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Mild Davis

 by Pascal Wyse and Joe Berger

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Greenpeace UK urge ban on supertrawlers to protect marine areas

 

Hi claire,

A few days ago, Boris Johnson went on TV and said this: after Brexit the UK “will be able to ban huge hoover trawlers that come in and hoover up everything off the bottom of the sea”. [1]

Well, it’s been a week since Brexit, and Johnson’s had months to plan for it, so it’s time for him to turn those words into action. To start with, the government must immediately ban destructive industrial fishing vessels from the UK’s Marine Protected Areas.

300,245 people have so far called on the government to ban industrial fishing in Marine Protected Areas. Can you add your name to help ramp up the pressure?

Every year, industrial fishing vessels like supertrawlers and bottom trawlers spend thousands of hours fishing in the UK’s Marine Protected Areas.[2]

These areas were set up to safeguard important marine habitats and iconic species like dolphins and porpoises. Supertrawlers and bottom trawlers threaten the health of these sensitive ecosystems – they have no business being anywhere near them.

The government has repeatedly said that once Brexit is done they’ll be able to increase marine protection here at home. Whatever your view on it – now that Brexit’s done there are no more excuses for inaction. Let’s hold them to account on this and make sure they don’t break their promise.

Call on the government to ban supertrawlers and bottom trawlers from Marine Protected Areas:

 
 

Thanks for your support on this. I hope you’re doing well at this really difficult time.

Philip

Oceans Team, Greenpeace UK

[1] Greenpeace UK urge ban on supertrawlers to protect marine areas

[2] Supertrawlers ‘making a mockery’ of UK’s protected seas

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Lockdown Chekhov

 


Photo: Jan Woolf. Amiee Lou Wood as Sonya and Toby Jones as Vanya on my MacBook Air. 

I watched the recent production of Uncle Vanya on my computer just before the announcement of Tier 5, that is starting to feel like a 5th act in a play.   Or is Vanya a 5 tier play?  There were lots of tears in it, dealing as it does, with everybody’s lack of fulfilment, and Vanya’s love struck niece Sonia, watching the love of her life (Dr Astrov) walk out of the door.  She has to return to her miserable uncle’s side when he learns that the estate he’s given his life to, is to be sold to fund his professor brother’s upgraded lifestyle in the Moscow salons.  There is much to say about this play – how it captures and prophesies both Marx and Freud’s notion of the neurotic bourgeoisie always on the look out for something better. It was a very fine production, with stellar acting drawing on contemporaneously generated emotions, and some terrific eco-politics. But please don’t read this as a serious review, rather an intro’ to a beautiful speech.  Maybe it’s the lockdown play?  Locked down literally as the production at the Harold Pinter Theatre was due to go to New York last April.  Covid put paid to that, so it went on telly instead. I found Sonia’s final speech a glass half full of lockdown tonic.

VANYA. [To SONIA, stroking her hair] Oh, my child, I am miserable; if you only knew how miserable I am!

SONIA. What can we do? We must live our lives. [A pause] Yes, we shall live, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through the long procession of days before us, and through the long evenings; we shall patiently bear the trials that fate imposes on us; we shall work for others without rest, both now and when we are old; and when our last hour comes we shall meet it humbly, and there, beyond the grave, we shall say that we have suffered and wept, that our life was bitter, and God will have pity on us. Ah, then dear, dear Uncle, we shall see that life is beautiful; we shall rejoice and look back upon our sorrow here; a tender smile—and—we shall rest. I have faith, Uncle, fervent, passionate faith. [SONIA kneels down before her uncle and lays her head on his hands. She speaks in a weary voice] We shall rest. [TELEGIN plays softly on the guitar] We shall rest. We shall hear the angels. We shall see heaven shining like a jewel. We shall see all evil and all our pain sink away in the great compassion that shall enfold the world. Our life will be as peaceful and tender and sweet as a caress. I have faith; I have faith. [She wipes away her tears] My poor, poor Uncle Vanya, you are crying! [Weeping] You have never known what happiness was, but wait, Uncle Vanya, wait! We shall rest. [She embraces him] We shall rest. [The WATCHMAN’S rattle is heard in the garden; TELEGIN plays softly; MME. VOITSKAYA writes something on the margin of her pamphlet; MARINA knits her stocking] We shall rest.

 

Jan Woolf

 

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THE DYING OF ELSIE TANNER


An unwashed plate. Egg yolk and bacon rind.
Last symbols of normality
amongst starched white sheets
and strange, crisp voices.

Fashions flash before you, favourite snaps
from a cherished album;
Manchester’s nightlife, neon lights, cabs,
a season on the Spanish Riviera.

The class of ’35… what happened
to them all? Too late now,
the working class girls.
Whose arm is it around you here?

You’re unsure, craving for a cigarette.
Dying is a silent movie
a black and white soliloquy
whispered to an empty house.

 

Mike Mcnamara

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Let us stay with you

 
   Let us stay with you now
   Throw our arms around you
   Hasten to your heartbeat
     ……………………………………………………………………
  
   Looking from the bridge, I see
   Ribbons of dreams
   Fluttering in the wind
   Hundreds of bright dragonflies
   Beneath the canopy of trees
   Circling above the stream
   Between stones & rocks
   In sun & shade
 
I look again, my eyes tease out
A dozen figures
Blending with the rocky floor
As water rushes in between
 
I see balanced stones & rocks
On one another
Now a family of tall creatures
Mother, father, uncle
Sister, cousin, friends and lovers
A garrulous family gathering
Taking care of me
 
 
©Christopher 2019  [email protected]
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My City

 

Before you go further, smiles drop from 
the bachelor’s pad and unclog the streets 
yes, it’s that easy and always
open for big hearts and minds of the commoners
they are nearly off the colour wheel,
Kolkata attains live without boundaries.

Sunlight falls straight down the boulevard
the midday breeze enters into a conversation
with the pedestrians
everything is happening so slowly,
the skyline is still forming and changing
but it looks pale blue.

Daylight breaking high above the Monument
expired words are buried in Maidan
shades of green keep shifting

 

Gopal Lahiri

 

Short Bio:

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 22 books published, including four jointly edited books. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems are translated in 12 languages.

 

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Bundle


January 1st 2021

 

Playtime as puppies, we bundled together,

Free from a tether.

This was our scrum down, our huddle of bums,

Arms around shoulders, our cuddles of tums,

Our primary school fun day, our game of rough tumbling,

Dumped inhibitions, it’s all up to us,

No monitors mooching and making a fuss.

End of term freedom, new sisters born,

Bristling haircuts, spikily shorn,

Clusters of skirts, embarrassing shorts, long trousers too;

Sprawl balling of bodies’ in hullabaloo.

No brakes to restrict us, we’re celebrating,

Chartists’ votes counted, feels so liberating.

Doing it our way,

For our Very Ecstatic day,

Cuddling pushes and tugs,

With British bull dog[ii] pin-down hugs;

We’re puzzles cracking Christmas in knotted arms and legs.

One second we’re nestling,

The next we’re all wrestling,

And feigning cruel clenches,

With headlocks and wrist-snapping wrenches,

Released with a twist to our whirring cartwheeling,

Bouncing for drop-kicks, sending pals reeling.

We’re swimming along through currents of strangers,

 Familiar friends, no chance of dangers.

Loved ones returned from our present past.

We engaged with clear headed James Connolly at last.[iii]

We felt the itchy worsted waistcoats of Tyler, Lilburne, Kett.[iv]

Snuggled in the flowing sashes of suffragettes,

Whisped the tickling tashes of Burns, Mann and Tillett.[v]

Whooping miners from the first deep mines smudged us in coal dust,

And throated the choir with the steel men in trust.

The match girls[vi] and mill girls joined in and flinging

Warm arms around us whirlygig singing.

Mudlarking the Thames, the Taff, canoeing the Clyde,

Dockers threw contraband sweets for our fairground ride.

Everyone kicked off our victorious dance with raucous songs.

The chimney sweeping kids and tanners,[vii] oblivious to their pongs,

Stuck out their chests,

They knew at last they are the best

And nimbly tumble through our joy,

Welcome, just about, to share our bath toys.

Winstanley[viii] with his Wigan twang,

Anne Askew,[ix] so pure she sang

The truth that no Church can

Interpret the word of god to man.

We are human, god is no more,

Our own humanity we must adore.

Some couldn’t understand how Cockney consonants got lost in Bow.

Some thought Cornish a bit creamy, slow,

Others thought the Geordie accent was Glaswegian squashed,

And East Anglian was Bristolian coshed.

And as for Scousers – they were like a crocodile of cycling kids with musical spokes

Clattering cracking fast firework jokes.

Young Welsh speaking shepherds whistled from the sodden Valleys,

Confusing the gangs from back to back, back alleys

Who’d never heard such alveolar, or glottal palatal fricatives,

With their bursting plosives

Crashing on the dental;

All the Essex estuary oiks went mental.

Highland Gaelic aspired across the glens, curled with supple seals and heather,

They found more words than us for types of snowy weather.

The Lancs rolled rs, the Dorsets all said Oy not I,

While, to mix it up, the Yorkies in place of yes said aye.

Big Bob[x] bundled in and we were properly hell raising,

No prisoners, all guns blazin’.

Stop the talkin’, start the shootin’,

When they’re down, just put the boot in,

First stranglehold, and upper cut,

Then finish ‘em off with a cracking head butt.

We discovered, as we carnivalled,

Our dialects kept us enthralled.

Our hoose and our harse, our owce and our hem

Were never a hice[xi] as it is for them

So dumb in their globalising syndrome,

Instead, this mongrel language is our only home.

All of us now, with you and me,

Together we are this shared country.

 

Doug Nicholls

 

[i] At primary school there’d occasionally be a ‘bundle’ in the playground. Everyone would suddenly jump onto each other to form a human ball of wriggling, giggling, flailing laughter and semi-serious fighting influenced by old school Saturday afternoon wrestling, all phoney pain and exaggerated moves. It was the opposite of social distancing and expressed a primitive desire to get physically close in the litter. I imagine in this account that kids and campaigners join us in the bundle from all over the country and our history as we tumble with pleasure for the newly free Britain on 1st January 2021.

[ii] British bull dog is a child’s game a bit like tag with cage fighting rules. Runners between two lines at either end of the field of play are all fair game for pinning down as cruelly as possible for three seconds by the initially randomly selected ‘bulldogs’ who menacingly shout British bull dog 1,2,3 as quickly as possible to give their supine prey no chance. If so pinned for three nano seconds, the victim becomes a new bulldog hunter themselves and chases others ferociously. The last toddler standing has the forlorn task of taking on the entire savage pack and usually gets flattened one step across the starting line.It was once a staple game in cub and scout groups , it was eventually banned in schools for its tendency to overburden hospital A&E wards.

[iii] The Scottish born Irish trade union and socialist leader.

[iv] Wat Tyler peasant rebel leader, John Lilburne Leveller leader, Robert Kett leader of the often neglected 1549 rebellions.

[v] John Burns, Tom Mann, Ben Tillett, socialist and trade union leaders.

[vi] The great Match Girls strike 1888 that inspired so many.

[vii] Leather tanners were not always welcome guests at parties due to the time they spent at work with gallons of urine and other unxious potions of animal fat and brains used in the tanning process.

[viii] Gerard Winstanley, leader of the Digger Movement in the mid seventeenth century and great prose writer of early pre industrial communist ideas.

[ix] One of the many Protestant martyrs whose role in creating our post feudal world and democratic character is often neglected.

[x] Bob Crow socialist and trade union leader who formed No2EU in 2009 and really got things moving.

[xi] Hice is the received pronunciation of house as in, snootily, the Hice of Lords. Christ Church College in Oxford is often referred to as the Hice.

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Step Forth Divine Human

 

 

The forces at work to subdue humanity into abject slavery are well aware of the rising tide of consciousness sweeping across our world at this time. They know their own existence is under threat due to the rising momentum of the aspiration for truth.

The human being must now stand-up straight, mask-free and proud. Because that is the only way he/she will be recognisable as a warm blooded, essentially compassionate living example of the species.

Those using the mask are already signifying obeisance to the lie. The mask is a symbol of retreat into fear. What’s more in the near future it will be revealed to be the cause of serious health problems in its own right. This is, of course, one of its roles within the ‘great Covid reset’. The genocide disguised behind ‘the mask of caring’.

Once the individual human being grasps the nature of this great deception, stands straight and declares herself/himself to be an expression of the divine omnipotence from whence all life emerges – and where all life is heading – then truly a new springboard for the flowering of mankind is announced.

For in our defeat of fear and all the ill-will presently being afflicted upon humanity, we will have vanquished the final obstruction to our emancipation and enlightenment.

All the ‘elite’ despotic criminals’ plans for the future of mankind presently on display as ‘New World Order’ ‘Great Reset’ ‘One World Government’ and ‘Transhuman Singularity’ will dissolve away into nothingness once the light of this great awakening quickens and penetrates the veins of our living planet.

It is not a question of waiting for some ‘outside event’ to bring-about such a cleansing. It is our courageous stepping forward in the fullness of our divine human nature which sparks the arousal of benign macrocosmic energies into their conjunction with our innately divine microcosmic mirror energies. The two must come to meet if we are to be the creators of the real ‘Great Reset’, which is nothing less than the defeat of the darkest lies that imprison us – by the light of abundant truth. The truth that sets us free.

Victory is assured. Do not hold back. Your soul awaits your command. Rip away the coward’s mask of victim-hood and cease hiding behind the falsification of your divinity. Step forth, cast aside those who hold this world to ransom. Brave spirit that you truly are, this is your greatest hour and our greatest victory.

 

Julian Rose

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and teacher. His latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is particularly prescient reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

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Muscle bound

Elegy for the Sports Palace, 828 Valencia Street, San Francisco, 1972 – 1998

Weights clanged
on the concrete floor,
banging out the percussion line
under groans and grunts of
“EEYah!”
“Uh-unh!”
“Pssshah,” the sharp exhale
pushing a heavy lift.

At 6a.m. we could see our breath in
the Mission District storefront gym
so we came swaddled in baggy sweats.
We were the breakfast club at the Sports Palace—
Pete warming up for his construction job,
Joan in the process of becoming James,
Vito the counselor sliding out of his cherry
Ghia after working overnight at Juvie,
Sam and Jon who bickered
like partners in a bad marriage
after years as salesmen
for the same car dealer,
the 90-pound poet who lived
around the corner, and the stove-up
unemployed ex-Marine, ex-rugby player
known to all as “The Animal.”

We inhaled the rusty-nail smell
of the metal weights, the scent of menthol-rub
and sweat tinged with beer and garlic.
We used the old-school tools—
barbells and dumbbells and benches—
curling, extending, squatting, pulling and
pressing to exhaustion.

We challenged each other to
one more rep, razzed one another
on the lazy days. We heard about Jon’s
divorce, Vito’s latest gal and Pete’s
weeks of living on Top Ramen after he
hurt his knee at work and some fuzzbrain in
the Comp office lost his claim.

One day a few guys from the donut shop next door
tailed Joan as she left, taunting “What are you,
anyway? Maybe we should find out.”
The Animal saw this and hauled himself up
from the saggy-springed chair by the door
where he was resting with a crossword puzzle.
He charged out with Jon and Pete
in tow, and told those bozos loud enough
for the whole street to hear
that they’d be fucked
if they messed with his friend.

We should’ve seen it coming
when the plume-hatted ladies
from St. Mark’s A.M.E. across the street
started losing their Sunday parking spots
to real estate agents, when
the used-furniture store
went out of business, replaced by
a boutique named “Therapy,”
and the dive on the corner of 19th Street
turned into an oxygen bar.
Then my landlady hiked the rent
on my apartment and The Animal
got booted out of his.

But still, it hit us hard
when the Sports Palace lost its lease
after 30 years.

Sam and Jon and I went
up the street to the new gym with some of
the same people but it was just a gym.
Pete came back from his knee injury and got a new
new life teaching PE, and we lost track of
James and Vito.

One day a year later I rode by on my bike
and saw The Animal, khakis riding lower
on his butt than ever, weedy hair
overrunning his collar, staring in
at the little art gallery that filled the
space of the old Sports Palace
with splashy abstract canvases and
angular papier-maché figures in tangerine
and spring green.

I didn’t get back to the old spot much,
but when I happened by
a few years later
I saw the space vacant,
a sign advertising Thai-Malaysian takeout
still tacked over the door,
and the plateglass windows
staring blankly at three men
sacked out on the sidewalk,
not moving a muscle.

 

 

© 2020 Marcy Rein

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Insurrection against democracy

Thursday, January 07, 2021

(Above photo is © The Wall Street Journal)

At almost the last minute, the elders of the US Republican Party seem finally to be in revolt against the populist takeover of ‘the Grand Old Party’ (GOP), a takeover that began with Newt Gingrich in the 1990s. His semi-insider’s rebellion against Washington, which morphed into the Alt-Right Tea Party, has now hopefully ended with the failure of an armed insurrection seeking to prevent the democratic transfer of power to President elect Joe Biden.

Gingrich at least had an electoral mandate for a ‘Contract with America’ that threatened to limit federal government rather than overthrow it. However he also showed his contempt for Washington by bringing government to an almost literal standstill rather than budge on the assumed overriding legitimacy of his radical right agenda. Forward to the Noughties and Senator John McCain, a man with a ton of personal integrity, believed he could utilise the insurrectionary strength of the radical right-wing activists (who’d by this stage arguably taken over the grassroots of the GOP), by appointing their cheerleader Sarah Palin as his running mate. His failed presidential bid was the death-knell of her political career, but it also emphasised how much power this activist strain with an ingrained hostility to the workings of the federal state had in the Republican Party.

Then followed two terms of a Democrat president of partly African-American heritage, who tried to reconstruct aspects of the big state in medical care and who sought to roll back the imprisonment of US foreign policy to the preferences of unreliable Middle Eastern allies and armchair big power strategists. Obama himself symbolised something ethnically new, but his greater offence for some was returning the US to the politics of Robert Kennedy: radical amelioration. In the late ‘60s big spending Republican Richard Nixon utilised the social and economic fears of white working and middle class America but he would have barely understood the radical GOP elements that venerated Vietnam vet McCain would try to contain two nearly four decades later.

Yet this GOP trend’s name, the Tea Party, was a highly conscious evocation of America’s contemporary birth in trauma against established power: British colonialists in the original version, sclerotic federal state power in its more modern incarnation. That original American Revolution never wholly abandoned a suspicion of perceptibly overweening power, and this arguably ideological tendency would soon play its part in fuelling a civil war. America’s militia and anti-state tradition, born in revolt against the British, never completely died, finding an ongoing outlet in the constitutional right to bear arms.

Tea Party 2 never went away either. Donald Trump has always played to a GOP base that has continued to be driven by those who for the most part aren’t well off, are overwhelmingly but not exclusively white, and who strongly distrust federal government. The vocalised references heard in yesterday’s insurrection to wanting to take back control of ‘our building’ (the Capitol) may not have been informed by a deep appreciation of their nation’s history. However it reflected a deeply engrained wellspring of opinion in the US, one greater than Donald Trump’s articulation of it.

If the state is acting in a way that your American political tradition informs you is beyond its historic remit, and if those who will once again take over its machinery embody a political culture that favours centralising state power to further general liberty when you see state power as something that takes liberty away, then it’s time for action. The absurdities of alleged electoral fraud are as nothing compared to an electoral outcome that was ‘stolen’ in the sense that an American political tradition, a reimagined celebration of independence in 1776 (a date etched on many of the flags yesterday), has been defeated. This defeat has been wrought by those coming from what these insurrectionists see as an alien American tradition, one that in some of their eyes now even extends to the occupant of the vice-presidency too.

The politics of those who articulate their ‘imagined’ version of correct political tradition are rarely pretty. Arguably Trump is simply the most successful cypher for it in contemporary global politics. No fascist, this man’s ideological simplicities are grounded in a very genuine American political tradition of hostility to the centralised state even as he paradoxically displays an authoritarian’s disdain for ‘states’ rights’. While loving the shiny phallic delights of American armaments, and the money and perceived jobs that come with them, Trump has never been that keen on actually using them, unlike the great majority of his post-1945 predecessors.

Those in revolt outside and even inside the Capitol building yesterday can find many bedfellows across global politics. Only a few though can boast that their commander in chief is actually the nation’s too (if only for another two weeks in the US case, rather longer in Brazil and Hungary). However the politics of dissenting tribes, often organised in militias or at least rebellious groups, is a growing feature of politics globally. In the Middle East it arguably never went away, but it’s growing. In Iraq and Yemen for example it is rendering states an even greater fiction than they were under would-be strong men who were personally powerful while their governments barely functioned.

Virtual tribes in the west gain greater strength from the perceived outrages of the ‘other’ against which they essentially define themselves. Brexit Britain, at least for its more vehement supporters, is reimagined as a sovereign nation that has ‘taken back’ political control. However as the UK heads to its inevitable break up, power in its English rump resides with a largely unaccountable elite drawn from a mostly narrow and incestuous economic network easily able to incorporate a few wetbacks. For members of the UK tribe that defines itself against Brexit’s leaders and followers, then political majorities matter less than an imagined version of what is right, moral, even somehow more caring, regardless of the democratic inequities of European Council and European Commission decision-making.

The popular understanding and acceptance of democracy as an elected, accountable platform for the creation of politically acceptable compromise, is almost dead. Its procedures don’t have to be interrupted, as they were in the Capitol yesterday, by men wearing Ku Klux Klan or Nazi insignia for what the radical left once branded as ‘bourgeois democracy’ to be seen as at best ineffectual or at worst a tool of cultural or class enemies. Make no mistake there are many on the European far left who can only dream of a relatively safe opportunity to ‘occupy’ legislatures seen as the plaything of political enemies. The ‘greater good’, projected proletarian power, or a militant attachment to the UK’s inevitable ‘European destiny’ are all seemingly acceptable justifications to discredit democratic decision-making if the cause is supposedly just enough.

In writing this though I am struck by the fact that democracy in its indirect, representative, form is not proving able to meet one of the fundamental prerequisites of government: providing security and protection. Social contracts are often mentioned en passant by western politicians. However, as the arguable basis of governance, and of the slow and sometimes violent evolution of democracy in Britain for example, social contracts require an exchange of the state or sovereign’s protection for popular consent to their rule. The contemporary assertion of identity politics across the political spectrum throughout the west (and beyond) is evidence that the old democratic political compact has already broken down. The inability of so-called sovereign governments to meaningfully address global environmental collapse – surely the ultimate test of social security and protection for all their peoples – is making a mockery of the basis of democratic consent to political power. Without consent then what we in the west call democracy cannot function. Shared consent to our rulers, and shared agreement to the basis on which they rule over us, is ebbing fast, and not just among radical right insurrectionists in the US.   

  

 

 
Neil Partrick
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Viewing Distance

Which way are we facing?
What words are they saying?
Let’s reach for the border.
This is how far we can go.
Can we go further?
Where is your name on this?
Are you willing to use force?
I think we’re in shot.
I’m tempted to identify
the light source.
Viewing distance six paces.
Something’s about
to start, but what?

 

 

Tim Cumming
Picture Rupert Loydell

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The Death of Democracy

 

Washington D.C.,
January 6th, 2021,
“Democracy died here today”,
reads the epitaph

________

 

all that was wanted was respect,
if the purpose was to harm you weak little men,
you would have been harmed,
America sick,
for a generation or two,
liberty and justice gone,
replaced by red tape,
and gutless judges,
and bureaucrats,
just admit the truth,
the capitol is not the “people’s” house,
nor is the government,
it is yours,
you little men,
weak and corrupt,
we, deplorables,
tried and failed,
no longer to participate,
or vote,
we will hunker down,
and protect our own,
awaiting the revolution,
the same as our brethen on the left,
though bastards, they may be,
America dead for a number of years,
was buried yesterday.

 

Doug Polk

 

 

.

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THE DIVIDED STATES OF AMERICA

The chair that your father once sat in is gone.
Got dragged off to the dump to be grabbed by some homeless men…
who tonight will sit in it around their campfire
recalling the horrors of their experiences
is various US wars.

They could be having such a fine (old) time
it ain’t cool spreading rumors…
but sometimes they get a little concerned
how no one is ever at home any more…
in America…in America
in the divided states of America.

Now the streets are all empty except for the sound
of some fool preacher on a PA about a mile away.
And though his sermon is surely as loud as its lonely,
don’t bother listening ‘cause nothing is ever said.
Why do they listen when nothing is ever said?

He could be having such a fine old time.
it ain’t cool spreading rumors
but still he gets a little concerned
how no one is ever at home any more…
in America…in America
in the divided states of America.

Hear them AKs a’popping
See our school kids a’dropping?
Our core of decency gone
See how the neighbors now look kinda wrong?
See how up becomes down,
And the whole world gets so turned around?
And did you notice
That wherever you go
up there on the TV
That goddamn Fox news
is ALWAYS on.

We could be having such a fine old time
it ain’t cool spreading rumors
but sometimes we get concerned
how no one is ever at home any more
how no one is ever at home any more
in the divided states of America
in the divided states of America
in the divided states of America.

 

 

from the album Misfit’s Jubilee
Jim White.

 

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Chillis.

They’re a vivid, corporeal crimson.
Rich, red as fresh blood spilt in
Himalayan streets, finger-thick,
clawed in a half moon. The depth
of cherries in colour, ripe red and
fiery though huddled in retreat.

Oak green stalks prick some of
them, twisting wisps of fine stick
something to tie them with. They
lie in a still brace of vividness,
almost asleep, barely touching.
I poke them gingerly, unsure.

Bring them to my nostrils, breathe
in carefully, like they might bite me.
The scent is feint, barely discernible
over the lingering ghost of thyme
in the kitchen. They feel waxy
to my skin; not unpleasantly so.

Each half dozen is unkempt;
each individual unique to its partners.
Flaming snowflakes, moulded,
twisted into lengths. Cool. They
change daily. These chillis are,
it crosses my mind, almost me.

 

 

   John Gimblett

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Street writer part fifteen – Learning to Be a Poet

 

I’m taking the example for this article from a time in my life I am not very proud of when I look back at it, like watching a girlfriend walking out your door and you know her beauty is never going to walk through that door again.

There was one time in my life where I was learning to be a street fighter.

I spent more or less four years in that game.

It all started from bullying and egos.

I remember a primary school teacher hitting me on the head with a large dictionary and it put the fear of god in me and I was scared to go to school because of that incident.

I was scared of him.

There was another guy where I lived who was seen as a bully and he threatened my sister one time and I walked out to confront him but I just froze when he said ‘what ya gonna do about it boy?’

Eventually a skater friend of mine when I was in high school fell out with me (I found out it was over girls in the end) and he used to try and entice me into a fight but I just couldn’t do it (even when his older brother threatened me).

The BIG event that got me the most was the carnival fight…

There was a guy who lived in my hometown who just did not like me at all (even though he didn’t even know me properly)…

He just disliked me!

I was at our local carnival one night and I was talking to an ex-girlfriend’s mother and as I walked out he was drunk with his boys. As I walked away when he caught my eye – he walked up to me and sprayed beer in my face and I continued to walk on. As I walked away all I heard from across the road was a young female voice shouting ‘PAUL!’ – I turned around and he was in the air trying to kick me like he was Jackie Chan – I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him I didn’t want to hit him – then one of his boys hit me with a WKD bottle and I thought it was him so I smacked him with one right hook and he went down. Next thing I knew I had all of his friends grabbing me and trying to take a chunk out of me. Eventually I slipped through them and got free and I ran home. As I stood at my bedroom window and looking for revenge that was the start of my street fighter training and I didn’t look back to see the beauty of life until four years later.

I engrossed myself in the training arts like boxing and wrestling and weightlifting and long distanced running.

I learnt a lot of this stuff from a man called Geoff Thompson who spent ten years on the door as a bouncer and he pressure tested what worked in a thing he called Animal Day training sessions.

Basically it is dirty boxing and wrestling.

I did these sessions with my father and his training partners.

I started off as an 8 stone teenager and when I ended it all I was tipping the scales at 12 stone of solid muscle mass with 5% body fat.

I ended it all in London.

I beat up a young guy in a gym in London at a mixed martial arts training gym and as I looked at myself in the mirror I looked like an ugly motherfucker while spitting blood down the toilet bowl.

I remember I was training with Geoff the next morning in Coventry and I was just tapping the pads with light knuckles and Geoff asked me what was wrong and I told him this was not for me anymore.

I became the thing I hated.

Also, I finished a book that night called: The Autobiography of a Yogi by Yogananda!

If you get a chance to read this I would recommend you do!

What I am trying to say is this:

If you are learning to be a poet, engross yourself in every bit of material you can get your hands on and smother yourself with it!

And if you find yourself in a similar place I was in: don’t waste your time because time is precious because you can never get that back.

So, waste your time learning to be a poet.

Believe me it’s better than punching people in the face or getting punched or choking people out into submission or lifting heavy weights until you get bell’s palsy (true story) or running until your legs seize so bad you think your knees are about to snap backwards and break them in the process (another true story).

I’m leaving you with a poem called: seeking him out.

Look for your truth through words not fists!

Love

PBJ

<3

 

 

Seeking him out

 

I sought him out over a young email

To learn to be a street fighter with my fists

Instead he showed me God

In many faces and in multiple books

Now I live by his soft love and words

Learning to be a delicate poet

Like a leaf falling onto my foot

And I turn it into tea

 

 

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THE ACTION

Of a few people

might be just

enough to do it.

 

Peter Dent
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

 

.

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Fare Well – Edinburgh’s Hogmanay 2020

Words – Jackie Kay
Soundtrack – Niteworks
Visual development artist – Gary Wilson
Drone display and film production – Celestial
Additional drone footage – Arms and Legs
Read by – David Tennant, Siobhan Redmond, Lorne MacFadyen

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sullen rain laments

sullen rain laments
….after traveling & travails 
from so far away & journeyed
upon waves & clouds & wind
only to plummet onto earth
as mere Icarus once fell from sky

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

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Covid Connections: Sam in Portugal

 

Alan Dearling

Sam Wilkinson and myself have been orbital around the new Traveller festi-scene for many years. In more normal times, we used to cross paths at a variety of the smaller, more alternative festivals. Like some of the best things in life that we tend to take for granted, she’s just there…and the world is much the better for it.

Sam has continued to travel in Europe in a live-in vehicle during the whole period of the Covid pandemic lockdowns. I’ve not been travelling out of the UK and the last festival I worked at – was indoors in Stepney, London. That was ‘London Re-Mixed’ at the very beginning of March 2020. Since then, apart from one party night at the Golden Lion in Todmorden,  alongside virtually all other promoters, venue owners, bands, performers, sound and site crews, photographers and writers – it’s been business-as-‘abnormal’! On-line events, zoom calls, recordings done on phones and in home studios, and interaction mostly via social media networks. Strange times, unsettling and sadly riddled with bad-news stories of physical and mental illness and worse. Plus, more and more issues dividing individuals and communities, such as what constitutes a ‘substantial meal’, Covid passports, vaccines, Covid Tier levels, travel restrictions and bans, causes and effects of the virus and more.

 

I look forward to the times-a-changing and future opportunities to help in the building, creation and nurturing of a better ‘normal’, a more compassionate and creative, co-operative, eco-centric world.

A theme close to Sam Wilkinson’s heart-lands.

In the meantime, a few images which have been shared recently with me by real friends and colleagues, folk who I cannot meet up with in this dysfunctional time. Plus one or two of my own images relating to these extraordinary days, weeks and months that we are trying our best to live and survive through.  

Hopefully, one or two will raise a smile.

Luv Om.     Alan. 

  

 

 

Life on the Road during Covid-19 – Part 3: Portugal

 

Sam Wilkinson

 

A few months ago while on lockdown in Morocco I wrote a couple of pieces about how life was like on the road there for myself and my partner and the effect the pandemic was having in general to van dwellers. We finished off our Moroccan adventure with a few days in Essaouira and then a few days in Chefchaouen, both normally very touristy. We felt very lucky to visit just as lockdown was easing with no other tourists in sight!

Waiting for the Ferry to Spain

 

We were also lucky enough to make our way back to Portugal fairly painlessly with the help of the UK embassy who got us and our van a place on a ferry carrying mostly French nationals out of Morocco. Cases of Covid-19 were on the rise in Morocco as they started easing the lockdown, and we felt it was time to head back to Portugal which is where we are normally based most of the year. Portugal had done fairly well in keeping cases of the virus fairly low compared to other EU countries and deaths were also low. As we travelled through the south of Spain from the ferry we found people subdued, Spain had suffered many cases and deaths and their lockdown had been strict. The normal loud chatter of the Spanish in the bars was almost non-existent.

 

On entering Portugal things seem more relaxed and people generally happier. For us personally we were happy to be back in Portugal. It was mid-July and the summer was quieter than usual. There was a definite increase in the amount of rental campervans about for the whole summer. At a guess I imagine the growth in campervan holidays in general combined with the pandemic had led to an increase in people choosing holidays that are more self-contained. On the whole though, things were very quiet with what seemed like mostly Spanish tourists around.

A Quiet Beach

 

A lot of our friends from the alternative community in the western Algarve had been posting online their views on the pandemic, from it being a hoax, being planned, being no worse than the flu, to more outrageous claims like 5G causing the pandemic and even that 5G had been installed in the street lights of the village where we spend a lot of time. I had ‘un-followed’ many Facebook friends so as not to see the more outlandish claims. One friend had shared a video claiming that 5G was incredibly dangerous. When I questioned the contents of the video, particularly the people who claimed to be ‘experts’ and pointed out that the video-makers were right-wing Trump-loving Americans, he took offence and blocked me, but not before telling me he thought Trump had some good policies.

We were reluctant to go back to the village where we used to spend a lot of time due to all the people who seemed to have been sucked into online conspiracies. A lot of them were in denial about the pandemic and so had been having parties during lockdown and had not been social distancing at all. We were much more of the mind-set that although the governments worldwide were definitely not always giving out correct information, the laws that had been passed were not necessarily necessary and the advice confusing, we believed that there was a dangerous virus and we wanted to make sure we protected ourselves and others.

What made us believe this is that every government in the world agreed that there was a pandemic of a virus that looked like it was more deadly than the flu. When do all the governments of the world agree on anything? Trump and Bolsonaro were high profile leaders that downplayed the pandemic, but there was no denying that this was real and happening. We also made sure we took in a wide range of news reporting and looked up reputable websites and journalists as well as listening to experts in their field. We researched many website articles and YouTube videos that our friends sent us and many came from conspiracy websites, info-tainers, or, people saying they were experts when they weren’t.

So we arrived back in the western Algarve where we generally park-up over the winters and as there were so few tourists we parked at the beaches. Inevitably we bumped into people we knew which sometimes was OK with everyone being respectful and keeping a distance, but more often than not we were in the minority with our views.

A Quiet Beach Car Park

Friends tried to hug and kiss us, and the first couple of times it was so quick that we let it happen! Two male friends even tried to kiss me on the lips! We then became ready for the huggers and kissers and turned them away before they got too close, with the exception of a couple of very good friends. Despite not judging any of our friends on their views or saying anything negative to them we had a few snide remarks. One friend said, “They got to you then”, when we refused to hug him and another said, “Oh you’re one of them”, for the same reason!

We also were disappointed by some of our friends’ reactions to the Black Lives Matter protests. One friend when asked what he thought of the protests said they were all Marxists. Another, when asked whether he had seen the Colston statue being taken down during the BLM protest in Bristol said, “Are we going to take down all statues then?” When I said, “Yes, any which cause offence”, he didn’t understand that concept and went onto say, “Well everyone was racist before 1900.”

What has been interesting is how the alternative community seems to have been targeted by the right-wing and QAnon types on the internet. It seems that people who are anti-authority, who often do not believe what governments tell them and what mainstream media reports, are quite willing to believe a website with no authenticity or a stranger on YouTube with no reputable sources. We are trying hard not to let this become a divisive issue and have respect for other people’s views. We are trying to be compassionate and to understand that lockdown has affected people in a number of ways. Having said that, we are reluctant to mix with people who are acting as if there is no pandemic, and so we have shut ourselves off from some of the friends we would like to discuss things with.

 

We free-park in our van and have been in the same area in the Algarve since we got back from Morocco. We have found most other van dwellers respectful and not many people are mixing as much as they used to. There have been far less van dwellers around anyway so it’s very easy to keep distanced!

Parking in our Campervan

 

We have noticed the people in the supermarket who don’t wear their mask properly or who can’t seem to understand the concept of social distancing. We try at all times to remain cool and not get wound up by others’ unsociable behaviour. We did have a slight altercation while waiting at the checkout in a supermarket during the summer. We asked a couple who were right up behind us to keep their distance as per the store policy. They refused and said as they had masks on it was OK. We had to just turn our backs and ignore them as it could have easily escalated into an argument!

 

There has also been a big backlash against wild or free camping this year in the Algarve. Part of the south coast of the Algarve, all of the west coast and the west coast of the Alentejo is all part of a Natural Park. In the Natural Parks parking overnight in any vehicle is prohibited. Many people, not just campervans have always still parked overnight as the signs are unclear and it has always been tolerated. Portugal in general is a very laid back country and as long as you are doing no harm you usually get left alone. There has always been some moaning from some of the public in this area, but this year it seems to have escalated with lots of negative reporting against campervans in the media, anti- free-camping groups on social media and even local vigilantes waking people up in the night to evict them. I’m sure the pandemic has made feelings run higher than usual!

A few Campervans parked in the Natural Park

On a much more positive note there has been some good things to come from this time. My partner now has daily messages with his family in their WhatsApp group and weekly Zoom call with them all. People have had time to reassess their lives and do different things which can only be a good thing. Sadly, it seems everyone, especially politicians, are more concerned with the economy than the health of the people. I personally would be all for a UBI (universal basic income), rather than trying to get everything open again as soon as possible.

Personally speaking I had time to do more writing, update my website, build a website for the nFATs group and learn a musical instrument. One thing I now share in common with the comedian Bill Bailey is that we both learnt mandola during lockdown! While he is already a talented musician and can reel off some great stuff, I am still on 3 or 4 chord songs! I am getting there, can play and sing a few songs all the way through now and despite not being on lockdown any more I practise most days.

Sam Learning the Mandola

What cannot be denied and must be acknowledged in order to move forward is the ‘connections’ in the Covid-19 pandemic, how it spread and how it has, and is being handled, and Capitalism. How making money and politics have got in the way of actually caring for people. How Capitalism and Colonialism are inextricably linked and how Racism, Colonialism and Capitalism are all linked.

 

Quiet Bars and Businesses

People moaned at the Black Lives Matter protests happening during a pandemic but it was something that had to happen. It was no coincidence that it happened during a pandemic, a pandemic which has been proven to disproportionately affect BAME people more. In such a fractured time it was inspiring to see some positive movements with some white people finally realising the place of privilege they come from and actually listening to BAME people.

With Brexit looming the UK seems increasingly fractured. The Covid-19 pandemic will have an effect on the global economy but Brexit will very much affect the UK more than most other countries. Ireland could possibly also be hit quite badly by Brexit but that remains to be seen, as at the time of writing things are still not very clear. One thing is for sure is that there are new shipping routes opening up between Ireland and France to cut out the drive through the UK that many lorries used to do.

I found it very upsetting to read about the asylum seekers that were hounded down in the hotels they had been put up in during the lockdown by the far-right activists in the UK. The hateful way these people act is beyond my comprehension and as a UK citizen I’m absolutely ashamed that there are people that think it’s OK to act this way. The UK I’d like to see is a welcoming place for all, somewhere known worldwide for its kindness and compassion. Unfortunately all it is known for is its hatred and racism.

A vaccination is in sight, perhaps some will even be having it by the time this goes to print. I do not believe the conspiracy theories against the vaccine and I will have it if necessary. I have never had a flu vaccine as I felt I didn’t need it, but understand this is a different situation. I’m not 100% certain about vaccines in general but I wouldn’t call myself an anti-vaxxer either. I do believe that it’s important to get the correct facts and that are only from reputable resources not from someone on YouTube claiming to be an expert. From what I have read so far I am much more in favour of having the vaccine than not having it. I do also believe in personal choice and would respect people who choose not to have it.

Of course, a bit like the Brexit referendum, people need the true and proper facts and opinions from people who understand. If they don’t get that they may make the wrong choice. I still think many people were ill-informed and not given the whole picture during the Brexit referendum. If they had received accurate information there may well have been a different outcome. The same applies to the measures taken to try and stop or slow the spread of Covid-19 and to the vaccines. People need to understand more about where to find authentic facts and figures, reputable websites, peer-reviewed papers and opinions by qualified people.

Sam Enjoying the Beach!

At the end of it all, whether it’s the Covid-19 pandemic, Black Lives Matter, Brexit or something else we must try and stand in solidarity with each other as fellow humans. We need to keep dialogue open with those with different views and try to come from a place of love and compassion.

 

 

Sam Wilkinson:

1 December 2020

 

 

 

 

Other work by Sam can be seen on her Positive Evolution website.

www.positive-evolution.org.uk

 

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Physical Form – NHS

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Revelation

 

 

The first day of autumn my father’s friend
accidentally revealed an old grave in his yard.
Nameless female grave – moon and stars
Carved in white stone. Below,
A little deeper in the ground he found a few bones too,
shoulder blades, knee parts.

I looked at my father as he descended
A bucket of cream on the table under the grapes.
It was soiled with earth; I took it
And I started to take off black crumbs with my fingertips.
A little further dry stalks of corn

Trembled as the sun set behind the clouds
And a shadow hung over our garden.
The more I wiped the bucket the darker the
Garden became. The wind blew.

It suddenly occurred to me that this unknown woman
Whose bones were now stacked in a bucket doesn’t want to be
Here, among us, who carelessly eat grapes.

Put the bucket down you will soil your dress, my father said.
And truly when I looked at my dress dirt was already there
Glued on the folds at the bottom.

I shook my dress, then blew into the bucket
Before I put it back on the table.

The sun shone on the garden again. And the wind stopped.
The cats clung to my legs as if they wanted
to say that everything was over long ago anyway.

 

 

 

 

Naida Mujkic
Photo Nick Victor

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The Hero

the hero fallen,
immediately shunned,
a warrior,
like no other,
fighting windmills,
and giants,
ogres and trolls,
tireless,
invincible,
until now,
shunned by this followers,
while giants,
trolls,
and ogres,
prepare to address old scores.

 

 

 

 

Doug Polk

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THE VISION OF MORGAN LE FAY

 

AC  Evans

 

 

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Robert Montgomery’s Studio

Robert Montgomery
Photo Nick Victor

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Illegal Gatherings of One

 

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HOW AM I COPING?

Ok, just got the news of a new lockup on 16th December. It had been expected but I was hoping it would be on Friday so I could still have lunch with my friend Pamela at the French House in Soho on Thursday. No such luck. Was planning on oysters. It was going to be my Xmas treat, but I had to kiss that one goodbye.

One of the main reasons the lockdown is upsetting is because many pubs and restaurants are going to go under. Will the historic French House survive? Doubtful.  So many jobs lost.

 I’d been going there regularly since the 60s when the good-natured Gaston Berlemonwas was the owner. He knew how to mix the best cocktails.

The French House had always been popular with actors, painters and writers. In other words, bohemians.  It was the days of the very long liquid lunch, and there one could enjoy good conversations with heavy drinking journalists, martini downing publishers, and famous barristers drinking champagne.

Struggling artists cadged free drinks from sloshed businessmen who hoped sooner or later to lay their hands on a painting which would make them a lot of money. Scruffy looking bards, whose nourishment seemed to consist of mainly vodka, flirted with gregarious, heavy boozing gutsy chain-smoking women out for a good time, who were to be found there. 

As was Jeffrey Barnard, whose weekly column for the Spectator principally chronicled his daily round of intoxication. His writing was once described by the journalist, Jonathan Meades, as a “suicide note in weekly instalments.” And there was the regular, Frank Norman, whose play about cockney low-life characters in the 1950s, Fings Ain’t Wot They Used T’be, had won The Evening Standard’s award for best musical in 1960. Other regulars over the years have included Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Tom BakerMalcolm Lowry, Jay Landesman, Elizabeth Smart and John Mortimer.  

Before my time, when the pub belonged to Gaston Berlemonwas senior, the painter, Augustus John, drank in the company of Brendan Behan who reputedly wrote large portions of The Quare Fellow there. Dylan Thomas, it’s said, once left the manuscript of Under Milk Wood under his chair. Sylvia Plath is also reported to have visited the French House.

For me, it was the one place in Soho where people truly chose to share time and conversation.

Soho will never be the same when we go back to ‘normal’ times. Gone are the ‘normal’ times. It has all changed, we have changed, I have changed.

Not that I know quite how I’ve changed, but I feel like a limp wool doll that’s been turned inside out. I’m upside down.

Before the crown of all pandemics sequestered our lives, I didn’t watch TV programs a lot. Now, to pass the interminable time, I see much more stuff on my computer. Films, documentaries, Amazon Prime videos, Italian movies on YouTube — what have you. But I still don’t have Netflix. I feel that Netflix is a  monopolism, so I’m boycotting it, but who knows, as time proceeds and there is less and less material for me left to look at I might give in. After all, I buy from Amazon constantly, and that too is a monopolism. I am a contradiction.

I don’t feel like reading. My eyes hurt, the print is too small. And as for eating on my own? How does one cook for one? Take a cabbage leaf, add a baby tomato, a slice of potato . . .  Some of my friends make soups or vegetable stews which they put in the fridge to eat all week. But that’s not for me. Sometimes a yogurt with berries and nuts can suffice.  And yet, even though I don’t eat that much, I’ve put on weight. Coronavirus pounds. Surely a glass of wine in the evening and the occasional Bloody Mary are not the cause of me no longer being able to get into my clothes? But you know what? I don’t care. I’ve grown up in 2020.

I know I’m fortunate to be on my own. I’m an old cat with a sticky character and others enervate me. I’m aware there is a price to pay for having a sticky character. There’s a price for everything.

My cleaner came this morning. Her eyes a combination of fury and tears, and before she even greeted me, she cried out, ‘They’ve closed the schools!’ She has two young sons. She’ll come to me on Sundays now when her husband is home to take care of the kids. We all need to adjust. Somehow we adjust. It is what it is. Fucking awful, is what it is.

I wake up each morning with my heart in the pit of my stomach which is in a   knot. I turn on my radio. All the news is bad again. How am I going to get through today? Although I don’t even know what day it is as I seem to have lost all sense of reality as days melt into each other. I feel I’m in a Dali scenario.

Under the soothing hot water in my shower, I remind myself that here I am, in a privileged condition, so best stop complaining. You’ll get to see your grandchildren next year, I tell myself. The time will pass in a jiffy, treat it as the retreat you’ve always wanted to take and never have and now here it is. The good news is you have lots of time for writing. And don’t forget to follow the advice of Eckhart Tolle to be here now. Maybe I’m coming to terms with fate. What else can one do?

I castigate myself for moaning as my thoughts go to the masses of underprivileged poor who will not be able to afford to give their children a Xmas treat, who shiver in the hovels they cannot afford to heat, let alone pay the rent for. How many abused wives and children will suffer in this festive season? How many more homeless will hit the streets? How many suicides will there be? And to think that Dominic Cummings received a pay rise of at least £40,000 this year. Not that that seemed to put a smile on his surly face. Nor does Scrooge Rees-Mogg smile as he criticises Unicef who will now be feeding hungry children in South London. He accuses them of playing politics. Really? Has he any idea?  How many gifts will nanny be wrapping to place under his huge Christmas tree? How large will the turkey, so lovingly stuffed by cook, be a feast for the taste buds as it rests ready for carving on the antique family table?

Christmas promises to be a disaster. People are tearing their hair out. Total contradiction and confusion.  Celebrate with your loved ones, but don’t get on a train, it’s dangerous.  In fact, best stay at home. Do this, do that, be careful not to kill your granny and whatever you do, remember no hugs. Danger looms around every corner. We are in the unpleasant hands of a cheating populist government who does not know what it’s doing as death tolls rise. They’ve lost the plot and we pay for their stupidity. The Joker Johnson, at all times, fails in his duty to protect his citizens.

Weather permitting, I’ll take a walk on my own and talk to the ducks on the canal. Not that I mind being on my own, for some years I’ve spent Christmas alone. It’s ok, no big deal, 25th of December is just another day. When you get to my age you can be philosophical about it, especially as most old-time friends I used to celebrate it with have died. There is a mausoleum inside of me crowded with those dear departed. I think about them daily.

But wait a minute, hold your turkeys, Christmas has just been cancelled! With the excuse of the advent of a new, more virulent virus, we have been moved to Tier 4. Not going anywhere.

Grandparents are beyond desolation, disappointed children are shedding tears, fathers are cursing as they have another Gin, and mothers don’t know what they will be doing with all the food they have bought in anticipation of feasts.

A black mist of anger hangs over the depressed population. Our mental health has been fed to the shredder.

But don’t despair, the powers that be assure us. The brilliant news is that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel called The Pfizer-BioNTech COVID19 vaccine. It’s astonishing that they got it together at lightning speed, and is, indeed, great news. Doormat Hancock, the Secretary of State for Health, sheds tears publicly as he witnesses Margaret Keenan, a 91-year-old grandmother, be the first person in the world to receive a jab as part of a mass vaccination programme. ‘I’m so proud to be British,’ he says, unaware, perhaps, that the vaccine has been developed by the Turkish, Uğur Şahin and the German Özlem Türeci, daughter of a Turkish physician who immigrated from Istanbul. These two gifted emigrants are now amongst the richest people in Germany. For them, Covid-19 has not been an ill wind.

I was surprised to have already received a phone call from my surgery offering me a jab. Which I refused. This was  not an easy decision, but I’m not ready yet. I need to think about it carefully. At this point, I don’t want to put anything foreign into my healthy body. I use no allopathic medication but instead eat healthy food, make extensive use of essential oils, take a zillion supplements, do a zillion exercises. I haven’t been ill, not even a cold, in years.

My son is upset. “Mum, get the vax, if you get the virus you will probably die.”

“I won’t get it. I’m being very careful,” I try to reassure him. Wishing for a more ‘normal’ mother, he shakes his sceptical head.

‘You won’t be able to travel if you don’t get vaccinated,’ friends cry out. Maybe so, but in the meantime, I’ve booked myself a flight (before Brexit kicks in) to Tuscany for next year.

As for now, I’ll continue wearing a mask, keep a reasonable distance, wash my hands, rush through Waitrose, and remind myself, at all times, that there is nothing to fear but fear itself.

The fundamental question is whether our values will shift after we come out of the nightmare?

A renaissance must take place.  Principles will have to be reviewed. The powers that be will have to seriously understand that love, altruism, compassion, fairness, caring for those less fortunate than us, is fundamental. There are going to be new viruses just around the corner if people don’t change their behaviour and attitude to animals.  Huge amounts of money will have to be deployed to heal the climate.

If we don’t do this, it means we have learned nothing at all from this plague which surely has come to give us a lesson.

 

Hanja Kochansky

 

 

 

 

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Happy New Year!!!

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This is my Christmas card

 

This is my Christmas card.  An art magazine might write thus: ‘Woolf’s multi-media collage references classic Western midwinter imagery, with the contemporary and oh so topical stylised human figures photographed on her local pavement in Cricklewood.  Placed apart on a Yule Log of yore,  (a chocolate confection) they signify apartness, and the slight, touching lean of the figure on the left shows the emotional need for humans to be together from Solstice to New Year.  A devilish robin (or is she/he a saint?) keeps them apart, but looks meaningfully up. Up at the rescuing star of a collection of needles.  ‘The vaccine of hope,’ said Woolf in a recent interview; ‘the robin is saying ‘hang on there you humanoids, and eat your fucking cake.’  Of course, despite Woolf’s declared intention, others have suggested that the needles represent a ‘shooting up.’   Whereas the imagery of holly and berries are straightforward enough, the layers of ‘merde like’ icing are ambiguous. Is it the shit we’re all in at the moment?  Is this glutinous substance simply the mixture of icing sugar and cocoa etched into with the tines of a fork?  Woolf refuses to be drawn. The collaged text (a homage to Kurt Schwitters) is straightforward enough, and those who know their 20th century art history will see that the robin’s wings are cut from a work by Leger. The three balls floating off into the breadboard are there for compositional reasons, but the mysterious word ‘alamy’, aslant in the icing? shit?  will keep art historians guessing for decades as Woolf refuses to be drawn.’
 
 
Jan Woolf
 
 
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weak bladder blues/Adrian Mitchell got that jazz


 
    in fond memory of the great radical poet
    ‘little Adrian Mitchell – the fastest cock alive’

when I was young
a doctor told me: son
you have a weak bladder
and he proved to be right
now wiser but sadder
I’m the only known being
inside a human skin
who pisses out more fluid
than he can take in

 

Jeff Cloves

AM – also a sufferer – died 20 December 2008

 

 

 

 

 

Adrian Mitchell got that jazz

 

Adrian Mitchell got rhythm
Adrian Mitchell got soul
Adrian Mitchell got the blues
Adrian Mitchell jellyroll

Adrian Mitchell cakewalk
Adrian Mitchell cut-a-rug
Adrian Mitchell do the viper
Adrian Mitchell Jitterbug

Adrian Mitchell hit the high notes
Adrian Mitchell blow his top
Adrian Mitchell jump n jive
Adrian Mitchell bebop

Adrian Mitchell play it cool
Adrian Mitchell razamatazz
Adrian Mitchell  boogie-woogie
Adrian Mitchell got that jazz
Adrian Mitchell boogie-woogie
Adrian Mitchell got that jazz

 

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Magazine Publication Dates

This is our last publication of the magazine untill the 9th of January 2021.
Wishing one and all the very best of wishes.

 

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Covid’s Covert Reengineering of Humanity

Untested GMO Vaccination in ‘Human Laboratory’ Trial

The first Covid vaccines now being rushed onto the market are genetically modified products. However, they are not publicly referred to as such, because that would likely scare off a high percentage of would be recipients.

Nevertheless, the public has more than ‘a right’ to be informed what it is that is to be injected into their bloodstream. It should be obligatory upon those doing the injecting to convey this information. The phrase used by the constitutions of most countries – dealing with human health concerns – is that nobody should be pressured into accepting medical treatment without their ‘informed consent’ to do so.

An informed choice ought to be pretty simple once one realises one is being used as a guinea pig in a vast experiment on human health.

The microbiologist Professor Dr Sucharit Bhakdi and leading lung specialist Dr Wolfgang Wodarg, in their paper ‘Genetic Engineering Under False Flag’, reveal the composition of the Covid vaccine to be “largely new and highly risky genetic engineering interventions in complex biological communication processes of our immune systems.”

The vaccine’s composition, they point out, includes fragments of different genetic information to be introduced into human cells as RNA or DNA. “Recombinant RNA, which is introduced into human cells, also alters the genetic processes and can very well be classified as genetic modification of the cells or the organism.”

Dr Bhakdi goes on to state that it is impossible to verify what processes can be triggered within the body by the vaccine, and that damage to the human germ line cannot be ruled out, also leading to changes and damage being carried through to future generations.

While campaigning against GMO in Poland, the UK and continent of Europe, it became clear that most consumers are instinctively turned-off from buying and ingesting GMO foods. They will be doubly unhappy, one surmises, to think that they could be recipients of a GMO vaccine.

By getting this information out, many millions who have not done much thinking up till now, will think twice when realising that the hugely hyped ‘salvation via vaccination’ is to be achieved at the hands of a genetically modified product never before tested on humankind and carrying unique dangers for the stability of the DNA of the human genome itself.

So let’s take stock of where we are within this Covid madness.

The highly dubious World Health Organisation has been leading all and sundry into desperately chasing after a non-existent phantom pandemic, commonly recognised as a strain of the standard winter flu and no more dangerous. The Covid army have been using testing procedures that have proved incapable of giving an accurate reading, but instead produce random ‘positive/’negative’ results based upon the test’s (PCR) sensitivity to RNA particles that arise as a natural result of the immune system’s exosomes defending against an incoming viral threat.

Now let us remind ourselves, this bogus emergency is being used as a cover to enforce a global scale lock-down of humanity, the subsequent bankrupting of millions of businesses and the daily removal of fundamental human rights and civil liberties that are the cornerstone of a civilised society.

A scared and confused public, accustomed to allowing ‘authorities’ to run the show, are now being told they need to be vaccinated to give them sufficient immunity to prevent the phantom virus from afflicting them.

The ‘authorities’ have chosen a GMO vaccine because the effects of such a vaccine on the human metabolism are unknown and it will therefore be a useful experiment for the pharmaceutical industry – and the governments that rely on them for rolling-out their ‘health policies’ – to monitor peoples’ reactions and see what happens next.

The effects of lock-down, masks and distancing, constitute the socio-psychological end of this experiment: Who will crack first? How effective will the fear factor prove to be? How can ‘e’ education be tailored for making its recipients prisoners in their own homes? Is the human psyche sufficiently paralysed to continue with these policies even when no further effort is made to push the pandemic button? How deeply implanted can The Great Reset become under the smoke screen of Covid?

Next comes the physical part of the experiment. This is specifically intended as a depopulation tool. Depopulation has been high on the agenda of all Club of Rome and Bilderberger ‘leaders’ for decades. A genetically modified vaccine – if it does not kill outright – has the strong potential to alter human DNA, and this mutation will carry-on to be inherited by future generations. This will further enhance the control that ‘controllers’ exert over humanity, by subtly altering the body’s ability to reject new diseases, deal with existing ones and produce healthy babies, to name just a few of the predicted repercussions.

Masks cross-over between psychological and physical, negatively affecting both.

By starting off with injecting ‘vulnerable’ old people in care homes already weakened through lack of support, it will be possible to say that many later died of natural causes. That will be the ‘public’ story, but under the surface the deaths will be carefully monitored and analysed to see how ‘effective’ the jab has been at achieving what amounts to a covert eugenics operation.

Of specific note is the fact that the older generation have more experience and subsequent awareness of the games played by political cowboys and overt money maniacs than the younger generations. ‘The oldies’ present a greater threat to the success of the great dumbing down exercise without which the cabal’s ‘total control’ master plan cannot be achieved. Mass indoctrination is key to all aspects of the great Covid con, as any aware followers of ‘The news’ will surely recognise.

But all is not going entirely to plan. More and more doctors, scientists and health practitioners are coming forward to expose the full nature of the horror being perpetrated on humanity.

There is now a ‘World Alliance of Doctors’ and a growing number of class action court hearings being instigated against government agencies and individual ministers involved in promoting the grand lie named Covid-19.

Many millions of campaigners are involved in ‘I do not consent’ awareness raising events, stimulating the call for civil disobedience and defiance of the supposedly obligatory mask wearing and social distancing rules. The uprisings are gathering momentum all over the world – as it becomes clear that state fascism is being introduced under the veneer of Covid clamp-downs – and a totalitarian supranational authority is masterminding the activities of national governments while demonstrating its effectiveness as ‘the new ruler of the world’. The New World Order.

In a nutshell: in the past year an entire pseudo emergency world crisis has been black-magicked into existence. A world that fully reflects the stealth, deception and dark cunning of its originators. A handful of deceivers who have told us to believe a carefully prepared pack of lies and obey their instructions for how to respond to them.

Now to round-off the activities of this demonic and shambolic Covid con-trick, millions of eager individuals are going to get themselves vaccinated against something that has never been proven to exist and by something that has never been authentically tested or proven to be safe. Could there be a more bizarre state of affairs?

This is the greatest wake-up call we (humanity) will ever get. What we are faced by is the prospect of interminable, abject slavery at the hands of empathy dead control freak criminals – or – a fight back like no other, to depose these tyrants and establish a platform of uncompromising global justice and fraternity. We are in no position to hesitate.

Have no doubt, we are in charge of our destinies and collectively we are in charge of the health and welfare of this living planet. None of us can shirk these dual responsibilities. Commit now to unifying our individual will to overcome – with our collective sense of universal sister and brotherhood.

That is the wedding which will finally catalyse the break-through we know is our absolute imperative to make manifest.

 

Julian Rose

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and holistic teacher. His latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is particularly recommended reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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EARTH WORK

Scar curve in the flat grass-covered plain
seen from the hill above.
                                     River’s swing
was there once,
silting the curve’s inside,
cutting under the outer bank.

A cut-off piece,
a pond going stagnant.
Filling-with-dirt call it, and now
by relief of the low sun
I see where it was.

No one now alive saw water there.
Why do I
so like it? What pleasure,
this music of no resolution,
this tune of the filled meander!

 

 

 

William Gilson

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Home is where Christmas is?

 

A Christmas tree can be a time machine. Antique or even modern baubles, summoning a land of lost content . . . or so it seems in wishful memory – where happy moments are magnified, all pain and trivia tinselled away. But the Christmas tree is a paradox: cheerful hope and wistful melancholy combined. The distorted reflections in its decorations are either heartening or defeated. Deep purple is the most extreme perhaps . . . or green or blue, who can say – the mood changes as swiftly as the rules of covid. To look up through the wire and plastic branches of a fake tree, bedecked in glitter and lights, induces a simple childlike delight, a heathen joy, or a queasy question mark. Holding a twisted mirror to sincere religious belief, this spangled trophy can also appear a profound embodiment of the debased human situation. And the ghastlier a decorated Christmas tree is, the more dislocating its presence might become. To get completely carried away, a contemplation of this presence and its history can be like a journey to the end of the world, as well as “to a hypothetical paradise of dreams”[i]. I know I’m taking it too seriously, but haunted by rich moments of numinous glamour[ii], of man-made lights against the winter darkness, even if I’m forcing meanings upon it, the confluence of myths surrounding Christmas are second to none, and conceivably the decorated tree has become its apex? From Paganism to Consumerism, it symbolises the lot.

Don’t soft soap yourself with the natural beauty of a real tree! That is an evasion. A pointer towards higher things. One side of the coin only. Obviously, it has the smell of woods and pines, the sense of air, but how long does that last in the average, ridiculously overheated home? The fake green tree – an expensive one made to appear real – might also be a cop out? One of my sons once said to me: “As long as there is some white stuff for a day or so somewhere between 23rd and the New Year non-event, then I feel I have had a white Christmas”. In the future if we have to make do with stick-on snow, or snow in the mind’s eye, the fake white tree – of tree and snow combined – might give our blindness what it lacks. Once decorated, that ghost of Christmas, perfectly encompasses both our aspirational escape and our material tackiness – as well as being a distraction from our tendency to destroy everything. As K says about my £3.50 white tree with berry lights from a clearance sale last January: “it looks like a section from Hell!”. A section we welcome into our home. In the darkness, it can breathe heat and fire (if not enough to keep us warm). While she has disowned it, the younger children love it. They haven’t seen Hell yet! Like me, the no-longer children, say it reminds them of our Lynchian Christmas of a few seasons back. That year, we ran two film festivals in parallel. Wholesome films in the evenings; David Lynch in the afternoon[iii]


“a section from Hell”,
9th December 2020    
               


Adding to the legitimacy of my white tree, it’s situated in a damper part of the house where white paint frequently flakes from the ceiling – a dusting of snow that has already authenticated the Christmas bottles of wine waiting underneath.


North Devon, 1996

For years, I, and many of the Estate Island generation I knew (those who grew up, geographically and socially exiled from their original communities on large housing estates newly added to towns all over the country particularly in the 1960s[iv]), continued to return ‘home’ for Christmas – the title of home always deferring to the place longest known – its lights made to seem brighter by the tunnel of the past closing around it. For a while this gradually mythical place was where, by deliberate rendezvous or chance, we encountered all our contemporaries and remembered the New Year’s Eve pub lock-ins of yesteryore, the strange parties in morphing villages, lonely walks across iron-frosted fields to isolated monuments or glowing fires . . . from all these jewel bright pictures the rubbish has been removed.


North Devon, 1996


Whether we go ‘home’ from a sense of duty or in search of reassurance, eventually such a homing instinct inevitably fades. I clung onto the lights beyond the tunnel and only live now by trying to dissolve all such tunnels and the chronological time, which with its affiliated rational laws, creates them. Meanwhile, in the so-called real world, when I was about 26, I tried to start building my own home. If that is older than usual, probably the delay was caused by not being a student after the age of 16? In the ten years that followed, Iiving in nine different regions as well as travelling abroad, there’d never been a chance to crystallise a definite home . . . in any case, maybe I didn’t believe in the idea? I wanted to feel each different place as a stranger, with an exile’s intensity: the landscape, the history, the weather. The social situation held little interest for me. Almost all my ‘homes’ of those years were remote. Bypassing the alternative social group which may have arisen at college or university, possibly I embraced the past more than others? After all, without the past there can be no present and our much-vaunted spontaneity, our desire to seize the moment, resembles that of a headless chicken. In any case, I always suffered badly from a homesickness whose exact cause was never easy to pin down. It wasn’t just the absence of family or house or friends. It was as much about landscapes, a volatile sense of hope and despair brought on by the atmosphere of place and season. For me there were always the rusting railway sidings, or those single tracks, the snatches of tramline running to the wood[v] that aim to escape . . . all the stubs of lives that might have been, the people we know must fade away.

Many years earlier, winter in Arrowsby had provided an experience that in similar     
fashion had expanded, passing through isolation to dismiss the state of internal          
bleakness initially induced.

It had occurred on a sharp, cold evening in the premature darkness after school. By the base of the steps to the town library, he and Brock had been brooding on the recent Zeppelin song “Ten Years Gone”[vi] and moved across, still talking, to peer into the Christmas windows of Woolworths. A vivid sensation came to him then of being ten years in the future, looking back to all the now dispersed people they had known. To the idealised life of the town and the Vale. To all the jewels in the moving  of wishes unfulfilled. To their long-departed friends and girlfriends. This bleak swansong in his mind seemed unbearable. Ten years then, was a limitless exile of time.

Suddenly though, as the music they’d been talking of came alive in his head, he was swept beyond the regret and melancholy inherent in its tone and lyrics. With a wilful affirmation against the limitations of fact and time, inside his mind the Vale and windswept town of Arrowsby was escalated, all reaching routes lighting at once,     
into a grand metaphysical unity . . .[vii]


My eldest son was born in 1987, and even if, in truth, ‘home’ is mostly a state of mind, this change brought home out of the past and into the present. I started to look both ways[viii] and the towns and villages of my original landscape (despite being occasionally revived by visits), to seem a place on the far side of the tunnel – where perhaps internally, some deeper form of Christmas, also resided. In a way it would be good to swap Christmas for Yule or the Solstice.  Certainly, for me the religious aspects persist as no more than an atmosphere of tradition – major ingredients in a bowl of spiced punch with numerous, consciously irreconcilable, elements. But like self-reliance versus a sense of community, change versus tradition is another of those sometimes-bitter paradoxes: how to dispense with the presented surface without losing the meaning behind; how to celebrate or be free without being destructive.

 

 Little Witheridge/Whispering Radars, North Devon, 1996

 

Apart from six months in 1983, when the place I rented had a couple of storage heaters too expensive to run, until 2009, nowhere I lived had any heating to speak of – a situation quite common until the 1980s? Back in the days of single glazing and valuable draughts – before condensation became the enemy – my parent’s council house had only one open fire downstairs. Very occasionally on exceptionally icy mornings, my mum would light the gas oven and open the door and we’d all sit around for five minutes with a cup of tea before leaving . . . which sounds like something from the Second World War, a comfortable version of the woman crouching under the stairs of her bombed house. Nothing much else remains except some solid shelves strengthening the steps above her – on which a first aid kit and a bottle of medicinal brandy are covered in the dust from the aid raid. Rescue workers indicate that she should have a nip. “Oh no,” she rebukes them, “that’s only for emergencies.”

So, without the extreme of saying everyone in the old days grew up in a shoe box in the middle of a road[ix] – when was it that we all got to expecting central heating, endless clean washing and constant showers?

Home is where the washing is . . .

 

If home is where the family is, so your own family replaces the original one[x], while the orbit of friends changes or vanishes. Even with children, our life continued in a relatively fragmented way until I was 33, when we found a remote house to rent in North Devon. There we stayed for thirteen years, maybe the nearest we ever came to home in the traditional sense? In that time, despite our increasing sense of sanctuary, other subdivisions of ‘home’ developed. The Christmas punch flourished in a new location, while the tradition of the tea break snowballed in significance, until perhaps ‘home’ became where the tea break was – its success in granting a moment of agreeably predictable security, dependant on the quality of the B film or 60s/70s TV episode chosen to go with it[xi]. Even when these are dull, especially when watched with others – laughing or suspending disbelief – they create a reassuring atmosphere. If I lived in a capsule on the moon, I  could believe I was at home while drinking tea and watching the best of these – one that contains both tradition and menace, such as the 1965 Avengers classic: Too Many Christmas Trees[xii].

The fireplace at Tunnel Cottage, a still from: A Christmas Address from Whispering Radars

 

Crossing the fells in north-west Cumbria last month, my son and I were recalling the appealing hopelessness of certain old TV series we enjoyed. As with overdone Christmas decorations, the worse they are, the better they can seem in certain moods – distorted worlds half-seen in the holy bauble. Perhaps not so oddly, we ended up considering Good King Wenceslas[xiii]. At school this was one of the hymns we were forced to sing, and maybe because my memory of the lyrics didn’t extend beyond the first verse, plus the bits about mead and wine, a mental, Christmas card image of the peasant’s dwelling and a sense of the good King’s intention, the carol remains deeply evocative. Imagination replaces the curiously ambiguous moral of the story, which appears to be, more or less: if the rich give a little to the poor they get well paid back with blessings. We later discovered that Wenceslaus was bumped off by his younger brother, Boleslaus the Cruel, a name which reduced us to inappropriately helpless laughter.

Apparently, Wenceslaus was declared a Saint almost immediately after his murder and became the source of a cult as well as subject of four hagiographic biographies. A subsequent Pope (Pius II), later emulated the Good King, walking 10 miles barefoot in the snow and ice. Being stupid at 15, I once walked from Elmhurst estate, Aylesbury, to Dobbins Lane in Wendover barefoot in a heavy December frost and no-one ever canonized me! But I suppose, that was only six miles. Nevertheless, I am not satisfied.


Elmhurst Estate Circa 1968

 

No wonder for me that 60s and 70s housing estates all over the country, can so forcefully stir memories of the land beyond the tunnel: of both home and Christmas. Most of all perhaps, of home at Christmas? As we left Morecambe last week (having inadvertently strayed into an area classified tier 3), its passing estates added rum to my advent cake.

For a couple of years, a Morecambe and Heysham Digression has been at the edge of my mind – an area so fascinating in its contrasts and connections, that despite notes and images, its essence evades me. After fervour comes agitation or frustration: insults to the spirit of place. Only later can all the uncertain impressions be allowed to recede into that magical fogbank where all mysterious ideas and feelings gently agree that the greatest subtleties can never be clearly stated. The balm comes in being able to believe that there is some higher truth in being unfinished, in being apprehended solely inside . . .   Under the streets wending inland from those distinctive few that terminate on the low cliffs, abruptly cut off, are patient secrets that will always escape – as elusive as the sense of home.

Heysham sands, Lancashire, has few similarities to the bay in The Ghost & Mrs Muir – whose Victorian bathing machines would have to be pushed a hell of a way out . . .

 

One of the complications of this projected Morecambe/Heysham Digression, is that the area from Heysham Old Village to Sandylands, can at times be so devastatingly reminiscent of one of my favourite films: The Ghost and Mrs Muir, (1947)[xiv]. “Only you could be so daft,” my daughter laughed – or words to that effect – when we cycled the entire stretch and beyond, on to Heysham’s port and Nuclear Power Station (!) in July. To be objective – a potentially dangerous attitude I only occasionally dabble with – she is right. The coast at Morecambe and Heysham bears none but the most basic resemblance to the coast and haunted clifftop house where Lucy Muir chooses to settle in the film. Plausibly, her retreat purports to be the English seaside, but naturally was filmed in California – principally at Palos Verdes near Los Angeles and 320 miles northwest on the Monterey Peninsula. That Lancashire could evoke California, or late 40s California, the Victorian southern coast of England remain amusing absurdities.

B & M, Morecambe, Lancashire, 9th December 2020

 

One of the subtexts of The Ghost and Mrs Muir is the life of the imagination[xv]. As a young widow, Lucy Muir (Gene Tierney) is not a great investor in daily reality. Despite having a child and a brief infatuation with cynical Miles Fairley she lives mostly in her mind, relying on her cockney maid for occasional companionship: As for living, our servants can do that for us[xvi]!

“As for living, our servants can do that for us.” Northumberland 2010

 

At the end of the 70s, I often worked for the Post Office in the approach to Christmas. Given a bike and dropped to the south-east of Aylesbury, Aston Clinton became my usual round, a mixed route that included a moderate area of council housing as well as several wealthier lanes. On our last day, a heavy fall of snow was perfectly timed to enhance the season and the regular postman, threw my bike in his red Comma van and suggested we do the housing estate together. Finishing the deliveries, we willingly got tangled in a big snowball fight with a flock of local kids – humorously played out. Retrieving the rest of my mail from his van, I set off to do the detached villas in their country-seeming lanes, where every fifth home at least asked me in for a small glass of sherry or whisky. Surely it would have been churlish to refuse these good Kings and Queens? Before long, every house in the world started to feel like home.

Throwback to the famous gated road of the 70s[xvii]

 

It’s not that “only children have homes”[xviii] but rather that many of us vividly remember our earliest home, no matter how unstable it may have been – the best moments magnified, the routine, the lost people and lost hopes, tinselled away.

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

Cumbria, December 2020

 

[email protected]

 

NOTES

[i]  Adrian Apra, on Rossellini’s Germany, Year Zero (1948): As well as a “journey to the end of the world,” Germany, Year Zero, “is also a journey to a hypothetical paradise of dreams. The ruins that surround us are the evil we’ve brought upon ourselves.” “Only when we accept fully,” “this evil within us, can we hope to come out the other side.” 

[ii] From:  http://internationaltimes.it/too-many-christmas-trees/  : “By February all such numinous glamour has become dim. How much of life really exists inside, with eyes closed? One such remembrance comes to mind: of a winter cycle through frosty hills and darkening woods to descend into the country town of Honiton and encounter under the dark Yew trees of a church in a heavy twilight, children streaming from the lychgate with candles stuck in oranges.

A poster announced this was Christingle and it certainly threw me back (flashbacks within flashbacks) to distant parts of the country – to a festival of light in Norwich cathedral or a midnight mass in the village of Bierton. All these things most of us appreciate without any serious belief in their religious angle. Rather it’s the hushed ritual that inspires us, the light against the winter dark, the Yule or pagan aspects – all those things hijacked or attached to Christmas and now lodged in our collective memory.”

[iii] Mullholland Drive, Lost Highway, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, Blue Velvet and Wild at Heart 

[iv] For a brief period, many of the more rural of these, were like islands floating on fields . . . and embodied, (or so it seems to me in retrospect), an Eden of sorts – the inhabitants lucky to escape the dangerous, jerry-built towers of city schemes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ch5VorymiL4&ab_channel=pedrobcordero.

[v] W.H. Auden, The Watershed, 1927 

[vi] Ten Years Gone – by Led Zeppelin from the album Physical Graffiti, 1975.

[vii] From Maze End, chapter 42, Christmas in Arrowsby 

[viii] Parents and grandparents one way, children the other. 

[ix] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ue7wM0QC5LE&ab_channel=TheFullMontyPython

[x] But what happens to all the lonely people or those who are literally homeless https://www.bigissue.com/latest/social-activism/how-many-people-are-homeless-in-the-uk-and-what-can-you-do-about-it/

[xi] Our favourites being The Avengers, The Saint, The Rockford Files, Randall & Hopkirk, The Persuaders, Eddie Shoestring and, extending into the 80s, Bergerac. 

[xii] Ibid: http://internationaltimes.it/too-many-christmas-trees/ 

[xiii] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Good_King_Wenceslas 

[xiv] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0039420/ This film is always central to my notes, I’ve yet to read the book by Josephine Leslie: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josephine_Leslie

[xv] Despite which, personally, I always believe that the ghost (Rex Harrison), is real.

[xvi] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ax%C3%ABl

[xvii] See, http://internationaltimes.it/a-christmas-letter/

[xviii] To return to the thread set off by Adam Phillips https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Phillips_(psychologist) in part 8 of the Italian Digression:

https://internationaltimes.it/the-italian-digression-part-8/ and followed up in part 9:

https://internationaltimes.it/the-italian-digression-part-9-the-long-journey-home/

 

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NIRVANA

 

sipping warm beer
in my water bottle
to cure Saturday’s hangover
too early Sunday morning

all the stores were still closed 
but still I reached nirvana
at the low end local retail 
suburban shopping strip 

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES

 

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An Outbreak of Santas (and other archetypes) . . .

 

A village some miles to the east of us reported an unexpected outbreak of Santas! We rushed off to investigate:

“You lookin’ at us!?” Holme, Lancashire, 15th December 2020

 

The rumours proved all too frighteningly true . . .

Later, under cover of darkness, we went to discover how widespread the phenomenon was. Who were these alarming creatures and from whence were they coming? At Trevenna, near Cark in Cartmel, we thought we’d discovered the mother ship, but we could’ve been wrong:

 

Cosmic ship sailing the night. Trevenna, Cark in Cartmel, 16th December 2020

 

Back in the comparative safety of daylight, a bungalow in Shernest, appeared to be generating squadrons of Santas – and vaguely associated archetypes: reindeer, fairies, snowmen and Nutcrackers, angel Virgin Marys, penguins, mushrooms, logmen (!?) and gnomes – not to mention giant candles:

A new dawn . . . 15th December 2020

 

Largely, I’ll shut up now and stick to the visual evidence:

 Santas with black tasers

 
Socially distanced Santa boozing in facemask

 

Bloody Jacob, grumble, grumble . . . Cumbria, Dec 2020


Suspiciously furtive (or fear-struck) Santa


Amœbic
or alien Santa


Hail Snowman for Santa is defeated . . .  Crewe, December 2019

 


Mutant Santa (though I’m told it’s an Olaf).


In Grange-over-Sands, the strangest decoration my two young daughters and I saw – in the window of the Christian Hotel – was an upside-down Christmas Tree. Being erratically educated and thinking of the popular, Black Mass/Satanic connotations or misunderstandings[i] of the upside-down Cross in Christianity, we became very suspicious of this ominous and sinister object. Yet apparently, this upside-down tree malarkey dates right back to Saint Boniface[ii].  Upside-down trees are also, currently, a trend[iii] it seems – you need look no further than eBay[iv].


See left hand window for the upside-down tree. Grange-over-Sands, Dec 16th 2020


Rather meanly, seeing some pagans worshipping an oak tree, Boniface chopped it down to replace it with a fir – they must’ve all had to hang around a while – and then, chopping that down, used its triangle shape to explain the Holy Trinity . . .  All of which doesn’t explain why the fir needed to be axed to provide this illustration, since either way up its more isosceles than equilateral. Now, if Boniface could have got the fir to grow upside-down – after all, he was a Saint – not only would that have been impressive, it might even have made up for the comedown of replacing Oak with mere fir. What most surprised me about this legend, is that despite working at Crediton in the mid-1980s, I’d never come across it before. Well

acquainted with Boniface (not personally, but the Devonshire town was his birthplace), as well as familiar with Crediton’s beautiful, red sandstone church – which has the grandeur of a cathedral – the Saint’s tree-chopping prowess had completely passed me by. A Liverpudlian friend of mine – we used to eat our sandwiches in Crediton’s churchyard – was convinced, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Boniface must’ve been a Geordie, hence his name: Bonny-face. Whereas I imagined it was because he was craggy looking and determined. Either would do I suppose, to further the career of a Saint.

He may not be craggy or bonny-faced . . . but at least he can levitate!    Dec 16th 2020

Inflatable Nutcracker with polar pal. Angler’s Arms, Haverthwaite, 16th Dec 2020

Festive Cloning.

 

It’s Wonderful Me!


Santa on a spangly night

 “Hey – I’m Angus.” Angler’s Arms, Haverthwaite, Cumbria

Politburo from outer space


It’s that cloned gang again

Snowman fends off one of Earth’s aggressive and antlered wheelie bins

Dickensian Father Christmas under lamplight, calmly consults the South Lakes A-Z

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

Cumbria, 17th December 2020

 

[email protected]

 

NOTES

[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cross_of_Saint_Peter

[ii] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Boniface

[iii] Though no doubt a very unstable one!  https://www.goodhousekeeping.com/holidays/christmas-ideas/a29340152/upside-down-christmas-tree-trend-meaning/

[iv] https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/383785440062

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Christmas Books

 

 

As I write this, I am looking out of my cottage window in the Cotswolds and it is getting dark. In a few shorter and shorter days, it will be the shortest day of the year, in this oddest of years. Like you I am hoping that the shortest day will paraphrase the whole of 2020. From the 21st hope will spring anew and hopefully we will see the light springing up from the end of the tunnel. As a historian with an eye towards the mythic influence of the past my thoughts turn at this time to the colour green, often in the form of the beauty of an English greenwood in May.

In musical terms no one quite catches it in the way that Benjamin Britten does in the Spring Symphony. However, I digress. The Greenwood was the realm of Robin Hood and, in Robin Hood: Legend and Reality by David Crook (Boydell Press, Woodbridge, Suffolk, £60.00) this issue is explored very thoroughly indeed. This highly engaging and wide-ranging book taking us from a thorough retelling of the medaeval tales of Robin Hood through to those who chronicled the legends, folklorists, scholars, historians and others. This is more than just a detailed survey; it is an overview of the entire culture of Robin and who he might have been – the author offers his own assessment at the end of the text: I will not reveal it for wont of spoiling the surprise.

As a historian I like thoroughness and this is present in spades and makes this the go-to book for those seeking to expand the oeuvre. I am also a romantic and this work fulfils that angle consistently. From chapters on the Robin Hood names that abound throughout the Medaeval record to a chapter on the Robin Hood places. There are maps provided exhibiting a surprising number of places. The author, now retired, has spent his working life in the National Archives and has put his retirement to very good use trawling parish and even cathedral records. This book is a delight with an extensive and very useful bibliography at the back. He also gives a lot of time and is very generous with the time given to the different strands of thinking by different voices past and present.

It is quite extraordinary how the tales of a medaeval outlaw have captured the imagination of the world – and taken from a possible real history and into the realms of myth. In a sense the story of Robin Hood is also a story of a myth in the making: a rarity of our time, given that Robin Hood could possibly have its foundations in the immediately pre-Medaeval era – or even before that, and in an entirely different country: there is a theory that the Middle-East is the origin, which makes the Medaeval origins in England all the more interesting given that this was the era of the Crusades.

Whilst we are on the subject Storyworlds of Robin Hood: The Origins of a Medieval Outlaw by Leslie Coote (£30.00, Reaktion Books) looks at Robin Hood from the early stories in both the English and the French (yes, he was that popular!). This work is also thorough but not in the way of the previous tome. This one reflects purely upon the literary angle. It is no less interesting for this; indeed, it is fascinating. The author takes us from the written word to the Romance, from Robin Hood the trickster through to Robin Hood the joker – and in all of this writes in a lively style that captivates and enchants, making parallels with the culture of Southern France, in particular the Occitan civilisation of Southern France, so soon to disappear in the genocidal campaign against the Cathars.  Was there an element of heresy in the Robin Hood legends?

In the chapter Robin Hood and Maid Marian we have some interesting hints of the intricacies of the legends. Robin, in the pastourelles, composed in the 1100 to 1300’s, meets a shepherdess, a young girl of about fourteen years of age.  The author tells us that in medaeval times this age marked the transition of a young girl to womanhood. She claims fidelity to Robin Hood in the face of an attempted seduction. Such is the detail that in the section we are told that the Shepherdess is offered a cloak of scarlet and green. These were expensive colours for their day. This leads onto the revelation that the name Will Scarlet, one of Robin’s followers (remember Ray Winston in Robin of Sherwood) ‘indicates an expensive dye, rather than being derived from ‘Scathelok’ or ‘safe-breaker’.

When I saw this my ears were pricked. There is an early Christian text called The Shepherd of Hermas – in which the ‘shepherd’ is visited by a Shepherdess. Further to this, scarlet was the colour of the Messiah: on Palm Sunday Jesus enters Jerusalem riding an ass and wearing robes of scarlet.  There is definitely a supra-Christian flavour to the legends and this lovely and charming tome highlights much. It is an ideal companion to the one above.

 

A charming companion to the above books, if you are thinking of Christmas and of something off the beaten track, is the Wild Elemental Tarot, (£23.99, Schiffer) which has been created by Michelle Motuzas.

It is delicately presented in a small dark green box and takes us into the realm of animal and mythical archetypes. These cards are well drawn and do indeed draw the eye in to their liminal world. For Christmas and the very strangeness of it this year this is an ideal gift: it will draw you into the unexpected.

Continuing in the realm of mythic heroes we now turn to one of the most famous: King Arthur.  Like Robin Hood there are those who say he was indeed historical and then there is the mythic school of Arthurian studies.

Arthur: God and Hero in Avalon (Christopher Fee, Reaktion Books, £16.00) looks at Arthur from the perspective of comparative mythology. Think not here of myth as ‘fantasy’ but instead as on ongoing accumulation of timeless truths that harbour both fact and echo. Fee places Arthur against the backdrop of Roman, Welsh, Anglo-Saxon and Celtic cultures. He writes about the evolution of Arthur as both historical figure and as myth and how both progressed to give us the impression today that King Arthur is like the reflection in a pane of glass: he is both there and not there. When we look out of the pane into reality he disappears; but this is the nature of both ancient history and myth. Both speak to us of origins but in entirely different ways. King Arthur, as the author points out, is the saviour of the British, he is The Once and future King, a concept surprisingly ingrained even today within the British consciousness. 

Arthur was exploited by the Plantagenets, the Tudors and even the Hanoverians to a lesser extent. However, he really returned to prominence during the later Victorian period and the blossoming of the Pre-Raphaelite painters. Arthur is an eternal figure and it is as if everyone of these royal dynasties wanted his immortality to rub off on them. As TH White paraphrased in in his magnum opus, the wonderful The Once and Future King, it was the development of Right over Might rather than the other way around. Arthur is the paragon of that greatest of British virtues, Freedom of Speech and the rights of the individual – and boy, do we need him now!

This a charmingly written and presented book and Prof Fee makes his case well. This book is also well illustrated with images of all the old familiar places of the Arthurian mythos and a few that are unfamiliar.

Highly recommended.

In the early chapters of Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur, first published by William Caxton in 1485 (and for good measure, my chosen Desert Island book) we are told the story of how King Arthur, in the early years of his kingship, invaded and fought, successfully, against the Roman Empire. Now, given that the empire was in significant decline at the agreed dates of the Arthurian period, this is still a significant episode and an equally significant claim. With Brexit now likely to end on tears perhaps this is a timely book.

In King Arthur: The Man Who Conquered Europe (Caleb Howells, Amberley, £20.00) This question is posed. This is a fresh perspective on an episode generally ignored by scholars and writers – and from this perspective this is a genuinely fascinating read. However, in the fields of Arthurian studies we have to be careful not to root ourselves with too much certainty in the speculations as to who Arthur was – and wasn’t. The author presents Arthur as a likely war leader and places Arthur in the context of the Anglo-Saxon invasions and his battle against them. Arthur, as recent new evidence has shown, has many contexts, and it might well be that the legend as we now have it is really an agglomeration of different figures drawn together and compacted by historical time.  This is a point made lucidly by the author, who offers an intriguing insight into what is essentially a whodunnit. This is a very compelling read full of interesting facts and context. I enjoyed it immensely and feel sure that you will too.

 

Also from Amberley is The World of Isaac Newton (Toni Mount, Amberley, £20.00). Newton was, and still remains, a colossus, one of the few who changed the world as we know it and, in undertaking the deed, changed our perceptions of ourselves. Newton was midwife to the modern world – but too often the modern world has ignored the bits about Newton’s life that its finds all too inconvenient. Years ago, I read Michael White’s biography of Newton, eagerly anticipating the chapters about Newton’s involvement in Alchemical studies – only to find that they were not there. To say that I was disappointed is an understatement. To appreciate Newton’s life without the context of his alchemical work is to misunderstand the whole in my opinion. Newton was passionate in his study of this much maligned subject, for without it and the subsequent schism of science and religion, there would be no modern world. In his biography I am delighted to say that alchemy is not ignored and is, indeed, taken into the context of Newton’s extraordinary life.

From Newton’s beginnings through alchemy and then his involvement in the foundation of the Royal Society this is an engaging and compelling read. The image in the plates section of the famous apple tree is enchanting.  I thoroughly enjoyed it.

 

The Da Vinci Enigma Tarot, Caitlin Matthews (£33.99, Schiffer) is a treat for the eye and a superbly designed box set of beautiful cards that really offer us am intriguing insight into Da Vinci in a quite unexpected way. The accompanying book is highly informative of both Da Vinci and his working techniques but also is a stand-alone piece that exhibits the author’s wide-ranging but incisive knowledge of this most enigmatic of painters. I really cannot recommend it more highly. If I was an art historian, I would most definitely want to have this collection in my possession as it is an immensely entertaining and well written guide to both the period but also to the interior life – a deep and obvious fascination for Da Vinci himself.

Finally, opening Pistis Sophia: The Goddess Tarot (Kim Huggens and Nic Phillips, £33.99, Schiffer)) was like opening a box of delights. In personal terms this is a highly engaging and very revelatory box of delights. I could not close it – and when I did, it was with great reluctance for the hour was very late indeed. But I took it up again the next day, replete with sleep and the nagging thought that, in the light of morning perhaps my musings on it were misjudged or misguided but no, this was not so, for when I picked up from where I had left off its charm and its spell were complete. I was intoxicated by it and remain so: it is very revealing – but only if you have a mind’s eye that is open and in readiness to receive. Christmas is a time of reception, as well as a time of giving. This wonderful set provides both.

 

David Elkington

 

 

 

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PETRONIUS

 

 

Petronius ‘the arbiter of elegance’?
Fastidious throughout a long career
It took three days and nights   –
The binding and unbinding of his wounds   –
In that official suicide
Nero had decreed without due foresight
His victim would obey ‘between the lines’   –

He had so many friends
The flow of blood was halted
To greet them and renew their bowls of wine
The festive awnings and the seafood buffet
The lavish tales of travel and amusement

Time flew by   –
We thought it was his birthday

 

 

Bernard Saint

His book ‘Roma’ from Waterstones ….
https://www.waterstones.com/book/roma/bernard-saint/9780993149078

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The Age of Aquarius

As Jupiter goes into Great Conjunction with Saturn in 0 degrees of Aquarius on the Winter Solstice, December 21st 2020…

Let’s make KINDNESS our currency.

Let’s spread a Pandemic of peace and nonviolence for all beings.

Let’s LOVE like we’ve never loved.

Let’s EXIT this BRR…frozen-hearted state of being.

Let’s find at least 19 ways to serve, using our own, unique combinations of gifts.

Let’s flatten the tyrannical TOP: “down!”…and strive for inter-species égalitarianism.

Let’s remember, we all are conscious, feeling, relational beings who suffer; we all love life and fear death.

Let’s forget the tinsel and the gorging…and remember the terrified turkeys, the decapitated ducks, garrotted geese, the pigs without blankets, the lobsters boiling alive in indifferent pots.

Let’s worry about the agonized tears of others, and care less about the Tiers we are in.

Let’s “live simply, so that others can simply live.” Let’s “become the change” we “want to see in this world” (Mahatma Gandhi) – and help a new Paradigm to go viral.

Let’s put the “R” back into “covid” and crow about better ways of being. (Let’s be intelligent and adaptable.)

Let’s re-wild and re-green…and stop being naïve. Silence is…collusion.

Let’s be children of the Revolution, in the dawning of this new Age of Aquarius.

 

Heidi Stephenson

 

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The Mailbox

We learn to cycle in younger days,

We also learn to fall and stand.

The first light does not pain the eye

Do you remember the fright of your first darkness?

If you remember your first letter and

When you completed your first sentence,

Do you remember who arrived on your holidays?

And where did you go to?

Ask the going and coming in life to a mailbox standing in your lawn 

Stationary and carrying the letters that moved you.

Like people coming and going,

The mailbox receives glances,

 People try to understand the letters it carries,

Somebody must be willing to write. 

Mailbox in your lawn

Brings the mail man to your door

Who is he to you?

Except a close affection

And a waiting that is over. 

When you get written to

Who do you first reply to?

When you get started with words

Where does the mailbox take you?       

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sushant Thapa

Bio: Sushant Thapa is an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. Recently, he has been published in Trouvaille Review. His poems have also appeared in greythoughts.info, USA. His poems have appeared in the print in The Kathmandu Post and online in My City portal of Republica Daily from Kathmandu, Nepal. His poems have also appeared in The Gorkha Times, Kathmandu, Nepal. Indian Periodical, India has also published his poems and he has also been published in Sahitto Bilingual Literary Magazine, Bangladesh. He is also forthcoming in a pandemic anthology and his first book of English poetry is also releasing soon. Sushant lives in Biratnagar-13, Nepal.  

 
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Small Island

 

 

 

about

The Sound Of Shellac Norway

“Music is the universal laws promulgated..:” -H.D.Thoreau-

“…each generation claims the right not only to emphasise the present, but to re-estimate the past….”
-L. Untermeyer-

 
 
 

contact / help

Contact The Sound Of Shellac

 

The Sound Of Shellac recommends:

If you like Small Island, you may also like:

Bandcamp Daily  your guide to the world of Bandcamp

  • Essential Releases: New York Funk, Anarcho Punk, Synthwave and More

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On Bandcamp Radio

A first look back at 2020 with Alabaster DePlume, Nicolas Jaar, Angel Bat Dawid, and Gavsborg.

 
 
Christian Strøm
 
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Wintering in

 

  It seeps into you this stuff,
As you hope to sleep 
It off. It’s not

  So much the freezing mist,
The numb winter darkness,
Nor short days that seem to steal
What little light these long months
Barely allow us. No –

  It’s not the ice that blackens the roads
To a dangerous invisible sheen;
Nor the threat of snow, a slow fall
That never really appears, but sits,
A lowering white above us,
A number of signs on a map
At a narrowing of meaning-
Less lines. It’s not

  The dumb-footed shifting about
Over gritty pavements, between
The dashing, slashing cars,
The quiet restaurants,
The emptied bars.

  It seeps into you this stuff,
is stuff of our dreams;
The flowers, the smiles –
  All our tomorrow’s
Green fields.

 

 

 

 

 

Andy Hunter
Photo Nick Victor

December 2020

 ‘Wintering in’.   As you’ll see its a kind of response to where we are now.  

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Disillusioned

 

 

peace, blessed peace,
in the mind,
and the soul,
forever out of reach,
faith and trust,
gone,
in a sea of lies,
drown,
politicians,
priests,
and heretics,
exposed in this flood,
an abused child,
neglected and deceived,
close your eyes,
and pray,
feel His peace,
if only you could believe,
there still exists a blessed peace,
 . . .disillusioned.

 

_____________

 

 

 

Doug Polk

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Another Music collection to salve the Covid bugs away #6

 

Curated and collated by Alan Dearling

Lidy Blijdorp, cello, Kate Moore’s ‘Tarantella’: recorded at a private house in Amsterdam Zuid. Electrifying performance. And that’s from someone who watches relatively little classical music.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3dRDHIaiMQ&list=RDJ3dRDHIaiMQ&start_radio=1&t=97&fbclid=IwAR0r3NFabwtJI4HI3oDu7-cifeeANoRoBrbSFMRrKdpf5Huo-AWMg2ZpFeA

See more posts from the organisation behind the event:

http://www.muzevanzuid.nl/

 

 

Bootleg footage of the Eric Clapton and Peter Frampton guitar duel in ‘My Guitar Gently Weeps’ at Crossroads Festival in Dallas, Texas, 2019. It was filmed for Sky Arts, so you may be able to see the original pro-footage which features lots more close-ups and cut-aways. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkUcWYQlBR8

 

 

A bit noisier, but memorable in its own psychedelic-thrashy sort of way. Reminds me a bit of the Velvets.  ‘Revolution’ from Spacemen 3 from 1989 CND ‘Carry on Disarming’ campaign. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qdQn7c62zHM&feature=share&fbclid=IwAR2nJTYtSn8JOE1WvkRPJdhIi_ZewObV-Zd6BCauOkR-BxlLGvCN9q4lDlQ

 

 

Daniel Gaudi and myself have worked at many of the same festies and gigs across Europe. He linked me with Russian opera singer, soprano, Maria Matveeva working with Deep Forest. Maria kindly sent me more links to her work. Here’s ‘On the Edge’ from ‘Siberian Tales, which has won the best album in the Russian World Music Awards: https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=CKLk3ZeeoWA&fbclid=IwAR0D7criCGgsxGFbT_1GlPxDhLuoENCh-DfC8jM6BkAp0ZKvcCGDWofd8BM

 

 

And here’s the Gaudi remix of ‘Kalinushka’ (and one of my pics of Daniel) which was part of the Award: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=LgjWcL9lO3I

 

 

 

I can sense some of Maria’s operatic spirit in punk-goth queen, Lene Lovich. Along with Nina Hagen, she was a firm favourite of many of my friends in Amsterdam/The Netherlands (and John Peel). Here’s Lene back in 1978 with ‘Lucky Number’:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu1ExUH7SQU

 

 

Something new. ‘Illuminate’ is the 2020 album from Zion Train. Old friends from Traveller punk-dub-reggae days and one of my absolutely favourite and ever-evolving ‘live’ acts. Another brave display of eco-commitment and support for Extinction Rebellion and Stop Ecocide.

Here’s Cara on vocals on the track, ‘We shall Rise’. Great video too.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sr1jO15oArs

 

 

And finally the Steve Hillage Band at the Gong Unconvention, Amsterdam 2006.

‘Sun Moon Surfing’:

https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=1781659715319631&id=313232492162368

 

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NOW’S THE TIME

This is yesterday’s news today, or possibly
tomorrow’s news from yesterday. You
have brought the Sunday papers round,
oblivious to the fact we read online
and that this feels like déjà vu. I wonder
if Ingmar Bergman was right? Will I be
‘a better ghost than I am a human being’?
I’ll let you know. In the meantime
there’s the tennis or football to watch,
and politics to ignore. Democracy
is dying but that is nothing compared
to Richard, Dad or my other friends
who are not with us any more. This
is old news too, but it makes me cry
when I think about the people gone.
There are rows of cracked stones in
the cemetery near home, but I have
nowhere to grieve, because we burn
the bodies now. Lucy said some people
carry on emailing the dead, holding
a one-sided conversation; others say
they commune and speak with their
loved ones. I think it’s a bit of a joke,
but then I’ve spent years grieving
for people I hardly knew but wished
I had, and for those I knew well
who have gone. You can try and live
for the now but there’s a sense of
repetition, a relentless concern with
getting ahead, of keeping up and
using each day before it disappears.
It will, I know, however much time
is just a constructed idea we use
to bully and persuade ourselves
there are more things to do.
The world won’t end without us,
it’s us who will disappear, whatever
we do to try and make our mark.
For me it’s words and paintings,
others run fast or eat the most pies.
We’re all going to be forgot.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

From The Geometric Kingdom, a book by Maria Stadnicka & Rupert Loydell,
available at:

https://www.knivesforksandspoonspress.co.uk/product-page/the-geometric-kingdom-by-rupert-loydell-and-maria-stadnicka-54-pages

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Spotlight

 

Morning is still unborn,

Cloudy curtains like crushed Sarees disappear 
after the rain,

The sky is now awashed with 
hope and innocence, 

A row of spotlight nails to the boundary wall,
Stone lamp glows in front of the Kalighat temple,
removing darkness,

the city is at its most beaming, noiseless,
festoons hang on the doorway
tramlines draw the traffic patteren.

The green leaves, 
gainst the silhouette of trees,
the wilted jasmine sinks, longing for sunlight,

Somewhere a tiny voice crack
the first sound,

Morning has never been such a restless infant.

 

 

 

 

Gopal Lahiri
Photo Nick  Victor

©gopallahiri

Short Bio:

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 22 books published, including four jointly edited books. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems are translated in 12 languages.

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The Tunnel Beneath The Hiss  

The night an engineer finds a tunnel

beneath the river by our town

I run my fingers down inside

the fur of a purring feline.

It perks its ears. I moor my legs

to a different crossings.

 

The tunnel has remained

a soporific kraken,

drooling down its chins,

because we’ve forgotten

to churn out the apocalypse,

 

because someday a subway

shall plan to invade

the river bed and awaken the burden

of nightmares unfed.

 

I pour the cat-food. Go back to sleep.

Nothing happens outside;

within, a beast hisses, I gnaw deep,

hide in a pit, darker than this one,

and my cat moans –

she knows how my id burnt down

the town of peace

when you found me before, tried to

inhabit my flesh and soul,

placed a doormat, tore out the fence

inhibiting my neighbourhood.

Why? You cried, the cat knows, and I growled,

“This is a tunnel of lone lore asleep.”

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick Victor

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We do Lock Down Funnies.

 

Miriam Elia

https://www.waterstones.com/book/we-do-lockdown/miriam-elia/9780992834920

 
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Nico-Icon Documentry

 

Director:
Susanne Ofteringer

Screenwriter:
Susanne Ofteringer

Cast:
Alan Wise
James Young
Helma Wolff
Nico Papatakis
Carlos de Maldonado-Bostock
Edith Boulogne
Billy Name
Paul Morrissey
Jonas Mekas
John Cale
Viva
Sterling Morrison
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They Become

In a dream.

Late night,
long drive.
Family with kids
need a stop.

Pub car park
all shivvers.
Climbing out
to the cold,
clear night.

Three huddle
calling for the forth.
Between the welcome mat
and the porch light.

Pulling the door,
senses are alerted
to the roar.
A room
of noisy faces.

Through dim fug
an entanglement
of people.
Dogs weave
following trays
of buffet food
passed over heads.

Excited togetherness
pitches and rises.
Someone bashes a piano.
A song reels
like winter sky starlings.
Instinct
holding its shape.

Three deep at the bar,
leaning across each other
waving notes.
Shouting the names of drinks
at ear cupping barmaids,
who,
with the red faced landlord
furiously pulling pumps,
stab at the optics,
throw ice into glasses.
Huffing and puffing
hair from their faces.

A nod and the children are lost.
Coats become a mountain,
leaving the couple embracing.
Humanity’s warmth soaking.

No such thing as strangers.
Shaken hands,
patted backs
embrace, absorb.
The construct
of separation
dissolves
in to
a single smile.

They have become.

 

Ben Greenland

 

 

.

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I WENT TO THE SEA, BUT THERE WERE NO GULLS


FROM A LINE BY KEITH ROBERTS

I will be the magic that has gone away,
I will be the shapes that swim in oceans
where all the fish have vanished,
the shrub on the common land
that is a charcoal sketch at dawning,
the night bird that screeches when
all owls are driven from their hollows,
the leafy branch that scratches the window
when they’ve cut down all the forests,
I will be the whisper of the bees
on the sunshine breeze, the eye of newt,
the dream of ladybirds on sunflowers
the fire of toxic particles to light the sky
the ghost of wolves to howl at dark moons
the lost voice of worms, beetles and spiders
the echo of the fox in the phantom farmyard
the long silence of a world
where magic has gone away



Andrew Darlington

 

.

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Terminator Three is in Tiers

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The Dig

 
First we clear the topsoil and the stones
then we shovel
hard into the clay beneath
 
after which the earth is dense and packed
with artifacts from other times
as well as sounds that could never escape
 
groaning and screams
inquisitive voices seeming to ask
the way somewhere
 
and answers that say here come here
only for a trap to spring
followed by the slamming of a door
 
the click of a lock
the slow drip of just enough water
to maintain survival
 
so we keep on going deeper ever deeper
darker into the dark
we keep on digging
 
until the blade of a shovel strikes rock
and a spark appears
a flash of hope to see by

 

 

 
David Chorlton

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Covid Music and Entertainments #5

 

Collated and curated by Alan Dearling for your lockdown delectation!

New song: ‘Turn off the news’ from Lukas Nelson (Promise of The Real, with his dad Willie Nelson and brother, Micah):
https://youtu.be/MPrPtDoaB3s

 

John Holt live. Always a pleasure.

Human Jukebox time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbSEUDEBmMk

https://www.facebook.com/100008186530747/videos/2877110662571790

 

Uganda’s Sarah Ndagire live in the Covid times from her lounge recently. Go to 12.30 on the timeline and grab some great African sounds from Sarah: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDfVXLBzeLs

And here’s ‘Olikomeyo’ from 2006 – Sarah Ndagire (music video): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eS9ZlBvL5qY

Ry Cooder in fabulous monochrome video shoot by David Fincher of ‘Get Rhythm’: ‘Well Suited’:

https://youtu.be/AG91Y62T4C0

More Fincher music videos: https://theplaylist.net/best-to-worst-david-finchers-complete-music-videography-ranked-20140929/4/

And Ry Cooder’s  radio interview about his influences: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PcMSJe1PUU8

Edinburgh’s blues maestro, Allan Jones, in fine lockdown form. Have a skip through his performance, it’s great fun: https://www.facebook.com/allan.jones.102/videos/10157632315648344

 

I’ve always been a huge fan of Wild Man Fischer. So, I have adore this! ‘George Harrison’ playing sitar for ‘Wild Man Jesus’!  ‘Peace and Love’, whoever he is…: https://www.facebook.com/haanz.vakker.92/videos/746408776222776

Finally, if you’re looking for a new group to join. Try out, ‘With Music Back to Freedom’ on Facebook. Live musical festies; lots of postings and a growing membership. They describe themselves and the site: 

“Times are hard in the moment. But music keeps us sane. Post your favourite tunes, your own music, maybe a live set…or a story about your first gig. Let’s share the love through music. This group also organises also an online festival. If you want to be part of it get in touch, tell us what kind of music you want to do. Everybody is welcome.”

 

 https://www.facebook.com/groups/withmusicthroughthelockdown

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The Sufi Approach to Death

 
 
Notes from and inspired by Ayatollah Salman Safavi’s presentation to the Next Century Foundation, October 20th 2020.
 
 
We are from above and we are going up
We are from the sea and we go to the sea
We are not from there and from here
We are from nowhere and we go to nowhere
(Rumi, Divan Shams, Ghazal: 1674)
 
​​
«ما ز بالاییم و بالا می رویم
ما ز دریاییم و دریا می رویم
ما از آن جا و از این جا نیستیم
ما ز بی‌جاییم و بی‌جا می رویم»
(مولانا، شمس، غزل ۱۶۷۴)​​
 
 
 
 
There is a huge amount of literature about the subject of death in Sufism but the poetry of Rumi is of particular importance. The first question to be asked is what is death? Is it destruction or is it the essential transformation of life? From the Sufi perspective on life and the origin of life, death can only be the essential transformation of life. The most famous poem in Sufi literature is the one in which Rumi explains the different aspects and steps and stages of life:
 
 
 
« از جمادی مردم و نامی شدم****و ز نما مردم به حیوان برزدم
مردم از حیوانی و آدم شدم****پس چه ترسم کی ز مردن کم شدم
حملهٔ دیگر بمیرم از بشر****تا بر آرم از ملایک پر و سر
وز ملک هم بایدم جستن ز جو****کل شیء هالک الا وجهه
بار دیگر از ملک قربان شوم****آنچ اندر وهم ناید آن شوم
پس عدم گردم عدم چون ارغنون****گویدم که انا الیه راجعون
مرگ دان آنک اتفاق امتست****کاب حیوانی نهان در ظلمتست
همچو نیلوفر برو زین طرف جو****همچو مستسقی حریص و مرگ‌جو
مرگ او آبست و او جویای آب****می‌خورد والله اعلم بالصواب
****ای فسرده عاشق ننگین نمد****کو ز بیم جان ز جانان می‌رمد
سوی تیغ عشقش ای ننگ زنان****صد هزاران جان نگر دستک‌زنان
جوی دیدی کوزه اندر جوی ریز****آب را از جوی کی باشد گریز
آب کوزه چون در آب جو شود****محو گردد در وی و جو او شود
وصف او فانی شد و ذاتش بقا****زین سپس نه کم شود نه بدلقا»
 
 
 
 
 
I died to the inorganic state and became endowed with growth,
and then I died to vegetable growth and attained to the animal.
I died from animality and became human: why, then, should I fear?
When have I become less by dying?
At the next remove I shall die to human,
that I may soar and lift up my head amongst the angels;
And I must escape even from the state of the angel:
everything is perishing except His Face.
Once more I shall be sacrificed and die to the angel:
I shall become that which enters not into the imagination. 
Then I shall become non-existence: non-existence saith to me, in tones loud as an organ,
Verily, unto Him shall we return.
 
Know death to be the thing signified by what the Mohammedan community are agreed upon, namely, that the Water of Life is hidden in the Land of Darkness.
Grow from this river-bank, like the water-lily, greedy and craving for death as the sufferer from dropsy.
The water is death to him, and yet he is seeking the water and drinking it,
And God best knoweth the right course.
Oh, the cold lover, clad in the felt garment of shame, who from fear of losing his life is fleeing from the Beloved! 
O thou disgrace to women, behold hundreds of thousands of souls clapping their hands and rushing towards the sword of His love!
 
Thou hast seen the river: spill thy jug in the river: how should the water take flight from the river?
When the water in the jug goes into the river-water, it disappears in it, and it becomes the river.
The lover’s attributes have passed away, and his essence remains: after this, he does not dwindle or become ill-favoured.
From the Mathnawi of Jalaluddin Rumi, Book III, lines 3901-3915
Translation by Reynold A. Nicholson
 
 
​​​In this poem Rumi refers to the concept of different manifestations of being. There are stages before life in this world, there is this world and there is the absent world. According to Sufism our life is not a single finite entity. It is composed of many chapters or levels and in essence we are eternal beings connected to a unified whole. There is no death. Each ‘death’ is an introduction to the next chapter or level. This approach is based on the Sufi understanding of existence – or being – and the origin of that being. In the poem Rumi makes reference to some of the verses in the Koran including one that is very important: ‘We are from God and to God we return. We are from Him and we will return to Him.’
 
A key difference in Sufism compared with some other religious traditions is that there is no binary concept of heaven and hell as a consequence of external judgement. We ourselves create heaven and we create hell and our actions and behaviour in this world will echo into the next level or manifestation of our being.  
 
 
For Sufis there are four relationships that must be fully lived and fully nurtured prior to our death. These relationships are to the self, to society, to nature and to the sacred super-nature that has different names in different traditions but in Islam is Allah. Sufism teaches that we need to have a just and constructive relationship with all four of these components of our earthly existence. So there is a very deep connection between how we live before we die and how we will live after it.
 
The most important of these relationships is that to society. If our relationship to our society is built on justice and goodness then the next level of being will reflect this. If we behave unjustly to our society or to people, whoever we are – politician, businesswoman or man, man of religion – this will equally rebound on us. What we are creating in our lives is the heaven or the hell of our own actions and this conduct determines our pain or our comfort as we transcend from our earthly being to the next manifestation. Our action determines our being – its beauty or its ugliness – and remains with us. The deep connection between this life and the next is held within a fundamental understanding of the unity of existence from which thousands of manifestations emerge. Each human life is a manifestation of the divine unity rather than separated from it, and this can enable us to shape our identity and to choose to live according to that unity of self, society, nature and the divine. In the sense that all are manifestations of the one, there are no divisions in the abundant diversity of humanity – none is above another – and our conduct towards others should embody this fact.
 
In the manifestations of existence, the lowest state is that of the material world. This material world is a temporary state and the Sufi understanding is that is not ‘real’ but simply the manifestation of which we are aware and which we therefore believe is real. Believing it is not only real but absolute can degrade the individual into believing that reality is the exercise of his own dominion manifested in material accumulation and dominance. In this understanding, war is an inevitable consequence of the imagination asserting that individual reality and its corporeal existence is primary and real. Without an understanding and acceptance that it is actually the lowest state of being, humans cannot be free from time and space and will thus perpetuate the darkness of their own time and space. 
 
 
 
 
 
​The heart is the essence of humankind in Sufism. The heart is light and it is pure. In the course of this life we face darkness. Our behaviour can bring darkness and our heart can become dark, but light is the fundamental essence of the divine and it is eternal. The purity of the heart is the insight that enables us to see our own darkness and to repeatedly return us toward that light. To be a part of that light.
 
We have great personal responsibility in Sufism. We must define for ourselves what we believe is valuable and pursue that value in order to achieve happiness for ourselves and for others. We cannot avoid wrong actions and darknesses of our own making, but we learn as we move through the stages of experience in this life. In Sufism, happiness is communication. Communication with the four key elements of the life we know, and ultimately communication with beauty, knowledge and divine power. If we work towards this we create positive energy that we can transfer to our societies and to other people. That positive energy is light and the source of that energy is the divine and eternal light that is part of the unity of all existence. For Sufis it is this light that not only defines life but negates the idea of death as finality. In other words, the eternal nature of the light to which we return makes death a logical impossibility. 
 
 
 
 
 
With much gratitude to Ayatollah Salman Safavi and all at the Next Century Foundation
 
Images in descending order:
1. Mystical Scene with Shams Al-Din Tabrizi and the Reflection of Sun in a Pool
2. The Funeral of Jalal Al-Din Rumi
3. Dogs in a Market Listen to Rumi, Who Praises their Understanding and Attention
4Garden of the Heart, 2004, by Zarah Hussain Courtesy of the artist.
Three Persian miniature images from Tarjuma-i Thawāqib-i manāqib (A Translation of Stars of the Legend), in Turkish. The translation was ordered in 1590 by Sultan Murād III (r. 1574–95) from the Persian abridgement of Aflākī. Iraq, Baghdad, 1590s. Reproduced here courtesy of the The Morgan Library and Museum Collection.  Please click directly on images for more information.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Valerie Grove

Valerie Grove is a multidisciplinary artist working under the rubric of ‘Nature Strikes Back’. For more information about the Elegy Project and more than two decades of other work, please see www.naturestrikesback.com

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VOICES OTHER AND VOICES OVER

 

 

 

AC  Evans

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That First Morning

She wakes early,
Slips out of bed,
Pulls on her robe,
Slides back the drapes,
Dares herself to go downstairs
(And maybe leave
A trail of breadcrumbs)
Thick carpet underfoot,
Polished wood,
The smell of beeswax,
Front door ajar.

 

And once outside,
Cold dew between
Her toes that tickles,
She turns and turns and
Turns again until the grass
Falls up to meet her,
Arms crossed,
Fingertips splayed
At each shoulder
The world’s a dime
Spinning on its edge
Slows wobbling
Clatters down heads
Up just like Daddy
Last time she saw him
And he looked fast asleep.

 

 

 

 

Kevin McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

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Truth

 

reality now,
a house of mirrors,
seen and experienced,
because of where one stands,
yet maybe,
this is the way it has always been,
the only difference,
once upon a time,
everyone stood near the very same spot.

 

 

 

 

Doug Polk

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NONE SHALL PASS

A few chastity belts are on exhibit in a few European museums, but they are few enough to suggest that their use was not widespread. There is also some doubt as to what that use may have been. There were no contemporary literary references at the time to what is surely one of the most remarkable items of female couture in the history of the world, and there were no precedents. The Romans and Greeks didn’t mention them neither did the Persians, Egyptians, Chinese or Assyrians. They are generally associated with the Crusades of the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries, being worn apparently by European women as a deterrent to promiscuity, while their husbands were off fighting the Infidels.           

The Infidels coincidently had the same problem, but they didn’t go to such lengths to deal with it. They simply covered their women from head to foot, and if they caught them sneaking out, they stoned them to death; an efficient solution requiring minimal outlay and no maintenance.

Both Christianity and Islam marginalized the role of women, and the essential concern for both was the safeguard of property. Not the wife per se, but her means for producing heirs to promote and increase her husband’s estate. The same means conversely that could be used to compromise said wealth by producing offspring other than his own.

Even though the crusader faced the same dilemma as his opponent, his ethical constraints prevented him from resorting to similar methods for solving it. That kind of thing was what made an Infidel an Infidel after all. To add to the difficulties, unlike his Muslim counterpart, a crusader was only permitted one wife to expend. His ingenious solution we are to believe therefore was to place his assets under lock and key. That being the case, the first question that comes to mind is where did he get such a device?

European nobility are not known for their ingenuity, but even if one of them had been inspired with the idea of a chastity belt, he would have needed someone else to make it for him – a metal worker of some sort, an armourer perhaps, or a jeweler. Since women occur in a variety of shapes and sizes, fitting the contraption would have been an essential part of the process – and necessarily a sensitive one. Allowing a red-faced, stubby-fingered smithy to fuss around the wife’s privy parts, making a tuck here and a tuck there seems highly improbable. On the other hand, it’s unlikely that the Lord would simply spring it on his Lady wife as a fait accompli. Surprising a woman with a pair of shoes is an insane idea let alone a pair of iron drawers that aren’t supposed to be taken off for years. The dutiful wife therefore would have to be on board with the idea from the outset. An idea proposed to her over breakfast maybe…

“Looks like rain what?”
“Quite.”
“Think I might round up a few of the chaps and bugger off for a while.”
“Really?”
“Pop over to the Holy land. Give those damn wogs a thrashing.”
“A splendid idea.”
“Quite.”
“Toast?”

“Certainly. So that’s settled then. I’ll have George stop by this afternoon and attach a metal contraption to your privates.”

And the wife just said, “Jolly good” and that was that.

As a devout Christian presumably, she acknowledged the need for such measures, given her essentially wanton and deceitful nature as a woman as defined in the Bible. On the other hand, if she didn’t agree, she could end up being strapped into a badly fitting, off-the-peg version whether she liked it or not.

Either way the plan went ahead. In the interest of propriety and to avoid the indelicacies of being fingered by the help, it’s possible she tried on the device in private then suggested modifications and adjustments – the way wealthy Chinese women used to send a doll back and forth to the doctor with a note pointing out which parts didn’t feel good. Or maybe the husband conveyed the information himself:

              “Says it’s a bit tight up around her bum here…”

Relationships between men and women vary in their expression, particularly with a couple that perceives wife as property this way. It would be most noticeable at the inauguration, the moment when the key was finally turned in the lock. One would think it might have been a romantic occasion, a fond wave goodbye so to speak – or simply one last use of the anatomical part in question to relieve the anxieties of the upcoming journey.

But if that were the case, it raises a very real concern: what if the wife were to get pregnant as a result, or if she was unknowingly pregnant already? Crusades weren’t a five-minute affair. Things could get messy. A chastity belt blocks traffic in both directions. It would put things on a far more pragmatic footing. Both parties would absolutely want to make sure there wasn’t a bun in the oven before they parted ways. Meaning there could be no sex for at least a month – for the wife that is. The good lord could always relieve his anxieties elsewhere – which in all likelihood, being to the manner born – he was doing anyway. Final lock down would have then been a perfunctory matter on a par with making sure the gas was turned off before going on holiday.

Suffice to say, on the day of departure, the little woman would be comfortably secure in her wrought iron jock strap, and her owner and liege – equally comfortable and secure – would be able to put his mind to the matter in hand. Together they would go forward to the greater glory of God, each of them armored in their way against the assaults of the unworthy: One to fight the Infidel, the other to fight infidelity.

The arrangement was strictly a one-way street, and the Holy Land is a long way from Putney. Unlike the lady wife, his lordship was not hampered by any such restraint as he set off through other people’s back yards to do God’s work.

The first crusade in 1095 was a resounding success. Jerusalem was captured and sacked, and most of the Infidels along with their wives and children were tortured, raped and/or murdered – as were most of the Jews and Christians and their wives and children. A very loose interpretation of Christ’s “Suffer the little children to come unto me” one would think.

In the fourth crusade, having set off in the usual way, the righteous arrived in 1203 at the gates of Constantinople – a Christian city – Orthodox Christian that is, not Catholic – a distinction based on their respective definitions of the number 3.

Constantinople hadn’t been too happy about crusades two and three and wasn’t about to change its tune this time around. In response, the devout Latins laid siege to the place, and when they finally broke in a year later, subjected it to the most appalling sack and pillage in recorded history.

The city at that time had become a “veritable museum of ancient Byzantine art” most of which the crusaders systematically looted or destroyed. The great library with its countless ancient Greek and Roman artifacts was also demolished; the “greatest Church in Christendom” looted and desecrated. By the time they were done, the prevailing Trinitarians had reduced the city to ruins and in the process raped and murdered most of the inhabitants.

It’s the rank and file of course that perpetrates this kind of behavior. Rape is the product of frustration, and frustration increases the closer we get to the bottom of the social ladder. Class is about money, and frustration decreases commensurate with how much of it you have.

Penises however, are often awake before their owners and long before the banks open. They know no such distinction. Men are men regardless, especially when they’re a long way from home.

The privilege of Prima Nocte was fashionable with the upper class around this time and must surely have extended to foreigners. If fucking the wives of his workers was the lord’s God given right, then fucking the wives of men he wasn’t financially obligated to was obviously a matter of course.

While the wife was back home struggling with the sanitary rigors of rusty underwear in an effort to repel all boarders, it’s more than likely her husband was boarding other men’s wives to his heart’s content.

But the crusades weren’t all fun and games. Sometimes the godly got killed as well and that’s where the real problem with chastity belts lies. His lordship presumably had the key to the device with him – or one of them. He also had his armourer, which had its up side and its down side. While the armourer was there, he couldn’t be coerced by the wife into making another set of keys, but since he was there, there was a chance he’d get killed, and if the Lord got killed with him, or simply lost his key, the wife was really screwed.

It’s possible the husband had a contingency plan for just such an outcome. He may have hidden a second key somewhere around the manor and left sealed instructions to be opened in the event of his death. On the other hand he might as easily reason that if he was dead, what did his wife need a key for anyway?

The chances of this happening were at least 50/50. 50,000 men set out for the first crusade but only 20,000 came home. 10,000 died in battle, the rest were killed by Bubonic Plague.

All in all, chastity belts make no sense in terms of what they were supposedly intended for. It’s far more likely they were used as an aid to sex rather than a deterrent. The upper class may not be renowned for being smart, but they’re notoriously kinky.

Boredom used to be something only the rich had to contend with, and elaborate sex games and the paraphernalia that went with them have been recorded from Nero to De Sade. A chastity belt fits right in with that tradition. As an elaborate foreplay device it would certainly kill time. Literally locking the door to the funhouse then hiding the key could stretch a two-minute fuck into an all day event. Or it could have been a party game. A half dozen, randy, Middle Age, drunks searching for the key to the prize: A girl named Chastity maybe.

Nowadays more and more people have time to kill and in keeping with that idea, ‘chastity’ belts are once again available in sex shops world wide – both for men and women.  They can be built to order, in all likelihood, even out of wrought iron. 

In the words of one Japanese salesman:

            “Chastity belt is greatest invention for humankind”

 

 

Malcolm Mc Neill

 

https://www.malcolmmcneillwords.com/

 

 

 

 

 

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Knowledge

Knowing what is unknown

Feeling what is unfelt

Bringing forth what is hidden

Uncovering the mysteries,  

Deep source of knowledge lies

At the bottom of the well of mind.  

Chances act as opportunities to know them.

Knowing the unknown is the mystical ambience, 

In the depth of mind and heart     

Like fear kept at bay

And expression granted its stay.

Being social is our boon

Media controls the mind, it is said

We opt for technology and someone rightly said

“Information is beauty.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sushant Thapa
Illustrations  Nick Victor

 

 

 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. Recently, he has been published in Trouvaille Review. His poems have also appeared in greythoughts.info, USA. His poems have appeared in the print in The Kathmandu Post and online in My City portal of Republica Daily from Kathmandu, Nepal. His poems have also appeared in The Gorkha Times, Kathmandu, Nepal. Indian Periodical, India has also published his poems and he has also been published in Sahitto Bilingual Literary Magazine, Bangladesh. He is also forthcoming in a pandemic anthology and his first book of English poetry is also releasing soon. Sushant lives in Biratnagar-13, Nepal.  

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THE CHET SET/ 2 Poems

 

  1.  

CHET BAKER SUMMER SKETCH

 

In the city of Bologna

There’s a jazz club bears his name

So – typically of course –

He never played there

 

Preferring one without a gaudy sign

That mainly served spaghetti   –

 

A summer concert in the square

Returning there for supper

He drew a portrait sketch upon the menu

 

One continuous line

In the manner of Matisse or Cocteau or

Chet Baker when he circles a white space

In notes of calm allusive beauty   –

 

Whose is this suggested face at peace

They promptly framed to hang upon a wall?

 

 

Might it be a somnolent

Self-sabotaging angel

Sleepwalking fame’s absurd fast-burning tightrope?

 

 

2.

LUCCA

 

One day soon he will settle in Lucca   –

A small house with a garden

A music room of course and in the cool

Spring evening it shall be pleasant

Wandering piazza to piazza

To sit at café tables with a few

Understanding and forgiving friends

 

Someday soon when the fever breaks

Of crossing borders concert to concert

Festivals to cash-in-hand recordings

From dealers in hard drugs to hardened doctors

Substituting methadone with cautions

 

Driving overnight without a break

All to play one T.V. slot in Oslo   –

Someday soon he’ll stay at home in Lucca

No last-minute sound-check to insist

‘I always play softly   –   I always sit down’

 

One day soon he will settle in Lucca

There is a quiet music to the phrase

Eternally assuring and enchanting

For high on uncut heroin

Every town is Lucca

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bernard Saint  

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Customs

The virus left few untouched in the country of V. The lockdown was so extreme that some protesters died after being shot by police. It was even rumoured that the police were starting to take pleasure in the killing, such as the young officer said to have used a bayonet to stab an old man with mental health problems multiple times.

I felt trapped in that flat where I was staying with my fiancée and her family. It was shocking how careless they were, not bothering to wash their hands, and greeting visitors, who weren’t supposed to be visiting, with a kiss on each cheek. Moreover, I could sense their disapproval of my foreignness beneath the deferential way they treated me because they thought I had more money than them. 

When I heard that the borders would soon be closed, I decided to take the night train out. Making my way on foot to the station through dark, deserted streets, I was surprised to see a café on a corner full of old men sitting in threes and fours at small round tables. In an island of light, they were all silently eating the same dish of fish and chips and mushy peas, a look of radiant, almost mystical joy in their eyes. 

So, they have fish and chips here too, I thought, and stopped to stare until I remembered I had a train to catch.

 

 © Ian Seed 2020

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Harsh Comfort in the Wild West

View from the back of Frizington Main Street, 25th October 2020. 

 
A visit to the wild, ex-industrial coastal strip of Cumbria is always bracing . . . which has the observational texture of an outsider’s or tourist’s comment. While it’s true that this area was not bred in our family’s bone, since circumstances shifted us further west after a decade in the remote landscapes of the Northumberland and Westmorland fells, most of us have come to know it well.

Frizington centre


From the gardens and conservatories on slopes above Windermere to the kitchen sinks of Workington or Barrow[i], Cumbria’s rich/poor divide is acute. One of my sons has for some years lived in Millom, where the partially landscaped ‘slaggy’ left by extensive ironworks now otherwise vanished, rises at the end of the street. Millom lies on the western shore of the Duddon estuary, excluded, along with Haverigg prison, from the Lake District National Park. Travelling north under the 2000-foot brooding fell of Black Combe, from Silecroft to beyond Ravenglass, the Park is unnoticeably regained and being now part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site, shouldn’t the land here at least be protected?[ii].

Sunburst, Frizington.


Blighted by the nuclear mess of Drigg and Sellafield (formerly Windscale – a whitewash which fooled no-one) as well as the criminally retrogressive plan to reopen Woodhouse Colliery, Whitehaven[iii] (inevitably supported by some in a community desperately short of jobs), much of the Cumbrian coast has long been treated with contempt. Before moving further up the coast, our eldest son lived at Calder Bridge, less than two miles from the nuclear reprocessing plant, and received one day a leaflet detailing the siren codes for varying degrees of danger from radiation leaks or fire. Advice ranged from SHUT YOUR WINDOWS AND STAY INDOORS, to – basically – GET THE HELL OUT!

Main Street, Frizington, looking towards Lank Rigg and Crag Fell


Turning north-east at Egremont, the road climbs gradually, the wasteland atmosphere resisting any obvious beauty or focus. This is no West Penwith or Elmet[iv]. Towns and villages such as Cleator Moor and Frizington, where our eldest son subsists, evoke the Wild West under a maritime climate. Their original terraced houses may be too squat and solidly built to become as wind-worried as the creaking wooden wrecks or shanties of gold rush towns lost on desert plains or abandoned in the Rockies, but the sense of frontier remains, even of hideout and tolerant anarchy. They cannot become ghost towns, since few of the inhabitants have anywhere else to go.

Frizington Pre-school


Yet despite the poverty inherent in these settlements, particularly under ice and rain, the sense of community, in a generalized, undemanding way, is strong, and most people you meet – pensioners, middle-aged and young – are cheerful and friendly, despite that for many it must be the end of the line.

According to an estate agent’s board, the reasonable shell of local saloon, The Griffin, has recently been sold. Perhaps, before long, the doors will swing open again and the tinkle of a piano be heard in the street? Meanwhile, the Whitestar Football Club[v] appears to be the social hub.

Occasionally, sheriff or deputy crawl or turbo-charge the main street under blue flashing lights – rarely to engage with the inhabitants in person, always missing the high-powered or unsilenced exhausts of other private cars occasionally punctuating the night in explosive, accelerative bursts.


Has covid knocked back the heavy traffic to some degree? Certainly, the crash and grind of the oversized lorries which pass my son’s front door seem to have lessened since last February. Double decker buses though still faithfully run, no matter how empty.

“40 lbs. of lead piping and a dozen chromium-plate mixer taps on Chiseller in the 3.45 at Aintree, ta.”


Thanks to blankets around his living room, this space at least can be slightly heated, or, on alternate days, the front bedroom. Connecting areas echo outdoor temperatures, while the bathroom, downstairs, out on a limb, is arctic. Here you needn’t move your arm to brush your teeth, you merely put the brush in your mouth and let shivering do the work. Which flippantly brings to mind Captain Oates and his famous phrase[vi] – not that it fits, no pre-meditated sacrifice being here involved.

Gas and electricity suppliers are not so community minded, their metered connections in rented housing always being via extortionate tariffs, bound to keep the poorest poor. We’ve offered my son a dehumidifier for Christmas, but he doubts he could afford to run it. Baths don’t come cheap at the ice cap, so are limited, like hot water, to every other day at most. His situation is only one of thousands in the area, families and the old. Jobs are scarce and before the covid crises the unemployed were continuously hounded to search for work that doesn’t exist. My son was heavily penalized for missing a job appointment when his bicycle broke down.

Bungalows, Frizington, Main Street, October 2020.


As usual, we ended up talking half the night, feeling that after the clocks went back at 2am, we’d fortunately been granted an extra hour out of thin air. At about 3, the last thing he said to me before I shut my bedroom door was: “Watch out for the ghost!” indicating where an old friend of his who’d visited a few weeks earlier had seen the grey spectral form, standing at the end of the bed. “What had you been smoking?” I joked. “Nothing,” he laughed in reply.

I wondered if the thought of this departed prospector, miner, cattle drover or gunslinger had made the room go suddenly very cold, but realised of course, that it was always this temperature when the weather took a turn for the worse.

 

                                                            *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Next morning after a burst of violent hail there was some sun in the sky. Dressing quickly, I went outside for a walk to get warm. A tractor passed the funeral director’s opposite and down at The Griffin roundabout a woman rode through on a horse. A few cyclists also spun past, one braving old-style shorts – no fair-weather wimps survive long around here! Even a lone deputy came kerb-crawling by, briefly, behind glass, waving a greeting to a wobbly pedestrian with sticks – who tried to raise one to the sky.

 


Towards Weddicar Rigg


Some of the names hereabouts drill into the mind: Wath Brow, Lingla Bank and Foumart Hill; Bleak House, Acrewalls, Routon Bridge . . .    Weddicar Rigg embraces the sun while Winder Gill has disappeared in hail. A siren bleats loudly, firing up the road towards Rowrah. The river from under Starling Dodd (633m) via Ennerdale Water, sounds like a clearing of the throat: “Ehen.”

Abandoned Council Chambers, Frizington, October 2020.


Yet this village has its own contrasts, areas or houses that rise above the general fortune. The red sandstone blocks of the council chambers may be colonized by lines of grass and the windows smashed but the school looks cheerful and there’s a wonderful, ceramic mural depicting the village and its history.


Frizington, Main Street, October 2020.


A blaze of low sun illuminates the fire station and the moorland fields behind. This village exists on a border where the traces of mineral railways crisscross the land and disused quarries abound: one of the last former coal and iron ore mining settlements before the National Park begins. At Cleator Moor, this boundary is less than half a mile to the east.

Meanwhile, as the mountains around Ennerdale’s lake emerged from the storm, I remembered other villages just a few miles further inland whose newly built villas include modernistic touches such as acres of glass. The gap between the avoided and the desirable is not wide, and the decorations for Halloween universal.

By the way, I never did meet that ghost. Perhaps, if it’s true that ghosts are creatures of habit, it had been confused by the twice annual farce of the clocks going back or forward from one fake time to another?

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

Cumbria, October 2020

 

[email protected]

 

NOTES

[i] http://internationaltimes.it/an-existential-road-trip-to-barrow-in-heavy-rain-notes-from-a-park-shelter/ 

[ii] https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/sep/13/ban-4×4-off-roading-in-the-lake-district-campaigners-say – a controversy that still rages 

[iii] https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2020/jan/15/new-cumbria-coalmine-incompatible-with-climate-crisis-goals 

[iv] https://www.cornwall-aonb.gov.uk/westpenwith    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remains_of_Elmet 

[v] Very close to my son’s house, I assumed this was for local football players to go in the evenings, so was surprised to see members, some in full football kit, out on the fire escape, chain smoking. Correcting my impression, my son told me it was a social club where members gathered to drink and watch live football on a large screen TV. However, some weeks later, he saw a group in football kit, burst from the building and head enthusiastically to a nearby field dribbling a ball. Now, he is confused. Was my initial assumption half correct? Did the TV break down? Or did they just suddenly have a desperate urge to play football themselves? 

[vi] “I am just going outside; I may be some time.”

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The Mission

 
 
 
 
I passed by Seattle’s Union Gospel Mission,
‘Reach Out and Touching Lives’,
With their Search and Rescue Van,
                Volunteers feeding, housing (in Hope House)
And clothing the abandoned, hopeless and homeless.
 
Those street people less fortunate or less determined,
Shrouded in their hoodies, huddled together in the cold,
Their begging bowls and cups outstretched.
 
Dozens of leftover hippies from San Francisco,
Now in their 60’s, stand in small groups
Outside The Mission, surviving on hand-outs,
Eating breakfast buns and drinking steaming coffee. 
 
There were many ragged, white-bearded African Americans,
Escaped from the harsher prejudices in the Deep South cities
Or from lost jobs in the ground down industries
By Lake Michigan, Lake Huron and Lake Erie.  
 
And younger men, mottled thin, syringe arms,
Or alcohol red, West coast Indians, 
Battered & bruised, once looking for jobs,  
Now incapable of looking,
Eyes half-closed, some with a knapsack,
Others with all their Worldly possessions
Piled up high in a shopping trolley.
 
It made me think of the Alcatraz ‘Resort and Spa’ cup
Bought in San Francisco: *Bars in every room,
*Great views, *Meet new friends, *Meals catered daily,
*Top notch security provided, *Great workout facilities.
 
These are the things every tourist and traveller
Both desires and despises;
The first resort and the last resort.
 
 
 
                    ©Christopher   [email protected]
 
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Biblical

                                                                                                                                       

Around 3 pm a plague of locusts hit the town, just as newsreaders had predicted. The insects covered every bit of vegetation. Flowers in window boxes and parks, vegetable stalls at the market, wreaths at the cemetery, all fell victim. Even the artificial box hedge outside the town hall was stripped of its synthetic foliage. People locked windows and doors. Traffic slowed to a halt as the swarm became so dense no one could see where they were going. The stench was terrible.

After a few hours the insects moved on, leaving behind a trail of devastation. Street-cleaning vehicles began to remove the bodies of dead locusts, fairy lights were strung in the trees to hide the bare branches, and multi-coloured plastic windmills were handed out for people to put in their gardens.

That evening the news featured reports of an outbreak of lice infestation in a couple of western districts, and another story described an area to the south where people were being kept awake at night by the croaking of unusually large numbers of frogs. Miriam called her brother Aaron. ‘Well, it could have been worse,’ he said. ‘It could have been a plague of boils.’

 

 

 

 

Simon Collings

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SHIBBOLETH 


  

Shib-bo-leth: n. a common saying or belief  
 
When Presidents lie through the gaps in their teeth 
And what was above is now lying beneath; 
When you’re anxious for truth and are vexed about death – 
   Return to the breath. 
 
When the broadcasts are filled with political whims 
And lenses zoom-in upon car bombs and limbs; 
When the facts read much more like the plot of Macbeth – 
   Return to the breath. 
 
When the world stage is shaken by missiles and storms 
And nations surrender to populist norms, 
Though drugs might appeal, don’t go turning to meth – 
   Return to the breath. 
 
When having opinions presides over proof 
And half of the news was made up on the hoof, 
You might well attend to the old shibboleth: 
   Return to the breath

 

 

Andy Brown

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Street writer part fourteen – What Are You Afraid Of

 

As a writer and an artist… what are you afraid of?

Maybe… rejection, failure, making mistakes and mostly… disappointment!

If these are some of the things you are afraid of… this is a GOOD thing.

Especially if you are like me, a man with no superior education or diplomas in the creative arts and you are learning everything from books and music and films and performers.

Everyone who starts off with a passion in their hearts is better than learning it from some pompous university professor who can’t even write any real truth.

Most of those scholars are just carbon copies of other great writers and artists.

They just puke that bullshit out over & over again.

I’ve puked out better stuff than them when I drank too much and saw the poems at the bottom of my dirty toilet bowl ha ha.

You see, if you have lived a full life before you write and explored many avenues then you will write better than most!

Especially if your body shape has changed and your mind and your soul and your faith…

This will give you more to write about and more to give to your audience.

This will give you more of an advantage.

I started off as a 5 year old kid in primary school and a kick-boxer.

After that I was a 12 year old teenager at high school and I was a skateboarder.

I moved onto a 16 year old getting ready to go to college and I was a well-rounded mixed martial artist.

After that I was a 19 year old college drop out after a nervous breakdown and back out on my skateboard with my boys.

Eventually I became a 24 year old diagnosed manic depressive and going out as a full time writer…

Now I am 31 year old man with many mistakes, failures, rejections and disappointments in the arts and in life but…

That doesn’t take-away the fact that some of it did work out like it was God kissing me on the lips, but that’s because I stuck with it even when it made me sick and tired!

Basically, if you learn from your mistakes (like that good ole saying) you’ll do fine.

And when you fail throw it in the rubbish bin and come back with something better.

When you get rejected keep moving forward to the next magazine or publisher.

Deal with the disappointment like a man or a woman and come back stronger than ever.

1 out of every 5 pieces you write will be phenomenal.

Maybe 2 of them will be good.

1 will be alright and will need more work like a rewrite.

And definitely 1 of them will be total shit… burn that one on the floor and let it reach the heavens so another writer will be able to work on it and make it into a better prophecy than you did originally.

We’re all in this together and we’re here to encourage each other not degrade.

There is enough to go around for all of us.

So don’t let your ego get involved and ruin it for us all.

We’re all going the same way so let your LOVE talk for you.

I’m leaving you with a micro poem called: don’t be afraid.

I think it speaks more truth than this article or anything else I have ever written.

Sometimes I use it as a mantra when things start getting on top of me.

It is a reminder that things could be a hell of a lot worse than a few tears.

Love

PBJ

<3

 

 

 

 

Don’t be afraid

 

Give out love like Infinite flowers

Find something with artistic merit

It is not like you are being

Beaten up

Raped

Tortured

Or murdered

Don’t be afraid of looking foolish

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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BOY

The signal fell from the
pot, with a knocked drop
like Wellingtons in rock pools.

There was no sound: the
fuschia-black tint of its
skin in this half-light

hid the blue, purple
spread of the blood. The under-
geared lungs chuckled into

motion, breathing a rose glow
into the slow cells. They
took him away, fired vitamin

K into a pipit-small heel,
and returned him to the tired
icy room. He slept like a baby.

John Gimblett

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For Julian Assange


Photo: Jan Woolf

 

Seasonal thoughts Julian.

Let’s raise a toast to you,

And the struggle for your freedom.

This freedom business, eh?

Freedom from and freedom to – the sophistry of philosophers.

But it can be a business.

Neo-Liberals are free to do what they want,

But then so are hyenas.

And we find rich mobs

Starting political Freedom Parties.

Don’t they love the word?

Doesn’t it glisten like the gold they spin?

And the kidnap of the word, of course.

They mugged it, threw it into a cell.

 

They are also free to say what they want when it isn’t true –

Like Mars Bars are good for you, or that a country has weapons of mass destruction.

But when you, Julian drew aside Shadowland’s veil, revealing what’s there

That’s a different American ball game.

In pictures, real ones mind, not doctored photos, or hearsay, or cooked up interviews.

But moving.  Film. Proof.  They showed ‘em,

And you showed us.

The enlightening dark, glittering in its cruelty.

They came for you and they are torturing you.

Like Saint Sebastian

But instead of arrows they shoot you with tranquillisers.

And strip-search you – for what?

You have nothing left but what you know,

And what you stand for.

Standing too, in an upright coffin as you’re driven to court.

Deprived of sleep and company.

You exposed death

So now they are killing you

You exposed cruelty

So now they are cruel beyond measure.

The great British justice system, eh?

Innocent until proven…

 

There will be a time, in the better world we struggle for

 When you’ll be venerated.

Like the women and men.

Who told the truth and were persecuted.

So let’s carve your name with pride.

Now.

Not later, when you’re done and dusted,

Or dead or extradited.

Now. 

For how many know that –

‘Extradition shall not be granted if the offence for which extradition is required is a political offence.’ 

And since they are throwing the book at you

This is article 3 para 4 of the US extradition treaty.

And how many know this?

That presiding judge Lady Arbuthnot

Is married to her Lord, who Wikileaks exposed.

 

So who will they come for next? 

No journalist who behaves, that’s for sure.

Christmas thoughts, Julian.

May you soon walk in the sun.

 

 

Jan Woolf – for Artists Against War, Stop the War Xmas fundraiser December 11, 2020

.

 

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The Angels’ Answer

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MEMPHIS/THE SOUTHERN LIGHTS

 

 

1:

Long ago one evening

I held the hand that Elvis

Had pressed in his two hands

 

‘He held much longer than he might   –

Many beats too long’ she said

‘He held my gaze in his

Too long for what was just

A formal introduction’

 

‘By then he’d lost his innocence   –

Doubtless he was practised

Flirting with so many

College girl reporters like myself

Seeing who would blush or speak non-stop

Testing new immodest powers

Of a teenage Dionysus

 

–   This boy who had improbably

Caught a bolt of lightning

So they named him now

The Memphis Flash   –

 

He reached out in a daze

Grasping any hand he might

Seeking only shelter’

 

 

2:

Climbing the palazzo’s broken stair

With caution you will find

A rooftop cinema

Dilapidated as the celluloid

Desires that urged us there

To love’s old-fashioned trivia and trinkets   –

To see the actors suffering

In days when they were envied!

 

Then at times the film would break

Fragile frames reveal their stock

Of overheated glamour in cold blood

And looking up from many an illusion

 

We’d gasp at the vast and factual stars

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

.

 

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THE FLOWER FOLDS

                     In Memoriam Harold Budd (May 24th 1936 – December 8th 2020)

 


Suddenly, the Budd is blown by harsh winds
And by the sound souls still search for. As Harold leaves,
His sense rises into the expectant night and far sky.

Colour cries, carved by his keys and by the air
He engendered, for as dreams parade, and his pavilions
Are walked on once more, The Pearl dries.

But still it catches the light, as music’s Mirrorball
Reconfigures, with a shimmer of strings and piano

That emboldens the room to remain

Both in this part perceived realm and in the unknown
Land of his music, where cities glaze while abandoned
And a song serpent savours the wound his bloom seals

To stall pain. At times of opposition or stress,
I look to Budd’s Ice Floes in Eden. I hear his Gypsy Violin’s
Searing murmur, as his storm of sound gathers pace.

His is the soundtrack within as the blood and skin
Rise translated. His music glides with star fusion,
Just as a distant craft must through space.

Harold Budd seeded stars in his minor keys
And suspensions. A Sculptor at work around silence
He also threaded a shape through air’s loom.

As with the Enos and Gavin Bryars, he soothes
Through sowing sound sprung dark flowers.
He was a cartographer clearly, charting a scented path

Through lost rooms. There was no surrender to time
In Budd’s world, there was instead, a mastery of it.
He found the correct key for dreaming and the tempo

To ease or prise fear from the fallen fruit of the flesh,
Through the name stung strength of a flower;
Part of the earth and air moving through it, he grew
Through soft spells cast for ears. I play Budd’s
White Arcades and Coyote all day, whenever I wish
To communicate beyond language.

I walk through the halls and rooms he has fashioned
And will fashion again as he’s heard above the rush
Of the real. For his was a period parlour.

In either By The Dawn’s Early Light’s haunted western,
Or some wind blown, cold stone boudoir, where his
Sweetened music is tasted and where sound is something else

Each hand feels. And so, the ambient Artist ascends,
On account of this earthly static. Harold Montgomery Budd,
Now stars listen to your melodies made for moons.

Your shade stays sustained even as you are rearranged
Now beyond us. The cost demands the flower folds.
In such music, and in this sad refrain

 

                                                               You’re retuned.                                               

 

David Erdos, December 10th 2020 
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Steam’s Groove Episode 4

 

Tracklist:
Michael Viner’s Incredible Bongo Band – Apache
Edwin Birdsong – Cola Bottle Baby
Marlena Shaw – Woman of the Ghetto
Pleasure Web – Music Man (parts 1 & 2)
Curtis Mayfield – Tripping Out
Leroy Hutson – Never Know What You Can Do (Give it a Try)
Les Baxter – Hot Wind
KC & the Sunshine Band – I Get Lifted
The Jackson 5 – Hum Along and Dance
Donald Byrd – Wind Parade
Melba Moore – You Stepped into My Life
Earth, Wind and Fire – That’s the Way of the World

 

 

Steam Stock

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THE ONE

Where is the one that built

this tumble-down deserted house,

this torn asunder, famine plagued

wilderness of want?

 

The one who stunned the tongue of doubt

and perched this house divided

on dispute’s shifting stone?

 

The one who dipped his brush

into the dark pot of neglect

and daubed the crumbling walls

with discontent?

 

The one who heard the children cry

and a woman’s tortured soul

who with punctured eardrums rent

the rags of warmth?

 

The one who with calloused hands

and bitter fingers unpicked the stitches

from the threadbare carpet of togetherness?

 

The one who mixed the mortar

for destruction’s barren bricks

and deftly wove the curtains

of despair?

Where is the one? Where is the one?

 

I am here seeker, in the shadowed

ruins of my inheritance.

I am here seeker, in the bleak and

barren oneness of myself.

 

 

 

 

Mike Mcnamara
Painting Rupert Loydell

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IT International Times – Covers

 
 
MrCowshedder
 
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Vitality 10 – the Moon

 
 
 
The Moon.  It’s followed us around for ages – hanging there, beguiling. Her silvery face indifferent, or so we think. But what do we feel about the Moon?  Her twelve faces that pull the tides, make canines howl and divide the year. My friend, poet Shaun Traynor has just published an exquisite collection of thirteen poems ‘Savannah and her Thirteen Moons’  as an A6 booklet. It’s truly lovely and has been designed by artist Roelof Bakker. Shaun wrote the poems, one a month in 2019, and posted them on Facebook.  Now, in the final moons of his life, he has dedicated them to his granddaughter Savannah.
 
Here is 
 
September: The Harvest Moon
 
The Harvest Moon is the name given traditionally 
 to a full moon rising in September; 
and traditionally, it was during September 
that most of the crops were harvested ahead of the autumn
and this moon gave light to farmers
so that they could carry on working longer in the evening.
So, The Farmers’ Moon? No; I rename this moon:
 
The Migrants’ Moon
 
Work on
migrants in the field;
I give you late-light-
complete the task before I wane again
and grass grows brown and you must return. 
 
 
Shaun Traynor
 
 
Presented by Jan Woolf – published by – 
 
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THE FLIGHT

           – to Norman Dukes

                Such razor-sheen
the ponds, viewed against sundown,
the plane banking, prop cuts the air, pulls,
and wings uphold us. Flash of ponds
deep in the brain old fires,
breath blown on dry grass, flint spark
(no dream yet of phosphorus: locked secret
in the bones of animals)
                Water
in cupped hands; broke morning’s
skin of ice on the pond, frost lattice
on curled brown leaves, trees’
combustions slowing, slowing … banking,
buffeted by invisible knots of air,
leaning toward fall to earth
yet held, seated, tiny railroad ties stitch
the steel gleam ribbon, gyro steadies and
compass floats; this noise-drilling metal bird
is not there to the moccasin’d man
making his fire and hearing the high
southwestward honkers,
their talk to each other a talk to him,
his pause there and sadness, the summer

is gone. Another summer is gone.

 

 

William Gilson

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Momentary garden


“We are the world, with all our colors, ages, sizes,” Laotian organizer Torm Nompraseurt told a community speakout against a California ballot initiative that would’ve barred the state from collecting statistics on race. “It’s as if we had a garden, where each flower needs its own particular care.”

We were an odd lot who wanted to see, and be seen—Black,
Chinese and Lebanese, white, Laotian and Latino—so we got together
in the storefront clinic across from the strip mall.

We made a momentary garden
with all our colors, ages, sizes,
dreams, breathing deep and listening
to our roots talking,
hearing the quiet words,
the learned and rehearsed words,
words from the gut and heart.

Our listening planted lemongrass
and collards, kale and bright tomatoes,
with sunflowers watching over all.
Our garden bloomed from long years’ tending,
let us reach to feel each other’s scents, and ask

“What greens grew in your mother’s garden,
what spices did she use—sage, saffron,
garlic, chilies of a dozen hues?
What did she brew when you got sick?
What do you offer to a neighbor who stops in—
green tea, coffee strong and sweet,
or a can of pop?”

Tell me how I let you know I’m listening—
do I speak straight and look deep into your eyes,
or diffidently glance aside?
Tell me what you do for birthdays,
how you meet the end.

In our garden greened on years of dreams
we could speak these things
and hear them all,
every pungent every bitter
every rolling rocky word we taste
on our ears, hear in our cells,
see with our hearts open,
feel them all, embrace
the nubby, rough and silky,
hear the sparkle in our eyes
and the warmth of our hands
clasped in greeting
and goodbye.

 

 

 

© 2020 Marcy Rein

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Slad Valley View

 

 

Hand Print
By DENNIS GOULD

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Days

Dark days, dark down dog days, dark down drug drunk drudge days.
Saturdays. The drinking only makes it worse.

Dog days, grown glum gloom grime grot days, and grave nights.
Sundays. Reading the lost art of indulgence.

Manoeuvre on dark days, manoeuvre on drug drunk darn down dog days,
Manoeuvre on, manoeuvre on. Mondays.

Blood days in a blood rage, should-could-would love days.
Tuesdays. Cause of dog down drug drunk dumb days.

Impression stage, always, collected poems on a page.
Wednesdays. When to have come and gone wrong rot days. 

Thursdays. First days, curst to nurse the worst thirst days.
Persistence spent, wasted words, pounds, pence.

Fridays. Blind drunk, dry, blunt, upfront cancellation days,
Dog days. Dark down drug drunk junk days.

 

 

 

 

© Greg Fiddament 2020

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LOVER’S CROSS

 

Seems someone is always trying
to impale me
upon a lover’s cross

doubting atheist
&
sufferer of vertigo

I always
climb back down
before the nails go in

 

+++++

 

 

TERRENCE SYKES
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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The Plan

 

the world crazy for all to see,
people burn through days,
hoping the future better,
but no guarantees,
healthy or ill,
disease, uncontrolled through the eons,
people sick and die everyday,
every hour,
yet this year,
humanity hides,
and takes cover,
death will not recognize us,
we have masks,
we will hide,
death will not find us,
locked in our houses,
burning through the days.

 

 

 

 

Doug Polk.

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More Lock Down Funnies

 

Miriam Elia

https://www.waterstones.com/book/we-do-lockdown/miriam-elia/9780992834920

 
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THE GREAT REJECT – OF THE GREAT RESET

 

We Are the Power

The World that Klaus Schwab, executive director of the World Economic Forum, wants us to rubber stamp is a 100% dystopian nightmare. In fact, if one was to write a film script about the worst of all outcomes for the human race and planet, Schwab’s ‘Great Reset’ dream would perfectly fill the bill.

Everything that moves and breathes is to be sanitised, anaesthetized and digitalised proclaims the WEF White Paper of October 2020. This is the way to turn the world ‘Green’ according to Schwab and his team of technocratic trolls. Well, most of us will turn green just by reading this WEF master-plan for humanity “Resetting the Future of Work Agenda in a post Covid World” so there’s really no need to bother with its implementation, is there?

The inventory of fake green huey to be found within the pages of this paper goes back to the Club of Rome (founded 1968) coming up with the idea that for the elite to maintain their grip on world affairs, some scary story threatening the end of life on Earth was needed.

So the idea of Global Warming was hatched to fit this need. It also had the advantage of being a money spinner via the invention of ‘carbon taxes’ and deployment of a whole new fake green infrastructure under the title ‘The Fourth Industrial Revolution’. Yes, a truly inspiring control package was put together – just waiting for a suitable moment to be rolled-out across the world.

Well, it just happened that something called Covid came along (sheer coincidence) to kick the whole show off at the beginning of 2020. Aside from Global Warming, launched some twenty years earlier, the new show is proving to be quite a spectacle! There’s something for everybody in the tragi-comedy drama called ‘Covid-19’.

Fake news, fake views and fake truths – all conjoining to make a quite breathtaking virtual reality saga starring some previously little known bit part actors, who leapt at the chance to take leading roles in bringing to life the technocratic Great Reset dynasty promised by the World Economic Forum. A dynasty requiring the implementation of highly tuned Al-Gore-rythms so as to edit out the communications of all who don’t do Al’s Global Warming thing. Not just that, but EMF’ing all and sundry as a covert way of vastly reducing the global population, is also a vital part of the mix.

The only thing is, those doctors, scientists and engineers still able to think, saw immediately that they were being asked to believe that the world had gone flat again – like it was pre Copernicus and Galileo. And that 2+1=4. And that cell phone microwave radiation, now running at tens of thousands of times that of natural background radiation – doesn’t change anything and won’t do anyone any harm. No, of course not, why should it – we must have had a delusional moment ever entertaining such an idea.

As we peer at the newspaper headlines each morning, we become aware of a very well coordinated story-line being monotonously repeated day after day, with almost no variation wherever you happen to be in the world – but especially so in Europe, North America, Australia and New Zealand. No surprise when just six corporations own 90% of the world media.

These headlines are continuously telling us to to believe in a surreal agenda that – of course – stars ‘Covid’ and comprises a whole series of absolute contradictions, invented, no doubt, for the purpose of causing mass distraction and confusion of the readership – while relentlessly pressing the fear button to ensure obeisance from a semi paralysed public.

But what is this we see emerging out of the gloom at this eleventh hour? Could it be a new hero is rising up out of the chaos to put our minds at rest? Could it possibly be one Klaus Schwab – ‘visionary extraordinaire’ and inspired saviour of humanity?

Herr Schwab has now been joined by no lesser being than Prince Charles, to convince us Reset laggards to “use all the levers at our disposal” to ensure eco-corporate fascism dispossesses small to medium sized businesses of their hard won trading grounds while simultaneously walloping us with a wall of 5G microwaves.

Apparently The Green New Deal sees 5G as the solution to getting a global centralised ‘smart grid’ up and running so as to enable us to be ‘watched’ 24/7. This, one assumes, is to help us get that warm feeling of “you are never alone.” That warm feeling will be accentuated by the fact that 5G, like its 3/4G predecessors, is a microwave weapon that cooks us from the inside out and serves us up rare, medium or well done, according to its output.

“Well done!” is the response that Schwab and his royal team are no doubt expecting us to proclaim while loudly applauding the roll-out of the Agenda 2030 – Zero Carbon – Smart City – Fourth Industrial Revolution – Transhumanist Singularity – Green New Deal – New World Order – ‘Great Reset’ blue print for a full-on fascist future.

Well sorry, Mein Herr, but I’ve got a strange feeling that you might have got this all a bit wrong. Your megalomania has been recognised for what it is. Most of us have accordingly decided to show you two fingers and the way to the door.

Your departure should not be delayed a day longer than necessary. Don’t worry, we have made it easier for you to take your leave by ensuring the exit door has these words writ large upon it: ‘THE GREAT REJECT’.

Julian Rose

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, writer, international activist, entrepreneur and holistic teacher. His latest book ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind – Why Humanity Must Come Through’ is particularly recommended reading for this time: see www.julianrose.info

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The Secret Pandemic

 

“We never prattle on
the other pandemic,”
says the widow.

I raise a toast to the spirit,
her husband, 
and swill down the image –
he with his gun
inserted into his mouth
moments before his brain
dye the wall.
The art of dying makes me
see an abstract of a house shrew
searching for food in garbage.
I raise a second toast.

The secret pandemic.
I have another friend fallen from life.
I excused myself from his wake.
The year browns outside, not over yet.
The ground hides its hide beneath 
the pelt of green, 
far too long I haven’t trampled the yard.
The road elongates the emptiness 
I am afraid I shall miss 
when people inhabits the asphalt again.
“Too soon, quarantine,” I murmur,
“Don’t end yet. Pandemic is alive.”

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick Victor

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What A Curious Experience

 

 

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Limen

The poems in this collection arrived during an intense period of lostness and becomingness. They are assembled in chronological order of writing. There is no promise they make sense. If just one touches you somewhere, perhaps your limen, perhaps astride it, then our vulnerability has been shared. Not all the names are the names, but the love is the love.

 

 
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Preface of an artist

 

Acknowledging the raw and direct nature in which all poems were created, their imagery became an elongation of such, a process of discovery. Ten colour studies follow sections of poems, created from an explosive first response as the author read them directly to me: his words, his rhythm, my discovery. From them, further monochrome works were created. This collaboration, based on the outmost respect and trust, has been a beautiful and enlightening process, one I’ll never forget.

Mai Sanchez

 
 

 
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What A Curious Experience

What a curious experience, of a void filled by a divine universe’s machinations.

Unseen mechanisms spring to life, undirected, no text books for reference.

With utmost creativity, the hidden hand of non-expectation brings beauty to my door.

 

Cold winds, wet snow, (breezy theories), and the prospect of an arid winter and spring

Cannot penetrate to my heart through cold skin and shivering muscles; as I open the door

To ever rising melodies, wave after wave of impossibilities becoming fact. It happens. Happened.

 

Sit still and wait. A new injunction – now with evidence of efficacy. Still: wait. And watch the waves.

The tide will come and go, unstoppable. Each onslaught followed with inevitable respite.

Perhaps the ferryman will arrive, and perhaps not. In any case, the fare is already paid.

 

 

23:13, 10th December 2017


 

 
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Erasing

 From the colourful image in the mirror if the sky is deleted

It will erase the colours of the stars, the moon and the sun

Emptying the vibes of colourful being

It will erase the sentient existence.  

Everything would be a being for a little while, but    

Like a colourless image, I would still receive the forbearance of existence.

 

 

 

 

Sushant Thapa
Illustrations  Nick Victor

 

 

 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. Recently, he has been published in Trouvaille Review. His poems have also appeared in greythoughts.info, USA. His poems have appeared in the print in The Kathmandu Post and online in My City portal of Republica Daily from Kathmandu, Nepal. His poems have also appeared in The Gorkha Times, Kathmandu, Nepal. Indian Periodical, India has also published his poems and he has also been published in Sahitto Bilingual Literary Magazine, Bangladesh. He is also forthcoming in a pandemic anthology and his first book of English poetry is also releasing soon. Sushant lives in Biratnagar-13, Nepal.  

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Yet Another Fractal

Here’s a grazing caterpillar
Adored by ants who lap
Honeydew excreted from her back:
And later when she’s cocooned
Inside their nest, they keep vigil
Until she’s transfigured, silk tomb
Split wide, they’ll guide her outside
To watch, antennae waving as her wings
Catch a breeze and she’s risen again.

 

 

 

 

Kevin Patrick McCann

 

From Still Pondering   https://www.amazon.co.uk/Still-Pondering-Kevin-Patrick-McCann/dp/1788768671/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Patrick+McCann+Still+Pondering&qid=1573366856&sr=8-1

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Dutchman/The Specialist

 

DUTCHMAN

 

Great riches are a form of madness

The wealthily insane

Seemingly attracting their own kind

Bask in a delusion they appear entirely normal

 

I know of one such billionaire

He lives entirely in the sky

Perpetually he flies

Continent to continent

Aboard his private aeroplane

I’m sure you’ve guessed its name   –

‘The Flying Dutchman’

 

You will not meet this man

On boulevard nor avenue

Nor any homestead anywhere   –

For this way he’s required to pay

No taxation ‘Nowhere’

 

Insanity alone inspires

A logic such as his   –

 

 

 

A sighting in a Zurich airport lounge

Once was verified   –

He was brokering the purchase of Old Masters

Representing ‘parties’ too otherwise engaged

To peruse more than the price tag

On sets of token high-investment Art

 

His commissions are commensurate   –

In that rare altitude

He cuts a mystic figure  

A Zen of zeroes trailing from his pen   –

 

Infinity’s profound if meaningless number

 

 

 

 

THE SPECIALIST

 

I specialise it’s true

In the troubles and the treatment

Of reluctant billionaires   –

 

Consultants will advise

‘Aqua Vita’ once suspended

In a silver Asprey’s spoon

Is found most efficacious

As homeopathic cure

Boosting in the senile male

Grandiose if infantile entitlements

 

I suspect that our more senior practitioners

Have sampled similar tonics   –

Fresh from The Med. in tailored shirt and shoes

Their bespoke blazers bright with yachting braid   –

 

Incautiously they made contagious contact

Contracting that condition   –

A virus known now only to the few

As ‘Filthy Lucre’

 

.

Bernard Saint 

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‘Millennium’

‘You are Here’, is a hugely diverse online exhibition showcasing 50 international artists who have used maps, or the concept of mapping, in their work. Featured here is ‘Millennium’ by Valerie Grove (collage on world map 1998-2000).   

http://www.katmapped.org/

Pictures by Valerie Grove 

 

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Alejandro Jodorowsky, an extra-ordinary film-maker and Magus


Alan Dearling suggests that as a ‘pre-script’ as opposed to a post-script’: “Embarking on, and fulfilling this personal journey into the World of Jodorowsky, has, almost by definition, required my own life to become obsessional. It has involved much scary, mind-altering stuff. Has it been good for my own mental health? Would I recommend it for others? Read on. Make up your own minds.”

The films of Jodorowsky are unique, marginally bonkers, but also situated within an historical sequence of art-movements. They occupy a space and place which was birthed in earlier times, during the post-World War One era. Spawned by the political upheavals, times when artists, playwrights, film-makers and other creators saw themselves at the vanguard of the freedom-fighters, rallying the masses against censorship, and totalitarian regimes of both Fascist and Communist persuasions. But perhaps they were also quite incestuous, working within their own rarified ‘bubbles’. These artists issued manifestoes and exhibited their ‘works’ as part of ‘happenings’. Frequently in the name of ‘freedom’: Liberté, égalité, fraternité.


Alejandro Jodorowsky was born in Chile in 1929, but developed his creativity in Mexico, France and Spain through writing and illustrating comics, involvement in theatre and film-making. He came to the fore as an international artist late in the 1960s. His background in mime, as a puppeteer and avant-garde actor and writer, are all part of the early ‘mix’. His work is alternately, surreal, violent, spiritual, perverse and always challenging. Also, it is packed full of parables, Zen mysticism and a strange mix of the personal, religious and out-of-body mind games… To watch them requires an act of subjugation, a personal leap into the depths of unknown worlds, crammed with bizarre obsessions and behaviour. The films are acidic, sometimes repugnant, undulating with disquiet, rather than harmony.  He is perhaps much more of a Monster of Cinema than a Mere Mortal. He probably sees himself as a Guru and Spiritual Master. His work is a Homage to the Theatre of the Absurd and the Theatre of Cruelty (Antonin Artaud), Alfred Jarry, Jean Genet, Fernando Arrabal, Edward Albee, Samuel Beckett and Eugene Ionesco (and others): a world of human situations that according to Camus are both, “meaningless and absurd.” His spiritual being and ‘world-view’ was heavily influenced by Ejo Takata (1928–1997), a Zen Buddhist monk, who he lived with in Mexico.

Alejandro is still alive in 2020, and his son, Brontis, who stars in many of his father’s films, has taken on some of the directorial and other creative duties. Alejandro is plotting more assaults on our senses and sensibilities. And with Brontis seemingly a fully-fledged, chip off the old block of creative madness as his dad, plus more of the family involved…the Messianic Jodorowsky Dynasty continues…Full-frontal filmic lobotomies, perhaps?

 

Fando Y Lis (1968)

The first feature film from Alejandro Jodorowsky. Stylised in its use of monochrome arts-film techniques. Think: Dali/Bunuel/Fellini/Pasolini. Alejandro didn’t write it, yet it’s strangely autobiographical. Cinematic. Non-linear. Revenge. Hate. Vengeance against mother and father. A surreal search for Oz or Tar? Ultra-violent. S&M basis for relationships. Pre-occupation with pain, torture, rape. We are told that Alejandro’s own father Jaime, raped his mother, Sara, and that was his own conception! Trans-gender. Sublimation of the spirit. Transgression. Sexual politics, or, are they sexual games? Domination, control, Days of Sodom? Desert scenes. Shades of ‘Freaks’ (Powell)?


Abhorrent. Immoral, or, amoral? Vaudeville, jazz and slapstick. Anti-religion… Deformity, the paraplegic…parables, fables, transcendence, Zen. Non-realism. Darkness, menace and light… Sacrifice. Atonement. Biblical. The Gospel of the death of the parents. Destruction, rather than Resurrection. Anti-everything? A thing of wonderment. Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_wpglZcWhw


Before Fando Y Lis, Alejandro had made a short melodramatic film in France in 1957, ‘La Cravate/the Severed Heads’. You can view it in its entirety here. A silent film, almost a slice of Chaplin-esque Theatre, with surreal mime sequences and carnival, barrel-organ music. Obviously, Alejandro is one of the stars! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1rhIqZDs2Q

El Topo (1970)

Relatively big budget. Alejandro stars along with his son, seven year-old, Brontis. Filmed in quite lurid colour. More deserts. Abuse, violence, murder, incest, necrophilia. More freaks. Even more of a morality, or anti-morality tale. A Quest. To be the Baddest/Fastest/Gun-fighter…Good versus Evil. Alejandro as the main man. His son passes through various Rites of Passage. Or, is he God or Jesus?

Omnipotent. Over-the-top blood/red paint. Spaghetti Western in the genre of Sergio Leone. Just ‘more so’.

Rights of initiation. Or games of chance? Tarot. I-Ching. The notion of perfection being bad. The women as Brujo witches competing, cajoling…carousing…arousing…mind-control, subjugation… madness and debauchery and the endgame as the ultimate orgy. Sacred Blood. Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=widMYyUbvfE

In January 2019 the El Museo del Barrio in New York cancelled a major retrospective dedicated to Alejandro Jodorowsky after reassessing a controversial interview he gave in which he claims to have raped a female co-star, Mara Lorenzio. The act of sexual violence allegedly happened while filming a scene for the surreal Western El Topo. In the 1972 book, ‘El Topo: A Book of the Film’, Jodorowsky said: “I really raped her. And she screamed.”

In his defence in 2019, Alejandro said, “These words: ‘I’ve raped my actress,’ was said fifty years ago by El Topo, a bandit dressed in black leather that nobody knew. They were words, not facts, Surrealist publicity in order to enter the world of cinema from a position of obscurity. I do not condone the act of rape, but exploited the shock value of the statement at the time, following years in the Panic Movement and other iterations of harnessing shock to motivate energetic release.

I acknowledge that this statement is problematic in that it presents fictional violence against a woman as a tool for exposure, and now, fifty years later, I regret that this is being read as truth. My practice is centred on healing and love. I invite further dialogue in the spirit of progress.”

 

Holy Mountain (1973)


John Lennon and Yoko Ono were two of Jodorowsky’s most vocal international fans after seeing ‘El Topo’. We are told that they personally invested at least £1 million into the production of ‘Holy Mountain’. The finances got messy. But they left the business negotiations in the hands of Beatles’ and Rolling Stones’ manager, Allen Klein. It’s hard to un-pick exactly what happened, but Klein obtained the distribution rights to both these films, fell out with Jodorowsky, suppressed the distribution of the films – literally until 2006 and 2007, since when the films were brilliantly restored with enhanced colour and detail, and again became available on dvd (most recently from ABKCO, headed up by Jody Klein, previously Allen Klein and Co) and at some cinemas and film festivals (Cannes in 1973 and 2006).


So much for part of the ‘back-story’. But it meant that ‘Holy Mountain’ was released with an opening caption proclaiming that it was produced by said, Allen Klein.


It’s the most accomplished and iconic ‘cult movie’ and Hallucinatory Head Trip ever made. Alejandro is the Alchemist in the film and his personal stamp is all over it. He stars in it, directs it, it’s his script and much of the music is his mix, too.  Some memorable World sounds from Alejandro, Don Cherry and Ronald Frangipane. It’s an addled mix of drug-fuelled of images, episodic parables; it’s anti-establishment and religion; filled brim-full with Zen and Tarot logic, illogic and magic; ultra-crammed with sex and violence. It is another set of Ritual Quests. Sort of. Bibical – apostles or acolytes of the planets, Jesus as portrayed by The Thief, Tarot figures come to life (‘our gateway to another dimension’, according to Alejandro) – disciples of the Alchemist – on a journey to the promised immortality offered by summit of the Holy Mountain. Much visual and auditory debauchery, blood (and red paint), dismemberment of people, animals and birds along the way. Nice, it ain’t. But as a film, it is the Ultimate Long Strange Unfathomable Trip! A psychedelic mind-fuck into the worlds of psilocybin mushrooms, LSD, mind-control, Zen and Sufi psycho-magic and Gurdjieff. We even have a scene in The Factory where art is being created by paint-coated bums in homage (or a piss take) to/of Warhol! Parody and homage are frequently close bedfellows in Jodorowsky films. Redemption and enlightenment are only achieved through pain and sacrifice.

And, at the end, have we reached that Enlightenment? Hardly. More likely Dazed and Confused, and with all our senses numbed by the sheer barrage of Scenes-of-Excess. Does
it make sense? Does it need to? Alejandro, the Alchemist, tells us at its conclusion, in yet another Zen-fuelled-moment: “We have reached the top of Holy Mountain. Now, Real Life awaits us.” Perhaps and maybe, but not for some or the many, as they attempt to recover from this Assault and Battery of the Senses. It’s certainly Jodorowsky’s Signature Film. Potentially, his Crown of Surreal Creation. Through Ritual and Magic.

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zerBaxPbA94

Tusk (1980)

Now impossible to obtain in any format or watch. A family fantasy film about an elephant. Here’s a fairly weird, rough and rocky review of Jodorowsky in this director-for-hire ‘Tusk’ film: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yg1AsfULJNk


All that can be seen now is a French trailer for the missing family/children’s film, ‘Tusk’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vum6Ymho5TQ&list=PLUNy215K09YrD98xuiGru5doO9IhZNcWb&index=104

There’s also now a fascinating vinyl LP from the label, Finders Keepers, of the soundtrack from French electronic composer, Guy Skornik which features none other than Steve Hillage from Gong! We probably are not missing a lot!

Sante Sangre, ‘Holy Blood’ (1989)


For this film, Alejandro had substantial financial backing and a new collaborator, Claudio Argento (younger brother of Italian Gallo/Horror maestro, Dario). There’s more of a proper story. But it’s still certifiably mad, crazy, bad, nasty, largely illogical, mystical and messy. Many of the recurring Jodorowsky images of Jesus, religion, the Catholic Church, the State, Circus, prostitutes, freaks, dwarves, Down Syndrome people, theatre, mime, initiation rites of passage, and yes, another elephant, appear (and get buried!).


It also involves lots of Jodorowsky children in the cast including Teo, Axel and especially Adan. They are all great. But the film is a confused and confusing muddle. And, of course, there’s plenty of blood and mutilation. There are also some scenes that are left indelibly etched on the viewer’s brain-cell. Circus scenes – virtually mime set-pieces – are among them, and especially the sequences with the ‘hands’ of the Fenix, now an adult man (played by Axel) and the body of his arm-less mother. They are a single entity. It is probably an Oedipal  homage to ‘The Hands of Orlac’. As a film it’s almost impossible to categorise or describe. It includes elements of horror, torture and political commentary/intrigue, sado-masochism, fetishism, pathos, but it also includes a number of nods towards other films and film-making – we even have the Invisible Man in a reprise-role!

‘Santa Sangre’ doesn’t seem to have the overall visceral lysergic acid-fuelled ‘hit’ of some of Alejandro’s films, but is still oddball, oblique and filled with more ideas and unique imagery than many directors ever achieve in a lifetime of movie-making. Trailer: https://youtu.be/PQ3x6YgsacY

The Rainbow Thief (1990)


Some odd imagery and set-piece semi-surreal schematics, but not really a Jodorowsky film. Alejandro apparently hated working with the ‘A List ‘stars’ especially Peter O’ Toole. Omar Sharif and Christopher Lee perform tolerably well, respectively over-acting as thief and a millionaire eccentric, at least as compared with the wooden, smiling, leering presence of Peter O’ Toole, who wanders around rather aimlessly looking perpetually ‘stoned’. It was ostensibly a British film, but filmed in Gdansk, which provides some great sets of dark streets and docklands.  Just occasionally some genuinely surreal scenes, mostly involving dogs! Overall, a complete and total mess, but lacking in the off-the-wall spontaneity and madness of the Real Jodorowsky. Perhaps that’s because of its stupid, often puerile script, which Jodorowsky was not allowed to change or discard. He’s disowned it, saying that he was working as a film-director ‘for hire’. Here’s a link to the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyJ37at7_UM

 

Dune (Director: Frank Pavich, 2013)

The film (sort of) of Frank Herbert’s psychedelic sci-fi epic, ‘Dune’. It never happened. This film is the documentary about the most amazing film that was never made. Fabulous stuff, and a real insight into the mind of the older Alejandro, Brontis, his son and the original creative team behind the Dune-that-never-was. Forget the David Lynch version. An aberration…


Alejandro spent over three years in the pre-planning, choosing the artists, stars and creative team. His son, Brontis (then aged 12) spent those three years training six hours daily in Zen and martial arts in order to take on the central role of ‘Paul’. Alejandro had the Vision, Belief, Imagination and he was a Magus. Epic, Vast in Scope. The documentary underlines the fact that ‘Dune’ was Life for Alejandro. And Dune was Jodorowsky. In all his megalomaniacal magnificence. It would have been stupendous; visually stunning. It might also have ended up as being over 13 hours in length. Story-boarded by Alejandro, ‘Dark Star’ script-writer, Dan O’Bannon and artist, Moebius – the 1,000 page book of the film was completed and shared with studio after studio, Universal, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Walt Disney… The documentary brings this venture back to life. We meet many of the iconic characters who shared in the almost psychotic ‘creation’ of this Frankenstein-monster of a film which would have starred Salvador Dali as the Evil Emperor (at a possible $100,000 a minute for his ‘acting’); Orson Welles as Baron Harkonnen; Mick Jagger as Feyd-Rautha, and with sets designed by artists, H.R. Giger, Chris Foss, Jean Giraud (Moebius); musicians Pink Floyd and Magma – all committed to the gargantuan project. It ultimately failed because of the sheer scale of its ambition.  Or, just maybe because of Alejandro’s own obsessions and madness. Alejandro was not making a film of Frank Herbert’s books – he was imagining a new and radically different ‘Dune’. Here’s what he says about the film – rather disturbing, methinks!

“It’s different. It was my Dune. When you make a picture, you must not respect the novel. It’s like you get married, no? You go with the wife, white, the woman is white. You take the woman, if you respect the woman, you will never have child. You need to open the costume and to… to rape the bride. And then you will have your picture. I was raping Frank Herbert, raping, like this! But with love, with love.”

But it actually spawned and perhaps informed the content of the biggest sci-fi films that followed including, ‘Star Wars’, ‘Blade Runner’, ‘Fifth Element’, ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’, ‘Flash Gordon’ and ‘Alien’. Here’s the trailer for the Trip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0cJNR8HEw0

Alejandro and artistic friends including Moebius didn’t waste all their hard work on the Dune story-board. Many of the ideas and images later appeared in the adult comics, ‘The Incal’ and ‘The Metabarons’. And Alejandro still contends that his vision of Dune could still be made as an animation, now that the technology has caught up with his visionary zeal.

The Dance of Reality (2013)

Alejandro had moved back to live in Chile in 2011. With help from crowd-funding on the internet plus the support and involvement of various family members he embarked two ambitious semi-autobiographical films about the life of his parents and himself. This was the first instalment. Obviously it is obtuse, with many surrealist twists, turns and obfuscations. It’s visually and intellectually a real return to form. But, it’s long, and sometimes feels so… But mostly satisfying on all levels. Thought-provoking, endearingly personal, but with more political elements (Stalin and the Chilean president Ibanez  del Campo loom over many scenes),  boundless leaps and flights of imagination. Chock-full of symbolism and multiple layers of meaning.

And also full of members of Clan Jodorowsky – acting roles as mother, son, grandchild, father, lover, terrorist, Communist, Fascist, horse-trainer, killer, god, Jesus, spiritual guru. On the surface-level, it’s sort of a musical – an opera with a soundtrack to the family history provided by Sara, Alejandro’s mother. Plus, of course, circus scenes, biblical-proportioned deaths, resurrections, political uprisings, armies and carnage. Violent street scenes, war, kindness, retribution and even a parable of the ‘Red Shoes’. There’s also a strong underlying story of the oppressed and tortured Jew in Chile and beyond. It was premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in 2013.


After ‘Dune’, it was 35 years until Alejandro worked again on a film with Michel Seydoux. This was the film. So, what is Reality? Is it bounded by the limits of our Imagination? Who are we? What is Meaning? Is Destruction an act of Creation?

As with all of Alejandro’s films, it’s complex sort of giant onion, with dozens, or hundreds of layers. Episodic, non-linear – both baffling and endearing. Brontis Jodorowsky is particularly effective in the central role as Jaime, Alejandro’s compulsively controlling dad, and Alejandro’s grandson, Jeremías Herskovits, is superb as the young Alejandro.

Long version of the trailer, a featurette, with plenty of Alejandro: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWAKm-9v1-I

Endless Poetry (2016)

This is essentially the second part of the ‘Dance of Reality’. I think it is the more powerful movie. It’s easier to identify with the characters portrayed. More of Alejandro’s re-imaginings of his own growing up, but this time it covers his adolescence and into his young adulthood. It’s another psycho-magical, surreal experience, but this film offers a bit more cohesion and story-line. Alejandro fights for independence from his father, decides he wants to be a poet, and is offered more opportunities to be part of the artistic community as the family moves to Santiago. His father, Jaime, is still portrayed as a hard-hearted (and once, a severed-headed) tyrant, but the youthful Alejandro is facing his own challenges as he tries to cope with sex, sexuality plus a greater than average number of existential questions about life, death, art and reality! What is abnormal if there is no normal?

Some of the portrayals and performances by the actors in bringing the bohemian arts community of Santiago to life on screen, are jaw-dropping, phenomenal. No change there – vintage Jodorowsky! Adan Jodorowsy is superb as the teenage Alejandro and is stretching his creative wings with his musical scores.

The scenes and action move with a rapidity that is never easy for the viewer or interloper. Suicides, beatings, circus scenes, sex, Fascists, a very familiar set of images and montage of Jodorowsky characters – but in ‘Endless Poetry’ it seems a bit more controlled, less-contrived, a blended-surrealist reality, if that makes any sense at all? But, don’t worry, there are still plenty of Theatre of the Absurd moments, like the two young poets on their mission to ‘walk the straight line’ – straight through someone’s house and life. Great stuff!

As with ‘Dance of Reality’, this film possesses a trance-like quality, hyper-neo-realism, perhaps? But the characters seem to be more three-dimensional than in many Jodorowsky sensory-assaults. Life really is ‘being lived’. We are all actors, not bystanders or onlookers. Is there one message? Perhaps. All of Life and Death is a Performance! “The brain asks the questions, the heart gives the answers”. (Alejandro Jodorowsky)

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L3_510gM-U 

 

 

Ritual: Psycho Magic (2015. Directed:Giulia Brazzale Luca Immesi, Italian, from a novel by Alejandro Jodorowski)

This looks and feels like an up-market piece of erotica transformed into art by the impressive cinematography, acting, and general weirdness. Part Gallo horror, part ‘Psycho’ meets ‘The Shining’. Add a pinch of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and a little ‘Repulsion’. Absolutely riveting on the eye. Stunning performances, filled with visual and mental tricks and treats. I watched it in German – and only understood a little – but in many ways ‘half-guessing’ the actual dialogue made it even creepier. Fascinating stuff.

It borrows many motifs from the Jodorowsky repertoire: a wind-up gramophone, bleached out wide-angle scenes, brooding close-ups, obsession, madness, drugs, blood, death, on-looking children, babies and a brooding theme of sexual exploitation and domination. Plus Alejandro in a small but sinister role! And the lines: “…bulging eyes with a twisted mouth…strange fruit.” (Abel Meeropol, 1937).

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Un9RacmLxVw

PsychoMagic: A Healing Art (2019, Documentary, available soon on dvd, probably)

Here’s a short trailer. More madness and hallucinations! Alejandro proclaims, “I have left my prison and invented Psychomagic.”


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dma9h0qw6A&list=PLSgcFXy_-eBWd8T7DQp2cC_Nvfl_vGBtJ&index=2

‘Only God Forgives’ is a 2013 crime film written and directed by Nicolas Winding Refn and starring Ryan Gosling, Kristin Scott Thomas and Vithaya Pansringarm. Filmed in Bangkok, Thailand, it is dedicated to Alejandro Jodorowsky, who also features in the documentary film, directed by Refn’s wife, Liv. It is ostensibly a record about the filming of ‘Only God Forgives’. In it Alejandro talks of Nicolas as his ‘spiritual son’.  

For myself, I can also see many of the themes and filmic elements of Jodorowsky in some of the work of director, Robert Rodriguez. His ultra-violent film ‘Machete’ from 2010 focuses on the corruption of politicians (particularly the Governor, acted by a wonderfully over-the-top, Robert De Niro), police, the Church, drug barons and the retribution of a wild Mexican vigilante character played by Danny Trujo, who is straight out of the blood and sex-filled Jodorowsky filmscapes. Foretells Trump’s America… “The border crossed us…”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXiuT5Zd8Do

******************************************************************

And, for the future? ‘The Sons of El Topo’ (aka ‘Abel Cain’) is still a live project – but will Alejandro live long enough to complete it? Fingers crossed. Another cliff-hanger, perhaps.

This is well-worth a view, a now slightly dated French documentary-interview online with Alejandro: https://www2.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/interviews/alejandro-jodorowsky-pulling-rusty-brains-out-burrows

Finally, here is Alejandro Jodorowsky on The Tarot, especially the Marseille set which he owns a copy of along with 1,500 other sets! What he calls, “An Encyclopaedia of symbols”:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlZq8Nit0Vw

His book on the use of and interpreting the Tarot has many admirers, world-wide. The ‘blurb’ for the book suggests that: “Jodorowsky and Costa take the art of reading the Tarot to a depth never before possible. Using their work with Tarology, a new psychological approach that uses the symbolism and optical language of the Tarot to create a mirror image of the personality, they offer a powerful tool for self-realisation, creativity and healing.”

 

 

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‘An Impossible Project’

 

Imagine, Observe, Remember, Peter Blegvad (250pp, £18, Uniformbooks/Amateur Enterprises)

 

I imagined that this book was called Imagined, Observed, Remembered, a document of work that had previously happened, something in the past. I thought that it would be a catalogue of Peter Blegvad’s drawings neatly arranged in grids, a gathering-up and tidying-up of his illustration, drawing and fine art work.

Book to hand, I observe that it is more than I have imagined. The title is in fact a directive, a statement of intent, a brief manifesto; the book is far more than I had supposed. There is explication, discussion and explanation, some autobiography; the author suggests on the back cover that ‘[i]t’s a kind of phenomenology project, a way to look at different ways of looking’. Fair enough.

I had forgotten how beautifully designed and printed Uniformbooks are, how quirky and original the subjects of their book is. Blegvad fits right in, if ‘fitting in’ is a term that can be applied such work unclassifiable. Blegvad is a self-confessed pataphysicist, that surrealist take on the philosophy of science, and here that critical stance is put to good use, with its discussion of psychonauts, mnemonic drawings, memory theatres and discussion of ‘how to be a seer’.

But there is a serious thread running through this witty and engaging book, an informed and clever consideration of how memory, observation and thought differ, yet combine to produce an often compromised or unreal version of the world. ‘This is an art project, but I think of it as a kind of outsider science. By drawing the things I see in my mind’s eye I like to imagine I’m making the invisible visible’, writes Blegvad, but for me the essential component is not the artistic journey into self-expression and the imaginary but that the imagined subjects are then considered in relation to the subject in the real world. This frisson or comparison, the abuttal of imaginary and actual, helps us consider how we see the world, as is the third image produced (the remembered), where the artist chooses and adapts visual information from the earlier two works.

I do not know what I will remember of this book but I know it will engage me for several more weeks this first time through, and that it will be a book I return to. It is eminently informative, entertaining and questioning, sometimes provocatively so. It is physically pleasing to hold, it is visually pleasing to the eye, it is challenging to the mind; I will perhaps off the word wondrous as a condensed summative offer.

I already have other memories or rememberings of Peter Blegvad. His music, both solo and as part of Slapp Happy and Henry Cow, all now available on CD; his Leviathan cartoons, which were gathered up and published as The Book of Leviathan by Sort Of Books; and Kew. Rhone, a previous and very different volume published by Uniform- books. There are more personal moments too: being part of a small audience for a solo concert at The Mean Fiddler in the West London wastelands; some longwinded and hilarious conversations when we both taught at Warwick University; and a more recent writing workshop where Peter got my bemused creative writing students to design ‘angel traps’ to facilitate the capture of song lyrics from the air around them.

‘Imagination, observation and memory act together to provide the subjective and objective data we need to navigate our various worlds’, declares Blegvad. And now we have a manual to not only help us gather that data but also to understand why we should.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

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MOTH KINGDOM

In the Moth Kingdom everything
is blurred and dusty, undefined.
Mistakes are honoured and upheld,
background becomes foreground
and every idea takes gentle flight.
It is always twilight, never dark
or light enough and everything’s
aflutter. Things have grown too tall,
too large, looking for the light.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

From The Geometric Kingdom, a book by Maria Stadnicka & Rupert Loydell,
available at:

https://www.knivesforksandspoonspress.co.uk/product-page/the-geometric-kingdom-by-rupert-loydell-and-maria-stadnicka-54-pages

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Boys with Guitars

Playing tracks by
Television Personalities, The Mascots, 13th Floor Elevators, The Deejays, Spacemen 3 and more.

Lady Babooshka brings you some noisy boys with their guitars. A great selection from different eras but all with the psych rock sound she loves. Vive la psychedelia

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Vitality 9.  Painting.

 

When low moments hit, it’s vitality we need, rather than vigour. Vigour can be a kick in the teeth, a lurid cuss, running away. But vitality lifts and shows a future.  As an eighteen-year-old, in 1968, just about to start my art teacher training, my distraught Dad rang, telling me that my mother had left him, and our home – leaving no forwarding address.   This was crap of the first order, with the likelihood of my giving up on college and going home to look after Dad.  The Principle told me that I could re-join the course the following year, but my prospective art tutor, Stanislaw Frenkiel, told me that if I went home, I would never come back.  He was probably right.  The painting in progress on the easel in his studio that day  (smelling deliciously of turps and linseed oil) was Riders on the Shore.  Two horses, a self-portrait and an indeterminate figure against a low horizon, cadmium blue sea and ochre yellow beach.   The energy of the horses, cream against burnt umber shadow, and the intriguing artist/rider burned through my sorrow and sparked the future, not the past.   I stayed life long friends with this extraordinary painter – he died in 2002 and is a subject of my, as yet unfinished (but getting close) novel, Hannibal and the Masked Girl. I am honouring Stas’ by giving him a fictitious retrospective in Tate Modern in 2003 – the year they showed Gauguin.  A nifty replacement I thought.  It’s also the year Blair ‘facilitated’ the invasion of Iraq. Watch this space.  By the way, my mum turned up not too long afterwards, Dad married someone else, and I got my Certificate in Education with a distinction in art.  So I guess it had vitality.  We can’t go round putting the V sticker on works of art – we’d never finish – so it’s best to say, we know when it hasn’t got any, as it doesn’t move us.   See Stas’s work at http://www.frenkielart.com   Or get the book Passion and Paradox by Anthony Dyson.  http://www.frenkielart.com/limitededitions/stash/passion.htm

 

Jan Woolf
Painting: Stanislaw Frenkiel

http://www.frenkielart.com/originals/pre1970/ridersontheshore.htm

 

 

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BAUHAUS MEMORIES

 

that night
in Dresden 
outside our
window
wind rain
sleet smoke
from a bombed 
factory fire
descended
upon my soul
dawn
drove
into
darkness

 

 

+++++

 

TERRENCE SYKES

 

 

 

.

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Sanctuary

 

Dusk has come so early
The soft drizzle shrouds my reverie
Bright autumn leaves on the branches & beneath my feet
Golders Hill Girl watches the meadow, sandals cast aside
I trip through the pergola in the beautiful walled garden
Under now bare stretching ginkgo and magnolia trees
Greet the green bronze cherub; Water Baby Fountain
Past the butterfly house, I see the ducks on Swan Pond
Across the humpback stone bridge, into The Stumpery
Squirrels perch on the fence grabbing hazelnuts
Quizzical, alert; feeding from the hand of a girl

Through the muddy meadow to the zoo; emu, deer
I shelter for a moment under the white Gazebo pipes
See the eagle owl hidden in shadow under his canopy
Now all alone; his partner gone last year

Then I hear the far distance keepers’ bell.
Around the corner, birds, kangaroos, lemurs and donkeys
The water gardens, rhododendron, strange plants, bamboo
Another pond; webbed mandarin & mallard follow my steps
With bated breath, in a proud victory formation.

The park keepers’ bell grows still clearer
Dark shapes scurry by on the way to the gate
The thrumming mini-truck falls silent beside me.
“Are you OK? Park’s closing now.”
And he was off again, loud ringing; herald of the night

I left the deer, ducks, eagle owl, squirrels and the rest
Tucked up until the morning in the sanctuary

 

 

 

©Christopher 2020
[email protected]

 

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TIERING UP

                 
 
 
What are these tiers anyway? Tiers of joy? Tiers for plenty?
Tiers or tears in the fabric of what we know and do not know
To be true? Tears in the real, stadium tiers made for football
In which the male love for Captains and some of the female
 
Love stains the news? No, these decisions are domes to contain
The prone public. The lack of definition astounds me despite
The border lines tightly sketched, which bind one level of tier
To the next, which is either more restricted, or, freer,
 
And making yet more confusion through travel, while we
Trainee Agoraphobics fail to move further, grieving    
For ourselves while we’re living, corpses who also become
The bereft. Many have stopped watching the briefs
 
That the buffoon beast bluffs so blithely, so these
Sudden strictures surprised me as England Venn Diagrams
Into tiny sectors of health after Liverpool’s strained
Example, in which some of the suffering streets in that city
 
Could not even afford what was planned. With the soldiers
Guns in one hand and a testing kit in another, we will see
Other cities primed and rehearsed for the cosh that we
Will be ushered under in time by enforced law or injection,
 
Already the hopes have been furloughed as no quick fix 
Solves that cough. Meanwhile Cummings went. That he had
Support at all chills me further. Meantime the other draught
Pieces are hustled and cast into play. Unpriti stands peeled,
 
But remains with that sneer that needs fire to wipe it away;
Tears are falling of frustration and grief every day. It will not
Be as you think. Cry for the particular time that begat you,
As it may well be forgotten, not by you, but by forces
 
That could still crack you like eggs. Battery humans, perhaps.
Will they behave, wanting Christmas? The hype of that season
Feels more exposed than before, feels like dregs. Whitty,
A man, with a strange, bloodless smile now advises: 
 
Do not hug or kiss your Grandmother, for fear of making
You a Judas of sorts to her Christ. Remain in your Tiers
And with your tears as well, you kept baby. Meet your six.
Sex your partners but for those without, there’s just vice.
 
That remains in the home in a pornography of both mind
And body, as the sense of unreality widens and we all hold
Our breath. You can go into shops. You can mix. So where
And what is contagion? The attempt at control; The Coronic?
 
Or the Covidian chorus of death? No-one knows. No-one sees.
The line bends. Needles glisten. A celebritised vaccine: the answer
To our prayers, or the start – of new kinds of tiers in which bodies
Lay stacked with ambitions. Watch this space. Souls slip through it.
 
Meanwhile, they are cutting new zones through our hearts.     
 
 
   
                                                                        David Erdos November 27th 2020
 
 
 
 
 
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Zero Percent Interest Free Crisis


 
Only seventeen thousand five hundred
days on the face, on the clock, on the watch,
excellent condition from start to fruition,
acid free pages still lustrous, still radiant,
alternatively draped, full slim trim,
three previous sensitive lady proprietors.
 
Clean, for all that exposed duration,
mechanically sound mind,
bodywork may require further attention,
nothing a dash of sun and chablis
could not remedy, in no hurry.
 
Performance as sleak as newfangled,
engine capacity, a tumbler filled mackinlays,
maximum speed, nine and a half seconds,
motor test to aged person’s annuity –
two thousand thirty nine …  decounting.
 
Completed with optional assets,
floating, intangible and circulating,
period sixties attire;
twelve strung,  beard and  Lawrentian bush hat –
would suit bookishly cerebral enthusiast.
 
No worrying meeting hanging,
fluid in social encounter,
only challenge, prising from housing.
Musical life-support, underscore orkestra,
neither hawker nor haggler,
 
rather trainer, or gatherer,
single charge a dangerous glimpse, a glance
a wink, of her green amber highlight,
that deliberate brush of soft hem,
or similar close offer –  near tender.

 

 

 

Martin Ferguson

 

 

.

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OF OLD

War and government.     Pestilence and excess.

Self and jiggery-pokery.     When

You die you just know you’ve gone to heaven.

 

Peter Dent

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Street writer part thirteen – A Writer Who Doesn’t Know How to Write

 

The title of this article is the whole point of this column.

I am a writer who doesn’t know how to write ha ha.

I started off with an airport notebook and pen on a plane back home with an idea to TRY and be some kind of a writer.

The funny thing is that most people won’t even start the process, like putting one single pen onto a fresh sexy white page.

There is a great story about this: there was a guy in contact with me through Facebook who told me he was going to be the greatest writer in the world and he told me he hadn’t even written a single letter in his life!

To me that’s so fucking funny ha ha!

It’s like that old saying goes: you can talk the talk but can you walk the walk!

Something like that ha ha.

The essence of a writer is simple: JUST START!

The best thing is, is that I just made it up as I went along.

The moment you start in whatever genre you want to begin in – the stories will start to follow you like chewing gum on your shoe.

So, don’t put it off till tomorrow because tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Nor is next week or next month or next year or your retirement years…

All that we are guaranteed is: DEATH!

All you have to ask yourself is ‘do you want to go out a trier or leave it dormant in you?’

I’ll be FUCKING honest with you: I don’t believe I am that great of a writer…

I have just been persistent with my material and getting into the right places with the right people!

I have a firm belief that I am always going to be number 2 or just a B-side and to be frankly honest with you… I am totally happy with that because, I just love being a part of it consistently, and for me that is a blessing!

And that should be the same for you as well!

Don’t do it for awards or fame.

Do it because not being a part of it would make you go insane.

Or leave you with a lifeless death…

Take your life experience and turn it into something your readers will get a kick out of…

Whether it makes them laugh, cry, think, or light up their souls!

Either way, it will inspire them to move forward with their lives and their art!

I’m gonna leave you with two pieces of my shite.

The first one is a poem called: street writer.

The second one is a micro story called: our last kiss under ugly streetlights!

The poem inspired the name of this column and I love the micro story because that was the hardest and most difficult breakup I ever went through!

So, let’s say FUCK IT and keep writing and fucking shit up!

Love

PBJ

<3

 

Poem

Street writer

 

I sat with him

Over a double espresso

Topping it up

With hot water

We discussed

My writing career

I told him

I’m a street writer

A man

With a basic education

No real insight

Into the creative

Side of it

I just made it up

As I went along

And every time

I say to her

What’s up

She always

Looks up

At the sky

 

Story

Our last kiss under ugly streetlights

 

She broke it off then she asked me back. I screamed up at the stars in their silence. We were coming up a year together and she finally broke it off for good. I ran up to her house to beg, but she handed me my stuff back. She affirmed she couldn’t deal with my mind anymore. She walked me to the door. I asked for one last kiss to take with me on whatever road I would endure in my future. She kissed me and it didn’t have the same strength, but I took it anyway under ugly streetlights.

 

 

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Pigeon Procurement

 

When controlling
the rodents

it is best to get a
fix

on procurement.
A ‘fixed’ contract 

works best, the
pigeons coo –

tender, tender
coos that have not

gone to tender,
and so they laugh

too. And the stink
is cured by

odour control, this
available as well,

though secret deals
cost at least £100M,

which is a hoot:
owls not on a list for

bird control: their
shit, unlike pigeon’s,

expelled as pellets,
and yes, along with

PPE, PigeonsPoopOnYou.co.uk
can with govt. contracts

also sell guns.

 

 

 

 

   Mike Ferguson

 

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AITCH AND ACHE

 
 
Sometimes a week’s work is all about the one poem   
On November the 25th I wrote something
At the end of the night, my soul saved
 
By honouring a special hero of mine
And the ideal love that informed him.
The next day I rode from Hillingdon
 
On a Coronic bus for two hours,
To Holland Park, delivering it to his widow,
Who later emailed to tell me
 
That she would ‘read it to the autumn air’
At his grave. I wrote other things. Always do,
But this was the moment that mattered
 
A woman now in her eighties,
Reading my still hopeful words to the dead.
And reliving the love that I can still only
 
Dream of. For if we are the long separated
Then there still remain calls for closeness
And embraces to chase in far beds.
 
There will also be kisses to come
Set to occur beyond breathing
Such as the ones I still savour
 
From someone who clearly prefers
To forget. But today I think of their love
And of how survival’s bones bind a marriage
 
From such solitude I have touched them
And on a cold day in London
Found a warmth of some sort beside death.
 
 
 
 
                                                                                  David Erdos November 27th 2020
 
 
 
 
,
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And then one morning…

He comes downstairs
To find
All the kitchen chairs
Re-arranged
In a semi-circle
Facing
The locked back door,
Coats and jackets
Off their hooks
Piled up on the floor,
Hears from upstairs
Creaking floorboards,
Tuneless singing,
Switches on the radio,
Flicks on the kettle
As Ray Davies asks
“What are we living for?”

 

 

 

 

 

          Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor

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Signs of the Times

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   THE. HOUSE  OF  SMALLS

 

                                         Facing It

Curator and artist Amy Oliver bought a house – a very small house. Over the lockdown and pandemic this year she renovated it. From dollhouse to art gallery. The House of Smalls.

‘Facing It’ is the title of the inaugural exhibition, featuring 25 artists addressing the theme of the physical, emotional, and mental effects of this years pandemic. 

It will be an actual exhibition, in that the artists’ works will hang on the diminutive walls of the gallery.

There will be a private view, accessible via Facebook Event. 
Minibar included. 

 

Facing It : Exhibition December 7thto January 1st

Private View December 7th18:00

 https://www.facebook.com/events/393599445098729

 

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Neal Cassady: ‘The Joan Anderson Letter’

The Holy Grail of the Beat Generation

When Neal Cassady died in 1968, Carl Solomon recalled a conversation he had about him with Allen Ginsberg: “He told me about this fabulous hipster he knew. (I was to hear more about him in time to come.) And I, defending something or other in my head, said deprecatingly, ‘Kinetic.’ Meaning that he was a man always in motion, jumping from one exciting thing to another.”

That kinesis—the literary kinesis, if you will, made unforgettably clear in The Joan Anderson Letter—began when Jack Kerouac read Cassady’s spontaneous rush of words and claimed it was more alive than any piece of writing he had ever seen.

In its effusive style, its freewheeling candor, its Proustian (yes, Proustian!) introspection, the letter touched off a response in Kerouac that reshaped entirely his own approach to writing. The result was an explosion of “road” novels, beginning with On the Road, in which Cassady is renamed Dean Moriarity and called nothing less than “the root, the soul” of Beat legend.

Here’s the way Beat scholar and poet A. Robert Lee puts it in his bracing, comprehensive introduction to the first publication of the letter as a complete book in itself:

Even a first read-through could hardly fail to recognize the inscriptive energy celebrated by Kerouac, each story-episode, power of recall, idiosyncrasy. In fiction as in life, and even allowing for spats and fissures, Cassady holds Kerouac’s gaze as though entranced. A near-mythology, understandably, has accrued.

“This is not to step round the suspicion that Cassady sees himself deliberately writing not just to, but for, Kerouac. The one line of story folds into others. Digressions, quixotic, sexual, enter as of the moment. In-house asides and wordplay recur as does a deliberate spot of joke-telling. Literary names, Baudelaire, Melville, Proust, Céline, Dickens among others, he drops in as if to play to the writer in Kerouac . . . The upshot becomes a kind of epistolary theatre, virtually a found novella. But however construed there can be no doubt of its impact on Kerouac: the Holy Grail as he and Allen Ginsberg took to calling it.”

The second page of the 19-page letter.
CLICK TO READ.

Dated Dec. 17, 1950, the 16,000 words of typewritten, single-spaced pages turn out to be so magnetic they still hold up 70 years later even without the special pleading of a literary investigation. This surprised me because I had been unimpressed by Cassady’s 1971 partial autobiography, The First Third, when it first appeared. I didn’t expect to read his letter in a single gulp.

Cassady was an amateur writer, no question. But he was a highly observant and well-read wannabe, and his psychological insight into the people and situations around him was acute. He was also daring in everything, though often too daring for his own and others’s good, which gave him plenty to write about.

Whether the letter is about sex, drugs, jailbirds, books, philosophers, poolrooms, lovers, libraries, women, or carjacking, it rarely gets dull. And he’s often playful. He coins words, riffs on nicknames. (For Louis-Ferdinand Céline: “Dirty Ferdy, filthy ferdy, lousy louie, looney louie, lucky louie, blue Lou, limpin’ lou, ad infinitum or ad nauseum or et al or etc or on and on and so forth about C.”) But as an amateur writer with a fondness for the greats, Cassady tended to imitate whomever he’d been reading lately. So, for example, when he writes about Melville, his letter takes on the archaic grandeur of Melville’s prose.

“Enfolded in bleak Obispo,” a California town where he was staying with friends, Cassady describes his infatuation thus:

“In one sitting (poor ass) of 30 hours I took between my ears Moby Dick from end to end . . . This copy of Herman’s Hankering was a magnificent Modern Library giant with great pen-and-ink illustrations. Of course, I was inclined not to enthuse over the old boy too much and certainly picked him up offhandedly for I’d read it all long ago. . . . One new impression, especially when compared to long-ago reading; he is simple, writes so simple and is very simple to understand. It’s wonderful that he is so, would that I was as clear, would too that I had his strength as I have his philosophy and death knowledge.”

And he can be too grand, slipping easily into the grandiose:

I am fettered by cobwebs, countless fine creases indelibly etched on the brain. There are no unexplored paths in my mind and few that are not entangled in the weave of my misery mists. It is but gentle fog thru which I navigate and make friendly by constant intimate communion. Within the hour from arising from the suffer-couch, each sleep I’ve gained anew the daily grease for the bearings on which I roll. I embrace to its exhaustion the night’s gleanings with the sure calm now maintained by my dry brittle soul.”

In case you’re wondering why the letter is named for Joan Anderson, it’s because the tale of Cassady’s passionate but unhappy love affair with her is the launching pad for all the rest. Joan is a pregnant, 19-year-old student nurse whose beauty Cassady keeps comparing to Jennifer Jones (a now largely forgotten Hollywood star of the 1940s and ’50s). “The particulars come thick and fast,” Lee writes.

Story enfolds story. Joan’s attempted suicide by the ‘stark cocktail’ of hydrogen peroxide and ammonia and rescue from the balcony ‘by the narrowest of margins’ and the hospital follow-ons for the poisons and then the scar of abortion, bespeaks real human drama. [But] in a kind of perverse parallel Cassady tells the Cherry Mary / Mary Ann Freeland story, this time the sex at any time or place with the sixteen-year-old [is] more akin to comic-cut shenanigans. … The vignette of escaping nude through the family’s small bathroom window (‘nearly took off my pride and joy’) belongs in Tom Jones or a Feydeau farce. The follow-on as lost altar boy godson to Father Harlan Schmidt, and false accusations while in police custody at the hands of Sergeant Tom Garrard of poolhall robbery and rape of Mary Lou, supply a fitting epilogue—buttressed by the Pentecostal faux-sermon. It would be hard to encounter a more eventful plot-line.”

Or a more Dickensian thriller.

 

Jan Herman

 

The Holy Grail of the Beat Generation Neal Cassady: ‘The Joan Anderson Letter’

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PUNK  AS PRIDE

On Richard Cabut’s  LOOKING FOR A KISS 
(Sweat Drenched Press 2020)

 

 

 

Part story, part self, Richard Cabut punks his way back
Into purpose. In his new book, its the young writer Robert
Who colours the sounds these words spill, from an acid trip’s
Take on words to becoming his own Sid n’Nancy,
With the disenchanted Marlene, who promptly further dirties
Her Dietrich by both deriding her fuckpal, whilst decrying
His striving and rendering every sneer and sperm’s overkill.

In no other book could you find Adam Ant and Chris Marker;
As Robert and Marlene tramp through Camden ‘In summer darkness,
the light was reminiscent of dusky scenes in some of Peter Greenaway films,’
So they drown, while breasting their way on parched earth, ripped up

By Punk, ripe for plucking, so much so that their mind and arse fucking
Comes to represent the torn town. For this is an inbetween times
Memoir tale, covering Cabut’s single, by which I mean the song

Of all writers who rend their vibrant way down the path
To either the Sodom of success, or the ‘Sod ‘em!’ of failure;
Richard/Robert’s lanced love of language is pen as penis,
And caterwaul, roar and laugh at the strange turns of fate
And the strained twists of the present, and while his journey
Is tasteful and as tacky as imagination is gargled, so runs
The spirited kisses and the ‘disgrace to the human race’

He admits. For postscript diary entries detail further context
For these stories, as this former NME writer finds his own foes,
Fans and features inevitably sweat drenched, striking shit.
From the Seventies drag, and on and into the Eighties;
Iconic times where the icons didn’t shine quite half as much
As they stank of Eau de Cologne, or pose, preen and anger,
The search for what’s real is the perfume, invested as memories

Accrue interest in Richard C’s memoir bank. Sex is writing to him.
And writing sex. He shapes bodies. Throughout this book, human
Functions river and rise through dream ink. To which Cabut gives
Chase, as this ‘Portrait of the Piss Artist as a young man’ joists
And Joyces, and the Journalist and music writer transcribes
The starting sounds that inspire and which will push him
Further on through the pink.  Cabut is of the city and more,

He strives to write through it. His lines are as urban as the  Soho
Cafes he prowls. In the shadow of Jarman, Westwood
And the forever fried Bacon, seeking sensation and the kiss
Of the cool and the cowed.  Marlene is ‘energy on toast,’
And Robert craves extra slices, and yet feeling alone
When he’s with her, the indulgent days stoke alarm,
Not just in the street, but in the souls Cabut describes,

Traps and captures; as Marlene cheats on Robert,
Down on all fours, hope is harmed. This damage, this pain
Primes the punk’s progress. His pilgrimage and word pogrom,
Riot and rout each creamed page, for this book is full fat
On lean times and a true chunk of change for your pocket,
It flickers like film through its sprockets, giving the street
Fiction’s finger from another  defiant day stoked by rage.

 

Here then is sin’s Sid with another nefarious Nancy.
A Bonnie and Clyde without Pistols, or rather just after
Punk’s own; and a Sonny and Cher come to that
Of the triple X generation, with the same pretence
And slick glamour that Benjamin Braddock and Elaine
Robinson had once thrown. A bruised and broken romance,
A peach pulped,  a punk punctured. What grows defunct
Is the purpose to ruin the world and not prize
What this story does for stung times as Cabut carves fruit
And futures to taste the kiss that corrupts us when temptation’s
Tease tongues each bind.  That serpent’s kiss tars us all
And we suck it down with each story.  Looking for a kiss
Sheds skin sagely and then it wears it again:

Punk as pride.

 

 

                                                          David Erdos November 2020

 

A PUNK’S LIFE AS FICTION

 

 

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Calls From The Hospitals

Saturday night I realize
I have been waking up
at the same hour for awhile.

Did the clock pin a night
when a call from the hospital
threw me into the road, made me hitchhike 
for miles before I found a ride?
Was it the mother’s turn?

I fumble for the switch, find the light,
but the house darkens. 
There is a mole problem, I unearth.

I ask the shadow escaping,
“Who referees the game, God or demon?”
The umbra only shrieks. The refrigerator
plays the midnight milkman. Outside,
a streetlight stands at ease.



 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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Literature Today

The past of the philosophers,  

The present of the architects;   

Serves the time today.  

This modern world still bears the burden of yesterday.   

Like history books echoing the past today 

A present time should run in the literature of tomorrow. 

Perhaps we are running too late.  

When at times unwanted musings rule the heart

The grief and desire burns like paper, in the mind.  

The red wine of a king does not flow today

On the other hand, 

The sweat of a farmer is dry.  

Literature today only laments 

The remnants of yesterday when it should 

Foresee tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

Sushant Thapa
Illustration Nick Victor

 

 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. Recently, he has been published in Trouvaille Review. His poems have also appeared in greythoughts.info, USA. His poems have appeared in the print in The Kathmandu Post and online in My City portal of Republica Daily from Kathmandu, Nepal. His poems have also appeared in The Gorkha Times, Kathmandu, Nepal. Indian Periodical, India has also published his poems and he has also been published in Sahitto Bilingual Literary Magazine, Bangladesh. He is also forthcoming in a pandemic anthology and his first book of English poetry is also releasing soon. Sushant lives in Biratnagar-13, Nepal.  

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THE SUNDAE CRUSH SENSATION

 

The first full-length album by Seattle band

 Sundae Crush is ‘A Real Sensation’

(Donut Sounds Record Co.)

It drops Black Friday, Fall 2020

www.sundaecrush.com  

 

Sundae Crush is the antidote to the feelbad reality-noir factor. A surreal personal galaxy of cotton-candy and cuckoo clocks, samba and sunshine, old 45rpms and Romance-in-Pictures comic-books. But although it lunges through the dimensional loop into full-spectrum space, this is a daydream band that writes ironic Disney Princess songs designed to crush modern ideas of romance through the autowrecker, so they come out either shiny-new, or toxic and unhealthy. The sassy tongue-in-cheek “Dudes Being Guys” snipes at the whole masculinity pose, while “Sensation” riffs in stereo from ear to ear attacking ‘I’m not your personal projection… I am a real sensation’ with a taunting na-na-na-nee-na-na thrown in for good measure.

Feature-track “Good Boy” has bouncy sixties-Pop bass and tambourine that they found on the Monkees cutting-room floor, with oozing cooing vocals, then they infiltrate a tacky little organ take-off borrowed from Syd Barrett’s scrapbook. “Good Boy” could be addressed to a dog – according to the video, who disappears through a wormhole to Saturn, only to return in mutant human-canine guise. She teases ‘Good boy, you’re no good for me’ – recorded and mixed by Jonny Modes, it first emerged digitally as early as February 2019.

Sundae Crush is a band genetically engineered for twenty-first-century Pop, they radiate wispy gauzy voices over strange Western plains. A perfect band for 45’s – for 90 and 180-degrees too. This could be an intense interview – or not at all. For this is a story about the outer limits of Pop, and how those limits are defined. A story of dreams and daydream believers, which starts out in Seattle with singer-songwriter Jena Pyle on guitar and flute. Although the sometime ‘DJ Candy Cowgirl’ actually hails from Texarkana, where she admits ‘The first album I bought was Britney Spears. I loved The Monkees TV show when I was a kid. I also loved Elvis and Buddy Holly, who I partly named my dog after.’ As a serious sound physicist she’s also something of a chemistry boffin in mixing influences. Influences? ‘I have so many’ she tells me. ‘A few are Talking Heads, Strawberry Switchblade, (Christina Schneider’s) Locate S,1, Stereolab. A lot of my friends inspire me with their creative projects like Claire Morales or Pearl Earl.’ Jena, with hair the edible texture of candy, was formerly an ingredient in the Layer Cake band, and she once recorded an mp3 cover of Patsy Cline’s “Strange” with Claire Morales. And Sundae Crush  – ‘yes, it started out as a solo project,’ with her day-glo sounds now conjured into vivid reality in collusion with Emily Harris (guitar, vocals), Daniel Shapiro (drums, vocals), and Izaac Mellow (basshead, vocals), pairing groovy experimentation with a heartfelt Pop-pulse on a mission to delight your senses and tint your cool Ray-Bans a rosy hue. It’s a creative interaction? ‘Yes, definitely. We will jam on the idea together and they will add their own spin on it.’

They’ve shared the stage with anti-Folk Frankie Cosmos, (Samira) Winter, Canadian garage-rockers Peach Kelli Pop, and they once played a low-fi gig in a roller-disco beneath a slow-revolving glitter-ball. ‘I loved the Roller Rink shows because it was so fun to play in the middle of people skating. It was an ideal show for me for sure. But I’d say my favourite gig was when we played the ‘Rubber Gloves’ Rehearsal Studios on East Sycamore Street in Denton, Texas, before COVID hit. It had shut down for a while and I didn’t think I’d get to play there again. It was fun to go back after about five or six years. I think we have some great pictures from that show.’

Is Seattle a good place for bands? Are there supportive venues? ‘Yep! I think so. There are a lot of supportive people for sure. There were also a lot of house venues pre-Covid for local bands. ‘KEXP’ – the local independent radio station, plays a ton of local and national independent artists. I know KEXP streams around the world and it’s pretty big in the Pacific Northwest but I’m not sure how big it is elsewhere in the world. They also do a lot of in-studio live sessions and video content and other live performances that people can come and watch. Plus they have a gathering space that has a coffee shop, record store, and more. The KEXP ‘Audioasis’ is a really good resource, Sharlese is DJ and the ‘Afternoon Show’ producer & programming Education Manager, and I love what she did pre-Covid with panels for musicians.’

Now the first full-length Sundae Crush album – ‘A Real Sensation’ (Donut Sounds Record Co.), drops Fall 2020, on Black Friday, the feast of rampant consumer frivolity. After the 1:29-minute play-in “Kiss 2 Death”, which magics the wide-open spaces in a wordless whistle-tone movie-scene, there’s the Dancey speed-Pop “Long Way Back” with petulant bitchy attitude and a hint of Echobelly and the Primitives. “Babyface” is a drum-kick strum-fest with crashing climax, protesting ‘never wanted to be a Mom,’ with tempo-change, chiming voices and curling spiral guitar. There’s a lot happening in here, even soft horns. ‘“Babyface” was written in 2017’ she narrates, ‘while I was a tourist on a cruise ship for the first time and a little sick. I was taking NyQuil before bed. I had the idea at around 2am and recorded it quickly. That was the first half of ‘Babyface’. I was tired of having the same kind of relationship where expectations weren’t clear and I couldn’t drop everything at a moments notice for someone. So the second half for me is a reminder of ‘no more babies’. I think it’s funny we call our partners babies and that it’s especially present in the romantic Pop songs of the sixties by Phil Spector, who’s such a creep. I love The Ronettes though.’

Sundae Crush uses the kind of classic-group harmonies affectionately and studiously replicated by Saint Etienne. There are kookie vocal effects on another perfect day at “Green Lake”, and accelerating instrumental oddness on “La La”. ‘Whether you’re swooning over a new crush or avoiding the anxiety of a breakup, Sundae Crush are your friends, and their cosmic world is your escape,’ gushes the Grey Estates music-blog.

Earlier evidence up for consideration includes “Toxic Slime”, a sweet 1:51-minute digital release from February 2015 about a guy who won’t commit, with bass-player Sean McLellan plus sighing guitar, and the sad moral that ‘fairy-tale love don’t exist’. Then ‘Crushed’ – an EP from April 2017, which includes “Chatroom Messages”, the wispy “Ice Cream Run” with taunting teasing vocals, “Swept”, and “Dating Game 3000” which is a spoof Stupid Cupid game-show that asks ‘On a scale of 1-10, how pure are your intentions’ and ‘what’s your wifi password?’ before it soft-dissolves into flick-screen graphic collage-effects and ‘Dance To The Music’-style name-checking band-introductions. Of course, although Jena is the continuity, the band wore slightly different faces back then.

Now, beneath the sunshine-Pop of “Lick It Up” she’s accusing him ‘you’re so young and dumb’. There’s a midpoint conversation that stops on a pinhead, she says ‘You know what I want, Babe?’ He says ‘What?’ She says ‘Cool guys like you OUT of my life!’ Jena explains ‘That “Lick It Up” dialogue is lifted directly from the 1989 movie ‘Heathers’. It’s at the climax of the movie when Veronica (Winona Ryder) corners ‘JD’ (Christian Slater).’ I wonder how much of a serious Feminist agenda is at work there…? ‘Sure, well, I wouldn’t say a serious agenda’ says Jena, ‘but the way love is often talked about very idealistically instead of as a grounded reality where love actually grows. I’d say I was very inspired by ‘bell hooks’ in my early twenties.’ Yes, a Benetton mix of gender identity, race and capitalism were the themes of her books.

And “What Do I Need” – a 5:05-minute segue of two tracks in one, into a jazz-fluid jam that asks  ‘what do I need to get out of my head? I’ve got a few things.’ Maybe a shot? Sex yawn, drugs yawn. Fun, yes. ‘What I need to get out of my head changes daily’ says Jena, ‘but some running themes are usually to ground myself in some way. Whether it’s meditation, taking a walk, talking to a friend… depends on the day. I realized I need more DJ-ing lately when my friend Gold Chisme did a set on ‘Twitch.TV’ for fun this week, it was like being back at ‘Mercury Lounge’ and I miss dancing with my friends!’

Dance to Sundae Crush. It’s only logical. Sundae Crush is the antidote to the feelbad reality-noir factor.

‘Hey Andy’ she closes, ‘thanks for reaching out!’ My 200% pleasure.

 

 

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

www.sundaecrush.com

patreon.com/sundaecrush 

 

 

 

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We Do Lockdown


 

Miriam Elia

https://www.waterstones.com/book/we-do-lockdown/miriam-elia/9780992834920

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Covid Connections in Paris

 

Bob Hedger (aka Jah Buddha), musician, in Paris in Covid Times
 

Covid Introduction from Alan Dearling

I know Bob through his involvement in the Glissando Guitar Orchestra and in Phaselock with his mate, Pascal Vaucel. I love his psychedelic floating soundscapes. World music that is uplifting, mesmeric and brings a smile…we need more of this…Phaselock: https://youtu.be/KJH9BkcfykM

Like so many creators, musicians, artists and staffers of gigs and festivals across the world, Bob has had an abysmal soul-crushing 2020. Bob and myself would normally be criss-crossing paths in the UK and Europe at festies and gigs. We’re both part of the extended family of old Freak sisters and brothers. But the best we’ve managed during Covid-times is to keep in touch through Facebook and exchange a few rants, links and updates on ‘what we cannot do’! But my friends are beginning to suffer the same finger-wagging criticism and in-fighting that is befalling communities and society generally across Planet Earth. At the beginning of the lockdown there were many signs of kindness, love, caring and some potentially positive moves towards a new more compassionate world. But that seems to have changed. Now, seemingly more and more folk are looking to air their grievances and criticisms. Sharing conflicting theories, ideologies and information on Covid and responses to it. Everyone has chosen their own experts. Or, so it seems. Very sad.

Before handing you over to Bob, here are some examples of material that has been shared with me in good faith (even if tongue-firmly-in-cheek). Each piece of the Covid jigsaw seems reasonable enough. But in many cases it is making us more angry, frightened, frustrated and unstable. What is Real? What is Mis-information? What is downright Fake?


Worryingly, mental health issues are increasingly to the fore. Friends and family members are increasingly arguing, loudly disagreeing and finding faults in each others’ behaviours. Communities are being split apart. There’s more building of barriers. Responses to new government rules and recommendations appear to be about spreading ‘distrust’, ‘disunity’, a growing ethic of shop-thy-neighbour, with each set of new rules, tiers and restrictions. Perhaps more than ever before, we need positivity, inclusivity, communality and compassion.


Our future, the Brave New post-Covid World is looking like an ever more dystopian nightmare…rather than an opportunity to re-learn and re-think our beliefs and behaviour. Luckily, there are still a few more humorous moments…chinks of light in the ever-darkening skies of gloom and doom.

Alan Dearling is proud to be receiving some support for his creative writings from his European friends in Lithuania during the Covid pandemic.

 

Bob Hedger (Jah Buddha) tells us:


Gigs, working on, going to, playing. Gigs must be at least how 80% of my time is filled. Since March there have been no gigs, so no work, no live expression, no downtime pleasure. I live in Paris and even though outside of France I am considered to be a musician, here in, what is my chosen home, I make a living as a stage and events manager, machinist and sometimes as a local crew roady. I began to suspect that this COVID 19 thing was going to be something different back in January. The indicators that I picked up on were that my fellow crew members were treating this very seriously and already social distancing. No handshakes on meeting at work or on leaving was a big red flag as this is such a part of social behaviour and politeness. This for crew members, myself included, was pretty uncommon behaviour as we usually just soldier on through illness and injury with little or no change to our ‘normal’ routines. So this was very different.

Work kept coming in and I was in that midseason fatigue state that often occurs at the end of winter and talking about needing a break. Then, in February, gigs started to get postponed, by the 1st of March gigs were getting cancelled and there were noises coming from government that strict measures were likely to come in, but no-one had any idea of what that could possibly be. I watched out for myself, hand-sanitiser, keeping a distance but I’d still go out for a beer after a particularly hard job. At that point there was no suggestion of any of gigs that I had lined up in the UK (as a musician) being cancelled. Then on March 10th everything here in France was cancelled and we went into a lockdown. A document was needed to justify any excursion from one’s home and there were very strict criteria, the police were everywhere carrying out random checks to make sure that you had the right authorisation. Paris ground to a halt. The parks were closed as were bars and restaurants, cinemas, theatres, concert venues etc. An incredible peaceful calm descended on this noisy city. Summer seem to come early as March was sunny and warm.

I was exhausted from too much work so I was happy to have a break. I have a balcony that I would sit and read on, soaking up the sun and fresh air. The smells from the closed park opposite where I live were amazing, like being in the countryside. The silence meant that birdsong and the geese in the lake would be the soundtrack of each day. My days are ones where normally I either play/practice/record music or I am working. There’s no way of fitting both into 24 hours which meant that I had a lot of unfinished projects that I wanted to get on with so that I could move on. I saw this downtime as an opportunity to recharge the internal batteries and get on with catching up on musical projects that had been in various states of completion for over a year. I also could now do some serious practice for a concert that was booked in Rugeley UK on March 21st. The gig got pulled as the UK followed France into lockdown. As I’d fully prepared for it, I recorded a live set and offered it to the organisers as a gift for all the ticket holders.

Then the idea of doing an Easter Sunday Glissando Guitar Orchestra performance of Daevid Allen’s ‘7 Drones’ live online came up. Easter Sunday is when Daevid had his initial vision back in the ‘60s and we, members of GGO, thought that the world needed some positive healing vibrations generated. So began two weeks of online rehearsals. It was so great to see all the other members of the Orchestra. It was via the internet but after a few sessions it was as close to being together as it could be. The banter, the jokes, the catching up, the silly disguises that some would wear for the rehearsals all lifted the spirits. We tried several online platforms to get the thing sounding right. Our long suffering sound engineer Jay Cantebrigge took on all the technical trouble-shooting, organisation of sessions and configuring each musicians’ internet and audio equipment. It was a huge task. In the end we went with Zoom but it was fraught with problems. It was the only platform that didn’t completely fail us during the weeks of trials. While we were slightly disappointed by the audio quality of Zoom, the audience response made it all worthwhile. It brought us all ‘up’ and it seemed to be exactly what people needed.

I continued to record live improvisations and every now and then releasing them on Bandcamp for free download. Work had now postponed until at least the autumn but the French government begrudgingly intervened so that the private insurance that we in the entertainment industry have to pay into (I know it’s a weird one but it makes sense when you really look into it) would cover us for the lockdown period. It helps but only covers 2/3rds of my normal earnings so things were getting tight. Then something totally unexpected happened, people began to pay for the free downloads. On Bandcamp there’s a free or you can pay what you want option. For May, June and July revenue from Bandcamp just about covered the missing 3rd. It also meant that as this was my only earnings, I could psychologically call myself a professional musician again. I know that it’s splitting hairs but it’s very good for the morale. I’ve kept up the output and had time to go through old files that were spattered all over sd cards, hard disks, mini discs and put together a few ‘Archive’ releases and I also had time to bring out double album of rare tracks combined with some remixes and remasters of my earlier stuff that I wasn’t happy with. Time was usefully filled up and I honestly couldn’t even begin to suffer from being bored. As one project finished then another one would pop up.

At the end of June thoughts and online chat began to turn to the subject of this year’s Kozfest, the 10th anniversary edition. All the bands and organisers were loosely throwing around the ideas about maybe doing something on line. Nothing concrete was decided but then at the start of July we heard that Kozmik Ken had died. This was and is still, devastating news. It made putting on some sort of musical event even more important, the outcome was that it was decided to put together an online Kozfest in his honour. I spent rest of the July preparing a solo set and Andy Bole asked me to record and film my parts for a collaboration for his set. Eventually the Kozfest ,’Stoned at Home’ online weekend took place in August. Due to internet outages at Kozfest HQ the original broadcast at the end of July had to be delayed until the connection was fixed. It was organised just like a real festival. Sets were timed and for four days you’d ‘run’ between different Youtube broadcasts from midday to midnight with an active chat stream that was just like the Kozfest bar. It was amazing. I even got the post-Kozfest blues during the week following. It was all put together by Paul Woodwright.

Around June/July I was told that I had two tracks included on Fruits De Mer’s ‘Head in the clouds’ 2xLP w/2CD box set that would be released in September. It’s over four hours of music in tribute to the Berlin School pioneers of the ‘70s. A very proud moment for me to have music included let alone two tracks. All these events served to keep me motivated and positive. Lockdown began to ease late August, the wearing of masks became the norm and staying in as much as possible was advised. I did manage to get 8 days work in September. Supervising maintenance in one of the venues that I contract for. This was in preparation for re-opening in October, however, sadly the resurgence of the virus and the resulting second lockdown put an end to that. When I went to work in September it was with everything up-to-date on the music front, so time enough for new things and time for work. The mental change was striking. I was once again happy to be doing my job, over the moon to see my work colleagues. There was no point where I thought, “I could be at home now finishing that track/album.”

The lockdown has had its positive effects. But then when it all calms down, what is my first thought? I want to see a band… I miss it so much. I would go to at least one gig a week since 1973. I love local small gigs. Seeing bands that I’ve never heard of. Yes, I hear a lot of crap, but I also get to hear some magnificent music. I never subscribed to the complaints of, “music today… blah blah blah”. There are young musicians out there playing phenomenal music. You just have to get out there and find it. I will embrace it even more when it kicks off again. To think that I used to complain about having to go to gigs alone. Now that will never be an issue. Bring it on!

Here are links to a lot of my Covid lockdown musical output:

Re-mixes/Re-masters: https://jahbuddha.bandcamp.com/album/reissues-remixes-remasters-and-rarities

Moon variations: https://jahbuddha.bandcamp.com/track/november-moon-parts-1-2-live-improvisation-05-november-2020?fbclid=IwAR3iHyFOWxPhB2qXmD_gkBhqtFV9LyT68wzWRFASazi6prXfVfvi3G2NmPs

Kozfest: https://jahbuddha.bandcamp.com/album/live-kozfest-stoned-at-home-festival-2020

Head in the Clouds: https://www.fruitsdemerrecords.com/clouds.html

Andy Bole Kozfest 2020 set:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_P3Vf2CcJY&ab_channel=deviantamp

My live solo Kozfest 2020 set:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1yO4oinU72c&ab_channel=deviantamp

The Glissando Guitar Orchestra 7 Drones live Easter Sunday 2020:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOO-yDp6uhg&ab_channel=JayCantebrigge

Time to buckle down….

A little ‘refresher’ reading. So many parallels to today’s pandemic. There was a deadly third and fourth wave and the pandemic of 1918 lasted two years. How heads of government around the world can say that this second increase in infections was totally unexpected is beyond me. What is that saying? He who doesn’t learn from history is condemned to repeat it. Come on leaders we’ve had 100 years to prepare for this.

 

 

Bob Hedger (Jah Buddha)  

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Doo Right Done Wrong

Times & Sounds: Germany’s Journey from Jazz and Pop to Krautrock and Beyond, Jan Reetze (536pp, €24.99, hbck, Halvmall Verlag)

 

There are two major problems with Jan Reetze’s new book about krautrock. The first is that English is clearly the author’s second language and his use of the idiomatic and vernacular is often painful to behold: it’s hard to know why he didn’t get anyone to read his manuscript through for him. The second, which is more problematic, is that he is a pedantic and dull writer, who loves lists, asides and long-winded contextualisation rather than focussing on the supposed subject of his book.

 

Germany was not alone after World War 2 in reverting to tried and tested national music forms, nor in its population seeking stability and nostalgia as a kind of comfort as society attempted to return to ‘normality’ and put aside what it had gone through. Nor was it alone in its culture of youth clubs, coffee bars and localised music scenes, nor its familial society; a brief summary of this would have helped trim this oversized volume down. Instead we get descriptions and lists of obscure German bands and pop songs which will mean little to most European readers; the detail on offer does not help us understand the music which readers will have bought this book to find out more about.

 

The USA, of course, was the country swiftest to recover from WW2, and the first to produce a nation of teenagers with disposable income. Somewhere in the rock & roll clichés of Happy Days, American Graffiti and Elvis Presley is a kernel of truth: a musical and fashion rebellion that led to imitation and appropriation throughout the Western world. It also fuelled local variation, such as skiffle in England, and krautrock in Germany.

 

Once Reetze actually gets to his version of the story of Germany’s new music, music which drew on the nation’s specific jazz and pop traditions to adapt rock forms into strange new music, the book becomes more interesting. All over Germany, clusters of musicians were recording long-form improvisations, electronic experiments and drug-fuelled wigouts; slowly there was critical recognition and touring networks were set up. The music was championed here and there (the UK being one such place), and the racist name given to the wide-ranging genre stuck.

 

Apart from the occasional awkward language and long-winded digressions, my main problem with the text is that it doesn’t spread wide enough. In hindsight krautrock is simply part of 1970s musical experiment; bands such as the Silver Apples in the USA or Hawkwind in the UK are also undertaking countercultural experiment, playing alternative musical festivals and slowly being signed up by the more attuned record labels. And apart from the hippy wigouts there are clear links to what has become known as postpunk music, music that emerged from punk (or re-emerged after it, having avoided what could be seen as simply rehashed pub rock), bands which weren’t afraid to draw on and reinvent progrock and krautrock for their own ends. Simple Minds’ Real to Real Cacophony LP and This Heat’s first two albums immediately spring to mind; and Julian Cope has written extensively about his engagement with krautrock, whilst Nurse With Wound’s first album, Chance Meeting on a Dissecting Table of a Sewing Machine and an Umbrella, included a list of obscure albums which they regarded as required listening, many of which were krautrock obscurities.

 

So I have mixed feelings about this book. It’s beautifully produced ­– although it has a naff   cover illustration, and hidden within it is a huge amount of information and contextualisation. It also has pages and pages of irrelevant and tedious musical history that doesn’t add much to our knowledge of krautrock. On reflection I’d probably rather have the ecstatic ramblings of Julian Cope in his Krautrocksampler book or David Stubbs’ Future Days: Krautrock and the Building of Modern Germany, which gives us a more focussed take on this wonderful music.

 

 

 

    Rupert Loydell

 

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MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY

‘He is still in a desperate hurry to get somewhere;
but it is doubtful if he knows where.’
   – Joyce Cary, Charlie Is My Darling


He used to make art but then
he joined senior management
and started making trouble.
He learnt to speak bullshit,
granular forms and bandwidth,
phrases that meant nothing
but impressed the suits in
charge, sounded good
as he climbed the ladder
of promotion and success.

‘Maximum Occupancy: 1 person’
says the sign on the office door.
He knows what it is to be alone,
knows how many people hate
him, would like to see him gone.
He goes, on to higher things:
a bigger place, more staff to bully,
more money to spend, more
pressure and stress. He wonders
when he became such a bastard,

wonders if the damage can be
undone. His wife thinks not
and leaves before he can make
a scene or excuse himself.
He is like Teflon, nothing sticks
and everything slides off,
but underneath this hurts.
He makes notes on his laptop
but there is nothing to discuss.

The man who has everything
is having second thoughts,
is ready to give it all up, retire;
move to the country, start over
again or just walk away, maybe
find time to paint and draw.
He would not have to pitch
a strategy or argue the case
for reorganisation, could live
and work without thinking why.

 

   © Rupert M Loydell

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SILENCE Deathmasques VI

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

– Edgar Allan Poe

      Imagine a silent sea of pure cobalt.
     Islands of yellow sand and luxuriant green; scattered jewels on a mirror.
     The horizon shudders in a haze that confounds the eye. Imagine a silence more lonely than sleep. Imagine the interior of a dream.
     Imagine muted sounds that imply silence – waves over coral, gently sucking at pebbles. Curtains of leaves shifting like uneasy ghosts.
    Great flowers growing in clusters, or hanging in juicy clumps. Clouds of pollen falling from one level of undergrowth to another in a rush, leaving vapours to float on the clogged air.
     Snakes, bands of affluent enamel, glide unseen across branches, eyelids unmoving, tongues flickering.
     The ruins of ancient temples rise from the surface of the sea, crumbling visions of antique impotence. Lichen-smeared carvings crawl over arches, pillars, walls and towers – fighting an exhausting battle against other vegetation, transmuting everything into a rich, green dream. Forgotten gods grin derisively beneath the droppings of birds who care nothing.
    On the sea floats a lonely boat.
    A small boat with crumbling gunwales. A rope dribbling into the water. It grates over submerged masonry, drifting listless in the heat finding first one current, then another.
    “How is he today?”
    “I can’t tell. He moans sometimes.”
     “Moans?”
     “Yes, slowly.”
     “What did the doctor say?”
     “Nothing – or perhaps.”
        Imagine the petals of black flowers covering the bottom of the boat like shreds of midnight.
        He looks at the sky.
        He looks at his hands.
        He leans back, hair trailing in the water, and laughs soundlessly.
      “Well, how is he today?”
       “I think he is sleeping.”
       “Draw the blinds. I hate the moon. It never speaks to me.”
        “As you wish.”
        “And you are not to talk to him when you think you are alone.”
         “As you wish.”
            A wake of petals.
           Moving among the ruins the boat is suddenly engulfed by the shadow of an arch, long-hidden by thick creepers that have, somehow, moved aside. An entrance.
         Imagine a half-submerged doorway. Picture a dark tunnel beyond. A silent sea of pure darkness. Air saturated with perfume that confounds the senses. Shadows of uneasy ghosts caress the walls.
         At a flight of steps he disembarks. He walks up towards a dust-laden glow.
       “Well? How is he today?”
        “I do not know. He is not really sleeping.”
        “Draw the blinds – you know I hate the moon.”
         “As you wish.”
         “Does the moon talk to you when you are alone?”
        “Sometimes?”
        “What does it say?”
        “Nothing – perhaps – words like that.”
           At his feet a scrawny figure sprawls in the dusty light. A corpse burst open. Gems cut into globes and flowers spill out – scattered jewels in a mirror. As though from a great distance he can see a boat in the mirror. Worlds in jewel globes.
          In the centre of the hall is a glittering Tower of Babel; a wrecked chandelier. Nearby sits a female figure cradling a child with a bird’s skull for a head. It croaks harshly.
         The female grins.
         He takes a knife from his belt and laughs soundlessly as, with the blade, he slashes his own throat.
        Gems cut into globes of light and flowers spew between his teeth. His body dissolves into slivers of mirror glass.
        Outside, a small boat, crumbling at the gunwales, dribbling a rope into the water, grated listlessly over drowned masonry.
        The sea is silent.
       The horizon quivers in a haze, confounding the eye, transmuting everything into a dream of forgotten gods. The birds care nothing.
      Imagine a silence more lonely than sleep.
      Imagine a dream; the interior of a dream – lonelier than silence.

 

 

 

AC Evans

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BAUDELAIRE (1848)

 

 

 

 

this cabalist passion for milk and honey! I share the desert with machinists.

behind barricades of quatrains I work with raw materials, magic stones,

and – fallen into events, an impersonal history – have never had such company 

or communion. my tomahawk voice fells the tallest, gibbering with idiots 

savants, as waves of barbarism crash and rugby scrums form in boulevards.

what’s happened to the draped flaneur, or candled soul of monk? mania

and engagement! the engineered dream – Paris – is losing its dollhouse aura

as bourgeois goldfish in the pond are lunched on by black cormorants. 

this would have been the funniest opera ever, but I worked out the ending.

now I war with Latin egos who dislike the concavity of a poet’s brow,

Cain forehead complimenting a cloven hoof. they are scared of my agape 

mouth – with a cat’s incisors – intoning the formula ‘as above so below’.

a fieldmarshal is fucking my mother. that’s as good as France. in this nadir

darkroom, I develop poetry into photography, my broken heart a crystal ball. 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry: Niall McDevitt
Photo: Julie Goldsmith

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Beat Freaks

Beat Freaks, a fun new mix by Steam Stock, diving into his 60s collection and featuring tracks by the Monkees, The Turtles, The Who, The Pretty Things and some bands who’s name doesn’t start with “The”!

 

 

Steam Stock

 

 

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Vitality 8 – Brinkmanship

A lot of people get off on brinkmanship, and being nearly late is a form of this. Why? I believe that it makes you feel alive, as the blood and adrenaline pump the system. I’m often nearly late for trains, yet have never missed one. That feeling as you settle in the seat and the train moves off– ah just made it – is very satisfying.  I’ve found it enlivening, invigorating. But is vigour vitality? No, it’s its poor macho cousin, and during lockdown the second, have decided to stop doing it: far better to leave plenty of time and notice what’s around you.  Besides, at my age, it may lead to a fall. Before seventy, one merely falls over, but after that it’s A Fall.

Something LD2 has taught me, is not to rush at things – especially trains.    In my recent creative calm I ‘ve noticed/spotted/seen/deciphered (delete where applicable) the form of the corona virus in all sorts of things, and here it is in a clock.  This is by Forest Gate station, where I just made it for a 2pm Saturday walk on Wanstead Flats with my walking group a few weeks ago.   By the way, since corona means crown and lots of people still like the Queen – why hasn’t our monarch been leaning into our TV sets, wishing us luck in ‘lorkdine’?   QE2nd for LD2nd.  A dereliction of duty of care I call it. But back to time, and brinkmanship.  If I’d missed that walk I’d have been very upset, not that I didn’t know where Wanstead flats was, but walking with others is a beautiful source of vitality.   It’s as if the clock’s corona crown said, this is the time, you don’t know how much is left to you – cherish it.

 

 

 

Jan Woolf

 

 

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Mannings Seafood, Margate

 

Atlanta Wiggs

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Cultural Reference Points of Experience 


 
Should Rhubarb the dog be neurotic 
and Custard the cat an anarchist, 
Ivor the Engine is a fuss budget, 
Willie Weasel a listed subversive 
and Captain Pugwash is mentally retarded. 
 
Then Zippy the frog is a garrulous narcissist 
psychotic on some strange sort of acid, 
and Hartley the Hair is criminally insane. 
Bagpuss the cloth moggy is clinically depressed 
and The Clangers are devil worshippers. 
 
Then Noggin the Nog is a flawed autistic 
and Charlie the cat, who says,  
 is perennially hyperactive. 
And if all this be foreign language, 
then let us meet midway,  let us say 
 
that Tin Tin is maudlin, right wing, 
Asterix a communist amphetamine addict, 
and Andy Capp a misogynist alcoholic. 
Oh, to be English –  Lilliputian; 
brexile, in the land of Blefuscu.

 

 

 

Martin Ferguson

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