turf dancing
Courtesy of kottke, one of my favourite recent videos of street/break/turf dancing. Great stuff.
Archive for the ‘mish-mash’ Category
bespoke
Way back in September 2008 I posted about Haruo-Suekichi and his handmade watches. The watches are beautifully anachronistic, reminiscent of a steampunk influence and are usually only produced as single items, or in very small runs (no more than six or so, from memory). Haruo-Suekichi is a fascinating chap, sadly the interview I had linked to is no longer available but I did manage to find this one.
And these items are unique, made and designed with the materials and objects to hand, each individually crafted in a way that your Rolex, Omega or Cartier isn’t. Yes they might not be wonderfully discrete and understated, and might be a bit awkward to wear, but they are and always will be one of a kind.
I have long been fascinated by this idea of the bespoke; hand-crafted and idiosyncratic. William Gibson, from whose blog I discovered Haruo-Suekichi, hints at this in his book Idoru, with custom, individual laptops, etc. In fact, in a technologically driven world, Gibson’s books are very much about the individual, about the bespoke, with technology and functionality driven and twisted by the dynamics of personality and need and the constraints of resource.
This is echoed elsewhere, in there wonderfully realised computer pieces (below). The father of a friend of mine would build computers inside cabinets and jewellery boxes, and hated laptops so much he customised a small suitcase with the inners from a desktop, the 17″ flatscreen popping up when it was opened.
In a world of standardisation there is a recognition towards this expression of individuality, with iPods that can be engraved, phones interfaces that can be skinned and laptops with designer ‘hoods’. Customisation is becoming more prevalent, operating systems, cars and computer rigs have long been hacked to please the personality, fashion has ever been in the midst of the tension between the uniform and the individual, and home decorating programmes abound, all aimed at turning your Ikea flatpack home into something more unique. We attach ever more value to art and items that are ‘unique’, signed and numbered, one of a kind, rare and difficult to find.
I like the idea of a more bespoke world, of furniture made from what is available and computers created to suit you, rather than a demographic of you. I love the creativity and self-expression, and that minute but significant resistance to the march of normalisation and standardisation. I love the hard work, dedication and aspiration behind it, although customisation can be a simple, easy thing too.
It is not necessarily about standing out, but about not blending in. In an environment where the majority of us are time pressured by the relentless nature of society, self expression and creativity can be lost to all too rare moments. Thinking, feeling, expressing take a back seat to doing and being and living up to. Building a world to suit you isn’t just about the mundane, it is also about the metaphysical and the spiritual.
Bespoke, customised and self-realised may not be the way forward for everyone, but it may be the way for you, in whatever form you want.
odds and … ii
Sorry, another odds and sods post, mainly because I haven’t had time to write a more fully fledged post.
***
Every now and then, scanning through the various bits of information afforded me by WordPress, I have a look at the search terms that lead to my blog. Other than the odd bizarre combination of words, there really hasn’t been anything of note.
Over the last few weeks though I have noticed a particular trend, and have kept an eye on it. Fulfilling anything from 25% to 50% of the search terms leading to my blog are variants on “life full regrets”, leading to this post.
I am not sure what this says really, speculative speculation leads me to wondering if there is a pandemic of regret going on currently (one could say it is and always has been) or a paucity of blog posts on the subject (hard to believe) or it doesn’t say anything at all (probably).
***
On Eyoki’s (@Eyoki) recommendation I purchased “Snow And Summers” by Solveig von Schoultz (read Eyoki’s superb review here). A little while ago I also bought “Ways of Returning” by Linda Saunders. Other than the superb poetry, both books contained unexpected treasures:
I absolutely love this sort of thing. Snow and Summer contains the scribbled notes of a previous owner’s journey to Reyjkavik, with all its attendant horrors. Ways of Returning contains a lovely letter from the author to the recipient.
As you may know I am a huge fan of the scribbled inscriptions and dedications that you often find inside the covers of books. No matter how tenuous, they give me a sense of connection and (occasionally) insight into the owners. I find these little snippets of life as rich and important as the books themselves and have occasionally purchased a book on the basis of this alone.
***
Years ago, before the Bristol Bookbarn became a sad media spectacle upon its closure I came across several hardback classic science fiction and fantasy books, scattered within the disorganised and incomprehensible system that the BB used. After further investigation I found more, each with a carefully inscribed name (one I sadly cannot remember) and the date of ownership, and nothing more. And there were hundreds of them. I was left with an indescribable sense of sadness, as this was obviously the lifetime collection of someone who had recently (?) passed away, with all that love and pride and effort disposed off in one fell swoop. Had I the money I would have bought as many as I could find, in a futile and foolish attempt to preserve this collection. I wish I had done so regardless.
***
Mini-recommendations:
Sainsbury’s Ethiopian Sidamo ground coffee is a current favourite; lovely, rich and not overly bitter.
demuth’s in Bath is a very nice vegetarian restaurant indeed. Great food, full of flavour and very light, using fresh local ingredients. Yummy.
Eyoki’s blog is another firm favourite. I never fail to come away have thinking about something in a different way, having learnt something new and outside of my immediate sphere of interest. Go and read.
Today I am visiting Lacock and Lacock Abbey, an architecturally fantastic place, lovely in the summer, and the ‘birth-place’ of photography, being Fox-Talbot’s residence.
wasted flash fiction comp
A little while ago I blogged about flash fiction, haiku and entering Nicola Morgan‘s flash fiction competition on her Wasted blog.
The competition was to write a short story of 50 words or less about fate, chance or luck. Being me, I chose all three.
Anyway, I found out this morning that the judgement had been made, the winners chosen, laurels bequeathed, processions arranged, etc. So I went over to have a look (feeling rather nervous).
There are some fantastically written snippets on there, encapsulating both the moment and the beyond (backwards and forwards in time). Tanya Byrne’s piece is deservedly a winner and has many layers hidden within its few words. I am also really taken with Kate Kelly’s piece, a fantastic snapshot of a moment on the Titanic, taken from the viewpoint of a band member.
The School-age category more than holds it own against the adults, the winning piece by Ellis Smith is superb, as are the rest (I was particularly struck by Heather Phillip’s story).
Anyway, I found out that I had been placed amongst the commended submissions in the Adult category, which was both heartening, pleasing and, yes, for a moment, giddiness-inducing. And having my piece considered side by side with such excellent writing is both humbling and awesome (sorry @Eyoki). In all honesty, just entering such competitions is a fun and enjoyable exercise, and it is always intriguing to see what your fellow competitors come up with, given the brief and the word limit.
The winning and commending pieces can be found here, go read, I hope you enjoy and have a go one day.
exploding dog
exploding dog has been one of my favourite websites for a very long time, ever since I discovered some six years ago through a recommendation from a friend. Sam (the artist) has become a little bit of a celebrity because of the website, and the site itself is testament to his prodigious output, having started in 2001 and grown in quality and volume to this day.
The concept is a simple one, email him, and he will (may) draw whatever is in the subject line of your email. It is this combination that fascinates me, the conjoining of the email sender’s creativity with the artist’s. Sam has several themes he explores, with a number of repeating motifs, usually cleverly used in conjunction with the subject line. Some are touching and obvious extensions of the subject, others depart or twist the meaning beyond their original intent. Sometimes they can be quiet and thoughtful, or brash and ribald. Robots and fish and monsters abound. Bombs are another motif, falling from the sky in a chilling interpretation of “it is a wonderful world“. Love and loss are common themes from the emails, and are met with both sensitivity and wicked impudence and cheek.
“I loved you at all the wrong times” has a wonderful sense of space, exhibiting a poignancy and an intimacy in the two small figures in the landscape, one with its head cocked slightly. It is subtleties like these that evoke more than would be expected.
“Stand shadowless like silence” has an ethereal quality, ghostly and sad. “I’m glad you’re my friend” is wonderfully sweet and touching, the two protagonists sat on a large monolith surrounded by life. “I thought you loved more than any thing and I thought you would come back to me” echoes the scene, instead presenting a vision of forlorn isolation and grief. “I have love for you” is simplistic in execution and meaning, a straightforward interpretation of the message.
“All on my own” and “if I could be anything I would be a cloud” evoke a yearning and enjoyment of the moment. “I was too late” is heart-breaking; the jagged edge of the ground and the just seen cloud-tops hinting at the story beyond the image of the person crying. “this isn’t what I was expecting” is forlorn and empty, simply lines and colour conveying emotion with simple intensity, echoed ever so darkly in “why was I left here“.
Bombs, destruction, suicide are other themes explored, from the grimly simple “legalize it right now we wanna blaze one” to the loss of “you were happy in the photographs“.
Other drawings are exuberant and joyous, “I want to be an astronaut” and “my name is Sam” perfectly capture the feelings of make-believe and the ongoing dreams of childhood. “Another awesome day” perfectly exemplifies how I want to feel every day, bright and cheerful and positive. “I am building a world for you” is full of the mad energy sourced in a manic love, captured in the scribbled frenetic texture of the drawing. “Sometimes I do this” is simple and wistful.
Not all of it works, sometimes the drawings are off -kilter, or the juxtapositions ill-defined. But more often than not there is a humour, dark or gentle, and a real sensitivity to match the creativity. As in all art, there are layers and details to be discovered, if you have the energy and the need to. Sam’s use of colour and space and lines are often exquisite, evoking and implying emotion in a style that is almost child-like in its crudity and sophistication. Whatever you may feel about Sam’s work (and I urge you to explore it), the output, vision and ongoing relationship between artist and audience are to be respected, and enjoyed.
Finally, “this is so great I had to share it with you” expounds a near perfect end to any day.
birthday
Today was my birthday.
It wasn’t a particularly auspicious birthday, nor of any real significance. Birthdays have always just been another day to me, perhaps marked by the odd quiet celebration.
And in many ways today was no different.
My FB page is just stuffed with good wishes and happy birthdays from friends and family near and far, and likewise with my twitterfeed, the Flatmate and I stuffed ourselves silly at the favourite Chinese restaurant and I spoke to my aunt, mother and brother. So, in many ways, it was very different. It was a good day indeed, and I am profoundly grateful for it and those who made it so, even if they didn’t realise it.
Thank you, I have very much enjoyed it.
being me
I am currently reading Alan Booth’s excellent travelogue “The Roads to Sata”. Previous to this I devoured William Dalrymple’s superb “Age of Kali” and recently finished Josie Dew’s irrepressible “A Ride in the Neon Sun”. I’ve read Benedict Allen’s “Mad White Giant”, “Last of the Medicine Men” and “The Edge of Blue Heaven”. There are countless more.
All of these books are about journeys, through landscapes, through cultures, through the past and the intertwined mythology of the present. They are, invariably, about a solitary figure stepping into the wider world; observational, intuitive, remarkable. The simple act of the journey forces them to see the world around them in all its layers, the mix of humanity, the imprint of environment and climate upon the psyche, the ravages of the irrational past projected into the today. They are about the appreciation of the light and the dark, the insane and the beautiful. Theirs is the eye upon the world, judging, receiving, contemplating.
There is something about a journey, about the mingling of one’s time into the ether, about the diligence of a step, or the turn of a wheel, about the sight seen, the sound heard, the senses in all their varieties tested and stimulated. There is something about the unending movement forward, to destinations and signposts that fade into the whole. It is about the sensation of travel, the rocking of the boat, the fleetness of the wheel, the steadiness of the foot. It is about a singular awareness at once both removed and integral.
It is about the endless road, the trackless path. It is about decisions made, the die cast, trusting to the wind and good fortune. It is about abandoning everything we hold dear, about letting go, about being hostage to the kindness of others and the calmness of self. It is about a peculiar kind of freedom, absented from the world left behind, bound by rules and customs of a different ilk. It is about being part of and being apart from.
It is simply about being.
There are days when the need to journey near overwhelms me. There are days when the first step is the one almost taken, when I am ready to throw of the shackles of my own making, when I am ready to abscond and depart, when the call of the wild outweighs the siren song of security.
In me there exists a dervish, whirling and wild, spinning madly in a frenzy of dreams and desires. In me is the moment just put off, eternally waiting for me to reach it, to make that decision, to abandon ship, call it a day, to take a different step into the forever.
I want the road, I have always wanted the road. Even the most homely of homes has not been my home. I have simply stayed when I perhaps should have gone. The whisper and the song are beguiling and seductive, the throaty voice of the not-here and the not-now.
And year by year, day by day, the dervish whirls and the pressure builds, the dance of the road draws nearer.
One day I won’t be here. One day I won’t be anywhere. I will be on the road, living in the now and the here and the moment, one eye to the horizon, taking each step as the first of many. One day I will be on a journey to destinations uncounted, lands and seas and mountains high my gateways to the evermore. One day I may even be finally me.
borough market, london
One of the main issues I have with Bristol is the lack of a good food market with a real depth and breadth of choice. The Farmers’ Market on Corn Street (Wednesdays) and the excellent Tobacco Factory Market (Sundays) are the only two that I know of.
Bristol is well-regarded as a foodies’ haven, with excellent restaurants, cafes, food festivals and an abundance of good quality local produce. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to have the depth of population to support a larger more permanent food market.
I visited Borough Market on Saturday and was pretty much blown away by the range of foodstuffs on offer (even if it was a little over-priced). The place was heaving with customers, tourists and photographers alike, all dipping their fingers towards many a taster dish or plate.
The place was buzzing, full of life and character, and the quality of the food on offer was fantastic. Definitely a place that I would love to live near, were I to live in London, although I would probably have to leave my wallet at home.
today
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’
Henry V Act III Scene I
travel me muchly
I used to work for Stanfords Map and Travel Bookshop. And it was the best job in the world.
Apart from the bookselling aspect of it, which has its own special place in my heart, I was very much taken with the product and the customers. It was about travel, it was about maps and books and research. It was about people planning holidays and adventures and expeditions. It was about people coming back from holiday and planning the next one, or dreaming or daring to dream
It was about banter and laughter and giving the best service and building the best relationships, because we wanted them, as much as they did, to have as good a time as they could have, and we were part of it.
We had authors and adventurers and travelers come in. We had the nonchalantly intrepid and the foolishly brave. We dreamed as well, with many of my colleagues undertaking considerably adventures of their own, from cycling the salt flats of Chile to walking the trails in the Himalayas to fulfilling a timeless wanderlust by wandering the width and breadth of the planet.
For a long time now I have been contemplating a grand journey, and the catalyst of this post has been the recent activity of the unpronounceable volcano in Iceland with its subsequent impact of flights across Europe, and a very brief exchange with the lovely Theodora8 about traveling on twitter.
I love planes and airports and all the rituals that attend to them. I love customs and passport control and standing in queues and waiting for the next flight. Plane travel has extended our horizons and expanded our gestalt. It has made us more aware and more adventurous.
I also suspect that, somewhere along the lines, we have lost the love and intricacies of travel. We have lost the connection with the journey.
I remember my dad relating that the first time he went to Botswana it took him two days to get there (by plane). We can be in Sydney in half the time.
A couple of years back I took the sleeper train from Delhi to Trivandrum, a journey of 52 hours. I remember walking the length of the train, from the comparatively plush four person berth I was in to the ‘third’ class, where benches sufficed for all those there. On the way I stopped and listened, just out of sight, as a dozen men and women, crowded together, clapped and sang and laughed. It was magical.
I remember the immense crush at Delhi, the intense heat and clamour and the disorientation as thousands of people struggled past each other to get to their trains. I remember sitting quietly in a corner, watching the world go by, in the calm before the eventual storm, chatting with those sitting near me.
For me the journey is as important as the destination. The destination, in itself, becomes a waypoint on the journey. The people and situations encountered on the journey can be more impactive, more resonant than those at the end. I love the shared experience of the trip, the time taken to take it all in and mull it over.
For many years I have mulling over what would make my ideal journey, and it changes every moment of every day, as I take in new ideas and see new things. The only thing that remains the same is that there will not be a plane used on the whole trip, because that defeats the point. A plane is too quick, too easy, too divorced from the process and intricacies and self-reliance of travel.
One day, it will come to be.
