Sunday, August 10, 2014
Sunday, February 10, 2013
A poem about travelling
When they selected me for the
'random security check',
I thought of you.
As the security official ran
practised, calloused hands
plains and contours of jelly,
I spied your expectant, smiling face,
seated on a chair -
the best vantage point from
which to view my
And I think of you,
As the hand of US foreign policy
disappears up my rear.
It isn't very nice,
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Staying independent in old age
Pretty useful article from the NY Times.
Only nine more years to wait!
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
What were you smoking, Channel 4?
Oh dear, this was dumb.
Channel 4 - more Channel 5 than...errr...Channel 5.
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
‘After Kharms I’
31st July 2011
Once upon a time, there was a beginning and an end. Although they knew they were meant to be together, they thought they were missing something, so they created a middle. And that was their story.
‘After Kharms II’ (for Professor Neil Postman, 1931-2003)
23rd February 2012
Repeatedly holed by a carnival of bullets, his life flashed before him; seeing the breakfast TV appearances and movie trailer of his ordeal, he decided to live.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Once in a while, I chance upon a photograph that resonates with me. The photo below, on first glance, isn't anything special. But to me, it is.
It is a photo of John Gale of The Guardian and the poet Stevie Smith. Last year, I read Gale's sweet, funny, sad and tragic autobiography from 1965, 'Clean Young Englishman', having been led there by Edward Behr's memoirs. Here is an extract (that I have nicked from the blog post of another admirer):
"One night this year, on the walk home from the Underground in the falling snow, I had to lean against the wall of the crematorium where my father went up in smoke. I had had a few drinks. The wind pierced the short, old-fashioned black coat that had belonged to my grandfather. When I walked on a little unsteadily in the dark on the creaking snow, a girl passed on the other side of the road, her high black boots gleaming faintly. She looked across at me, and then went on in the bitter cold.
Our three children had measles; Jill was tired. The wind moaned beneath the doors ; we were keeping fires going day and night, and the insects cried in the blazing logs. Our house is small, virtually a cottage, among terraced houses built, originally, for artisans; the road is the appendix of the suburb, with wealthier houses not far off. I like our house: scarcely a piece of furniture, not a picture, carpet or curtain did we choose ourselves; all was given or passed on by relatives; all, or almost all, is incongruous, tasteless, but well used.
At times I feel the small house is the centre of the world. It seems a turning-point for aircraft coming in to land at London Airport. Their engines change pitch as they come in from east and west, booming and whining through the dusk, their navigation lights winking hope. When I lie in bed I distrust all aircraft: where are they going? People should stay at home. I prefer the sound of trains far off at night, the clink of a shunting in a cold siding."
Although I knew of Stevie Smith, I never read her poetry until I fell seriously ill in 2003. It was then that I read 'In My Dreams'; ironic for a man who couldn't sleep:
In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away,
Whither and why I know not nor do I care.
And the parting is sweet and the parting over is sweeter,
And sweetest of all is the night and the rushing air.
In my dreams they are always waving their hands and saying goodbye,
And they give me the stirrup cup and I smile as I drink,
I am glad the journey is set, I am glad I am going,
I am glad, I am glad, that my friends don't know what I think.
Perception, path dependence and context play funny tricks on us. Looking at the Southbank - that much-loved marvel of Brutalism - and stripping away the art installations, one can see a scene reminiscent of Eastern Bloc architecture, i.e. the thousand variations of a shoebox.
But if we were to examine a building in the East, would we consider it a Brutalist gem, or something just plain ugly?
Anyway, I am reminded that I must do a London tour soon. Londonist has some good suggestions.
Books, books, glorious books!
A very interesting piece in the London Review of Books. To my shame, I wasn't aware of Redgrove's work, not until I delved into a back copy of the LRB on magic Friday.