These are the days of Miracle & Wonder!

Whilst sitting in a foreign land, waiting to come home, this helps to put things in perspective

This is Stackridge, with North Street Grande.  Merry Christmas.

.

Three Songs

Now, I don't have time to tell you about who John Clare is and just why it's so important that he's recognised as one of the great English poets.  That's my Dad's job.  All I wanted to say is that since this summer, I have been writing tunes to carry his words.  Have a listen, and see what you think.

Download 03 Remember, Dear Mary

Download 04 Nutting

Download 09 Three Springs

There's a possibility that I may get to record some of these properly in the next year or so - I have about a dozen of decent quality.  I apologise to anyone who may be instinctively opposed to the singing of folk music.

One Hymn to the Tune of Another

As I mentioned a few months back, I've been working on fitting familiar, singable tunes to unsingable (but lyrically good) hymns.  Here are a few that won't land me with copyright issues!

So, click to listen, right-click to download.  They are AIF files, so quite big ...

Abide With Me

God Moves In A Mysterious Way

O Jesus I Have Promised

For Maria

Download Loves Like A Lily

from a song by John Clare (1793 – 1864)

Being Lebanese

One of the best things about getting married is that it affords the opportunity to become someone you never were.  I am a British, English, Cornish Yorkshireman, so (as of Oct 25) Maria will have the privilege of sharing in those marvellous things.  Lucky girl.

She, on the other hand, is Lebanese (Melchite-Phoenician-Arab) American (inc. Scots, Irish, and probably some Germanic/Scandinavian stuff), so I can be too!  What a magnificent, not to say attractive, combination we will make :)

And in celebration of being just about to become partly Lebanese-American, here are a few of Earth's more famous Lebanese-Americans, in whose great company I shall soon no longer feel ashamed:

 

God Save Our Team

So, I've written a song for England, for the World Cup next summer.  Here it is.

Download Come_on_England

Obviously, it's a rotten recording and all that, but hopefully you get the idea.

With any luck, one day you may get the chance to hear it properly, as it sounds in my head (with all the trumpets, wah-wah solos, and laddish group-vocals which that entails), but if not, I hope you like it anyway.  And if you work at the FA, get in touch!

Ska + Lollipops = Jamaican Music Taking Over

Right, first thing's first.  I heard this song the night before last for the first time since I was little, and having done so, proceeded to listen to it 7 or 8 more times.  I just couldn't stop!  I kid you not; this cheesy little pop song did something to me:

But, before you go thinking that this is just a nice combination of high-pitched vocals and cutesy sentiment, remember that great oaks from little acorns grow ...

Millie Small was 16 when she was brought from Jamaica to London to make that record.  She was the first international Jamaican pop star, and it sold 6 million copies worldwide.  Before her, Jamaican music only lived in Jamaica - no one had heard of ska or rocksteady or reggae.

It was a 25 year old called Chris Blackwell who brought her over to Britain.  He'd been brought up in Jamaica and wanted to showcase its culture to the world.  After Millie, Blackwell discovered Jimmy Cliff - one of the greatest of the greats.  Then, when Cliff walked out him, Blackwell signed Bob Marley & the Wailers, and the rest is history: Jamaican music now belongs to the world.

But Millie was the first.

One Hymn To The Tune Of Another

For the last couple of months, I've given myself a different sort of creative project: to find singable tunes for unsingable hymns.

You know as well as I do that 8 out of 10 hymns have beautiful lyrics but nigh-atrocious, horribly clunky music.  It's not just that the melodies are dated, it's that we no longer sing like that - when was the last time Fight The Good Fight or God Moves In A Mysterious Way turned up in church?  Exactly, because we can't sing them.

And it's a huge huge shame - these words are our heritage (not to mention being 20 times better than most modern worship songs), and are going to waste.  So here I come to save the day ...

A few years ago, I discovered by accident that Amazing Grace fits the tune for House of the Rising Sun beautifully, but I was also fascinated to notice how giving the lyrics different melodic emphases somehow brings out new depth of meaning (plus the original context of the tune - the song of a repentant alcoholic - is very appropriate).  So that's what I've tried to do: bring new life to old words by singing them anew.

Here are some of my favourites:

                                Abide With Me
                                        tune: O Come, O Come Emmanuel
                                Love Divine, All Loves Excelling
                                        tune: Summertime
                                How Great Thou Art
                                        tune: Danny Boy
                                My Song Is Love Unknown
                                        tune: Dock Of The Bay
                                Onward Christian Soldiers
                                        tune: All Along The Watchtower
                                Joyful, Joyful
                                        tune: I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free
                                O For A Thousand Tongues
                                        tune: Blowin In The Wind
                                God Moves In A Mysterious Way
                                        tune: Greensleeves
                                It Is Well With My Soul
                                        tune: When A Man Loves A Woman

    
There are a few more too, but I'm winding down in my search now.  I find that once I'm on one kind of creative project, I can't really do any others, and I've missed writing - I've not been able to do any of any substance for the last two months.  I'm trying to switch back now (working on my story about a school set up to support the children of superheroes) so I thought I'd mention my hymns before I wave goodbye to them ...

The Baffled Gardener

Last weekend was my birthday, and a really great one it was too - the kind of day that felt like it suited everyone involved and, in doing so, suited me.  Along the way I received quite a bundle of presents, cards and the like, but I wanted to give an honourable mention to our friends the Lockharts, from whom I received a jar of (home-made) Dandelion Tea, and this poem:

Marigolds, by Robert Graves [abridged slightly]

With a fork drive Nature out,
She will ever yet return;
Hedge the flowerbed all about,
Pull or stab or cut or burn.

Look, the constant marigold
Springs again from hidden roots.
Baffled gardener you behold
New beginning and new shoots
Spring again from hidden roots.

Pull or stab or cut or burn
Love must ever yet return.

Our Favourite Iranian Superstar

You poor Westerners may not have heard of this sprightly wee fella, but from now on there will be no excuse.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Prince of Persian Pop - Arash ...

Burnsing Bright

So, a canty 250th birthday tae ye, bonnie lad Rabbie, ye big pile o blethering, philandering tosh that ye are!

And happy Burns Night to the rest of you.  Apparently, far more Burns Suppers take place in England than in Scotland now - read here for the experience of a London-based Scot at a ceilidh attended almost exclusively by Sassenachs.  It's enough to make you smile.

And here's my contribution.  I'm not a big fan of Robert Burns as a person, but this is a really beautiful love song that I heard for the first time this week.  It's sung by an old wife to her faithful husband:

-

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!

-

Genesis

As you know, I am a pretty AMAZING author/creative writer.  How did I get to be so good, you ask?  Well, on this evidence, it seems that it's a gift I've just always had:

 

Please note: I had no problem (as a five year-old) spelling 'straight', but nevertheless my lines were wonky.  I was ironic even then, it seems ...

a Psalm of David [NIV Version]

--

O House of David, put your trust in God.
Do not put your trust in idols;
In mindless treasures that cannot save you.
Do not let your eyes become fastened on man-made hopes,
Or on possessions to collect and be enslaved by.

For life is more than clothes, than food, than income;
Life is more than success, more than achievement;
It is more than what you know.
Life is more than you, O House of David,
So do not put your hope in yourself.

But look to God:
Offer Him your attention;
Open to Him your home.
Trust in Him, and know that He can be trusted.
Turn to Him, and see that He likes you,
Enjoys you, and believes in you.

The Lord of Heaven is pleased to call you His own;
Pleased to call you His home.

Praise the Lord.

--

[written during/about Rupert's sermon this morning]

St Francis & the Sow

The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
                                                                  though sometimes it is necessary
                                                                      to reteach a thing its loveliness,
                                                                               to put a hand on its brow
                                                                                                  of the flower
                                                                   and retell it in words and in touch
                                                                                                     it is lovely
                                               until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St. Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
                                                                   from the earthen snout all the way
                                 through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
                                             from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
                                                                 down through the great broken heart
                                      to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking & blowing beneath them:
                                                                    the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

                                                                                                                               Galway Kinnell

Festival Review - Dorian Gray, New Adventures

Matthew Bourne is a famous enough choreographer that I've actually heard of him, despite my less-than-miniscule knowledge of ballet in general and contemporary dance in particular.  I know that lots of people regard him as a bit of genius - a cutting edge, risk-taking trend-setter.  Whatever. In my humble opinion, this production was balls.

              

Maybe I'm just prudish and all (in which case I should apparently avoid Will Self's update of Wilde's novel, with added orgies), but if all a story has to offer is a character 'falling for' (ie. having sex with) person after person, I don't think that any intricacy of dance or ever-so-creative updates (the 'picture' is now an advertising board!  Amazing!!) could drag this out of its dirginess.  It's just boring!  Maybe Bourne is a genius, but in that case I would suggest that his genius is being wasted orchestrating orgasms - he comes across as another soulless try-hard.

So, I didn't really like it.  In fact, I walked out.  Before the interval.  It probably transformed itself into a highly thoughtful redemptive classic in the 2nd half, but I had gone looking for something fascinating and beautiful, and it was neither, alas.

Fringe Review #2 - DIRT

    

Chris Domig is an Austrian-American (ie. from Austria & living in America) and the one-man play he performs - about the experiences and internal conflicts of an Iraqi immigrant - has travelled too.  It was written in Germany in the early 90s (in the aftermath of the Gulf War) and became quite well-known at the time.  Following the most recent Iraq war, Domig remembered the play and embarked on a bit of a mission: contacting the original writer; convincing him to oversee a translation into English; and then performing the resulting piece.  Coming to the Fringe marks one of the final chapters of the story.

I saw Dirt because Domig is a friend-of-a-friend from New York and I'd got in touch when I heard about his Fringe run.  Turns out he's an absolute gem of a guy.  The play is quite a difficult experience to go through - you are seeing the world through the eyes of a man who is in love with the idea of The West, yet in reality is constantly belittled and abused as he scrapes a living selling roses.  This is not the sort of thing I would normally go to see, but it was really good for me.

The character - Sad, from Basra - will not tell us his surname because of his illegal status in the country.  He is, however, happy to tell us about park benches, philosophy, the rights of natives, and the delights of raw onions - my favourite bit is when he eats one, mid-speech.  The problem for the audience is attempting to discern what Sad believes in theory and what he knows in practice, because his monologue is full of contradictions.  But that, seemingly, is the life of the immigrant - torn between the hope of a new land (bursting with art, literature, and explanations for everything) and the loss of his own home, culture and language.

Dirt was not easy going, but, like I say, it was good for me.  On the one hand, it was good to be shown someone else's difficult life (without the temptation to 'try to help'), but also it was helpful for me as a writer to know that a character does not have to be coherent in order to make sense.

After the performance, Maria & I took Chris out for lunch and he told us how, the night before, he'd checked the show's bookings only to find that just 4 tickets had been sold, and 2 of those were critics.  He was so happy to see me in the front row!  In the end, the show was actually quite full, but was nice to feel appreciated :)

A Poem About Tithing!

[I just found this a few minutes ago - written in a slightly grumpy mood in a church service once upon a time.  Not too many songs on this subject!]

                                       I don't believe in tithing,
                                    In chopping of a tenth of me
                                      And making it an offering,
                                         Cos it'll be dead then,
                       And this is supposed to be a living sacrifice.

                                          Jesus didn't do that,
                                  Didn't lay down a pint of blood
                                     For the forgiveness of sins.
                                             It was all of him,
                                                     Dead
                                              And then alive.

I've Been Making A Movie! [conclusion]

Hi there.  I write to you from my new temporary accommodation - upstairs from the last place.  Hi.

Well, as you might remember, a month or so ago I was part of a team making a short movie for the 48 Hour film-making competition.  I signed up intending to be the writer, and ended up as principal actor, with responsibility for 'lusting after' Maria on screen.  That was within my range :)

Anyway, here it is.  It's a bit artsy, so it might benefit from a repeat viewing (or I could explain it to you if you really wanted, but surely the point of art is to be a bit wonky sometimes, isn't it?).

       

[the conclusion of] The Unbent Banana

[for the story so far, go here and then here ...]

Four days later, the still-green bananas were cut down from the tree and laid to rest in the back of a truck, alongside cousins from all across the plantation.  All except one.  She, a foot long and more, was left behind to continue growing, like a solitary stalk of wheat after harvest time.  The leaf-fronds of the tree, having equally loved and delighted in all of their offspring, now poured all their nurturing energy and whispered affection onto their one remaining charge.  They coaxed and cooed, affirmed and encouraged, trying to wash away the memories of those silly, teasing songs.  The unbent banana heard the leaves above tell her that they were glad she’d not been taken away from them, that they liked her, and that they were proud of her size and shape.

“Why be nice to me?” she asked.

“Why not?” they replied, seemingly confused.  “You are ours.”

“But all I’m going to do is rot – I’ll probably catch a disease or something and end up killing you too.”

“That makes no difference – it wouldn’t be your fault if you did.  None of this has been your fault, you know – you might as well blame us for feeding you.”

“You fed the others just the same, and they were alright.”

This time no reply came from the leafy canopy.  They wanted to say how stupid it was that some European politicians could make rules about what was and what wasn’t the correct size for one of their precious ovaries, but they let it go.

“Maybe I should just grow and see how big I can get,” the banana thought to herself, halfway between masochism and parent-pleasing.

__

In the entire plantation, not a single other banana remained.  Neighbouring trees, long stripped of their loads, could now see her.  Now she was theirs as well.  She herself was bloated but encouraged – almost happy, in a way – and beginning to yellow and ripen.  And then she was cut.

The plantation owner took her, measured her, took several photos of her, and put her in the fridge.  Cold and completely dark for the first time, she considered her position.  Now separate from the tree, she could feel the life in her ebbing away – slowly, but ebbing nonetheless.  Maybe the plantation owner had kept her growing out of curiosity, or for a special dessert – she could handle that.  But when the door reopened, it wasn’t the table for which she was due, but an office.  A small, thin knife was slid into her side, a small chunk of flesh removed, and then voices.

“It’s good.”

“Yes sir.”

“Very nice, actually.”

“Yes sir – very nice, sir.”

“And the length?”

“Length sir? Forty-two centimetres, sir.”

“Mmmmm...”

“Yes sir...”

“Plant her.”

“Yes sir!”

And so it was.  No longer teased and laughed at, this one banana was planted in the greenhouse, fed, and replanted outside.  A label was attached to her stem as it matured into a trunk:

Genus: O’Connor

New Variety

Bred for strength, size, and flat-packing

PRIORITY

Before a banana browns, or even ripens to a sickly-looking yellow, it is watched intently from above.  Bananas are ovaries, and very important – the privilege of living to develop your own stem, leaves, flowers and fruit is the most cherished hope of all.

Being a Writer

When people meet me and ask what I do, I look around for Tom or Josiah to explain, "He's a writer - he writes novels and things and does other jobs in order to support writing."  It's good to hear it from them; it reassures me, and I don't really trust it when I say it myself.

That's one reason I like my friends.

But really, I'm not being a very good writer just at the moment.  About a month ago, my period of working 10 hours a day finished, leaving me with (reasonably) spare time virtually every day - perfect for a writer, surely?  But no, not really.  I write best first thing in the morning, which, ironically, is the only set period of work I have (7-10am, handing out my Metros), and, having been over-employed for a while, my time-management skills are very poor.  I could easily be writing 2000 words a day, but I'm not, and I'm frustrated.  GRRRRRRRRR!!!

So anyway, I thought you might like to know the stories I've been working on in the last two weeks:

          Back To Eden [two boys discover the Garden during their gap year]
          In Search Of A Lock [a guy has a key and wonders what to do with it]
          A Perfect Son [a Jewish boy has autism but no accompanying disabilities]
          In The Abyss And Above [a father & son escape from the Abyss their people live in]
          The Man Who Sold Shares In Himself [self-explanatory]

Quite a few! I tend to flick between things, you see - that may be another reason that I can't seem to build up much momentum ...

The Unbent Banana pt.2

One day, when the clouds were racing and the greens and browns of the plantation were flickering in the changing light, a change came.  The day had started normally enough, with whispers of Is she still big? fluttering from sister to sister, none of whom realised how horrible they sounded.  And then, other voices were heard.

“Yes sir,” said one, submissively.

Two men came by.  The second of them they had seen before, since he was the plantation manager and an important person in his own way.  But the man who preceded him was much different.  He was foreign – white – tall and solemn-faced beneath his white hat.  His name was Paul O’Connor.  Mr O’Connor worked for the Irish government and was inspecting the plantation – one of many in Belize from where the Republic of Ireland imported bananas into the European Union.  Mr O’Connor had three other locations to visit that morning before meeting with the Irish consul, but his eye for detail never left him because of mere busyness.  He came to a stop beneath a tree.  About seven feet above his head, the unbent banana hung helplessly.

“You’ve got a bit of a giant here,” he noted in an understated voice.

“Yes sir.”

“Stands right out from the rest.  Very large.”

“Yes sir.  Very large.”

“Too large for the EU though.”

“Yes sir?”

“Yes – too large – too long – probably too straight as well, knowing them.  Make a note of it.”

You can imagine the effect that these words were having.  Several of the bundle were barely able to contain their glee, and the sound of tittering fell from the tree.  Others – the more thoughtful of the bunch – now began to feel sorry for their sister, who would now be left to rot alone; unpicked, unbought, uneaten.

“Could I use your phone?” was all Mr O’Connor said.  The two men turned to leave the way that they had come, and in their absence, the titters overflowed in a torrent of laughter and gossip and spiteful song.  No one had heard anything like this before.  And one banana stayed still and silent, sizable and straight, wondering how things could get any worse.

-

                                                           [to be concluded!]

The Unbent Banana

Before a banana browns, or even ripens to a sickly-looking yellow, it lays alongside multitudes of its brethren, high in the canopy above a tall, straight trunk.  Bananas are ovaries; the fruity offspring of a tropical tree; and, as the reproductive organs of the plant, are pretty important.  The huge, juicy leaf-fronds cluster around the green, growing banana bundles, partly to conceal the plant's private parts, but also to see how they are all 'getting on'.  With each morning's light, the fronds rustle with pleasure at the lengthening, maturing ovaries beneath them, woozy and delighted and broody.

The bananas themselves curve in semi-circular bundles like huge, multi-fingered fists; four or five per tree.  There can be anything up to forty fruits per fist, so when a single banana stands out from the rest, its sisters all know pretty quickly.  And that is what happened, once, to a banana in a bundle in Belize (which is in Central America).  She stood out.

Right from the time when her sisters were the size of green beans, she was the length of a runner bean.  They teased her, saying rude things that made her want to hide away, which of course was impossible.  While every green finger in her bunch was small and delicately curved, one after the next, all in perfect physical harmony, she stuck out strong and straight: vertical (in that she pointed directly down).

"You're not a banana at all," chorused the sisters.  "You're a cucumber!"

None of them had ever seen a cucumber, but the accusation stuck because it wasn't far from the truth: when the rest had reached the runner bean stage, she was a courgette, only smoother and with paler skin.  Even the bananas from other bunches could see her now, and they sang teasing songs which they found funny, but weren't.

"You are the main course, you are the main course, you are the main course - we are dessert!"

"Bananas are supposed to be in fruit salads!"

"Stop growing please - you'll pull down the trees!"

The unbent banana kept her head down as far as she could, staring at the ground beneath her and trying to shut out the voices.  Why was she different?  Why couldn't she just be one of the bunch?  She looked at her body and wondered whether, maybe, everything might even itself out in the end - that she would stop growing and be caught up by the others, or that someday she might have some nice, gentle curves to show off.

But as the days went by, no change came.  The clenched fists of fruit swelled, but one single swearing finger remained raised.  Some embarrassed people feel small; she felt huge - hopelessly, clumsily HUGE.

-

                           [I might tell you the rest of the story one day!]

Larry Norman died last week - why did nobody tell me?

For goodness' sakes people, learn your history - we need to know who these people are!

Well anyway, God rest his soul.  Have a listen:

And was Jerusalem builded here?

This is Dartmoor Prison - almost the epitomy of 'dark satanic mills' as far as looks are concerned - and tomorrow I get to go inside!

It's been nearly 3 years since I first got asked to go and 'do something' in a jail, but it's never happened.  Tomorrow, it will.

As a treat - and by way of a Christmas present for the poor lonely souls who vacate this page of mine - I thought I'd give you a copy of the song I'll probably be singing tomorrow.

Here it is: Download 08_my_fathers_eyes.m4a

[recorded at the Factory years ago, with my friend Rami from Egypt on violin ...]

something to which I aspire

FLAMBEAU, once the most famous criminal in France and later a very private detective in England, had long retired from both professions.  After all his violent adventures, he still possessed what is possessed by so many Latins, and what is absent (for instance) in so many Americans: the energy to retire.  It can be seen in many a large hotel-proprietor whose one ambition is to be a small peasant. It can be seen in many a French provincial shopkeeper, who pauses at the moment when he might develop into a detestable millionaire and buy a street of shops, to fall back quietly and comfortably on domesticity and dominoes.  Flambeau had casually and almost abruptly fallen in love with a Spanish Lady, married and brought up a large family on a Spanish estate, without displaying any apparent desire to stray again beyond its borders.                                                                                                             [GK Chesterton, The Secret of Father Brown.]

I read this passage (kind of in passing) a week or so ago, and it snuggled its way into me without incident, only to keep popping up as the days have gone by.  I really like this, and can visualise it happily: the provincial Mediterranean lack of I-must-take-over-the-world-NOW zeal; the appreciation of family above stuff; all that.  I equate it with Catholicism somehow - the way the Huguenots were chased out of France for being too Capitalistic (ie. working on all the saints' days and getting rich) - along with being more sun-drenched than us northerners.

I read this last week too:

Chesterton argued that we don't need a socialist state so much as we need more independently owned farms and businesses.  The problem with capitalism was that is wasn't really capitalism; it was corporate socialism.  Fewer families were owning more and more of the means of production and using government to protect their interests.  The solution to this inequality was not communism - which would only surther disenfranchise the workers in the name of that vacuous abstraction 'the people'.  Nor was it 'less government', for that would help only those already rich.  Rather, the answer was decentralisation and greater distribution of the means of production.  'There cannot be a nation of millionaires,' Chesterton contended, 'and there never has been a nation of Utopian comrades; but there have been any number of nations of tolerably contented peasants.'                                      [Robert Inchausti, Subversive Orthodoxy.]