions of existence, moments of self-revelation, and encounters with faith.

At the heart of all of these sublime experiences lies the idea of God (in whatever shape or form he might take), and the nexus of personal morality, the impulse to behave in compliance with an internal sense of right and wrong. Indeed it's partly how we aquire an understanding of what right and wrong means… how we evolve and aquire the ability to distinguish between these two supposedly clearly distinguishable concepts. This is a science, and mystic event, in itself.

This was the core of material explored in the second part of The Monastary, 5 men spending 6 weeks devoted to an exploration of their spiritual life via meditation, discussion and isolation. The dynamics of the group were as fascinating as the contrasting motivations of those taking part, and quite moving. But when it gently came to a close, what it left me with was the revelation that the moral or ethical challenges we face are always behind the personal crisis. They are what fuel the impulse, they initiate the requirement to explore, define and objectify our existence, to work through and learn from our finite existence.

And yet this is not how we ‘rationalise’ our lives. When we meditate on the course we persue in our lives, this is invariably not how we perceive or define our objectives, here on this mortal coil. Quite the opposite, because on a social level, even during the moments we treasure as our most intimate and special, we spend the majority of our energy trying to escape or avoid the very real, and universal, quest for enlightenment. We’re too busy creating pedestals, or digging bunkers, for ourselves.

You can't defend yourself against something that is continually knocking on your door, you can only attempt to ignore it, or open the door.

Win some, lose some

No theme or method behind this entry, just found myself at home early enough for Ch4 News and realised it's a long time since I saw what was going on in the world. The usual mix of chaos, pathos and surreality. I'm pretty certain that the perceived detatchment from world affairs is connected with an increase in the tone and tempo of my social life, and less time in front of the TV. A certain hedonistic tendency prevailed this past coupla weeks that hasn't been evident since January. Friday in particular, hanging with the party people of a Shoreditch basement, reminded us both of Berlin, back on that first weekend of December.

Good times, and a richer experience of the city than I've allowed myself for a long time. The expected fatigue hasn't really materialised, which is also encouraging in terms of my general health. I am feeling a little guilty, but this demonstrates a recognition of the need for self-restraint... hopefully! The sun came out today after what had also been a pretty dull weekend, which also helps given that we sleept through a good share of the daylight hours. I was take it easy next weekend, but then I got a Wang email, reminding me that there's a Haywire session on Friday night!

During Saturdays chill period I watched Arsenal nick the F.A Cup from under Man Utd's noses, like Ninja diamond thieves in a dodgy crime-caper. Lehmann first kept them in it, when Rooney and Ronaldo roamed through the field at will, and then saved them, literally, in the penalty shootout. I amost felt sorry for the scum, probably because it reminded me of Chelsea's scuppered assault on the Anfield Massive. On Sunday I slept through Chelsea's victory parade, several miles from the Kings Road, but reading Frank Lampard's football writers acceptance speech, eating out that evening, kind of made my day. Good on you Frankie, keeping things, and other people, in perspective... even when you couldn't dream of more personal success.

Quite the opposite of Blair, as the Ch4 documentary that follows the news shows, exposing the synthetic events and 'black-ops' orchestrated by Labour activists in the weeks leading up the election day. Laughable really, but then it worked, didn't it.

Because we, are, your friends...

Third consecutive tier one office day, 4 if you count Sunday. Indulged in some retail therapy on the way home, soon found myself on the couch in Fopp. Baulked at 15 sheets for The Glimmers DJ Kicks compilation and found solace in a pair of equally inspired mix CDs: Tom Middletons eclectic Cosmosonica covers, and Erol Alkans Bugged Out (&In). Back home Jake and Jane are doing the young lovers thang next door, playing tracks and talking music… "just like young lovers do" to quote Van. I'm too tired to launch into my own music odyssey, so I blob with TV.

After a dose of the madness that passes for life in Royston Vasey I mix’n’match a pair of documentaries running simultaneously on BBC1 and Channel 4. Each channel presents contrasting but equally well written stories. First an ordinary man, the father of a military policeman (killed by an angry mob in Iraq), who recently fought for Blairs seat in Sedgefield, intent on removing him from public office for his illegal war. Was this about grief, or about the distortion of international law? Over on 4 the self-proclaimed 'music film-maker' who is Stalking Pete Docherty… but the title is ironic, yeah right. Was this about celebrity, or obsession with celebrity?

From what I could see both of these men was, how can I put it, slightly unhinged. Each was disatisfying, if unnerving, and yet I remained fascinated by the process of documentary... in each instance, the sense of story that is more than the sum of its parts, and both 'issues' being stories that ring true. Stories that reach beyond their supposed subject of (political casualty cases, unfortunate victims, stupid pop-stars), into the realm of our supra-mediated world, our consensual and virtual reality.

Despite the vacuity and vanity threaded through each narrative they seemed to perfectly illustrate the social and moral void at the heart of contemporary Britain. Each one reminded me what the television medium is suppoed to do, and In combination they were excruciatingly potent... meanwhile the back room buzzes with the effervescence of new-found love, and Mrs Wilder lets our young couple know she’s had enough exuberant amplification - a firm salvo of broom-whacks against ceiling, a kind of polka loud enough for me to hear, and feel.

Get through it...

...love's the greatest thing, especially in springtime... Sunny by day but boy it's cold again tonight. Hold tight, and Happy Birthday baby x

Roadtripping

A few more details of the Bank Hols trip - if only for the sake of posterity. Picked up a black Mini Cooper in Kingston-upon-Thames on the Saturday morning, departed London via leafy green Hampton Wick, and the less salubrious suburban stretch of west London, towards Heathrow. A hell-hole of nondescript arterial roads and light industrial architecture (50's-thru-80's), souped-up geezer motors moshing and zig-zagging to and from nowhere in particular.

A dead grey sky prevailed over this and the next 60 miles, until we were just a few miles short of our M40 turn-off. We listened to Bran Van 3000, Milo and the 'Suite Sixteen' compilation. I remember singing along with In my arms baby yeah at the service area on the M40. I missed the car-park slip road, so we pulled up in the HGV area. I rolled a number and noticed an entire family was standing on the kerb, munching through an al fresco picnic. The bright yellow number-plates on the nearest car suggested they were Dutch... it kinda figured.

Dropped bags at the surprisingly swanky Falstaff Hotel and then to Paula's. Ellie and Harry opened presents while I had a cuppa and then we all sped off to Stratford. After a river walk the girls went shopping while Harry and I sought out a Green Day CD and killed time pretending to sell Big Issues, sat on the pavement in the warm sun. On the drive home we played Basement Jaxx at insane volume, all laughing our pants off. We jack-rocked the Mini through Warwick High Street, windows down, to the sound of 'Where's Your Head At'... fu*king great!

Back at the hotel, turned on the TV to discover Chelsea were 2 mins away from being declared Champions... snapped me out of a little fatigue. So I got Cava to accompany the superb curry at the 'local Balti' that evening, Harry took a cool group photo and we all stuffed ourselves. Back to P&L's place to chill with a coupla beers, then a cool evening walk back to the hotel. Breakfasted big (well, it was free...) and smoked outa the window while we packed back in the room. We left Warwick about 1.30, but a series of delays meant we wouldn't make Dennis' place until almost 7pm. We skirted Coventry without problems, Style Council on the stereo.

Leicester proved a little trickier, tempted as we were by some massive out-of-town mall complex, initially under the aupsices of buying a new kettle! Dixons, and then Gap, M&S, Costa Coffee and a JB Sports store later, we escaped this materialist dream-dungeon, but almost immediately took the wrong ring-road exit and ended up taking one of my special country detours... 30 miles east on the A43 (?) until the rolling low hills and dips levelled out into sweeping fields of rape and arable land of Rutland and Northamptonshire.

Somewhere near the Norfolk border stopped at a roadside MacDonalds, and sat in their family picnic area with a bunch of (literally and figuratively) obese locals, couples on dates and foursomes hanging out, if you'll excuse the pun. Compared to these guys we were on a mission, moving from a distinct A to B, in linear fashion, so the stop was primarily one driven by convenience. But these dudes, this was more of an afternoon out, and this drive-in recreational area was an integral element of their cultural itinerary.

We moved on to Wisbech but found only more evidence, of social and spiritual despair... It was quite evident that the place had once, and comparatively briefly, enjoyed considerable significance and prosperity. But that boom era ended over a century ago, and only the very heart of the old town, and some of the riverside buildings, held any clue to the status the good people of Wisbech had enjoyed. And yet that spirit still resonated brightly in certain places. Like the old coach house on the road north of the old bridge, the black beams in the subsiding entrance, sagging under the weight of the buildings social history.

The Church of St Peter and St Paul, and the grounds sitting adjacent to it, then the old commercial centre, now a heritage site. Next a grand villa, the site dating back to a noble Norman settlement, with a large garden, all blooming and verdant. Helen and I walked around the crescent street there, and the intensity and vaiety of the birdsong blew us away. Bristling with the Rites of Spring the little buggers were, a vivid cocophany of startled joy. Back nearer the river young lasses headed for a pub, dressed for their 'extra' night out. The sun was low by the time we hit the road, zipping across dykes and ditches. Kings Lynn, and then the sun was at our back. A second improvised detour, and a dash of deja-vu, in search of fuel in Swatham. The wooded country roads were all apple-green and gold light, like a Constable painting, shot through with an electro soundclash of more great music... Good luck, good luck - good luck in your new pad....

Heroes

Stevie texted me asking if I was watching the Football Focus post-mortem of Tuesdays game, but by the time I'd turned the TV on they were looking at the bottom end of the Premiership table - snaps everything back into perspective. So instead of ruminating on missed chances and the goal that might not have been a goal, I was singing along to Bowies Heroes followed by the belting David Guetta remix. Thinking about it now, the BBC cameras were probably down at Stamfoed Bridge too, looking for sound-bites from the gathering faithful. Party-time... no-one can take this achievement away from Chelsea. It's been an enthralling, emphatic and throughly deserved ascendancy, and it leaves us in no fear of our ability to build upon this, a glorious centenary season. Hungry now for more championships (and maybe even a European Cup) in the years to come. Remember the guy in the park at Hunstanton seafront, and his two small sons in their new kits... Like me they won't be worrying about Tuesdays 'failure', they're too busy drinking in the joy, and the relief, bestowed on all Blues fans, by this team, this hybrid Ranieri-Mourinho baby - a world class football team, a team of individual heroes and collectively a fine squad of champions.

Magnanimous in Defeat

Well Jose wasn't, but I'm doing a reasonable job of it. It's painful to go out in another semi-final, especially when the opposition can't even score conclusively. They didn't outplay us, they stifled and frustrated us, but Liverpool deserved to win if only by demonstrating a fine defensive conviction under pressure. In the end they wanted to go to the final more than we did, and Jose must be held accountable for a certain tactical inconsistency that assisted them in their endeavour. Last night PSV came close to creating an even greater upset, but Milan had the patience and courage to find the away goal Chelsea couldn't quite muster. In the end it will be remembered as the game that finally exposed our lack of attacking options when injuries have depleted our wide and overlapping first-team players. It is also the game that determined the squad rotation that will surely follow. At least one attacker and probably two defenders are required to gaurantee this situation won't be repeated. But recognition of these deficiencies doesn't assuage the nagging feeling that we might not reach another semi-final for another 2 or 3 seasons. In a way the defeat at Anfield obfuscates the achievements of this fine Chelsea team - not many clubs go so far in European competition in consecutive years - and being a 'nearly ran' counts for nothing in the Champions League. The best thing that can come out of it is a stronger, more versatile squad, and a little more humility from our manager. Well done Chelsea... close, but no banana.

A Mini adventure

Wonderful bank-holiday weekend, road-tripping to from Kingston to Warwick, Stratford-upon-Avon and Norfolk. Only this morning, stuck in a jam in Clapham at 7.45, did the pleasure of driving begin to ebb. Key to such a journey is quality sound-system and a bunch of great CD's, and we made sure we had both. Of course I'm feeling a little sleepy now, but that's down to the early rise to return the car. But time spent with Ellie and family, the 'in-laws', and all the Mini moments in-between were beautiful - details to follow.