Is any form o'
poetry more maligned
but still diffic?
(Quite possibly)
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
New York Magazne - simply the best
For witty, irreverent yet never mean editorial look no further. This magazine is not just in love with the city, it's subject, the magazine is in a long-term healthy relationship with the complete package: core (Manhattan) bad moods (The Bronx) pretensions (Brooklyn) roots (Staten Island) and nutty inlaws (Queens).
The first issue I ever read gave me 200 hundred reasons to love the city, especially at the moment, as capitalism crumbles.
This is one of my favourite reasons:
http://nymag.com/news/articles/reasonstoloveny/2008/52970/
The first issue I ever read gave me 200 hundred reasons to love the city, especially at the moment, as capitalism crumbles.
This is one of my favourite reasons:
http://nymag.com/news/articles/reasonstoloveny/2008/52970/
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursdays are grim but Fridays are magic!
Friday! Friday! It never gets old!
I'm enjoying the quiet half hour before work when I can do what I like and right now, in between tapping on this battered la'to', that means gazing out the window as the city wakes up. New York is a late riser, no question and aside from the sounds of construction (proof that the recession is over?) it is quiet. Well, almost quiet: the bright red alarm bird who warbles as soon as the sun comes up is singing his tiny heart out. Is he looking for a mate? He really is bright red by the way, curiously exotic given his concrete surroundings.
Incidentally, I don't hold opinions on every day of the week, this theme has played itself out. On to the next...
I'm enjoying the quiet half hour before work when I can do what I like and right now, in between tapping on this battered la'to', that means gazing out the window as the city wakes up. New York is a late riser, no question and aside from the sounds of construction (proof that the recession is over?) it is quiet. Well, almost quiet: the bright red alarm bird who warbles as soon as the sun comes up is singing his tiny heart out. Is he looking for a mate? He really is bright red by the way, curiously exotic given his concrete surroundings.
Incidentally, I don't hold opinions on every day of the week, this theme has played itself out. On to the next...
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thursday, day of woe.
Thursday, Thursday, most hated of days! Why are Thursdays so tricky? Is it because it's just one more day between you and the weekend? I don't begrudge the working week, particularly, but by Thursday I'm tired and simply waiting for the magic of Friday. Is it because historically crappy things happen on Thursday (freak rain storms, broken shoes, losing travel card, arguments and the big one, death) or, is is an irrational prejudice, like any other?
No
Thursdays ming! Thursdays may even suck.
It started when I was 15, late for school, it was drizzling of course, I believe it was that thankless part of Winter after Christmas. It was bleak and cold and even looking up to the sky requires considerable resilience. I had survived, I had made it to school, in the snot-coloured uniform. I was working away during CDT, Craft, Design Technolgy, a subject so grandiose it could only fail to disappoint, for we learnt next to nothing about craft or design and technology wasn't even mentioned. Anyway, dutifully carving up pieces of wood for no good reason, I was demonstrating a keen eye for turns on the ban saw. Quietly going about my business. When I looked down and saw the ring finger of my left hand ON the blade. There was blood.
The purity of my wood had been compromised.
Without wanting to turn anyone's stomach, it was a mere superficial wound and certainly looked worse than it was. That said, blood on the floor is never a good sign in a room full of metal so I turned to a classmate and sighing flashed the bleeding limb-ette. She took over, grabbed the teacher and I was made to sit down for the rest of the class, elevating the luckless finger to let the bleeding abate.
I was more annoyed than hurt as I realised with a stab of spite that this simply would not have happened on any other day.
I still have a small scar and whenever something merdique happens on a Thursday I contemplate the white line of vindication and feel somewhat reassured: It's not me. It's Thursday.
No
Thursdays ming! Thursdays may even suck.
It started when I was 15, late for school, it was drizzling of course, I believe it was that thankless part of Winter after Christmas. It was bleak and cold and even looking up to the sky requires considerable resilience. I had survived, I had made it to school, in the snot-coloured uniform. I was working away during CDT, Craft, Design Technolgy, a subject so grandiose it could only fail to disappoint, for we learnt next to nothing about craft or design and technology wasn't even mentioned. Anyway, dutifully carving up pieces of wood for no good reason, I was demonstrating a keen eye for turns on the ban saw. Quietly going about my business. When I looked down and saw the ring finger of my left hand ON the blade. There was blood.
The purity of my wood had been compromised.
Without wanting to turn anyone's stomach, it was a mere superficial wound and certainly looked worse than it was. That said, blood on the floor is never a good sign in a room full of metal so I turned to a classmate and sighing flashed the bleeding limb-ette. She took over, grabbed the teacher and I was made to sit down for the rest of the class, elevating the luckless finger to let the bleeding abate.
I was more annoyed than hurt as I realised with a stab of spite that this simply would not have happened on any other day.
I still have a small scar and whenever something merdique happens on a Thursday I contemplate the white line of vindication and feel somewhat reassured: It's not me. It's Thursday.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
To facebook?
A large part of my being is anti facespace, mybook, linked-in etc, it smacks of self-obsession and if there's anything this generation doesn't need, it's a new avenue for self-expression. We seem to be so busy emoting about our lot that we don't actually do much living. Call me old-fashioned but surely it's better to have too much to relay rather than a detailed rendering of your life, minute-by-minute? This, although never vocalized, has always been my opinion.
Then I moved away from the homeland and the online photo albums became less token and more vital as I watch the lives of my friends evolve. I liked it. It helped me to cope with the distance and although no-one knows this, I'm secretly nice and like to see when people procreate and/or meet new loves. It's sweet to see how happy people are.
Naturally, with any shift of opinion there is always that moment when the backlash begins. And so it was with facebook or whatever platform it is you are using. But now, today, as the fuss has died down and the online networking phenomenon is a routine part of life and no longer a headline, it becomes clear: Facebook is simply the modern equivalent of the phone book, back when the phone book was largely accurate because people stayed put. I remember reading American plays and thinking how easy it was to track someone down back then, all you needed was a name. Men sourced dates, parents introduced each other when their own offspring were too inept to do it and 12 year-olds started talking about school after school. It was simple.
In the 80s and 90s the world went a bit urban, or so it felt and everything seemed to speed up. In speeding up, and moving up, out, on, through, details were lost and one of those details was the concept of using a phonebook. It became infinitely more difficult to find someone, there was still Directory Enquiries but in order for that to work you would have to know some part of your intended's address. Men presumably did not scour the phonebook for dates and parents stopped making smalltalk. The twelve-year olds may have made it work though.
So it was and as my peers and I came of age, phone numbers achieved this hazy holy grail of friendship and wooing, for to have the phone number meant to have access to your intended. Success was gauged by the simple possession, or not, of the phone number. You didn't even have to kiss, you simply had to leave with the number scribbled on a bit of paper to prove that it was on. It makes me feel nostalgic just to remember it.
Now things are different again, now it is more like the days of the phonebook because by knowing someone's name you can, once again, find them. It's nice and simple and honest, because no-one forgets a name. But because everyone on these sites is so accessible, it is also much more difficult to read the signals, especially if you're trying to go out with someone. E-mailing on facebook is almost meaningless, conversely, befriending someone online usually means you stop making any effort to e-mail them at all, because you don't have to, because you have access to them for as long as they use facebook.
Weird. Progress begets it's own problems it would seem.
Then I moved away from the homeland and the online photo albums became less token and more vital as I watch the lives of my friends evolve. I liked it. It helped me to cope with the distance and although no-one knows this, I'm secretly nice and like to see when people procreate and/or meet new loves. It's sweet to see how happy people are.
Naturally, with any shift of opinion there is always that moment when the backlash begins. And so it was with facebook or whatever platform it is you are using. But now, today, as the fuss has died down and the online networking phenomenon is a routine part of life and no longer a headline, it becomes clear: Facebook is simply the modern equivalent of the phone book, back when the phone book was largely accurate because people stayed put. I remember reading American plays and thinking how easy it was to track someone down back then, all you needed was a name. Men sourced dates, parents introduced each other when their own offspring were too inept to do it and 12 year-olds started talking about school after school. It was simple.
In the 80s and 90s the world went a bit urban, or so it felt and everything seemed to speed up. In speeding up, and moving up, out, on, through, details were lost and one of those details was the concept of using a phonebook. It became infinitely more difficult to find someone, there was still Directory Enquiries but in order for that to work you would have to know some part of your intended's address. Men presumably did not scour the phonebook for dates and parents stopped making smalltalk. The twelve-year olds may have made it work though.
So it was and as my peers and I came of age, phone numbers achieved this hazy holy grail of friendship and wooing, for to have the phone number meant to have access to your intended. Success was gauged by the simple possession, or not, of the phone number. You didn't even have to kiss, you simply had to leave with the number scribbled on a bit of paper to prove that it was on. It makes me feel nostalgic just to remember it.
Now things are different again, now it is more like the days of the phonebook because by knowing someone's name you can, once again, find them. It's nice and simple and honest, because no-one forgets a name. But because everyone on these sites is so accessible, it is also much more difficult to read the signals, especially if you're trying to go out with someone. E-mailing on facebook is almost meaningless, conversely, befriending someone online usually means you stop making any effort to e-mail them at all, because you don't have to, because you have access to them for as long as they use facebook.
Weird. Progress begets it's own problems it would seem.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Tibidabo, Barcelona
and I shall give to you... said to be named after the temptation of Christ...
This is one of the most poignant places I have ever visited. I couldn't pinpoint what makes it so compelling but like most magical places, it is more than the sum of it's parts. If however I did try to break it up into parts I'd have to start with the timing.
I've been to Barcelona a fair few times however it was always after exams when summer evenings open out before you, full of opportunity. So my feelings towards Barcelona have always been one of liberation and freedom but there is more.
Another less specific consideration is the sheer commitment involved in getting there. Walk to one end of La Rambla, board the subway. At the other end, pay two euros (approx $ 147 at current conversion rates) to board a fenicular railway. Yes, a tram that is pulled up claustrophobically-tight turns by one single, fraying rope. Those of an anxious disposition should look away!
After winding up the hill, you will be confronted with a retro, pleasing theme park to your right, with decaying rides and sugary goodness in the form of churros. It has a niche appeal all of it's own but to stop here is to miss the main event.
The church.
I'm not joking, for in the church is the lift, the lift takes you up to the top of the church where you will find a narrow flight of stairs. Climb, climb, climb. The stairs open up to a large stone walled platform, once here you can walk around the entire frame of the church, marveling at the view. On one side there is the ochre confusion of Barcelona city, all noise and buildings. On the other side are the milky mountains of Barcelona, all hazy and undulating and luscious, a bit like a Henry Moore sculpture from the 40s.
This large stone vista is dotted with stone apostles, undeniably handsome, bearded men, looking out over the same views with an ingrained (get it?) sense of wisdom and acceptance. They appear to be diplomatically ignoring the rather transient tourists. They have seen it all before. It is one of the few examples I have even seen of a statuary having presence.
It is customary to spend a considerable amount of time with the apostles, seeing what they see. It stops the monkey-mind and slows you down, completing the transition from bustling working life to this altogether more considered, poignant phase.
But there is still more to see, up there on the ledge, of the church, on a hill, way up high. If you can bear to tear yourself away you must enter the central body of the building and start climbing an increasingly-steep series of ladders. Up, up, up, incidentally, this is not a time to wear a skirt above the knee.
Once you have run out of stairs and ladders, you will climb through a trap door. You can then walk out in to a tight, walled circle. Directly above and behind you is a statue of Jesus so large it literally frightens you. You are now at the very pinnacle and the views outward are hazier still, the world beneath you appears to be shimmering or breathing. You can see the rhythm. Far below you can hear distant screams of people on the fairground rides and you can smile at the thought of all that life so far below.
Wistful and compelling as this is, it is the company you keep that makes each visit to the very top so peculiarly affecting. The first time there was a collection of nuns, singing in one lilting voice to the statue of their Christ. On another occasion attractive school children were there with a teacher and part of their experience was to write one feeling or state on a piece of coloured-rice paper and throw it out into the world. Due to unexpected air thermals several of these paper birds came back to us, I caught 'Pax' (Peace) and Kate caught 'Amor' (Love).
Is it any surprise that I love it so ? I wonder that we managed to leave, but we do each time.
License plates of New York #3
Carly Simon's biggest fan or a nod to self-deprecation? Or maybe Carly Simon herself?
License plates of New York
I found the following on my wanders through the city.
Do we think this car belongs to a graphic designer?
Do we think this car belongs to a graphic designer?
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