It’s fine until I walk away. Ouch. That feels sad. I don’t know why.
‘Because we care but we’re moving on’ and it sounds like a song, but it’s what you say.
And as I walk away I carry this strange sadness in my palm and look at it without asking why.
Yellow leaves turn under my feet
hair blows around my ears, and I could be walking anywhere.
There’s something in that connection, between two pairs of eyes.
It’s strange when it begins to change.It is stranger
when you realise it will never totally die,
that you can always look back in the same way; with powerful eyes.
I watch my palm.
It quivers- and fractures the present, leaves a gap, a fissure, a dent.
This spider’s web is built on empty spaces.
Across a pocket, that look is suspended: that delicate thread, that once held our eyes together, holds together life, too.
Powerful gaps. Tug on that- and you realise how weak we are.
It shows up this pretty thing in my palm.
That hug where bodies hold, lean on a million repeats;
the same warm pockets of air, never change. Just as long as you let go.
Now and two years ago and probably in another ten.
It hurts that it doesn’t go away, but it’s pretty all the same.
Echoes of the past reverberate in the distance,
and my present is here.
It rests against deep lines in my palm.
London film festival
I am usually on the peripheries of entertaining activities; hanging around outside or wandering off. I find it impossibly boring to commit myself to more than half an hour of sustained concentration in a controlled environment. I will get to a gig as the headlining act begins so that I won’t want to leave before; otherwise I require a bar which I can escape to; better still is a gig in a bar so that the stage doesn't require my full attention. Poetry readings make me cringe, but if the point is to dance or to talk, I'm happy. The cinema involves a full couple of hours in a small chair in the dark, looking in one direction. Not that I dislike film; I would just rather watch shorts at home. The theatre is desperately more trapping once I want to leave at an inconvenient moment, but they comfortingly give me the opporuntiy to run away halfway through. Undecided, fickle, and impatient. Yes, I know.
On the last night of the London Film Festival, I decided that these oddities of mine needed to be ignored, because I was sure that I'd get something out of this art once I managed to force myself beyond the heavy doors and into a pew. Finding myself on the Embankment outside the National with a plastic cup of wine in hand, I was very proud of my initiative. It was one of those late summer evenings which defies autumn; despite being October, there was a casual positivity in the air as the sun set. An energy brimmed as the London lights reflected brighter on the blackening Thames, and glittering taxis trundled past on the other side. I sat under the bridge watching people in blazers finger a record and book stall as I eavesdropped on the conversations around me, and let the last moments of tickets to a film pass me by. Why would I be trapped in a theatre when I could be outside, breathing in sweet autumn air watching passers-by. My wine made me smiling and chatty, and the last thing I would do is lock myself away from all that hum, in a dark pixilated room. But I dutifully feigned disappointment to myself, so that I felt cultured. Atmosphere and people-watching is far more pleasing to me than performance. I had a sneaking suspicion the potential audiences were also here partly for the quiet din, and I was part of the festival even if I had never had any intention of watching a film. One has to pretend direction in order to reach such aimless freedom and be gifted with such viewing material.
On the last night of the London Film Festival, I decided that these oddities of mine needed to be ignored, because I was sure that I'd get something out of this art once I managed to force myself beyond the heavy doors and into a pew. Finding myself on the Embankment outside the National with a plastic cup of wine in hand, I was very proud of my initiative. It was one of those late summer evenings which defies autumn; despite being October, there was a casual positivity in the air as the sun set. An energy brimmed as the London lights reflected brighter on the blackening Thames, and glittering taxis trundled past on the other side. I sat under the bridge watching people in blazers finger a record and book stall as I eavesdropped on the conversations around me, and let the last moments of tickets to a film pass me by. Why would I be trapped in a theatre when I could be outside, breathing in sweet autumn air watching passers-by. My wine made me smiling and chatty, and the last thing I would do is lock myself away from all that hum, in a dark pixilated room. But I dutifully feigned disappointment to myself, so that I felt cultured. Atmosphere and people-watching is far more pleasing to me than performance. I had a sneaking suspicion the potential audiences were also here partly for the quiet din, and I was part of the festival even if I had never had any intention of watching a film. One has to pretend direction in order to reach such aimless freedom and be gifted with such viewing material.
Superpowers and Snow
As deemed by stereotype and practice, the British and can find little that is more conducive to conversation than a discussion of the weather, perhaps because the exchange is usually brief. It holds us together, makes us a nation of whining grannies with Seasonal Affective Disorder who enjoy complaining about politicians. The next black cloud approaching gives us a certain je ne sais quoi; a sophisticated excuse not to talk to strangers or smile in public, and a great reason to wear unfashionable wellies in all seasons. Global Warming is an absolute nightmare. We don’t know where to turn. With it failing to die off after a spin in the media, we are still (and rightly so) troubled by melting ice and stranded polar bears. It is the new excuse to not look at people no matter how nice the weather is, because they probably have an irresponsibly sized carbon footprint.
I wonder if this weather-concern could be an undiscovered method of maintaining national unity elsewhere on the globe: it is fantastic mutual ground. I might be British, but the climate is an important way of associating with your fellow hated neighbour. It changes our moods, affects how many jumpers we have to wear and prescribes and how horrible the journey to work was. The push to ‘forge national identity’ in Afghanistan may be misled. The oxymoronic forced democracy tactic should be changed in slant to enforced complaining about the weather, if the design is to make people agree on something. Taking it a step further, maybe a global mutual and restrained unity is on the cards seen as we are all in this together.
China seems to be dealing the extreme weather changes on a slightly different tact to Britain, however: instead of self-depreciating social distain, they are claiming that they did it on purpose. Yes, that right: they are not in fact at the mercy of the weather as we know it; instead of worry and guilt, snow storms and droughts are under control, simply an exuberant display of their weather-control-superpowers. Magic and technology in the skies rather than doubt and dreariness are the tools with which China claims its identity as a nation booming. That has to be one sure way of dissociating themselves from other nations. Their conversations about the weather will eavesdrop slightly differently to ours, I would imagine. Circling around a general amazement at the cheek of a leader who wants to manipulate the sky: Fire a rocket and the sky turns white, or blue, or rains… Perhaps organ-extension by association is just being taken past shiny cars and on to the next level of geoengineering. It all sounds a bit like puff and PR: What better way to hit world news than claiming the ability to induce blue skies and snow storms. Does China have the answer to global warming, the G2 wondered this week, with a smirk in the direction of James Bond. This meddling has got to do more harm than good; a global reaction in the form of treacle rain straight from a mad hatter's tea party.
Maybe China is being too hasty with publicity, though. Thousands have been stranded in freezing ice and snow, wondering which bit of the weather was a stunt. That has got to be a bit of a head-spin for the locals: Can you imagine what would happen if Gordon Brown started letting of snow-rockets here? I dread to think, but it might change our attitude to wind and rain. It would certainly make us complain more about where our tax money is going. This all seems to be looking for inspiration from an episode of Danger Mouse if you ask me. If induced rain clouds aren't enough to make a nation proud, it could at least distract inhabitants with a healthy dose of communal self-pity and lethargy.
I wonder if this weather-concern could be an undiscovered method of maintaining national unity elsewhere on the globe: it is fantastic mutual ground. I might be British, but the climate is an important way of associating with your fellow hated neighbour. It changes our moods, affects how many jumpers we have to wear and prescribes and how horrible the journey to work was. The push to ‘forge national identity’ in Afghanistan may be misled. The oxymoronic forced democracy tactic should be changed in slant to enforced complaining about the weather, if the design is to make people agree on something. Taking it a step further, maybe a global mutual and restrained unity is on the cards seen as we are all in this together.
China seems to be dealing the extreme weather changes on a slightly different tact to Britain, however: instead of self-depreciating social distain, they are claiming that they did it on purpose. Yes, that right: they are not in fact at the mercy of the weather as we know it; instead of worry and guilt, snow storms and droughts are under control, simply an exuberant display of their weather-control-superpowers. Magic and technology in the skies rather than doubt and dreariness are the tools with which China claims its identity as a nation booming. That has to be one sure way of dissociating themselves from other nations. Their conversations about the weather will eavesdrop slightly differently to ours, I would imagine. Circling around a general amazement at the cheek of a leader who wants to manipulate the sky: Fire a rocket and the sky turns white, or blue, or rains… Perhaps organ-extension by association is just being taken past shiny cars and on to the next level of geoengineering. It all sounds a bit like puff and PR: What better way to hit world news than claiming the ability to induce blue skies and snow storms. Does China have the answer to global warming, the G2 wondered this week, with a smirk in the direction of James Bond. This meddling has got to do more harm than good; a global reaction in the form of treacle rain straight from a mad hatter's tea party.
Maybe China is being too hasty with publicity, though. Thousands have been stranded in freezing ice and snow, wondering which bit of the weather was a stunt. That has got to be a bit of a head-spin for the locals: Can you imagine what would happen if Gordon Brown started letting of snow-rockets here? I dread to think, but it might change our attitude to wind and rain. It would certainly make us complain more about where our tax money is going. This all seems to be looking for inspiration from an episode of Danger Mouse if you ask me. If induced rain clouds aren't enough to make a nation proud, it could at least distract inhabitants with a healthy dose of communal self-pity and lethargy.
honey flavoured robots, please
The age of technology and fluro-irridescent leggings which has been hampered after, sought after from a past of World Wars and pillaging, Berlin Walls and the wireless, has dawned. What we have to show for our progression is facebook and twittering. We should be heading for the next era of perfection, surely. It has been a while… Why have they not created a vaccination for hangovers or a cure for feeling tired? Why am I not wallowing in milk and honey, with robots tending to my every need? Perhaps what I should mean is, why are there still people in cities across the world walking for miles to fetch clean water, or communities in Africa and India who have to struggle against big corporations ploughing through their homes to get the last dribbles of oil from under their feet? They should be swimming in a syrupy milkshake, too.
The point is, whether or not David Dimbleby can successfully humiliate morons should not be a primary irritation at this point. Redress: Even if we are a fairly carefree bunch, and even if the milk appeals, we know the nonsensical pedalling of the likes of Griffin. We already know that extremist politics with their promise of a pure-blood utopia are a sickening perversion of reality. Despite my seeming disregard for online chatter and picture-swapping, thankfully we seem to be on the brink of instant and near-universal communication which allows us to rip the piss out of such idiots within a loud-mouthed community.
So, while Griffin tries to hark his cronies back to a Golden Age of Churchill, war, rations, and racism, he has got it all wrong. We are having enough fun in our shiny online world. If he wants to get the public on side then he underestimates their intelligence at his peril. The magic of communication has provided us with handfuls of sarcasm to throw around. We have nothing to fear. Utopia is not white, a little sparse, and full of fat red-faced blokes pointing out dithering women and downing ale; Photographs of bus bombs and dead political leaders is erring from your cause. I won’t make any promises, but try robots; you might be more successful.
The point is, whether or not David Dimbleby can successfully humiliate morons should not be a primary irritation at this point. Redress: Even if we are a fairly carefree bunch, and even if the milk appeals, we know the nonsensical pedalling of the likes of Griffin. We already know that extremist politics with their promise of a pure-blood utopia are a sickening perversion of reality. Despite my seeming disregard for online chatter and picture-swapping, thankfully we seem to be on the brink of instant and near-universal communication which allows us to rip the piss out of such idiots within a loud-mouthed community.
So, while Griffin tries to hark his cronies back to a Golden Age of Churchill, war, rations, and racism, he has got it all wrong. We are having enough fun in our shiny online world. If he wants to get the public on side then he underestimates their intelligence at his peril. The magic of communication has provided us with handfuls of sarcasm to throw around. We have nothing to fear. Utopia is not white, a little sparse, and full of fat red-faced blokes pointing out dithering women and downing ale; Photographs of bus bombs and dead political leaders is erring from your cause. I won’t make any promises, but try robots; you might be more successful.
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