Insomnia and Abstract depressionism.

I am frequently asked: 'What does insomnia look like?'

I made that up; I've never been asked that but never mind... artistic license and all that.

In my case insomnia looks like my ceiling. I'm pretty lucky in that outside my flat are some Belisha beacons and street lighting, when I leave my blinds open the various lights create interesting shapes on the ceiling.

At 3.30 this morning I decided, instead of just looking at it, to photograph it; the resulting images are shown below. I've played with the exposure of all three and the colour balance in the blue one but other than that they are a true representation of my ceiling which is what insomnia looks like to me!

The weird thing is though, that when you decide to photograph and write about your insomnia it ceases to be insomnia.

It becomes inspiration.

Jan Nieupjur discovered this paradox many years ago when formulating his principles of Abstract depressionism (blog passim), although all of his resulting images were black, black, black!

Insomnia No:1
Insomnia No:2
Insomnia No:3

Ruby slippers at Port Eliot.

Check out Fiona Campbell aka Ruby slippers' slideshow of Port Eliot photographs:

http://rubyslippersphoto.com/PE2010/index.html

Who took this photograph?

This photograph arrived on my facebook page. It was posted by a guy called Scotty Heath; he found it on the net but the original source is now unknown....

Who did take this photograph? And who is the guy on the right?

Not interested in the bigot.

Pirates, pirates, pirates. The world is full of bloody pirates.

I have had a long day attending to necessary social obligations in the neighbourhood; thankfully Tilly is back for long enough for a tea-time catch up. I attended a 'bright young things' party this evening then departed with exquisite timing and grace. One should always read these occasions carefully.

I thought I would put a link up to one of my childrens stories for the pirate lovers out there.

yo ho ho me hearties: http://storieswrittenwithanoisypen.blogspot.com/2009/02/one-eyed-jake.html

Mangrove rehearsals at the tabernacle.

I was lucky enough; right place, right time scenario, to be invited to sit in on a 'Mangrove' rehearsal last night.

For those who do not know Notting Hill, Mangrove is a steel band which is central to the Carnival and in many ways central to the community.

Initially the space was filled with individual musicians each practising their parts. this went on for some time but at some point the 'director' hit the floor then tapped a drum with a stick and the milling ant's nest of noise formed an orderly mass of pure joy.

A steel band in the street is pretty amazing, this steel band in an enclosed auditorium is something else. It blew me away; I heard church bells, strings, a horn section, a piano. All from a collection of oil drums. It was an aural wine tasting; full of hints and nuances that only come with maturity and loving care.

The director is a young Trinidadian from New York Named Andre White, he seems to hold the entire score for a very complicated piece of music in his head and was teaching the band bit by bit. It was a privilege to witness. At one point a small child entered the fray, was handed a pair of sticks and immediately started playing; watching her neighbour attentively she was learning by sight... the director looked on and smiled as the rehearsal carried on...Where else could that happen? Imagine the uproar if a child entered the rehearsal of the LSO and started joining in... Yet with Mangrove it was the most natural of events and I am sure that a lot of the musicians there had once, sometime past, walked in and picked up some sticks, got stuck in and stayed.

By the way, these are for the most part the young black kids that the majority of the white middle classes instinctively mistrust. What I saw was the kind of community activity that has long since vanished from most peoples lives.

Throughout the building, as the rehearsals went on, scores of people were putting the costumes together; in the dance studio vast skeletons of fantastic creatures awaited their plumage and in the gallery below this years musicians costumes were on show. And throughout the building enthusiasm shone.

Mangrove will be performing on the Friday evening before Carnival in All Saint's Road; an event that is a Carnival of it's own... Go and listen.

 

Bullied by a nurse.

Nurse Caz bullied me into this some time ago...

Till human voices wake us...

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

From 'The love song of J Alfred Prufrock' T.S.Elliot

The Angry Man... Freud would have a field day.

This was painted by myself and two brothers back in the sixties; I can still remember who painted which bits, mother did a bit too. Double click on the image for an enlargement.

The old man painted the figure head; definitely a self portrait, I then named the ship (even my signwriting is angry). most of the crew seem now to be jumping ship apart from the very gay 'pole dancing' matelot on the foremast.

Suppressed sexuality is most definitely symbolised by the preening mermaid; again the old man's work. god knows what the octopus symbolises.

I've a feeling that some of my French readers might enjoy this... Any comments will be gleefully received.

An existential question answered.

There are some times in a poets life when the only thing that rhymes with 10 p.m. is pub.

But that doesn't stop me thinking on the way to the pub and as I was thinking I thought that I might as well think about 'who is god' and stuff like that....

A black dog crossed my path. I did not stop however, I could smell the beer, but I did think: Is god any more important than that dog and if so, why?

I met up with the English emigre and bickered over a cigarette lighter which broke anyway and then we got into a conversation with a drunken mourner who wanted to know why Jimi Hendrix was more important than his dad... I am not making this up...

Suddenly there before me was the answer; knitted into a womans chest and back.

I personally think, having read Ginsberg's diaries, that the opposite might be true.

I'm going to get my ouija board out and ask Charles Bukowski!

After Annie Leibovitz.

After Annie Leibovitz

On the circle line I said

Let's go to West Ruislip

because we can

and will you marry me

Probably she said

I will not ask her again

but simply say

let's go to West Ruislip

because we can

Papa Was A Rodeo. Misery, romance and humour.

I guess, being a storyteller I am instinctively drawn to the narrative element of Country and Western music; 'Ruby don't take your love to town' gets me every time.

Jarvis Cocker played this on his sunday radio show last week (BBC 6 music)... I'd never come across this band before, I love it. I know 'country' purist will say: 'That ain't country' but It is my kind of country.

Like misery, romance needs humour too!

Ryan O'Reilly band.

An interesting early evening at the Cow; my guru and anger management counsellor dropped by for a chat followed by a notorious pot growing friend... then the king of tours turned up still loved up from Port Eliot; he had Ryan with him.

Ryan and his eponymous band busk on Portobello Road on Saturdays... Get down there, check them out and buy the CD. http://www.ryanoreilly.co.uk/

Sherlock, Telegraph and child abuse.

I do not own a television nor do I wish to own a television. But there again no-one owns a television; television owns you!

However I have been hearing a great deal of positive stuff about the new BBC 'Sherlock'. People who I consider sane and rational were raving about it.

I found it on iplayer last night; watched the first two episodes back to back... I'm hooked!

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t4pgh

I note that John Preston panned it in the Telegraph...

Not long now before the entire Telegraph readership is dead or in cryogenic suspension and that ghastly rag can be put out of it's misery. I grew up with the Telegraph as a constant in the house... Nothing short of child abuse.

On another subject entirely I find that my daily burgeoning inbox requires a considerable amount of my time.

Be careful about what you wish for.