And the next time I went down that bumpy road...

I got to see this...

The whole of you inside me is
Surrounded by stars
A wedge of galaxy
Occupied by pulsars
Three black holes, a planetary ring, several UFO
Primordial goo

The doctor and nurse
Spied your satellite
Within this universe
And now we are within your light
Me, grasping the trolley. Him, my hand. Us, the situation.

Evidence of you

And us too.

you don't have to but you can if you want

Turns out I don't have worry that I gave up history at age 13

Because there is this: The French Revolution story told to pop soundtracks.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXsZbkt0yqo

Just loverly. There are loads of them. Sometimes I really with I'd been a kid right now (excepting the credit crunch and the reduction of available high quality education, but that's another thing.

Well, I know it's simplistic, but it's fun and my knowledge of the French revolution has been improved - it was PANTS before - and I know about Napoleon, I've visited his not actually his apartments at the Louvre. It stops at Napoleon. I was convinced there were more revolutions after him.
Can't pretend to to say I found them, they were on the 'Who Does That' blog, also worth a visit. If only to see the Banarama 'Venus' story because she's worked out how to insert vt and I haven't yet.

Ta ra a bit.

Wilton Moose's Head

I did a job at the Town Hall Hotel in Bethnal Green yesterday, once a town hall, now a swanky hotel all done up with a fair dollop of idiosyncratic art. Now I like idiosyncratic art, and I like seeing it in hotels, rather than having it languishing in private collections, because anybody can go and see it there. Of course the hotel won't tell you much, they aren't there to elucidate, unlike museums, they are only interested in decoration, interest, or whatever aura a work of art can lend, but at least you can see the stuff. And it's quite interesting to see it out of a museum or gallery context; this is art being used.

Anyway, I found this:

         

Just hidden around the corner from the main stairwell. This, to me, says everything about art in hotels and is particularly relevant to this one. Combining Wilton carpet and stag's head, both high status objects, conveying pretension to status, situated in a building transformed from municipal function into a commercial enterprise. The hotel is trying to attract high status clients, (blue-chip companies, et al.) and this object gently pokes fun at its pretension.

I found another connotation though, and I wonder if this is more what the artist originally meant. Perhaps you'll think it pretty tenuous, but I'll play with it anyway.

There is, in the London National Gallery, a famous and rare work of 14th century art, in the gothic style, called the Wilton Diptych. You can find more information about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilton_Diptych 

It was made for the unpopular English King, Richard II, on the outside is a picture of a white stag (or hart) which was his emblem. The artist is unknown, and is popularly called the Wilton master. His nationality is also unknown, and is quoted to be from 'every possible nation'. Perhaps it is possible that it was worked on in a studio by several artists, that being commonplace; the importance of individual artistic vision not being so relevant then, as it is today. Perhaps, this is a sort of elegy to that person, or people. A note that things are so very different now.

Is this okay? Yes, I think so. It is perfectly valid for a work of art to have more than one interpretation, they exist in the world as objects of their own volition, quite apart from the artist's intention, their meaning subtly changed by situation, and subsequent ownership.

If by any chance you know who made it the Wilton Stag, please don't hesitate to let me know.

Write

WRITE

Write.
Write a poem.
Visit all the castles in Wales
and write a book of tales.
Become obsessed with collecting porcelain

or brewing beer, or  cycling.

Train spotting goes unrecognised
As a useful waste of time.

Shoes:
Make a decent collection
and
you can wear them.

The shiny oblong: this

that doesn’t know you

exist.

(I’ve been a passive admirer)

Opportunity missed.

1st of the month

     I've been pretty good about doing a bit a day, and it's no good trying to write novel while I'm this busy, earning a crust and what have you, but what I'm trying to avoid doing, more than I am trying to make myself do anything, is not treat this blog, like my employers, from long long ago, treated their CCTV.
     They'd go home after a long day running the office, however complicated that got, and spend the evening watching what had been going on in their garden that day; all the squirrels, neighbour's cats shitting under bushes, that sort of thing. That must be a sign that you need to work less and take time to be in the actual garden.
     So I don't have CCTV, but I do have Stats, and I think Stats could be bad for me, I could end up watching them like they watched that CCTV.

Micro Story: 'Crows'

Have you ever seen how airplanes appear to hang totally motionless in the sky when your own speed and angle of travel countermands theirs? I've only seen it on the approach to London, from the A4, when the planes were perhaps a mile into their ascent from City Airport.

CROWS

The upper and greater of two crows angled itself explicitly into a bullet-shaped mark against a pearly-white strip of sky trapped beneath an ash-strapped darkened cloud. They glided precisely over the hedge, losing speed and height on a declining course, but from where I was, the first appeared to hang motionless for an improbably lengthened second.

You were sitting next to me when I last witnessed this optical pause in time and space. You won’t remember that though, your mind dwelt on more important things back then, and I hadn't said anything at the time; I didn’t want to distract you.

You won’t remember that morning. It was when the airplanes first flew again after that Icelandic volcano stopped all flights and we were driving to London to some or other meeting. The sky between the buildings was lemon tinted and from where we sat, in our angle of vision, because of the distance and our speed of travel, the planes appeared immobile again, but this time in the sky, as if they were painted on a mural. 

            For a moment I'd supposed they were model airplanes strategically placed between office blocks by a body of government wanting to reacclimatise us to the sight of human flight; to reassure us after many days of isolation that we would be reconnected.

Constantly anxious, I imagined reassurances but you gave them unasked, you were my personal government; a delicate chain of office, I imagined your effective management of my truths, imperfections, fey uncertainties and doubt.

I didn't doubt this crow; the control it exerted over its body against the wind was effortless.

It eventually floated into the corner of my watery eye, darker than India ink on coldpress paper, implacably solid, unreservedly precise. Its lower, lesser fellow, its doppelganger, flapped sluggishly after, untidy in its slipstream. Then there was nothing more than the road ruling onwards beside the brow of an arable field topped by a row of small silhouetted trees; three fat full stops.

I’m so sorry love; I should have flown today.

Poem #1: ‘The Alpha Mum’s Tale’ or ‘Everybody hates an overachiever’

She woke early, and so by Ten
Had raised two children
To an Oxbridge education.

To salve boredom then
She renovated property
Until Three.

And in the hour to Four,

Mastered the idiosyncrasies of law.

And by the strike of Seven came
Her novels numbered just the same.

Quickly the hour of Eight drew nigh

So she made a feast for Nine,
And had girlfriends round to dine.

Yet, although perfectly cooked
She’d been completely fXXked.

For her cooking spree could not have been
Less fondly seen.

So, by midnight she was dead
By her own hand. The note said,

‘Is nothing I do enough?’

Parent & baby DooDoo

Found this in a sketchbook which was in the pocket of a very underused suitcase which I have decided to take to Athens. Can't remember when I drew it or why a dismayed parent Dodo was amusing me at the time.

The 'boring' one

    I went to the Louvre last week and, faced with its daunting collection of art and people, I decided to concentrate on Northern European Painting which I've always found calming. I discovered there Hans Holbein's painting of Anne of Cleves, and, since nobody now seems to mind photographs being taken, here it is.

    I've always been fascinated by this painting, and in the flesh it's magnificent, she is presented as so calm, so symetrical, so pleasing, more like a doll than a person, that I don't wonder why Henry VIII chose her of the two sisters he sent Holbein to paint.
    But she's the wife that no one talks about. Possibly that's because she's the most boring, but well, in comparison to Anne Boleyn, they all seem so. And frankly, considering how capricious Henry was, she must have been glad to be boring, and perhaps it's why she survived. In fact, she survived him by the longest time, she was given lands and property after their divorce, and was considered, after his daughters and subsequent wives, to be the most pre-eminent of women. She became his friend, and was referred to as "the King's Beloved Sister".
    I think she was probably a shrewd person, cleverer than she was loud. She managed to get the best from the situation into which she was forced, and, although probably, by means of being called 'sister' she was still under Henry's protection, and therefore control, she achieved an independent position, virtually unknown for women at the time.
    Looking at it, I thought Henry must have fallen in love with the painting rather than the woman, she is so wonderfully framed in it, so decorated, that she, the person, can't be real. I don't think any woman could have lived up to Holbein's vision.
    Famously Henry called her 'the Flanders mare'. It's a bit cruel, but then men have always insulted women via their appearance, and that's quite mild treatment from Henry VIII. Additionally to the changed political panorama that meant their marriage was no longer so advantageous, apparently she wasn't cultivated enough for him; she had no formal education, she wasn't witty; the total opposite to her beheaded namesake. No wonder Cromwell liked her and Henry didn't.

    I suppose, if I were to be truthful about why I really like this painting, then it's because it's a masterful execution of marketing; a magnificent lie. It supported the claims of Cromwell, et al, to the King so well that it persuaded the King to marry, an enormous undertaking, and then, when his lack of attraction to her became infamous, it became renowned for being an example of portrait painting distorting the truth.

    This is a miniature of Anne, perhaps painted by Holbein as well, in it she seems more real, even sparkier, but still with those half-lidded eyes, calmly level headed and patient. The perfect queen, if only Henry had realised it.

I'm deeply considering doing an OCA course in writing. What I've seen on the website is encouraging. I suppose I just want what I write to be better. I generally feel like I'm feeling my way around a dark room at the moment, but that I'm sometimes blinded by brilliant white light, which, though it should give me hope, just serves to confuse me further, leaves me blinking with only the hazy outline of my brief glimpse to comfort me.
I've been really encouraged by the last few days that I've spent writing longhand, I've written around seven thousand words and it seems to make better sense than doing it on the computer. But now my arm aches!
I guess I want to wait until I've exhausted that subject, that what might turn into a novel, might actually turn into a novel if I don't let myself become distracted from it, and only then. Maybe I should wait a little, do what I'm doing now and try the course when it's finished. Because I know what courses do, they change you, and the me that writes afterwards won't be the me that writes now. In some ways I feel that the me that writes now is a little bit precious, terribly innocent and probably susceptible to all kinds of cliches and boring notions, but yesterday I found myself writing about sanitary towels and I had no idea that I was going to do that. It actually got quite traumatic. But it was funny at the same time. I've never read about that experience anywhere else so that's why I feel that I'm on to an interesting thing. And I don't want to stop myself while I'm enjoying it.

Rachel from 'Chips'

'CHIPS' Short Story #1

Chips


     Once upon a time there was a little girl, who was called Rachel, who felt that all the food she had on her plate belonged just to her. She wouldn't share any of it with anyone even when they asked nicely. She like chips best of all, guarded them jealously and ate them last just so she would remember them best.
     Every day at school dinner time she sat with her four friends and when they had eaten they would go and play together until it was time for lessons again. They did the same every school day.
     There was also a little boy at the school. Well, actually, there were many, but only this boy matters because he had taken a liking to Rachel. His name was Louis. He pronounced his name with a hiss at the end rather than an 'ee' because he wasn't French. It doesn’t matter much why he liked Rachel, to be honest there was no obvious reason to do so, what's important is that because he did he decided that he was going to make friends with her.
     This was a difficult thing to do because the Rachel and her friends didn’t want him to join in with any of the games they were playing. After a while he retired to sit on his own under a tree in the playground so that he could examine the large bruise that they had given him. This gift, they felt, would remind him that he shouldn't try to join in with their games in the future.
     He used the time examining his new bruise to think of another way in which he could make friends. It is worth saying at this point that not only was he a very determined boy but that he also felt that his friendship was a gift worth offering; in fact nobody had turned him down before.
     In the next lesson he put his new plan into action. He picked up his chair and, limping slightly, put it next to Rachel's and sat down. He managed to stay there for a whole two minutes before the teacher heard Rachel yelling and saw him struggling and made him move back to his normal table. They were the best minutes of his life so far, but he still hadn’t managed to make friends.
     He was very sad about this and for the rest of the week tried really hard to think of another plan. As it happened the new idea lay in wait for him to discover at the weekend, he just had to wait to get it.
     This happened during Sunday lunch, for which his dad made roast chicken with Yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes and parsnips, boiled carrots and gravy. From the happy noises and the friendly chatter in the living room he could tell that his family were enjoying it, and he thought; if food could make his family happy then maybe it would make Rachel happy too.
     Therefore, on Monday at lunchtime he sat with his packed lunch as near to her as he dared to where Rachel and her four friends sat together. He was encouraged with his plan when he noticed how much less she bit and scratched when her mouth was full of food, but he wasn’t brave enough to try to talk to her right then.
     At Tuesday lunchtime he sat closer again. This time he gave to the friend of Rachel who was sitting closest to him half of his lunchtime chocolate bar. That little girl accepted it greedily.
     On Wednesday, he gave the same girl half of his chocolate bar, and to the girl sitting opposite her he gave the other half.
     On Thursday, he broke the chocolate bar into four pieces and shared them out between all of Rachel's friends. However, he despaired about what he was going to do on Friday because he didn't think the chocolate would break very generously into five pieces and his plan depended on Rachel having a really big bit of chocolate, and at the same time he didn't want her friends to feel left out because he was afraid they would give him more bruises if they did. 
      Therefore that evening he asked his mum if he could have an extra bar of chocolate in his packed lunch instead of crisps. She said that that would be fine and he began to feel more confident in his plan again.
     On Friday school was always fish and chips. It was Rachel's favourite meal and she looked forward to it all week, particularly the chips.
     Louis sat down and opened up his packed lunch. He broke up one of the bars that his mother had dutifully packed for him into the four waiting palms of Rachel's friends, but he kept the other bar back to give to her. He didn't keep a single bit for himself but he didn’t mind that because he was sure that his plan would work this time.
     Smiling a big friendly and confident smile he got out of his seat and walked around to where Rachel sat, sure that now she would be his, just like all her friends already were. But as he deposited the chocolate bar next to her plate she swiftly stabbed him in the back of his hand with her fork, and screamed at the top of her voice, “Leave my chips alone!”
     In this way not only did Louis learn that not everyone's friendship can be bought, even when all their friends have already been successfully purchased, but that sometimes it is a very good idea to take 'no' for an answer.
      As a result he never bothered her again. Rachel was given a plastic fork to eat her chips with, and since the only thing she had wanted all along was to enjoy her chips in peace, she was happy enough with that.

Hello out there.

I can't promise these will come thick and fast but I certainly intend to bung out there a short story fairly frequently. I'm even intending them to be funny.