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It's not all doom...
Aug. 7th, 2016 01:27 pmA lot of posts lately have been about emotions. It's like all the things that make an EdwardS an EdwardS have been hidden, perhaps because it seemed like it had become a one-track record.
So aside from all that stuff (which I will reply to people about later now life is calming down), the music and cars have not been forgotten. Mostly cars.
I bought a Jaguar XJS project in August last year. It had dumped all the coolant, allegedly had a blown head gasket. V12. Head gasket.
V12.
Head gasket.
But it seemed solid and stuff. It got ignored for a few months because every time I opened the bonnet and looked at the engine, I cried a bit and ran away. In April though, I had a friend at work wanting to see it so the plan was, put water in, wait for steam from the exhaust. There was no steam. There was no steam after 40 minutes. However, there was a stream of water coming from a pipe union that had detached.
Reconnected, the car sat happily. So it was driven around the farm. It still didn't show any signs of a blown head gasket. Took it for an MoT. It passed. From "head gasket project" to "roadworthy" in 10 minutes with no costs...
Thing is though, it's a V12 Jaguar. I'm not a British car person. They rust, they're badly made. So I put it up for sale...
And actually made a profit that almost covers losses on some other stupid things, like the VW New Beetle I bought partly to let someone learn to drive that turned out to be shit. Entropy hit the rest of the cars, though, so I got rid of some, and now I have a replacement.
The XJS:
I did about 800 miles in it, which at 17mpg was "enough". 17mpg though? I should get something far more sensible, right?
Doh! Well, at least Mercedes are reliable, right...
*sigh*
Actually it works fine. but it does, er, about 17mpg. The thing is, it is a V8-powered beast that is carrying a good tonne more than it needs to to be a conveyance. Yes, it can move quickly, but even at 70mph, it's got to carry more weight for the same result.
Fortunately, a solution may have appeared. Technically interesting and made by Mercedes, so well within my comfort zone, cheap enough that if I don't like it, I can just put it in a corner of the garage as a "historically interesting" car, and definitely not trying to carry too much weight to move one person and their shopping around. Arguably I'm not reducing my fleet unless I get rid of the hearse and long-term project (as in, haven't done anything with it) Renault Twingo, but I don't feel so much pressure to reduce as "rationalise") - and I'm down to six cars now, with an end goal of four.
Six currently:
1993 Mercedes 500 SEC - for long drives and ridiculous comfort, but useless in town, can't park it anywhere, does single-digit MPG in urban congestion. It needs mild restoration, but it cost about £90,000 new in 1993 - my first 3-bedroom house, for comparison, cost £41,000 in 1995.
1998 Mercedes SLK 230 - needs no explanation, I love this car and won't part with it, but it does need some time off the road to refurbish the interior and service the gearbox, and ideally, replace the front wings and deal with any rust.
1993 Vauxhall (Eagle) Statesman Hearse - this is not long for this world, it's going to fail the MoT this month on extensive rust and is such a design that repair would be insanely expensive. If it does pass the MoT it will get one Whitby.
1997 MG F - completely, utterly rotten.
2002 Renault Twingo Mk 1 - a car not sold in the UK, cute, minimalist, LHD proper French simplicity, except being a 2002 it had a more sophisticated engine than I expected when I took it on with a blown head gasket. I might fix it yet.
And incoming, new economical car from 1998.
What I'd like to end up with.
SLK - because. SEC - because it's a classic and needs restoration and saving. Economical daily car, which will probably be a Mercedes A-class (again) or C180 Estate. The incoming economical car can be forgotten if I don't like it. And ideally, I want a Mercedes 500SL again - 1989-1992 model. That's unlikely though, but if there's one thing this year has shown me, it IS possible to save for a goal - even if that goal is misguided and stupid. The other thing I've decided is that apart from random, long-term, potentially profitable or low stress projects, I am sticking to Mercedes cars only. Even if they're from a period of bad build quality, I still understand how to fix them.
So aside from all that stuff (which I will reply to people about later now life is calming down), the music and cars have not been forgotten. Mostly cars.
I bought a Jaguar XJS project in August last year. It had dumped all the coolant, allegedly had a blown head gasket. V12. Head gasket.
V12.
Head gasket.
But it seemed solid and stuff. It got ignored for a few months because every time I opened the bonnet and looked at the engine, I cried a bit and ran away. In April though, I had a friend at work wanting to see it so the plan was, put water in, wait for steam from the exhaust. There was no steam. There was no steam after 40 minutes. However, there was a stream of water coming from a pipe union that had detached.
Reconnected, the car sat happily. So it was driven around the farm. It still didn't show any signs of a blown head gasket. Took it for an MoT. It passed. From "head gasket project" to "roadworthy" in 10 minutes with no costs...
Thing is though, it's a V12 Jaguar. I'm not a British car person. They rust, they're badly made. So I put it up for sale...
And actually made a profit that almost covers losses on some other stupid things, like the VW New Beetle I bought partly to let someone learn to drive that turned out to be shit. Entropy hit the rest of the cars, though, so I got rid of some, and now I have a replacement.
The XJS:
I did about 800 miles in it, which at 17mpg was "enough". 17mpg though? I should get something far more sensible, right?
Doh! Well, at least Mercedes are reliable, right...
*sigh*
Actually it works fine. but it does, er, about 17mpg. The thing is, it is a V8-powered beast that is carrying a good tonne more than it needs to to be a conveyance. Yes, it can move quickly, but even at 70mph, it's got to carry more weight for the same result.
Fortunately, a solution may have appeared. Technically interesting and made by Mercedes, so well within my comfort zone, cheap enough that if I don't like it, I can just put it in a corner of the garage as a "historically interesting" car, and definitely not trying to carry too much weight to move one person and their shopping around. Arguably I'm not reducing my fleet unless I get rid of the hearse and long-term project (as in, haven't done anything with it) Renault Twingo, but I don't feel so much pressure to reduce as "rationalise") - and I'm down to six cars now, with an end goal of four.
Six currently:
1993 Mercedes 500 SEC - for long drives and ridiculous comfort, but useless in town, can't park it anywhere, does single-digit MPG in urban congestion. It needs mild restoration, but it cost about £90,000 new in 1993 - my first 3-bedroom house, for comparison, cost £41,000 in 1995.
1998 Mercedes SLK 230 - needs no explanation, I love this car and won't part with it, but it does need some time off the road to refurbish the interior and service the gearbox, and ideally, replace the front wings and deal with any rust.
1993 Vauxhall (Eagle) Statesman Hearse - this is not long for this world, it's going to fail the MoT this month on extensive rust and is such a design that repair would be insanely expensive. If it does pass the MoT it will get one Whitby.
1997 MG F - completely, utterly rotten.
2002 Renault Twingo Mk 1 - a car not sold in the UK, cute, minimalist, LHD proper French simplicity, except being a 2002 it had a more sophisticated engine than I expected when I took it on with a blown head gasket. I might fix it yet.
And incoming, new economical car from 1998.
What I'd like to end up with.
SLK - because. SEC - because it's a classic and needs restoration and saving. Economical daily car, which will probably be a Mercedes A-class (again) or C180 Estate. The incoming economical car can be forgotten if I don't like it. And ideally, I want a Mercedes 500SL again - 1989-1992 model. That's unlikely though, but if there's one thing this year has shown me, it IS possible to save for a goal - even if that goal is misguided and stupid. The other thing I've decided is that apart from random, long-term, potentially profitable or low stress projects, I am sticking to Mercedes cars only. Even if they're from a period of bad build quality, I still understand how to fix them.
I feel like I'm sitting here trying to get work done and be normal
And bits keep falling off.
I keep down-rezzing, losing polygons, simplifying.
My back feels like one of those old flip-board timetables, constantly spinning, except it's not displaying anything new. Just blank squares over and over.
And there's no reason for it.
Nothing has changed (everything's changed).
Work is work, food is food, sleep is sleep (can't sleep).
Maybe if my limbs fall off all at once I won't have to pick them up anymore.
but it's so annoying
and meaningless
and should be hidden
But it just won't stop happening
Even when there's no reason
To be
falling
apart.
And bits keep falling off.
I keep down-rezzing, losing polygons, simplifying.
My back feels like one of those old flip-board timetables, constantly spinning, except it's not displaying anything new. Just blank squares over and over.
And there's no reason for it.
Nothing has changed (everything's changed).
Work is work, food is food, sleep is sleep (can't sleep).
Maybe if my limbs fall off all at once I won't have to pick them up anymore.
but it's so annoying
and meaningless
and should be hidden
But it just won't stop happening
Even when there's no reason
To be
falling
apart.
Actually....
Jul. 22nd, 2016 11:56 pmI think it's time for an actual update, not some half-arsed stuff about bears, because though the bear thing is a thread, it doesn't like being forced into tortured metaphors.
And yet, when I start to write it, it's just "mememme".
Fuck that shit.
How are you all? Who is still here? What's your life like now, have you got married/kids/small trained pet goats? Are you happy?
And yet, when I start to write it, it's just "mememme".
Fuck that shit.
How are you all? Who is still here? What's your life like now, have you got married/kids/small trained pet goats? Are you happy?
Funny how perspective shifts. Each layer, each generation, seems bigger and closer than that which came before. The here and now, the youth and the established, that is all there is. Yet in the vanishing point there we see where we come from, the acorn at the start of the family tree. In Syria, Israel, America, Africa, Britain, Germany, Greece, Turkey, Iran, Iraq... everywhere... we glance back at the tiniest one of all with decreasing frequency and scrutiny, fascinated by the detail on the largest, the first to be found, the easiest to dismantle and study.
Yet the littlest one is the one that defines the shape of all the layers above it. It is the one that takes the most effort to reach, and the most skill to retain all the clarity within the stories and the paths painted on that solid core, so small it can be clasped in a fist without changing the shape of the hand at all.
If you take the doll apart, layer by layer, when you see it again you don't just see the colourful surface. When you see it, you see all the faces at come before. Even at the vanishing point, that last little seed is as clear as day.
Maybe we don't want to. Maybe we're happy with the multicultural matriarch we find at the start, the illusion of home comforts and happiness, without going back to find the slave traders, racists and warmongers that came before. But without seeing them, we're too easily led into believing that our hate and fears are justified. And when we shift into the next layer, when that wooden shell clicks around us, hiding us from immediate scrutiny, who will be looking then?
It is, of course, all about the smallest one in the end. What impression are we letting the media and leaders of today place on future generations, as we hide from refugees, lash out and bite at shadows and lies, take comfort in the very things that have poisoned humanity for generations?
Yet the littlest one is the one that defines the shape of all the layers above it. It is the one that takes the most effort to reach, and the most skill to retain all the clarity within the stories and the paths painted on that solid core, so small it can be clasped in a fist without changing the shape of the hand at all.
If you take the doll apart, layer by layer, when you see it again you don't just see the colourful surface. When you see it, you see all the faces at come before. Even at the vanishing point, that last little seed is as clear as day.
Maybe we don't want to. Maybe we're happy with the multicultural matriarch we find at the start, the illusion of home comforts and happiness, without going back to find the slave traders, racists and warmongers that came before. But without seeing them, we're too easily led into believing that our hate and fears are justified. And when we shift into the next layer, when that wooden shell clicks around us, hiding us from immediate scrutiny, who will be looking then?
It is, of course, all about the smallest one in the end. What impression are we letting the media and leaders of today place on future generations, as we hide from refugees, lash out and bite at shadows and lies, take comfort in the very things that have poisoned humanity for generations?
You'll have to imagine the animation - this is buzzing around my head too much but I'm writing a different story so have to let it out before it corrupts things.
"Gaz"
London's skyline struck a harsh silhouette against another waterloo sunset, as the golden light struck the walls of the Balfron Tower. Sounding like some final challenge in a mythical quest, the only real challenge had been the stairs. And keeping rats out of the trash. Nevertheless, Gary was proud to call it home, from childhood chasing around the estate to those first bold ventures out alone.
His friends - gang had the wrong connotations, though he knew they were seen as such - had wandered Tower Hamlets, testing their boundaries, testing their loyalties, for years. Even as they got older, cars and mopeds replaced BMXs and Grifters, Alex's stolen, brush painted BMX looking astoundingly similar to Uzodimma's stolen one from a couple of years ago. They called him Um Bongo, blissfully unaware of the casual racism and geographical inaccuracy, and he took it with good grace. Alex would always deny the bike's origins, swearing his dad had bought it at the boozer two weeks before Christmas when Uzo's had been stolen AFTER Christmas. It didn't matter, it was just a bike.
Time passed, though, and like stones turned by the tide, his friends disappeared from view. Alex went to Portsmouth Uni, and was never heard from again. Uzodimma apprenticed at a marketing firm, and worked in The City now. The City proper. Not Tower Hamlets. He'd see him on the tube sometimes, and catch his eye, but they never really spoke.
Dean was the sad one. Dean had gone from being the leader, really, always with money, always with the best ideas. He'd spent years showing them his latest program on the old Commodore, and they'd not and demand to play Green Beret again, waiting for the tape to load, transfixed and detached watching the lines flicker. For those few minutes, they'd be silent, praying to be the first to get the joystick. Thrustmaster II. Heh. All those days flicking through dog-eared copies of "Hustler" or "Escort" had lent a gravity to the word "Thrust" far beyond a mere battle between forces, young lust and unsophistication. "Any hole's a goal" they'd laugh.
They'd laugh less. Differently. When Dean came out to them. That was intense. They wanted to see him the same, but the "backs to the wall, lads" echoed too heavily in his ears, and he withdrew.
Gary tapped his iPhone. The game, Krazy Kangaroos, held his attention again, another 30 minutes not looking around the flat, even out of the window. The screen called out In-App Purchase: Bigger Pouch. He tapped. Dean made another 30p. 30p across millions of devices.
Backs to the wall indeed. Dean wouldn't have touched them in a million years, and now he could afford a million whores, if he so wanted. Last Gary heard, Dean was living in Surrey and adopting.
Gary thought, briefly, about the letters from the CSA, an unfortunate night in the pub, and Chelsea. Not the place, the girl. He had tried, but failed, and returned home.
The sun had almost vanished now. He relit the cigarette, finished, and flicked the butt off the balcony; it twirled and twisted, no control, no way to influence its destiny as it plummeted to the concrete below. Pulling the slide door shut, he looked across to the worn chair in the corner. "Yes mum. I'm coming. Do you need help mum, or can you do it yourself this time?"
------
Gary stood on the balcony, smoking a cigarette. The city had been his once, youthful escapades. Chilling with his mates. Dean, Alex, Umbongo. Umbongo was really called Uzodimma, and preferred Uzo, 'cause it was like the machine gun a bit, but they called him Umbongo. Because, Congo, like. Darkies all came from there, didn't they? Anyway, they were mates. Didn't matter what you called each other.
Of course, Dean had turned out to be a fag. Posh fucker, moved out of Tower Hamlets as fast as he could. Like we're not good enough for him. He'd always argued that Alex had stolen Umbongo's bike and repainted it, but Alex said his dad had bought it from a man in the pub. Yeah, the same dad that leathered him. At least he'd had a dad.
Still. All that stuff, Gary didn't care. He knew his place, and it was here, king of Balfron Tower, in the absurdly named Tower Hamlets. Nothing to do with Kings talking to skulls here, though there were plenty of crap cheap cigars in the gutters. Like the ones his dad smoked, when he was there.
Now? Now Gary had a bastard son and an invalid mother. He heard the screech from the living room again. Flicked the cigarette off the balcony, and went inside. "Coming, mum" he signed. The balcony looked tempting.
----
Gary lives in Balfron Tower. He lives with his mum, who is disabled and old. He grew up there, and when it was time to finish school, he stayed. She couldn't support them on her own. He hated her for this, but he loved her, so spent ages wrestling with his brain.
It was easier when his friends were there. Uzo was cool, he was black and had a wicked sense of humour. Alex was a bit dodgy, Dean was always lovely to them, though, like.. like a father, almost. It got a bit weird when they were teenagers though, Dean wasn't as interested in the mags they found.
He wondered if all women looked like that. Of course he'd been with some. Well, one. He was still paying the child support.
"Gary!" came the yell. He rolled up his sleeves.He loved his mum. And tried hard not to look.
----
Under the bridge of Dalston Junction, I caught a flash in the mess of graffiti, highlighted by the setting sun. It seemed, somehow, important.
It simply read:
"Gaz was here".
( Read more... )
Okay, so, as either no-one saw this, or no-one has any reaction, I'll explain. The process of story writing, for me, begins with a cube. That cube has a core idea - a start point, an end point, and the 3D element is time & depth.
Each additional element chips bits off the cube, shaping it. So if you read this in reverse, you'll see the gist of the animation. Each retelling de-rezzes the original landscape, backdrop and colour until all you're left with is the graffiti.
And the 'moral' of this is that everyone has a story, everyone wants to leave their mark, no matter how crudely expressed or seemingly insubstantial. "Gaz" with the graffiti is the same one as the one where we have the full pictures, after all.
"Gaz"
London's skyline struck a harsh silhouette against another waterloo sunset, as the golden light struck the walls of the Balfron Tower. Sounding like some final challenge in a mythical quest, the only real challenge had been the stairs. And keeping rats out of the trash. Nevertheless, Gary was proud to call it home, from childhood chasing around the estate to those first bold ventures out alone.
His friends - gang had the wrong connotations, though he knew they were seen as such - had wandered Tower Hamlets, testing their boundaries, testing their loyalties, for years. Even as they got older, cars and mopeds replaced BMXs and Grifters, Alex's stolen, brush painted BMX looking astoundingly similar to Uzodimma's stolen one from a couple of years ago. They called him Um Bongo, blissfully unaware of the casual racism and geographical inaccuracy, and he took it with good grace. Alex would always deny the bike's origins, swearing his dad had bought it at the boozer two weeks before Christmas when Uzo's had been stolen AFTER Christmas. It didn't matter, it was just a bike.
Time passed, though, and like stones turned by the tide, his friends disappeared from view. Alex went to Portsmouth Uni, and was never heard from again. Uzodimma apprenticed at a marketing firm, and worked in The City now. The City proper. Not Tower Hamlets. He'd see him on the tube sometimes, and catch his eye, but they never really spoke.
Dean was the sad one. Dean had gone from being the leader, really, always with money, always with the best ideas. He'd spent years showing them his latest program on the old Commodore, and they'd not and demand to play Green Beret again, waiting for the tape to load, transfixed and detached watching the lines flicker. For those few minutes, they'd be silent, praying to be the first to get the joystick. Thrustmaster II. Heh. All those days flicking through dog-eared copies of "Hustler" or "Escort" had lent a gravity to the word "Thrust" far beyond a mere battle between forces, young lust and unsophistication. "Any hole's a goal" they'd laugh.
They'd laugh less. Differently. When Dean came out to them. That was intense. They wanted to see him the same, but the "backs to the wall, lads" echoed too heavily in his ears, and he withdrew.
Gary tapped his iPhone. The game, Krazy Kangaroos, held his attention again, another 30 minutes not looking around the flat, even out of the window. The screen called out In-App Purchase: Bigger Pouch. He tapped. Dean made another 30p. 30p across millions of devices.
Backs to the wall indeed. Dean wouldn't have touched them in a million years, and now he could afford a million whores, if he so wanted. Last Gary heard, Dean was living in Surrey and adopting.
Gary thought, briefly, about the letters from the CSA, an unfortunate night in the pub, and Chelsea. Not the place, the girl. He had tried, but failed, and returned home.
The sun had almost vanished now. He relit the cigarette, finished, and flicked the butt off the balcony; it twirled and twisted, no control, no way to influence its destiny as it plummeted to the concrete below. Pulling the slide door shut, he looked across to the worn chair in the corner. "Yes mum. I'm coming. Do you need help mum, or can you do it yourself this time?"
------
Gary stood on the balcony, smoking a cigarette. The city had been his once, youthful escapades. Chilling with his mates. Dean, Alex, Umbongo. Umbongo was really called Uzodimma, and preferred Uzo, 'cause it was like the machine gun a bit, but they called him Umbongo. Because, Congo, like. Darkies all came from there, didn't they? Anyway, they were mates. Didn't matter what you called each other.
Of course, Dean had turned out to be a fag. Posh fucker, moved out of Tower Hamlets as fast as he could. Like we're not good enough for him. He'd always argued that Alex had stolen Umbongo's bike and repainted it, but Alex said his dad had bought it from a man in the pub. Yeah, the same dad that leathered him. At least he'd had a dad.
Still. All that stuff, Gary didn't care. He knew his place, and it was here, king of Balfron Tower, in the absurdly named Tower Hamlets. Nothing to do with Kings talking to skulls here, though there were plenty of crap cheap cigars in the gutters. Like the ones his dad smoked, when he was there.
Now? Now Gary had a bastard son and an invalid mother. He heard the screech from the living room again. Flicked the cigarette off the balcony, and went inside. "Coming, mum" he signed. The balcony looked tempting.
----
Gary lives in Balfron Tower. He lives with his mum, who is disabled and old. He grew up there, and when it was time to finish school, he stayed. She couldn't support them on her own. He hated her for this, but he loved her, so spent ages wrestling with his brain.
It was easier when his friends were there. Uzo was cool, he was black and had a wicked sense of humour. Alex was a bit dodgy, Dean was always lovely to them, though, like.. like a father, almost. It got a bit weird when they were teenagers though, Dean wasn't as interested in the mags they found.
He wondered if all women looked like that. Of course he'd been with some. Well, one. He was still paying the child support.
"Gary!" came the yell. He rolled up his sleeves.He loved his mum. And tried hard not to look.
----
Under the bridge of Dalston Junction, I caught a flash in the mess of graffiti, highlighted by the setting sun. It seemed, somehow, important.
It simply read:
"Gaz was here".
( Read more... )
Okay, so, as either no-one saw this, or no-one has any reaction, I'll explain. The process of story writing, for me, begins with a cube. That cube has a core idea - a start point, an end point, and the 3D element is time & depth.
Each additional element chips bits off the cube, shaping it. So if you read this in reverse, you'll see the gist of the animation. Each retelling de-rezzes the original landscape, backdrop and colour until all you're left with is the graffiti.
And the 'moral' of this is that everyone has a story, everyone wants to leave their mark, no matter how crudely expressed or seemingly insubstantial. "Gaz" with the graffiti is the same one as the one where we have the full pictures, after all.
Green Dragon.
Nov. 23rd, 2015 12:37 am
Tal sent vivid dreams of cutting about Southern USA racing stock cars, a green Studebaker that snarled like a dragon and kicked dust when it pawed the ground.
Oh, and there was a team, and a girl, about 5' and slim built, better with an engine than anyone on the team and with a vicious sense of humour, and she was literally a partner in crime - spying, lookout as we robbed another team to keep racing. So much colour, so real, right down to getting caught, and swaggering bravado until one young fan handed over the play worn model of the dragon when the police caught up.
Then the tears. Then watching the girl pushed into a different car, and the mind your head sir, and the cops forgetting to take the toy - or maybe knowing that that moment cut more than losing any race - sat in the back with it held in cuffed hands. Seeing the dragon as just a beat-up Golden Hawk long past competitive days, hauled ass-first onto a towtruck, in the rear view mirror before those eyes, that face, came into focus and looked not like a knight who tamed a dragon, but an old man, tired, who never grew up. Dropping the toy dragon from oil-caked hands, and looking across to the car with the girl - no, the woman - and wondering how the fuck to cope with 4-7 years, resolving to confess all, and keep her out of it.
Note: That black absinthe. That's a good one.
Endangered Species
Nov. 8th, 2015 11:38 pm"Endangered Species"
One, two, three.
Three inexpertly rolled spliffs rest loosely in the ashtray, the product of youthful inexperience and recluctance to share the hard-won prize of mediocre British resin. Coat pulled shut tight and window open to pull the door shut, this little former hotbox starts to roll, the swish, swish, swish of a single wiper marking time to the tempo, white label rarity sought out like truffles before door to door, mass produced exclusivity made every mix a commoditiy.
White labels and white rizlas. White rain, solid, flutters down to the car. The roads change from black, to grey, to pure white. The literal driven snow, few tracks to show which animals had taken this path.
Two. One hangs rebelliously from a pout that owes nothing to kicking against the pricks and more to kicking the jukebox in a tyranny against mass-produced pop. 16 weeks of Bryan Adams was more than anyone should bear; a constant refrain of Mother Russia to show my Dominion over the common room an acceptable intervention from a 14-hole DM boot over ripped black jeans. The authorities could have spared the violence just by putting a different stereo in the smoking room, the fog of cheap cigarettes and stale-scratched leather jackets broken by the shining white of the beauticians. In two years this would be gone, the greebos, the crusties and the goths would never find a neutral ground with their like again.
“Fuck!”. Ash glows dangerously, caught and guided out of the window. Pause, hand in the icy blast, arm above the telltale line of dents that commemorated each attempted death of the little Panda. Every flooded engine, every failing lead, every crunching gearshift gained another, until the door resembled a hand-beaten steel drum. Percussive maintenance for the car, percussive maintenance for me as the tape changes sides, Chumbawamba when they mocked legends, rather than authoring the anthem of a thousand lagered-up casuals just waiting to knock someone down so they’d never get up again.
It was a golden time for that music. One Little Indian had brought such pleasures, and through work there was a small role in a fanzine that ensured a steady supply of new treasures and sounds.
One. Turning off the main road and onto the winding path from Stow to Eskdalemuir via Yarrow. Moonlight makes the road glow, and snow makes it merge into the verge and fields as if driving across an unexplored moon, no traces to be found here.
When the day comes to settle down, Who's to blame if you're not around? “Hah. No-one.”
Reach down, dip clutch, pull the lever up and the pullyu gains pushme. Panda becomes a little mountain goat, unstoppable like the blizzard tempted out by the lack of audience here. Two is gone… what remains in the ashtray is now none, the last one held between fingers that flick the lever and increase the tempo, swishswish becomes flickflick, violent changes in direction as the view is almost overwhelmed. Then, light up, lights off. The starfield rushing towards the car becomes static on the screen, the moon’s cyanotype wash providing all the light needed until eyes adjust. Eildons gone now, the hills and mountains shadowed ahead hold less well-known spirits, and we race together, Panda & I, a black & white insect crawling across pristine white duvets, a pest and irritation on that ancient land.
Miles without lights, signs. Stop and open the roof, finish the last looking up at the stars. Switch the tape.
“Phoebe io e lara leda callisto sinope
Janus dione portia so many moons
Quiet in the sky at night hot in the milky way
Outside in”
Far out. Remembering, outside, in. Heat against cold skin, and the fear of discovery, and when she’d run with me and we pulled the grey Mare’s tail before disappearing into the night again.
Sit up, move the seat back, but leave the roof. Hoik up the collar, and aim for Hawick and the glowing lights of the 24 hour garage where a crow once landed on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and fucked of to join a murder somewhere. Back then, those towns… I could have joined it. I felt rooted to the land, but the creatures on it, only the ones that didn’t talk spoke to me. Cats eyes stare into the moon, and reluctantly, responsibly I flick the Panda’s feeble lights into action. We speed up now, until the snow becomes lines, a Blur as we inexorably head to the end of the century. It’s nothing special.
Home. Alone. Take the vinyl from the sleeve, switch off the lights, switch on the amps, and retire to the comforts of the Dark Side of the Moon. Hergest Ridge will have to wait. A virtue I have yet to learn.
One, two, three.
Three inexpertly rolled spliffs rest loosely in the ashtray, the product of youthful inexperience and recluctance to share the hard-won prize of mediocre British resin. Coat pulled shut tight and window open to pull the door shut, this little former hotbox starts to roll, the swish, swish, swish of a single wiper marking time to the tempo, white label rarity sought out like truffles before door to door, mass produced exclusivity made every mix a commoditiy.
White labels and white rizlas. White rain, solid, flutters down to the car. The roads change from black, to grey, to pure white. The literal driven snow, few tracks to show which animals had taken this path.
Two. One hangs rebelliously from a pout that owes nothing to kicking against the pricks and more to kicking the jukebox in a tyranny against mass-produced pop. 16 weeks of Bryan Adams was more than anyone should bear; a constant refrain of Mother Russia to show my Dominion over the common room an acceptable intervention from a 14-hole DM boot over ripped black jeans. The authorities could have spared the violence just by putting a different stereo in the smoking room, the fog of cheap cigarettes and stale-scratched leather jackets broken by the shining white of the beauticians. In two years this would be gone, the greebos, the crusties and the goths would never find a neutral ground with their like again.
“Fuck!”. Ash glows dangerously, caught and guided out of the window. Pause, hand in the icy blast, arm above the telltale line of dents that commemorated each attempted death of the little Panda. Every flooded engine, every failing lead, every crunching gearshift gained another, until the door resembled a hand-beaten steel drum. Percussive maintenance for the car, percussive maintenance for me as the tape changes sides, Chumbawamba when they mocked legends, rather than authoring the anthem of a thousand lagered-up casuals just waiting to knock someone down so they’d never get up again.
It was a golden time for that music. One Little Indian had brought such pleasures, and through work there was a small role in a fanzine that ensured a steady supply of new treasures and sounds.
One. Turning off the main road and onto the winding path from Stow to Eskdalemuir via Yarrow. Moonlight makes the road glow, and snow makes it merge into the verge and fields as if driving across an unexplored moon, no traces to be found here.
When the day comes to settle down, Who's to blame if you're not around? “Hah. No-one.”
Reach down, dip clutch, pull the lever up and the pullyu gains pushme. Panda becomes a little mountain goat, unstoppable like the blizzard tempted out by the lack of audience here. Two is gone… what remains in the ashtray is now none, the last one held between fingers that flick the lever and increase the tempo, swishswish becomes flickflick, violent changes in direction as the view is almost overwhelmed. Then, light up, lights off. The starfield rushing towards the car becomes static on the screen, the moon’s cyanotype wash providing all the light needed until eyes adjust. Eildons gone now, the hills and mountains shadowed ahead hold less well-known spirits, and we race together, Panda & I, a black & white insect crawling across pristine white duvets, a pest and irritation on that ancient land.
Miles without lights, signs. Stop and open the roof, finish the last looking up at the stars. Switch the tape.
“Phoebe io e lara leda callisto sinope
Janus dione portia so many moons
Quiet in the sky at night hot in the milky way
Outside in”
Far out. Remembering, outside, in. Heat against cold skin, and the fear of discovery, and when she’d run with me and we pulled the grey Mare’s tail before disappearing into the night again.
Sit up, move the seat back, but leave the roof. Hoik up the collar, and aim for Hawick and the glowing lights of the 24 hour garage where a crow once landed on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and fucked of to join a murder somewhere. Back then, those towns… I could have joined it. I felt rooted to the land, but the creatures on it, only the ones that didn’t talk spoke to me. Cats eyes stare into the moon, and reluctantly, responsibly I flick the Panda’s feeble lights into action. We speed up now, until the snow becomes lines, a Blur as we inexorably head to the end of the century. It’s nothing special.
Home. Alone. Take the vinyl from the sleeve, switch off the lights, switch on the amps, and retire to the comforts of the Dark Side of the Moon. Hergest Ridge will have to wait. A virtue I have yet to learn.
Kelso Square
Nov. 5th, 2015 12:54 amRapid drumming, over and over
Across the river it could be heard
Like a tribal beat, a warning of battles yet to be fought
And underneath it all a steady growl
And louder still, the thump, thump, thump
Of basslines and bravado
Come closer to the town, causal like
Don't cause offence, or draw the eye
Don't start at the squeal of abuse, the tortured yelp of violence
As two more tyres fight for grip
As two more hands fight for wrists
Of no means yes, and bravado
For every Escort there is a suitor
For every Triumph, a Victor
For every Danielle or Lisa, a Gary, a Danny, A Speedy
And we say no more, not again
And we convene in the Square, all stern
To chase them, with bravado
Those wheels in your mind turn faster
And the ones under your car, slow
They fight for grip, on the cobbles, on the past, on your heart
And we slip behind the wheel
And we hold on for our lives
As we wave goodbye, to bravado.
Across the river it could be heard
Like a tribal beat, a warning of battles yet to be fought
And underneath it all a steady growl
And louder still, the thump, thump, thump
Of basslines and bravado
Come closer to the town, causal like
Don't cause offence, or draw the eye
Don't start at the squeal of abuse, the tortured yelp of violence
As two more tyres fight for grip
As two more hands fight for wrists
Of no means yes, and bravado
For every Escort there is a suitor
For every Triumph, a Victor
For every Danielle or Lisa, a Gary, a Danny, A Speedy
And we say no more, not again
And we convene in the Square, all stern
To chase them, with bravado
Those wheels in your mind turn faster
And the ones under your car, slow
They fight for grip, on the cobbles, on the past, on your heart
And we slip behind the wheel
And we hold on for our lives
As we wave goodbye, to bravado.
Cars Cars Card
Oct. 2nd, 2015 06:01 pmReally should update here more often, but you know, easily distracted.
It's over a year since I started contributing to Classic Car Weekly, and it's been a great job - love reviewing workshop gear and telling people about solutions, and getting to write about cars I am passionate about (Mercedes C124 and Sera most recently), document the work done on my cars, and generally be involved in an industry that matches my obsessions.
And the obsession has seen the departure of the big Chrysler 300C earlier this year, in favour of a cheap old Mercedes E320 CDI. Which after 2,000 miles developed a gearbox fault. Awesome. It's been stranded for months, during which time I've used the MG F until the MOT ran out (it's got a serious hole in one side), got my SLK back on the road and running fantastically well with cleaned and restored MAF, PCV and breather systems, and last week, bought a front wheel drive car for winter hack duty for £170. You can imagine the sort of grim, basic, unpleasant thing that'll be, right?
Nope. 1999 Honda Accord Coupé 2.0iES - with automatic, aircon, big sunroof, cream leather, and apart from a few small dents and sticking brakes a perfectly comfortable thing. Crazy how little they're worth.
After selling a few things, word of a long-term classic project crossed the radar, ending with a trip to Essex with a LandRover Discovery and a big trailer - and a return trip with a 1992 Jaguar XJS V12 on the back. It's a clean one, not too rusty, nice enough interior, but has a blown head gasket. Very, very long term project, but it's my first ever Jaguar and it'll be glorious when it's finished. Sometime around 2020 at the rate I'm going so far!
My friends, who are Bad Influences, have also been instrumental in a "OMG no money can't buy this" whine about a car becoming a "will friends buy me a car?!". I am astounded by how quickly it's ramped up:
https://www.gofundme.com/notagothhonest
There's no sob story, if anything this year I've really made a lot of progress in putting life back together and enjoying myself - but I simply cannot afford another car, yet this one... it has so much potential!
It's over a year since I started contributing to Classic Car Weekly, and it's been a great job - love reviewing workshop gear and telling people about solutions, and getting to write about cars I am passionate about (Mercedes C124 and Sera most recently), document the work done on my cars, and generally be involved in an industry that matches my obsessions.
And the obsession has seen the departure of the big Chrysler 300C earlier this year, in favour of a cheap old Mercedes E320 CDI. Which after 2,000 miles developed a gearbox fault. Awesome. It's been stranded for months, during which time I've used the MG F until the MOT ran out (it's got a serious hole in one side), got my SLK back on the road and running fantastically well with cleaned and restored MAF, PCV and breather systems, and last week, bought a front wheel drive car for winter hack duty for £170. You can imagine the sort of grim, basic, unpleasant thing that'll be, right?
Nope. 1999 Honda Accord Coupé 2.0iES - with automatic, aircon, big sunroof, cream leather, and apart from a few small dents and sticking brakes a perfectly comfortable thing. Crazy how little they're worth.
After selling a few things, word of a long-term classic project crossed the radar, ending with a trip to Essex with a LandRover Discovery and a big trailer - and a return trip with a 1992 Jaguar XJS V12 on the back. It's a clean one, not too rusty, nice enough interior, but has a blown head gasket. Very, very long term project, but it's my first ever Jaguar and it'll be glorious when it's finished. Sometime around 2020 at the rate I'm going so far!
My friends, who are Bad Influences, have also been instrumental in a "OMG no money can't buy this" whine about a car becoming a "will friends buy me a car?!". I am astounded by how quickly it's ramped up:
https://www.gofundme.com/notagothhonest
There's no sob story, if anything this year I've really made a lot of progress in putting life back together and enjoying myself - but I simply cannot afford another car, yet this one... it has so much potential!
Another Airport Lounge Lizard
Mar. 9th, 2015 05:59 pmStaring at the tiny screens, eyes dart, distracted. Cold blooded, basking in the oppressive almost-heat of LAX, it's not prey as the repetition scroll, scroll, bubble & beep of a thousand connected machines while away another two hours of life to skip 8 hours ahead in 10. All these little things, routines, we do. Move us thousands of miles and still that pebble covered in bright pictures holds our attention.
Black Blood Cells.
Jul. 23rd, 2014 10:57 pmhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0i3cEdaM6y4
All you need is a fast car, with thick doors and small windows. Take mine.
"But what will you do".
He lifts his arm. The black veins fought like worms to get beyond the ragged tourniquet. He drops the keys into my cold, clammy palm as I fight the urge to hold him.
"Me? I'll fade out, like the rest. You can wait if you want, if you think this chance merits mercy. But if I were you, son, I'd run and run now. And take her with you."
At first, it seemed a safe place. The machinery still whirred, though surely the people that once tended to the beating heart of Compressor Station 13 would have succumbed by now. Better to be safe than sorry though. We had a full tank, a fast car, and had to get out by nightfall.
In the distance, a hint of a cry. We look. Foxes? Or a child? The fences looked intact, uncompromised. Could someone have gained access to the compound and found shelter.
Too late. You ran to the trunk and tried to get the gun, but the electronic lock had engaged, and the trees rustled with far too much depth, weight to be a Fox or a child. I struggled with the key, but the last I saw was your hand dragged into the undergrowth. As I pulled the door shut, kicking the brake off and selecting drive in one move, the cries of the child were drowned out by your screams.
They'd stay with me for as long as I lived.
Not too long.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCYnTK9GvZc
We'd found that spot years ago. "Take me to where the fire burns daylight away", you said, and we watched the sun drawn into the abyss, singeing the canalboats and livestock red across the fields, burning embers that would remain until the morning relit them. A tiny phoenix in every scene.
Sounding drunk, yet with consummate precision, Lux Interior declares that you look, taste, smell good. I agree.
Like you, he's dead now. Yet immortal. Ghosts that haunt this ship as it plies ever emptier tarmac seas, in search of the last life, the last fuel... the last breath.
( Read more... )
All you need is a fast car, with thick doors and small windows. Take mine.
"But what will you do".
He lifts his arm. The black veins fought like worms to get beyond the ragged tourniquet. He drops the keys into my cold, clammy palm as I fight the urge to hold him.
"Me? I'll fade out, like the rest. You can wait if you want, if you think this chance merits mercy. But if I were you, son, I'd run and run now. And take her with you."
At first, it seemed a safe place. The machinery still whirred, though surely the people that once tended to the beating heart of Compressor Station 13 would have succumbed by now. Better to be safe than sorry though. We had a full tank, a fast car, and had to get out by nightfall.
In the distance, a hint of a cry. We look. Foxes? Or a child? The fences looked intact, uncompromised. Could someone have gained access to the compound and found shelter.
Too late. You ran to the trunk and tried to get the gun, but the electronic lock had engaged, and the trees rustled with far too much depth, weight to be a Fox or a child. I struggled with the key, but the last I saw was your hand dragged into the undergrowth. As I pulled the door shut, kicking the brake off and selecting drive in one move, the cries of the child were drowned out by your screams.
They'd stay with me for as long as I lived.
Not too long.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCYnTK9GvZc
We'd found that spot years ago. "Take me to where the fire burns daylight away", you said, and we watched the sun drawn into the abyss, singeing the canalboats and livestock red across the fields, burning embers that would remain until the morning relit them. A tiny phoenix in every scene.
Sounding drunk, yet with consummate precision, Lux Interior declares that you look, taste, smell good. I agree.
Like you, he's dead now. Yet immortal. Ghosts that haunt this ship as it plies ever emptier tarmac seas, in search of the last life, the last fuel... the last breath.
( Read more... )
So I started writing fables.
Jul. 14th, 2014 07:23 pmBefore Pru left, I'd hoped there might be some way I could at least contribute to the LRP side of things. At that, the background of the Varushka race in Empire appealed immensely, and I started working on a set of fables for the virtuous animals. Ultimately these were to be calligraphy-style, hand written on handmade paper, leatherbound and made into an auction item, but I'd also been interested in the role of Storyteller within that race. It appealed.
Now I actively want to avoid contact with the LRP sphere for various reasons, but the storywriting still appeals. So here is the first of the series I was (and will continue) working on.
( The story of the Bee )
Now I actively want to avoid contact with the LRP sphere for various reasons, but the storywriting still appeals. So here is the first of the series I was (and will continue) working on.
( The story of the Bee )
Bedtime Story
Feb. 6th, 2014 04:18 pmBear walked along the riverside, looking for that flash in the water, a silver dart of salmon, before it was time to sleep and escape the snow. He was hungry, and it seemed so long since he had tasted something so alive. Raiding the piles of leftovers beside the towering, glowing blocks the slim, pale creatures sheltered in was not the same at all.
From the corner of his eye, a flash. He turned, paws outstretched, but it was only the sun. Reflected by a small, black stone, it had fooled him. His tummy rumbled and ached.
Then again, faster - real. He dived forwards into the water, as it rushed over his ears and drowned out the noises of machines and nature. A strong tail smacks his nose, this is a good one; with one paw he catches, closing his mouth, and the fight goes from the fish as he looks up, gazing at his brothers in the sky and thanking them.
Shaking the river from his fur, he pads back , and spies the little black stone again. He gently takes it, and carries it back to the nest, unsure why.
As he settles, fat, but still hungry, he rolls the stone with his paw, and settles his cheek, heavy and furred, on it.
As the long sleep begins, the stone begins to sing...
( Read more... )(no subject)
Jun. 21st, 2013 10:55 amUpon arriving at the mansion, she commanded her staff bring the large wooden chest she'd been given as a child. It had no instructions, no covenants. It has just seemed boring to her when the world outside had sunshine, tea parties, otters by the river and butterflies that weren't pinned lifeless to a board.
Nevertheless, she felt a wave of disappointment when she discovered within some old bits of wood and metal.
Carefully she assembled the parts, and somehow it was only near the end that she realised it was another, near identical chest, fractionally smaller.
Every day she went through this as sunshine passed, caterpillars became moths that fluttered against the window of her room trying to reach the light within, and tea parties carried on without her habit of forgetting she had already taken a sugar lump and not noticing the spot of cream on her nose.
She grew old, and the final chests were now intricate doll house models. With failing eyes and shaky hands, toothpicks and tweezers, she assembled one thumbnail sized work of art.
"No more. I cannot. They are so small and I cannot see."
She opened the last chest, and inside was a scroll.
With her most powerful magnifying glass, bought for making the chests, she read the lone word it carried.
"Entropy"
And then she died.
Nevertheless, she felt a wave of disappointment when she discovered within some old bits of wood and metal.
Carefully she assembled the parts, and somehow it was only near the end that she realised it was another, near identical chest, fractionally smaller.
Every day she went through this as sunshine passed, caterpillars became moths that fluttered against the window of her room trying to reach the light within, and tea parties carried on without her habit of forgetting she had already taken a sugar lump and not noticing the spot of cream on her nose.
She grew old, and the final chests were now intricate doll house models. With failing eyes and shaky hands, toothpicks and tweezers, she assembled one thumbnail sized work of art.
"No more. I cannot. They are so small and I cannot see."
She opened the last chest, and inside was a scroll.
With her most powerful magnifying glass, bought for making the chests, she read the lone word it carried.
"Entropy"
And then she died.
The other day my father posted a scan of a picture he'd taken in 1977. There's a stocky slightly-older-than-toddler sitting on an outcrop of rock under blue skies. He's wearing red wellies and blue dungarees.
Obviously that's me sitting there. Red was my favourite colour for years, and I even remember red wellies, though I doubt it's that particular pair. In fact, the only shoes I can remember after that point are the result of frustration with the social structure of schools, and a bizarre cheapskate streak my parents could display at the oddest times despite our relatively comfortable lifestyle.
When such things became part of the landscape, I could forgive my parents following my lead on sporting goods and not giving a shit. Football boots may have gone 'clump clump clump' on that strange not-concrete polished floor of the primary school, a familiar and now comforting rhythm that at the time was the drumroll leading into misery and ritual humiliation, but every day wear? I hated the detailed pattern on broques, thought it fussy. My preferred DM shoes were frowned upon. Trainers became popular.
Now we had a big house, new cars on the drive. I didn't have a regional accent. If my eyes weren't the subject of taunting, being 'posh' was, and the watershed moment was when I decided I would Like Some Trainers, please. Not pumps that allowed a 9" rusty nail to go through the sole and my foot. Not hard, unbending formal shoes that meant I couldn't run. Trainers.
So my parents take me to the local market, and I'm given some Hi-Tech trainers. Grey ones. They're made of so much artificial they could be from the future; light grey and white foam midsole that if the grey were pink, would be like those marshmallow wafers. In fact, they looked like these foam bits might even be edible in the same way that most 1980s jelly foam candies weren't.
I put on the annoyingly stinky and creased (clean, the smell being polyester and recession) school trousers, the white shirt, the irritating and pointless tie (the school colours of Tuxford Comprehensive were never going to open doors, unless they had 'Vacant' visible in a little window near the handle) and walked. Across the road where a few years previously I'd paid no attention and got a flying lesson from a van, up the alleyway where the stock car racer lived, his odd 1930s looking racer joined by a military Jeep, down the path behind the GPO where I'd look at the switches and wires through the window and play with matchbox cars on the clear paved slabs.
Out of the alleyway behind the Newcastle Arms Hotel, where everyone in Tuxford appeared to eat, sleep, fuck and all the other adult shit that made it such a gloriously complex little town, to the Co-op where I'd try and work out what miserable food was more appealing than an Banana Ski yoghurt that day, then down Newcastle Street, past the newsagents, up the hill and through the housing estates to the now demolished Comprehensive.
I didn't draw attention to these trainers. I didn't have to. They were not Puma, or Adidas, or Nike. They fell apart in weeks, not months, those layers of foam separating with almost engineered precision, the visible glue all dirty and muddy. The same people that mocked me for coming from an apparently rich family or talking posh, also mocked me for having cheap, shit footwear. I didn't actually care about the trainers being a brand or not; I thought that 52wks at £3.23/wk for £70 shoes was insanity then, too. I was just very, very tired of having the piss taken out of me at school by that point.
In Scotland, things were yet again different. Never mind posh; I was English, I didn't stand a chance in a Borders Rugby town. By this time, after a flirtation with C&A's brilliant neon Clockwork range of clothes, I went in search of my own shoes. And what the hell, I got Puma trainers. No-one can mock these.
Except they were green, Pueblo. I have no idea what significance this had, I just figured these were a vaguely trendy colour, a recognisable brand, and surely (based on my experience) this would be enough? Oh no. So very wrong. Apparently, and this is the wisdom of the time, "d'ye ken only poofs wear green shoes?".
I did not ken that. In fact, I'm still unconvinced by the green shoe test for sexual preferences. Nevertheless, the die was cast once again and it sat there glaring up at me "+5 mocking for footwear".
In summer, I'd go barefoot everywhere. Holidays? Barefoot. Shoes were not a concern for feet tucked up under in front of Doctor Who, or wading through streams, or driving in July with the poor car's feeble heater trying to overcome the engine and ambient temperature to give a pleasant breeze in the footwells.
At college things were better. Leather jacket, purple docs. No mocking for shoes.
But really, as I slip on outlet-store Nikes in white, with flexible, waffle bases so I can walk without mocking to the Co-op in another crappy little Midlands, I wonder why any of it mattered. I wasn't expressing my own desires, or even those of my parents (who'd undoubtedly have dropped me in brogues like the posh kid I was, aiming to dress me like a public school snob so I'd fit in beautifully in a working class comprehensive. Given my own choices, I'd never have worn shoes of any kind. Bare feet on grass, rocks, concrete, broken glass, dogshit, sand, carpet, the whole way; washed in the same gully under Eldon Road that we dared each other to run through as kids and sometimes found sticklebacks in.
When I broke my leg, the concierge at the hotel commented on how all she could see when I was lying on the stairs were my little blue shoes (£8 from Asda, velcro. Very sexy). I thought I'd thrown them away, but there they were in the bag when I unpacked. But now my leg is healing and I can bear weight properly. And I want to be barefoot.
