Monday, 5 July 2010
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Killing pigeons in a strange land.
They say that the past is a different country; people do strange things there.
Back in the sixties my brothers and myself took a friend on a pigeon killing expedition; we lived on a fruit farm, pigeons were vermin. we were boys with knives and sharp sticks. Maybe I had just read 'Lord of the flies'. The memory has remained fixed in my head since then; I cringe even now.
I think we were probably showing off a little; our ability to take the lives of defenceless critters without remorse, A macho boy thing.
I had forgotten who our companion was on that day.
Until now.
This morning, during an on line 'chat' with a guy I haven't set eyes on since that summer, he reminded me of the incident... It remained in his head all these years too!
Sorry Hugo... As I said: Strange country the past.
Sam Fox, Rabies and parties.
At the Tabernacle all day today... Party type thing. If anyone turns up.
On the way here I saw the headline in the Sun: Samantha Fox is being treated for Rabies.
How did she contract the disease?
Bit herself shaving perhaps.
Friday, 2 July 2010
found objects
I found this in Westbourne Park Road today. I was on my way to a cabaret type thing.I'm intrigued by the Afghanistan ribbon on it.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Rusty's old man.
Rusty called in for a coffee and brie sandwich today.
He said it was (or would have been) his pop's birthday.
He said that every year when asked what he wanted for his birthday his pop would reply: 'Peace of mind'.
He's got peace of mind now Rusty. I said.
On Haiku.
It is sad that it has come to this
that I must count syllables
when I would have counted
the ways that I loved you
the ways that I loved you
before you demanded a haiku
you said life was too short
for anything more than three lines.
Write a poem you said
write it in our autumn mists
I'm leaving you now.
Cheating death with black balls.
Many many years ago, not long after the squabble with Jackson Pollock (blog passim) and as a result of that squabble I entered into one of my periodic bouts of depression.
I was living in the apartment of my old friend Ingmar Bergman at the time and annoyed the man greatly by painting everything black including the balls on his pool table. The pool table was in his bedroom which I thought a curious thing. Ingmar told me he suffered from insomnia and pool helped him get through even the darkest nights.
Ingmar would have thrown me out for painting his balls black but for the raging fever that swept through my body that winter; for weeks I lay in that Swedes bed storm tossed in a sea of swelter navigating that fine meridial line between this world and the next.
One night, when I was in a momentary state of lucidity, a figure entered the room; Tall, gaunt, bony fingered, wearing a dark hooded cloak thing and carrying a scythe.
'who are you'? I enquired.
'You know perfectly well who I am and why I am here'. He replied.
Indeed I did know that it was Death himself arrived to carry me off. But I was in no mood to cross the Hudson let alone the Styx. I told the man (oh the arrogance of man to cast death in his own likeness)
that I was not prepared to go without a fight.
He suggested we play a game of chess to decide my fate.
I informed him that there was not a chess set in the house... 'But what about a game of pool'.
Death agreed to the game of pool but was taken aback by the sight of 15 black balls resting on the green baize.
We played that hellish game of pool for a month, day and night, without respite. The scores remained resolutely on 0 -0 as each of our 'breaks' resulted in a foul as we pocketed black ball after black ball.
On the 15th of December Death gave up. He threw down his cue in exasperation, picked up his scythe and swept out of the room hissing: 'You cheated me this time Jan Nieupjur but next time I will be ready for you'.
I then fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, awaking some days later to find my fever departed and the depression lifted.
A few days later I told this story to Ingmar over a game of chess - I had lied to Death, there was a chess set in the house - Ingmar (smiling for once) took notes in a little red book. I did not see him again, he departed for Sweden and a new film project.
Next time Death comes calling I shall challenge him to a game of 'happy families'.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
For younger viewers.
Imagine. Imagine like crazy and then imagine some more. Imagine all the exciting things you'd like to do and then imagine them happening in your town or village. Then imagine them happening to you which is much more likely now that they are happening near by. In fact it would be hard to avoid them happening to you... You'd have to stay indoors, under the kitchen table (stroking the cat, if you have got one handy) with the table-cloth pulled down low making a tent to keep you hidden from your stories!
Then when the stories start happening write them down in a book (any colour book will do) with a noisy pen. As a beginner you will find it helpful to stick your tongue out the side of your mouth a little way. this also convinces your mum and dad that you are deep in creative thought and not available to give advice on the complicated things that they don't understand but you do!
When you have finished writing your story read it aloud to see how it feels. You might want to read it very quietly at first until it gets used to the outside. then you can read it louder and to real people.
Try not to laugh too much at the funny bits.
It helps to dress up when reading your story; this is called being in character. Every-body dresses up in this way, even city bankers when they want to tell bank stories (these stories are rarely funny which is why bankers don't laugh much, except on their way to the bank). Soldiers dress up a lot, so do nurses and traffic wardens. Burlesque dancers are the exception to the rule; they undress to tell their stories.
At the end of your story put a very loud full stop.
Then when the stories start happening write them down in a book (any colour book will do) with a noisy pen. As a beginner you will find it helpful to stick your tongue out the side of your mouth a little way. this also convinces your mum and dad that you are deep in creative thought and not available to give advice on the complicated things that they don't understand but you do!
When you have finished writing your story read it aloud to see how it feels. You might want to read it very quietly at first until it gets used to the outside. then you can read it louder and to real people.
Try not to laugh too much at the funny bits.
It helps to dress up when reading your story; this is called being in character. Every-body dresses up in this way, even city bankers when they want to tell bank stories (these stories are rarely funny which is why bankers don't laugh much, except on their way to the bank). Soldiers dress up a lot, so do nurses and traffic wardens. Burlesque dancers are the exception to the rule; they undress to tell their stories.
At the end of your story put a very loud full stop.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Pomposity and Pompeii.
In order to get inside my plane spotters head I decided to go out to Heathrow to spot a few planes of my own.
I refuse to use the underground system in London ( it is Hot, smelly, overcrowded and prone to failure) and therefore walked to Paddington in order to catch the Heathrow express.
Sitting in my carriage opposite me were a young couple; a conservative MP I recognised from the tabloids and chat shows (I have no idea as to his political thinking) and his wife. As we passed through the graffiti strewn Royal Oak and Westbourne Park the MP made unpleasant noises about the vandalism of the artists responsible; I think he said 'string em all up'!
I pointed out that it was just a means of expression for a dissatisfied youth and wouldn't it be better to remove the cause of that dissatisfaction rather than the expression of it.
He said nothing.
A little later I asked where they were flying to.
Italy. He replied.
Ah, Chiantishire. I said.
No! He replied pompously. The bay of Naples and Pompeii actually!
Such wonderful grafitti. I observed.
His wife smiled beautifully.
Drums, paracetamol and the Tamil Tigers.
There is a primary school next to my house.
Over the years I have grown to tolerate the shrieks and yells of playtime and learned to avoid the shop next door between 3.30 and 4.00 pm.
however.
They (the pupils) have a drum band. They have a drum band that plays at Carnival. They have a drum band that practices on Tuesday mornings in preparation for Carnival. They have a drum band that practices loudly with the windows open in preparation for carnival.
I am not a fan of juvenile drumming.
The shopkeeper likes drums. He likes the fact that I spend a fortune on paracetamol.
He is a Sri Lankan, I know the profits go towards the Tamil Tigers' fight in Sri Lanka. The Tamil Tigers will be pleased to know that a little school in London is drumming up funds for them.
Serendipity.
Sunday, 27 June 2010
A boat farm?
In the Languedoc region of France there is a village called Saint-Jean-Lasseille. The village does not appear to have a square or a fountain or anywhere to play boules. This I find strange enough to pick up my old copy of 'Clochemerle' to check that I got the description of a French village right.
On the North East edge of the village is a field filled with boats.
there is no lake, sea or river nearby, how did those boats get there and why?
I counted 30 of differing sizes.
Any ideas?
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