Boiling water.

It begins:



'I walked away from it and headed north. Towards evening on the second day the snow came, two hours later I was seeking shelter. Without snowshoes my progress was laboured and awkward.  I came across a cave in a narrow ravine; a drift of smoke and footprints in the snow from someone coming from the north; small footprints, a woman or a child.


The cave was lit only by the fire but enough for me to see the woman, dressed in grey, sheen of her hair like a well oiled gun, a woman from an unknown tribe, sitting, heating water. 

The makings of some ritual tea ceremony were laid out on a rock.


Startled but unafraid she silently watched as I found myself a place to rest opposite her, the fire between us. In perfect English she said: 'We will wait for the water to boil. I will make tea'.A shoulder gesture indicated the paraphernalia on the rock beside her. 'Then you must leave'.


We sat in silence but for the fire as something foreign to us both crept into the cave and settled within us. 


As the water in the pot trembled close to boil she she added a ladlefull of ice cold snow-melt. We sat on in silence.


As the water in the pot trembled close to boil I took up the ladle and added snow-melt to the pot. we sat on in silence.


Into the early hours we sat watching that pot never boil. Finally, having covered me in a blanket, she lay nearby. We slept.


I awoke to find her making coffee. We talked; each to the other brought magic.


On the second morning we departed, heading South. In the cave on a fire rested the pot of water. 


Singing as it boiled.

Bevis Griffin's Rawhead TechX _ Thunderdome

This found me via a Canadian friend. I like it.

Kyoki, Umami and paint you can eat.

Kyoki arrives in an excited state this afternoon, (her days start in the afternoon and end in the morning and it is the night in which she is most comfortable) after making a cup of her instant coffee and lighting a cigarette she produces a paint tube from her bag.

'Paint'.  I said. 'you know I am not painting at the moment'.


'It is not paint. It is Umami paste. Umami is the 5th taste. You eat it'.


We spent the afternoon exploring umami; not a simple task. Each tasting led to another discussion on what exactly was in it and why it had its chameleon like ability to change as and when its fellow ingredients demanded.


A bit like Kyoki really: Inscruitable. Controlled yet controlling.

Rare Jimi Hendrix.

Please be patient. This takes a few seconds to upload... it is worth it.

Don't ask me where I got it from and no it is not on youtube.

Skye Nicolas, The Explicit Artisan.

 I found this image online in An interview with Skye in Frank 151It is well worth a visit. Skye is New York based so what is the Notting hill connection?  Marlon and the Cow!

Wills and Kate: Not so much a Royal wedding, more an impending divorce.

Caught up in the National euphoria over the idea of a royal wedding I immediately asked my 'Princess' to marry me.


'It's an idea'. She said. 'At least you wouldn't be able to give evidence against me in court.'


It strikes me that, such is the track record of royal marriages that they would keep the damn thing quiet; give two human beings the opportunity to make something almost impossible (in this day and age) work.


I bet the bookies are already laying odds on when the divorce takes place.

Kyoki.

                                Photo: the Urban Island


I don't know how this is going to work out.


I've had so many problems with unruly Muses of late (the muse is never satisfied with her initial role and quickly tries to take over) that I decided to go online and find an Avatar Muse... Kyoki.


I do not know which planet she is from, my stellar charts do not have the necessary range.

Alain De Botton at 5 X 15.

Bloody hell.

I'd gone along to 5 x 15 with the sole purpose of listening to, and looking at to a lesser degree philosopher Alain De Botton.
He arrived on stage, announced himself as Swiss (images of Orson Welles and Henry Cotton on a big wheel in Vienna flooded my brain) then promptly tried to sell us holiday lets. He tried to convince us that 'new build' was Modern and therefore good.he failed to convince me that he was anything other than another property developer on the make. reminding me somewhat of the 'Britart' movement in his desire to capitalise on gullible admirers.

5 X 15 in the first part this evening was hijacked by an overstretched property developer selling puppies.

Alain. New does not mean modern and modern does not mean new. Snake oil is snake oil however you label the bottle.

Interesting to see a good architect in the audience wincing philosophically as the philosopher tried to do convincing Architecture. And failing.

The rest of 5x 15 lived up to expectations; All of it was not every ones cup of tea but it was well brewed, well blended and well poured.

Hilary Spurling dispensed, along with Michela Wrong, enough to convince me that, forgive me; wrong was right. Suddenly 15 minutes was enough, not because it was badly presented but because it was, as a human animal, hard to bear.

Simon Singh hit the spot with his codes.

Valerie Grove convinced me that there is light at the end of the tunnel. It is not an oncoming train, it is Valerie coming back to 5 X 15.

At the end of a splendid evening I got to reminisce about Stig of the dump, followed by humming the guitar solo from Comfortably Numb on my way home.

And none of this happened in the West End where theatres were full of tourists being told by translators that the butler did it!.

Tony Butcher photography.

In The tabernacle, to the left of the bar is the Gallery; Rather under-signposted and tucked away (but I gather that is about to change) and used as a showcase for both local and more established Artists and Photographers. Well worth popping in for a look.

Currently photographer Tony Butcher is exhibiting his studies of the black male in the form of dancers, and they are an energetic collection of young men; hardly a foot on the floor in the entire show and plenty of rippling muscle. There is no Mapplethorpe edginess or homoerotic undertone to proceedings though, just a keen and professional eye at work on an obviously well liked subject.

To quote Tony: 'My photographic journey began in 1989, progressing to a fellowship of the royal Photographic Society in 1990, with a panel of images of the black male.

"Studies in black" have been published in many books, magazines and journals throughout the world as well as my monograph of the same title. Exhibitions have taken place in San Francisco, Amsterdam, Paris, Birmingham and Oh yes, The Tabernacle, Notting Hill'.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti & Hein Hoven. Sometimes During Eternity.

In the early hours; an email from Hein (now in California), you know. The man who brought his own Hill. It read: 

 too much time on my hands. I took this off of your FB page Tristan.

                                  It inspired me to write this bit of nonsense.

                                  Lawrence Ferlinghetti reading "Sometime During Eternity"

                                  Hh x

The internet can be a truly wonderful thing in creative minds and hands.

10 centuries in 5 minutes

The Young Satellites at Atomrooms Gallery.

Atomrooms Gallery presents an exhibition curated by Brett Walker

showcasing the works of young photographers Jack Davison, Lydia Roberts

and Conor Williams. The exhibition will run from 8th – 24th December 2010, 6-9pm at AtomRooms’

Portobello Road Gallery.

Sacred Monsters No. 1: Kenneth Tynan.

Monday 24 September 2001
The Guardian 

Tynan's gift was to make criticism glamorous and sexy Guardian theatre critic Michael Billington recalls an exceptional talent  No one, they say, ever erected a statue to a critic. But Kenneth Tynan has bequeathed something even larger to posterity: a legendary life. This year has already seen the publication of a revelatory memoir, Life Itself, by his first wife, Elaine Dundy. The Tynan Diaries are imminent. And, as a prelude, we have an extraordinary last interview by Ann Louise Bardach. As a result I suspect a certain image of Tynan will prevail: the spanker, the star-fucker, the sexual obsessive, the suave and ultimately ailing hedonist. He comes to seem like a Marlovian over-reacher who was finally the victim of both emphysema and his own fixations. The danger is that we shall soon forget the very thing that made him famous: his ability to write about the theatre with a voluptuous commitment. Most dramatic criticism is as ephemeral as the work it describes. Very little survives as literature. Hazlitt's essays on Kean and Kemble have a vivid, bloodshot urgency. Shaw's Our Theatres in the Nineties memorably demolishes Irving and paves the way for Ibsen. Agate wrote about great actors with gusto and allusive wit. To that select list one has to add Tynan, who not only had the gift for pinning down a performance but also, as both critic and National Theatre literary manager, helped redefine British

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