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Sun 3rd April 2011 Yay, a decent video of Crazy & The Brains with full band, been looking forward to something like this from them: Gonna scoot off on my countryside paper-round now. Twenty quid flat for two afternoons work, but it's a paycheck, George ;O) It's also a beautiful, crisp day, and I can't wait to be up on those tall hills amongst the farms. |
Sat 2nd April 2011 My blog sometimes skirts around the personal, but I've kept a separate diary for most of my life, and it's quite interesting for me to see how differently I write depending on the format, even when discussing the same subject. I consider myself an honest person, but like blinded Gloucester at the brink of the cliff whose high and bending head looks fearfully in the confined deep, perspective is paramount. The flat stage itself is a closer truth than the extreme verge described by Edgar, even within the reality of the play, causing an equal deception for the character & the audience. An audience is so familiar with being deceived, however, that it doesn't notice & instead shares the vision of The murmering surge, that on the unnumber'd idle pebble chafes. It's too beautiful to dismiss, and we theatre-go to be deceived after-all, but in this instance we suspend our disbelief beyond all fact or fiction. Beyond our better judgement, "Charmed like sleepwalkers on a precipice." Who is the madman & who is blind? Who doesn't hear the painted gulls? Gloucester isn't deaf, therefore he doesn't hear them, as when he wasn't blind he didn't see. There's something poignantly hilarious about his blank refusal to hear the sea, when we're already halfway there ourselves. It's almost enough to remind us that we're being carried away by the ramblings of a lunatic, for a spell. A lunatic, or an actor (within the play, ie Edgar acting mad).. or a playwright. The character Gloucester has knowledge beyond the play, transcending that reality, and is, for a moment, alone in that wisdom. He alone in the whole theatre sees the flat of the stage; sees heaven, briefly, through the fourth wall, and then falls. Taken in at last, he falls pathetically down no distance at all to our level of perception, as we open our eyes to various degrees of clarity. The cliff disappears, the wood glows dimly in the stage lighting, the flat field is repainted first in our reason, then the cliff in our ears & hearts. Makes no sense on the page, without a hard, flat, wooden stage underfoot, drifting between consciousness'. I'm no writer. Sometimes I just crave the sensation of holding a pen, that way I don't even deceive myself. The bloodletting & the power, it's a slowrace to knowhere. Flicking through my diary now, a couple of entries on this subject: "I wish I could create something more productive with all this ink & penmanship. All I do is write.. words.. the first word that follows the last. I need it. There's no story here, no poetry no style, I'm just a compulsive word-writer & this may take a while." I write words just to know I have a pen, And if I don't I borrow one & then, I write words down. I write words down. I write words in an order that makes sense, But some things sound better in the original French. If I like the sound, I'll write words down. I keep a diary, but not for thoughts, Sometimes I just write hieroglyphs & naughts. If I like the look, I'll write a book. |
Fri 1st April 2011 Yo, my crappy April Fool surely deceived nobody, I am of course very happy in London at the moment & have no urge to unsettle myself further. Played that weird little open mic in Chesham last night, I'm gonna make that a regular part of my week. Also starting to get bookings to DJ wedding parties in the summer, one of my goals for this year is to make some fucking money again. Something tells me, however, that no amount of wedding DJ'ing will bring in as much as this man's gonna make this year; David Goo's debut album will be released 2011, and deserves to be massive: |
Thu 31st March 2011 SHit night. London.. ever wondered why I never wrote a song about you? Booked a flight to Tokyo that leaves in a few hours, gotta keep mooovin'. |
Wed 30th March 2011 Early morning shower. Clean hair, clean clothes, boxfresh socks that never saw a box in their sweet, short lives. Birds singing. Laundry. How about that coffee, then? Ah yes, and music.. let's start with Ray Brown, fabulous songwriter from NY. He's offering free downloads, all 3 of the tunes on his Bandcamp page are great: 
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Tue 29th March 2011 The remainder of last weeks story can wait for the moment. I've arrived back in London, and NYC never felt so far away. The peace I feel here is overwhelming, and I can hear my tinnitus whistling away for the first time in weeks - it is the only reminder of what background noise I've left behind. The idea of waking up, making myself a coffee & playing a few tunes fills me with an excitement I haven't felt in months. I'll go to the shops & buy some hot, freshly baked bread & fruit juice. I don't regret a thing about my time in America. I went for all the right reasons, and in the absence of reciprocated commitment, did what I had to do to get by without betraying myself in the meantime. Played some shows. Visited a few fresh graves, danced a few dead nights away with stranger skeletons while other days breathed warm air diaphragm to diaphragm. You don't move on under such circumstances, you hold on. Had fun. Found fresh flowers amongst the headstones & moon brains. Scattered a bulb, eyes open. I'm alive and you are with me. "What do they know of England, who only England know?" Now's the time to push things forward. Slowly, and starting from nowhere. Whitewashed bones, close shaven. Breathe deep. Blank Page Week. |